Hot Water Man (17 page)

‘But Christine . . .' He stared at her. His nose was still peeling; it remained crimson since last week at that donkey place. ‘You can't do that.'

‘Why not? It's my household. I'm supposed to be in charge of something, aren't I?'

‘I don't think you understand.' He jerked his head towards the kitchen and lowered his voice. ‘They must think we're mad.'

‘The mali didn't look surprised.' This was true. In fact he never did. Perhaps he was simply too old to be surprised by the English. Mohammed had translated to him, laboriously. Then he had ambled down the drive, tucking the rupee notes into the fold of his pyjamas. Mohammed had stood at the window, impassive as a plaster dummy in a catering shop.

‘Christine, it's just understood that you can't give these people money for nothing. I presumed you'd realized that. They lose all respect.' He gazed at her seriously. Under the inflamed nose he was growing a moustache; as yet it was blonde stubble. ‘It's not being kind; in fact it's rather cruel. They learn a begging mentality, expecting something for nothing.'

‘You used to say that in England, about Social Security scroungers.'

‘But here there's nothing to fall back on, don't you see? You can do awful damage that way.' He gazed down at the teddies. ‘You take away a man's self-respect, and that's often all he has.'

‘I'd think he'd love a hundred rupees a month. I don't want him.
I
want to do it.'

‘You mustn't think about yourself. You have a responsibility to these people.'

‘Don't call them “these people”.'

‘You're only here for a year or two. It's like . . . well, feeding the birds in winter, then going away without warning. They've got used to your charity, so they lose all self-reliance.'

She gazed at him, charmed by the simile. Then he spoilt it.

‘Besides, you don't know how to do it.'

‘What, water a lawn?'

He lowered his voice again. ‘I mean, Mohammed's work. I know you're dying to inch him out. After all, the Smythes had a sweeper too, and you got rid of him. But don't you understand how nice it is to come home to a clean house?'

A silence. ‘Ah. So that's it. All this airy-fairy stuff about self-respect –'

‘No –'

‘– doesn't mean anything. You're complaining about the way I kept the flat.'

‘Oh come on, let's not drag that up. You know I longed to be able to afford someone then, so you could be free to do something more interesting . . .'

‘Except I just flitted from job to job and never got down to anything interesting. And I was a hopeless homemaker as well.' She looked down at the elephants, trunk to tail. And I can't even give you children. Or you can't give them to me.

‘I thought it would be a relief,' said Donald. ‘I used to feel so guilty, hearing you banging about in the kitchen and feeling I ought to be basting the blessed chicken or whatever.'

Mohammed entered with the dishes. They fell silent. The fan stirred the sullen air. A fishcake was put on to her plate. She had asked him to cook the fish the local way, the way his family would eat it. Grilled with spices or however they did it. This must have taken hours, with all those little bones to take out. Mohammed served the vegetables and went into the kitchen.

‘He thinks', she whispered, ‘that we want it English-style.'

‘Perhaps he doesn't know how to cook these fish. Maybe he can't afford them. How much were they?'

‘Forgotten.'

‘There you are. He can't afford to be vague.'

‘You're getting at me again.'

‘I'm not. Don't you see, I
want
you to be able to be vague. I want you to be free.'

‘To do what?' In the kitchen Mohammed coughed. She kept her voice low. ‘I can't work. I'm a woman, aren't I.' She pushed the nursery food around her plate. She disliked the petulant tone in her own voice. ‘Will you drop me off in town this afternoon?'

‘Uh-huh. Doing some shopping?'

‘No. I want to try and find this man I was talking about, this Sultan Rahim.'

‘I'm looking forward to that beach hut.'

‘But the job too. I told you, he said he might be able to get me one.'

‘Does anyone know this chap? Is he all right?'

‘He had lots of visiting cards. He was so nice and willing. I'm only going to ask a man in Bohri Bazaar. He probably won't know where he is. I can take a taxi back. Please let me do something for myself.'

She struggled with the pink blancmange. It kept slipping off the serving spoon. Mohammed waited, holding the bowl. What was he thinking, standing so near, his brown hands nearly touching hers? What could she touch in this country?

After lunch Donald had to sort out some papers. He crossed to his study. He wore a short-sleeved bush shirt, tight beige. He was gaining weight, no doubt about it. Though shorter than Duke he was built rather the same – solid and sandy, with freckled fuzzy arms. But Duke was solid, whereas Donald was soft. He had been fed by fussy women all his childhood. They had waited, like Mohammed waited now, while he helped himself. He had hardly cooked a meal in his life. Even when he had lived in his London bedsitter he had stocked up at Brinton each weekend, returning with packages tenderly wrapped in foil.

She walked around the living-room, pulling forward the chairs Mohammed always lined against the wall, as in a waiting-room. Waiting for what? The way Donald ruffled through those papers irritated her. So did his little moustache, his effort to be manly. Perhaps it was the heat. In the old days they sent the women away during the hot season. For their marriages' sake, no doubt, as much as for the women's. Then the men could get on with the real work, like moving paper from one side of the desk to the other. Outside the walls people seethed in the streets. Only the laundered ones entered, to serve the tea or flatter the English with their Balliol accents. With the weight of tradition behind him Donald had grown so stiff here, stiff and self-conscious. He had always been so in public places and here it was public everywhere – servants in the house, people in the streets. Even alone he could not really relax; he still acted upon other people's expectations of him. But then he had always clung to structures – his school, to which he still returned for reunions; Cameron's with its old reassurances.

But then she had relied upon this, in him. She had mocked it, but turned to him when she wanted to be safe. She remembered one holidays when she was sixteen. In those days it was like renting a brother for the summer. She could run off, temporarily wild, but he was always ready with the towel to dry her, ready with the handkerchief to blow her nose. She had caught him gazing at her but he had hardly touched her. Other boys had done that. Royce, in particular. That summer Royce had been camping on the Downs, Royce from Royston, or was it somewhere else? She had not even known how he spelt his name but Jesus had she wanted him. He had black hair and nicotine-stained fingers; he had driven her too fast on his motorbike. One night he had taken her into the concrete bunker on the beach, that smelt of lavatories. Why could he not have lain with her under the stars? She had been running along the surf; her bare legs were wet. He had pressed her against the wall, his zips scratching her. Give me time, she had called out silently, for me to make this all right. But he had just pushed and rutted, hurting her. On the return journey she had not danced along the sand. She had gone to Donald's house. The lights were off. She had stood on the lawn. An ordinary little bungalow, just like the others. She had looked at Donald's curtained window, thinking: Do you know how much I need you now? Only the cat came out and rubbed against her legs. Perhaps it was not for any man that she had been skipping through the surf. Perhaps it had just been for herself, a sixteen-year-old, those stars up there winking.

She had told him later when their relationship had changed. He had been so sorrowful, and furious with himself that he had not realized through telepathy. Touchingly he had even tried to make a weak joke, something about Rolling with Royce. He had been just right. Not exciting; just right. They had fitted together. She had even borrowed his clothes, him being her size, and forgot to give them back when she left for London. He was so mild; she took advantage of him.

Years later she had watched
One-Eyed Jacks
on the TV with Roz. There was Marlon Brando, packed with muscle, pushing open bar doors. Big with pride he sacrificed everything to get even with the man who had humiliated him. ‘Imagine a woman doing that,' said Roz. ‘Imagine a woman
minding
whether she's the biggest shot.'

‘Donald doesn't mind,' said Christine. ‘Thank goodness.'

But in her blood she yearned for Brando, with his slicked black hair. Donald had never been dangerous. Upstairs one of Roz's babies had started crying. Roz had sighed; her face was pale above her second-hand matted jumper. She was always wearing that jumper; it had little bunches of grapes sewn on it.

At that time Donald and herself were already trying to have a baby. She had not mentioned this to Roz; nor the fact that after the incident with Royce years back she had missed two periods.

‘Penny for them?'

Donald stood there with his briefcase. She loathed that expression
penny for them.
She shook her head and rose from the sofa. Of course she had not told Donald either about the missed periods nor the unusually heavy one afterwards. It had proved nothing, and even if it had she dared not be sure, for both their sakes.

They drove down to Bohri Bazaar. It was crowded; they were pushed from side to side.

‘Sahib want to change dollars?'

‘What I was trying to say at lunch', said Donald, ‘is that I don't think you ought to be gadding about.'

‘I'm not. I'm looking for bloody work.'

‘You looking for onyx, madam? Please step this side.'

‘You're not in England, Christine. You're always telling me that
I'm
so unadaptable . . . you must respect their ways, you see. That doesn't mean wearing their blessed clothes – it's a bit subtler than that.'

‘Yes madam you like camel-skin lamp?'

‘No thank you,' said Donald. ‘You might be putting yourself in the wrong position. It's you I'm worried about, Christine. They'll take advantage of you, and it won't be their fault. Not entirely.'

‘For you, special low price. Only fifty rupees.'

‘Things that are perfectly all right in England are offensive to them here. They're Muslims.'

‘I
know
they're Muslims. Honestly, Donald. Anyway I still think it's you we're talking about. Your position here, as manager. As representative Brit. You're the one who stands to be offended. It's that awful male pride again. Years ago I thought you had less than most; that was why I liked you.'

‘Do keep your voice down.'

‘This place has just brought it out into the open. It's made for it.'

‘Do stop dividing things into male and female.
Male
pride. You never used to separate the human race like this. God it's hot.'

‘But it was there. You were just subtler about hiding it.'

‘Less upfront, eh?'

‘You still want me to somehow be a reinforcement to you. I can be independent, but on your terms. Colonialist, you see. Like your grandad with his native troops.'

‘They weren't native.
My
terms. Good grief. What about all those notes stuck into the hall mirror when I got home?
Pizza in fridge.
Horrible bought pizza with not enough cheese in it. Did I complain?'

‘Frequently. But subtly. You were snide about my friends.'

‘They were snide about me.'

‘For you, thirty rupees.'

‘No thank you. Do buzz off. Look Christine, can't we continue this enlightening discussion back home?'

‘There you are – sarcasm. That's one of your weapons.'

‘They couldn't call me dominating and oppressive, so they called me subversively dominating and oppressive. Or whatever. Some terrible jargon. We men can't win.'

‘Sahib please step this side. Beautiful necklace for memsahib.'

‘Look I must go. I've got an appointment at three.'

‘All genuine silver. Beautiful lowest price.'

‘What was it they said? All men are colonialists.' He laughed. ‘Women are the native states, waiting to be invaded.'

‘Don't make fun of it, Donald. It only shows how insecure you are.'

‘Oh God.'

She watched him leave, edging sideways through the crowd. He shook his head at one man, waving his empty hands. Despite his anger, he was so well-mannered. Not for him, the pushing and blustering, Royce-style. It was sad, that even his niceness irritated her.

The place smelt
of sweet perfume and drains. She picked her way around the cloudy puddles. Above her rose the tall, crumbling houses of the Old City. This alley was lined with bottles – plastic bottles, whisky bottles, rows of them and all of them empty. Somebody had once mentioned this Bottle Bazaar. In one booth a man was filling scent phials. Ahead of her the nephew searched for Mr Rahim. She slowed down behind his grimy, pyjama'd figure. She seemed for ever to be following men, their clothes flapping in the breeze, like guides through the underworld.

Nearing the end of the alley, he approached a table. Would Sultan Rahim think it odd, her seeking him out like this? Perhaps, as Donald had hinted, he would get the wrong idea.

He sat with another man, drinking Pepsi. He rose to his feet and shook her hand vigorously.

‘
Salaam ale'icum.
It is Mrs Manley, walking down our humble thoroughfare like a film star in her black spectacles.'

He was sleeker than she remembered: a handsome man in a ripe, dark, shiny way, amiable as a seal with his oiled hair. A man doing well; a man in his prime. Unlike Donald he carried his stomach proudly, the fruit of his success. He gave her a chair, snapped his fingers for more Pepsi and bade farewell to the nephew. Today he wore green shalwar-kamise pyjamas, freshly laundered.