Heat and Dust (10 page)

Harry stayed that night and the next day and the day after that. He and Olivia were very good company for each other. They didn't care about the dust storm blowing outside but just locked all the doors and windows and curled up in the yellow armchairs. Olivia played excerpts from
I Pagliacci
and Harry sang in an exaggerated voice, his hand on his heart. They didn't notice Mrs. Crawford come in, and when they did, she wouldn't let them stop but joined in herself with a fine contralto. “What fun,” she said and laughed like the good sport she was.

She had come to talk about Simla. She said she didn't want to nag Olivia, but she felt that perhaps Olivia didn't quite understand – here she turned to Harry as if asking him for his support.

He gave it: “You shouldn't be here through the summer, Olivia. It's unbearable.”

“If
you
can bear it –”

“Who said I could.”

But then he was embarrassed like a person who has shown more feeling than is decent. He tried to laugh it off: “Of course a thousand plans are afoot to leave immediately for Mussourie. We've even packed and unpacked a couple of times.” He laughed again though with a nervous tremor: “Exactly the same happened last year, and the year before . . . In the end we never did go. The Begum doesn't like it there so she keeps putting it off. Either she's not feeling well or the stars are not right for a journey or an owl hooted at the wrong time – it's always something or other and always at the last moment when we're all packed and ready. I've got used to it now, like everyone else. Once we really did leave, in my first year. He has a marvellous house up there – it's a Swiss chalet with a dash of Gothic cathedral, very impressive indeed. So is the view. You can look right across to – what's the name of that mountain where Siva is supposed to sit amid the eternal snows? Not that I got much time to enjoy it. A dead bat was found in – of all places – the Begum's bedroom and that of course is a terrible omen so we had to pack up and come home immediately and as soon as we got here ceremonies had to be performed for about three weeks without stop.” Suddenly he turned to Mrs. Crawford and spoke in a rush: “Mother keeps writing for me to come – she's not well and I am worried about her, she lives alone in a flat you see and it's been three years now.”

“That
is
long,” said Mrs. Crawford.

“It was only supposed to be six months, but whenever I mention about going home – because of Mother, mostly – he doesn't like it. He hates people leaving him.” Then he said: “It's because he gets terribly involved with his friends, that's the reason, because he's so . . .
affectionate.
Warm-hearted. He has a warm heart.” He looked down at the floor.

After a while Mrs. Crawford said in her bright practical voice: “Do you know the Ross-Milbanks? He's been the D.C. over at Cawnpore. They're going on home leave now – driving down to Bombay to get the P. & O. – I think it's the S.S. Maloja – on the 4th. They're spending a couple of nights with us on their way. We
are
looking forward to it. That really is one of the great pleasures of India, isn't it, people from all over the country dropping in on you.”

He said: “But those P. & O.s, aren't they always booked up, aren't they completely? Months ahead?”

“Oh a single berth,” Mrs. Crawford said. “And one could always send a cable to the Gibbons in Bombay . . .”

“Really?” Harry said – so full of glad hope that she smiled: “Really and truly,” she promised him.

That night, when they were in bed together under their mosquito net, Olivia asked Douglas: “But if he's the Nawab's guest?”

“So what.”

“But the Nawab paid his fare. And has been keeping him in the lap of luxury, hasn't he, all this time. I can't see how he can just . . . run out on him.” She added: “With Mrs. Crawford's friends.”

“Darling, he
wants
to go.”

“Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't.”

“That's too subtle for me. Anyway, he ought to want to.”

“Are you tired of having him here?”

“On the contrary. I'm glad he
is
here. Better than being over there.”

“But the Nawab has been so kind to him! Terribly kind!”

“Tomorrow I'll send someone over for his luggage.”

“Douglas, are you
sure,
darling.”

But on the next day – a Sunday – the Nawab came himself. Olivia and Douglas had been to church, and when they got home, the Nawab's Rolls was outside the house; and the Nawab himself in the drawing room with Harry who was still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. They looked as if they had already had a long and intimate conversation together.

When the Nawab said he had come to take Harry home, Douglas stiffened. The Nawab became more cordial, he said thank you very much for keeping him; and added, “Now all is quiet at Khatm, he need not be afraid any longer.” He smiled at Harry who smiled back, bashfully.

Douglas clenched his jaws; there was a little muscle working in them. The Nawab said “You have probably heard that we had a little trouble.”

Douglas stared straight ahead of him. He and the Nawab were both standing. They were the same height and almost the same build. Olivia and Harry, seated on sofas, looked up at them.

“It happens every year,” the Nawab said. “It is nothing much. They get hot – they become cool again. It is like the weather in its season.”

“We saw your casualty lists,” Douglas said in a strangled voice.

“But why are you standing!” Olivia cried. No one heard her.

“It happens every year,” the Nawab repeated. “There is nothing to be done.”

Douglas turned aside his face. He had to be silent – the Nawab was an independent ruler, and the only person who could speak to him was Major Minnies. But Douglas' silence was eloquent of all he could have said, and of his thoughts.

The Nawab turned to Harry: “Get dressed. We are going.”

Harry got up at once but, before he could leave the room, Douglas said “I believe the Ross-Milbanks are expected tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry stopped by the door; the Nawab asked him in a casual way “Who are they? Are they your friends?”

“They leave on Thursday, “Douglas said.

“Oh, for Bombay?” the Nawab said. “Yes, Harry has told me about that, but it is cancelled now. My dear fellow, please get dressed, you don't expect me to take you home in this state I hope.” He turned and smiled at Olivia.

Douglas told Harry: “Mr. Crawford has heard from Bombay. It's all right about the berth.”

The Nawab now sat down in an armchair. He leaned back, crossed his legs. He told Douglas: “Harry and I have talked about it. It has all been a misunderstanding. I shall apologise to Mr. and Mrs. Crawford and thank them for their kind efforts on behalf of my guest. I shall also thank,” he added generously, “Mr. and Mrs. Ross-Milbank.”

Douglas made no bones about addressing only Harry: “You wanted to go. Your mother's ill.”

The Nawab said: “We have to be very thankful: Mother is better, she has recovered her health . . . And now we are very much looking forward to her visit. My Mother has written to invite her – her letter is in Urdu, written in her own hand, and I myself have made a translation into English and also added: ‘You now have not one son but two and both your sons are eager for your visit.'” He leaned back further in his chair and crossed his legs the other way, pleased with the correct way in which everything had been done.

Harry took a deep breath and told Douglas: “Thanks
awfully for having me. It's true, you know – I do want to go back to the Palace. We talked it over before you came, as he told you. I do want to.”

“You don't have to,” Douglas told him from the other side of the room.

“I want to,” Harry said.

The Nawab burst out laughing: “But don't you see, Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, he is like a child that doesn't know what it wants! We others have to decide everything for him. Just see,” he said, “it is I who have to tell him get dressed, Harry, this is not the way to stand before a lady, go and get ready, comb your hair nicely.” He gave a quick playful stroke at Harry's head and they both smiled as if it were an old joke between them. “Go,” said the Nawab with tender strictness, and when Harry had gone, he turned to the other two: “Did you know,” he asked them very seriously, “that Harry is a very selfish person?” Then he sighed and said “But what can I do – I have grown fond of him, he has his place here.” He placed his hand on his heart.

Olivia looked quickly at Douglas. She was sorry to see that he remained as before. For herself, she had no doubt at all that the Nawab was utterly sincere: so that she was even somewhat envious of Harry for having inspired such a depth of love and friendship.

25 April.
    Chid and I have now both merged into the landscape: we are part of the town, part of people's lives here, and have been completely accepted. The town is used to accepting and merging all sorts of different elements – for instance,
the grand old tombs of Mohammedan royalty on the one hand and the little grey suttee stones on the other. There are also the town's cripples, idiots, and resident beggars. They move around the streets and, whenever anything of interest is going on, they rush up and form part of the crowd. Like everyone else, I have got used to them now – as they have to me – but I must admit that in the beginning I couldn't help shrinking a bit. Some diseases, even when cured, leave people so unsightly that for the rest of their lives they have to move among their fellows as living examples of all the terrible things that can happen to a man. One of the beggars is a cured leper – a burnt-out case whose nose, fingers, and toes have dropped off; he lives in a hut some distance out of town but is allowed to come in and beg, provided he keeps at a proper distance. Then there is an old man who I think has St. Vitus's dance – his body is twisted around a long pole he carries and he hops along twitching and jigging like a puppet. It is not only the poor and the beggars who have afflictions. One of the most prosperous shopkeepers in town who is also a moneylender suffers from elephantiasis and can be seen sitting in his shop with his scrotum, swollen literally to the size of a football, resting on a special little cushion in front of him.

Dust storms have started blowing all day, all night. Hot winds whistle columns of dust out of the desert into the town; the air is choked with dust and so are all one's senses. Leaves that were once green are now ashen, and they toss around as in a dervish dance. Everyone is restless, irritable, on the edge of something. It is impossible to sit, stand, lie, every position is uncomfortable; and one's mind too is in turmoil.

Chid doesn't seem to be affected by the weather. He sits for hours together in the lotus pose, his lips moving on his mantra and his fingers on his beads: and this goes on and on
and seems somehow so
mindless
that it drives me crazy. It is as if all reason and common sense are being drained out of the air. Every now and again he gets those monstrous erections of his and I have to fight him off (quite apart from anything else, it's just too
hot
). He is also dirty – bathing is one Hindu ritual he doesn't practise – and since he doesn't believe in possessions for himself he thinks other people shouldn't have any either. I have had to start hiding my money, but he is quite clever at finding it.

Today I got so exasperated with him, I threw him out. I just bundled up his belongings and flung them down the stairs. His brass mug bounced down the steps and was caught at the bottom of them by Ritu who had chosen that moment to come and visit me. Chid gathered up his things and, following her back upstairs, laid them out again in their former place.

“You can't stay,” I told him.

But I couldn't say any more because of Ritu. She was in a strange state. She sat in a corner with her knees drawn up and didn't say one word. She looked frightened – she was like a little wild animal that had rushed in for protection. Although I did not feel in a fit condition to protect anyone, I tried to pull myself together and speak to her in a calm way. I don't think she even heard. Her eyes continued to dart around the room, but she seemed not to see anything either. Chid sat cross-legged in the corner opposite the one Where she crouched. His eyes were shut, his beads slipped through his fingers, he chanted. He made me mad.

“You can't stay!” I shouted at him.

But his chanting had transported him elsewhere – perhaps into wider, cooler, brighter, more beautiful regions. He swayed lightly, his beads went on slipping, his lips moved; he
was blissful. Ritu began to scream the way she had done that night. Chid opened his eyes, looked at her, then shut them again and went on chanting. They both got louder – like communicants of two rival sects, each trying to prove the superiority of his faith by outshouting the other.