Hot Water Man (10 page)

‘You don't like it?' He looked down. ‘I bought it in Hawaii.'

‘It's great fun.' She peered closer. ‘All those little palm trees. You're a walking tropical paradise.'

But it was she who looked exotic. She glowed; the jewel winked. He unclipped the box.

‘Ah, pumpernickel,' she breathed. ‘Californian wine, cold beer . . .' She lifted them out one by one. He was not Father Christmas, he was her father. He loved seeing her face.

Christine came up. Shamime turned to her. ‘At school my English friends called me Piggy. Me, a Muslim. One of them came out once and stayed with us. My parents nearly died when she called out
Breakfast time, Piggybins.
'

The two girls were sitting on the floor. ‘Just tell me what you want,' said Duke. ‘Either of you, of course. It's all flown in fresh.'

Christine said: ‘American woman do their teeth with soda water, don't they, so they won't get contaminated.'

He looked down at the fuzzy head. He did not reply:
Minnie did too.
Christine squatted in her embroidered tunic. Her bare feet looked more nude than Shamime's brown ones. He liked Christine's husband but he had not figured out Christine yet. Her pink face looked confused; Shamime's walnut skin looked closed and sure: mysterious.

‘So you went to school in England,' said Christine.

‘Some boring suburb,' said Shamime. ‘Nobody knows how to educate their girls here. Not the bright ones. They send them to university in England and France but they think it's only sort of mental flower-arranging. Then the girls come back and find their marriage has been arranged for them.'

‘The double standards.' The frizz nodded.

‘My best friend from Karachi – she went to Oxford and had a wild affair with her tutor. She went on to do a Ph.D. in London. She had thousands of job offers. She had another affair, with an East End painter. And then she came back to Karachi.'

‘And what happened?' asked Christine.

‘She married the son of her father's business partner. She changed, just like that. She sat at her wedding, all obedient on her little chair, covered in tinsel and rupee notes, her eyes lowered like a good virgin.'

‘Gift-wrapped,' said Christine.

Shamime laughed. ‘I'll take you to a wedding, Chrissy. They're something else. They go on for weeks. The bride and groom don't speak, they're just decorated and shunted from place to place.' She touched the garment Christine was wearing. Duke thought it had seen better days. ‘Your kurta, that was made for a wedding – a poor, country wedding. Her mother and her sisters would have been at it for months, stitching that. The more stitching, the more status for their daughter.'

Christine's head bent to gaze at it. ‘I never realized. A garment of bondage. It
is
a bit tight under the arms.' She paused. ‘And you?'

‘We've had stiff little tea parties when the two mothers excuse themselves halfway through. Ministers' sons, businessmen's sons. The son of the chief of customs, now there's a useful lad. Pity he only reaches to my elbow.' She lifted her head. It glowed below Duke. ‘What about you, up there? We've only got to know each other since the Manleys came. Do you have a daughter?'

‘I have three sons. Chester's in his college football team, they call themselves the Rangers. Johnny's in his last year and Duke Junior's in business, he's an executive with I.B.M.'

‘Lucky you,' said Shamime. ‘Who wants daughters? Out here, anyway.'

‘I didn't realize till this afternoon . . .' Christine stopped, gazing at a can of beer. They waited but she said nothing more.

Duke was silent. Minnie had in fact borne a girl, a miscarriage at six months. His daughter would have been the same age as these two girls at his feet. She too might have rummaged through the gifts he had brought her. Yet these girls seemed older than that, too: they discussed things better than he did, with their educations behind them. But that was why you made children: to improve upon yourself. There was no point in working, otherwise.

He did not mention this, or the surgical termination of Minnie's possibilities way beyond these black hills, out in the afternoon sunshine of Wichita, U.S.A.

‘We breed like rabbits here,' laughed Shamime.

Duke gnawed a chicken bone. He did not feel he had much to offer conversations like these, but he leant forward to listen. Beside him Shamime was talking to Donald.

‘I don't fit here any more,' she was saying. ‘I'm a hybrid. I've seen too much. My parents didn't realize what they were doing, sending me abroad. They thought I was just learning some French verbs.'

‘I didn't learn much at school either,' said Donald, gazing at the embers. ‘I think I'm only starting to learn out here.'

‘Donald darling, your lot have never come to learn. You've come here to take things away. Your ancestors used high-minded words but they had sound commercial, interests at heart. They just liked to disguise it to themselves.' She laughed. ‘We're just as bad. But at least we're straightforward about it. No waffling self-justification. We go to England to get what we can out of it. Like money.'

‘Rather successfully too. You know, the Asians. But what do they want to learn about Britain?'

‘Only the bare necessities. Don't you see, I'm on neither side. Or both. That's my trouble. I'm in the right line of business, I can do a lousy P.R. job on anything. I can slither around either way. Aziz looks like me but he's not. He's like all the young men here – he's a real Pakistani. He's got everything the way he wants it, so why should he change?'

Duke wanted her to go on, but Donald said: ‘That's not quite fair, you know. People like my grandfather were lost without this place. He didn't know what to do in England. He'd left himself out here.'

‘I'm not speaking personally about him. I'm sure he was a marvellous man. But I still think they came out to find what
they
wanted. It was called Imperialism but it hasn't really changed. You come to pillage us for the good of your country or your bank balance or else your experience of life. It was called cotton or territory then. But it's still the same thing. You take home your snapshots and your whiffs of oriental mysticism. You're still getting off on your own thing. But you can't get to us, not really. We look so welcoming but we can't be touched. Take Karachi. It looks so modern. But just look closer.'

She threw her bone into the embers. It sizzled. Donald threw his, but it landed in the sand.

‘Now Duke here, at least he's honest,' she said. ‘He doesn't disguise it. No traditions or preconceptions behind him. Nobody's told him what to find. He's come to develop us. Haven't you.' She swung round to smile at Duke, and turned back. ‘At least he thinks he has. But you can't start from scratch here; it's not like the Middle East. He wants to stick his hotel in the desert because commercial sense tells him that's where it should be. I'm not saying we don't need it. But it won't change anything.'

Long after that night, after everything had been changed, Duke remembered her turning to him and laying her hand on his arm.

‘As I said, at least you're honest about it.'

Despite the intellectual talk this seemed the last moment of simplicity. The three of them mopping up their salad, people moving around, and the shadows leaping against the wall of the hut.

Eleven o'clock, and the barbecues lay there, three cool tins. The servants were packing up. Many of the guests had left; Aziz and some of his friends were off to the Excelsior Night Spot. There were cries of ‘cheerio' and
‘wala ale'icum'.
These youngsters never needed sleep. Himself, Duke: he was tired. Beyond the hut he heard engines revving. Headlights swung over the beach as the cars turned.

A spirit lamp lit the trampled sand. A flashbulb popped.

‘I only just remembered,' said Donald. ‘Trust me to be too late for the main event. The story of my life.' Donald, like Duke, had drunk a good deal of Aziz's excellent Scotch.

The music had stopped. Duke could hear the waves now, and the barking of dogs further down the beach where the fishing village lay. In the States there was true wilderness but this country was inhabited, every inch.

Shamime was sitting next to him. She leant over.

‘I thought Uncle Bobby was coming. He thrives on this sort of thing. He thinks he's so young at heart. It's a shame; you could've met him.'

Duke was uncertain whether or not it was a shame. He had his principles, hadn't he? He raised his head to the vaulted sky. The stars made him dizzy. He could usually take his liquor. He could usually take being alone too. But tonight was worse than usual. He could not work out if he was missing Minnie, or lonely because he wasn't. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gazed at his gaudy chest.

Shamime was pushing the sand with her finger. He looked at her profile. With the clarity of drunkenness he realized it was far from perfect: her strong bumpy nose and her full lips. Her feet moved him. They were small-boned and fine as a bird's, so delicate. He turned his head away. He wondered which of those young men, driving back to town, was her beau.

Another flash. ‘Sorry,' said Donald. ‘Kept not working. Shamime put a jinx on it, talking like that about snapshots.'

Christine hugged her knees tighter. ‘Remember at that mosque? By the time old Cartier-Bresson had fixed his exposure, all the tastefully tattered beggars had gone.'

‘Not gone. Come.' He bent over the lens. ‘Up to me, to get some money.'

‘Except the women who covered their faces.'

‘I won't cover mine,' said Shamime, pushing back her hair and smiling. Duke looked away and the bulb flashed.

‘At least you're not the home-movies type,' said Shamime. ‘I don't think I could take any more ayahs pushing blurred little Habibs in front of the camera.'

Duke was silent. In fact he happened to be something of a 16mm expert himself. Back home he had a cupboard full of reels: Chester's sixth birthday, John-John in his cowboy suit shooting the camera. That vacation stop at the Grand Canyon, his little family standing, tense, near the drop. Below them, nothingness. He had stopped the film and called out, ‘Get back from there!' But there had been no danger, had there?

‘Duke, could you drive me home?'

Duke paused. ‘Sure.'

‘Aziz has taken his car, and the bearers have taken the things back in mine.' She paused. ‘You look doubtful.'

‘No,' he said. ‘Fine. Sure.'

He climbed to his feet, heavily. The other guests rose. Shamime gathered her sandals. They collected the last glasses and extinguished the lamp, while Shamime locked up the hut.

The moon had risen. In its light they could see their way around the corner of the hut, stepping over the tussocks of grass. The others drove off. Duke put the rest of the party debris into the trunk.

They climbed into the car. Duke switched on the headlamps. They lit up the back wall of the hut. He started the engine. Beneath the wheels there was a grinding and spinning. The Datsun did not move. He revved the engine. More spinning.

‘We're just getting deeper.' He switched off the engine.

They sat still for a moment, then they climbed out. The wheels were sunk into the sand, right over the hubcaps. In the moonlight the automobile looked like some stranded creature, just crawled from the sea on his own damnfool demand. He should not have come here.

‘Heck.'

‘Perhaps we could get some help. There's always somebody around.'

‘I'm getting us out,' he said.

‘Anyway, I don't fancy creeping about this place at night.' The dog barked again. She shivered.

‘Could you sit in the driver's seat?' asked Duke. ‘And I'll push.'

She climbed in. ‘I'll try.'

He leant over and showed her the starter. ‘Put your foot on the clutch, here.' He bent and patted the pedal. She moved her sandalled foot.

‘I've never driven a Datsun.'

‘Press the clutch. I'll put it into gear.' He leant over, careful not to touch her, and eased the gear-shift into position. ‘When I say
Now.
Okay?'

He went over to the front bumper. She peered out of the window, watching for when he would push. She was so slim, the car felt no heavier with her inside it.

‘Now.'

She revved. He pushed, willing every muscle in his body to move the automobile. His feet dug into the sand. His shirt stuck to his chest.

‘Now.'

She revved again. He pushed, grunting. The wheels spun.

‘Now.'
She revved. He moaned.

He rested a moment, leaning against the warm hood. The air was full of exhaust smoke. She was leaning out of the window, coughing with the fumes. He wanted to protect her.

‘Again?' she asked.

Groaning, he pushed against the car. He must get this girl delivered home.

The door slammed. She was beside him.

‘I've put it into neutral,' she said. ‘Shall I push from here?'

She, too, was breathless. She pulled up her sleeves; they fell back again. They put their hands against the hood. He could smell her perfume and warm sweat.

He took a deep breath.
‘Now.'

They pushed together. Her breath rasped beside his. His head swam with perfume and exhaust. The wheels spun. They stopped. He looked up at the spinning stars.

‘I think there are some . . . planks . . . in the hut.' She caught her breath. ‘From when we had the shutters replaced.'

‘I'll go.'

‘No. I know where they are. But please come with me.' She looked around. ‘I know it's stupid . . .'

He reached through the window to get her pocketbook. The illuminated clock stood at ten after twelve. Something was supposed to be happening at midnight but he could not remember what.