Ryman, Rebecca (107 page)

There
was still no word from Jai Raventhorne. Not a hint, not a whisper. But Olivia
was not worried. The bait had been cast; she knew it would be taken, but not
until the very last, when her already jittery nerves were at the snapping
point. The vast quadrangle where hordes of children had once played and crowded
families lived crammed into inadequate, unhealthy space still showed signs of
life, although not human. Rats, bandicoots, and scavenging cockroaches scuttled
about searching for scraps no longer available. The drain that had nauseated
her that significant Dassera night two years ago had long dried, but the
stubborn stench still lingered. To Olivia's right was that dismal cell in which
the old woman had lain coughing her life away, now no doubt dead, cremated to
ashes and forgotten. To her left, adjoining the erstwhile cow shed, was the
quarter that Arthur Ransome had once pointed out to her as where Jai Raventhorne
had been born. In appearance it was no different from the others. Dark, dank
and with a small, slatted window, it had a brick floor pitted with rat burrows.
Desolation seeped in slimy green fingers through the cracks in its walls, the
residue of many monsoons. The smell in Olivia's nostrils was of decay, of
death, as in a foetid catacomb. Ironically enough, this decrepit tomb had also
been a womb from which new life had emerged.

Had
it always been like this? Was it like this on that stormy night of more than
three decades ago when that naiad's son's eyes, fashioned by his punitive
heredity, had first seen the light of the world? In which corner had lain that
child of nature shorn of her innocence, paying the price for a sin that was
truly sinless? Clearly in her inner vision, Olivia saw a twisted young form
writhing on the pock-marked floor in the throes of that agony that was also the
act of life-giving. Nubile fingers clawed the air; a bloated torso, not unlike
her own now, thrashed wildly from
side to side. Shrill screams of
supplication begged someone unseen for mercy; warm, viscous streams of blood
snaked across the floor towards Olivia's feet, pouring forth from the battered
child-woman not yet seventeen. In her ears Olivia heard the rasping demands of
her lungs, the murmured cajolement of midwives, the rain as it lashed on the
roof and then sidled in through the ceiling. A hush fell, as from spaces beyond
the earth, and hovered awhile. From the depths of that hush emerged a sound,
first trifling, then full blooded. It was the cry of a new-born, loud and lusty
and angry at being hurled into a hostile world that would never accept it as
one of its own.

Blindly,
Olivia turned and ran out of the room, limp with sweat. The force of her
fantasies was such that she could not breathe. If she had not grabbed the
support of a broken column, she would have fainted.

For
two days Olivia plunged herself into the soporific diversions of domesticity.
She could not afford again to think, to indulge in the luxury of emotionalism,
to
deviate.
Thought made her fallible, eroded her will-power.
Happenstance had handed her a weapon. It was small but, like a needle, it was
sharp. It would pierce unerringly. Nothing—not Kinjal's well-intentioned
advice, or Estelle's half love for a half brother, or indeed her own
hallucinations—could be permitted to deny her the chance to strike deeply. To
keep herself on even keel, Olivia occupied herself with a frenzy of cleaning.
She rearranged Amos's nursery, tidied forgotten cupboards, thriftily separated
from her linen chest those sheets and pillow covers that could be darned into
reuse. Taking a leaf out of her aunt's domestic Bible, she subjected Rashid Ali
to several hours of relentless stock-taking in the kitchen store-rooms, leaving
him perplexed and considerably disgruntled.

By
tea time on Sunday she had exhausted both her energy reserves and her domestic
chores, but she was still restless. Estelle had been of great assistance in
relieving the load of her self-inflicted duties, but now she was out and not
expected until after supper. Olivia rejected another call on Kinjal, regardless
of temptation. Kinjal's serene logic would again try to soften her resolve, and
Olivia was tired, so tired, of dialectics!

The
demolitions were to start early tomorrow morning.
Still
Raventhorne
had not made
any move! Olivia's earlier confidence was fast eroding, her brain seething with
fresh doubts. Had he seen through her bluff and decided to call it? Was he
planning some last-minute trick that she had not foreseen? Or, could it be that
despite Estelle's valiant melodramatics, he simply did not care whether or not
those miserable quarters were pulled down?

No.
Resolutely Olivia checked her irrational doubts. Jai Raventhorne
did
care.
He would never allow her to destroy the disreputable husk that had once housed
his mother, which to him still embodied her spirit, and was the cradle in which
he had been nurtured. It meant that he would make his move tonight. Or not at
all!

"I'm
going to the Templewood house again, Mary. That sweeper has not yet disinfected
the drains and they stink. There is no need to order the carriage, I'll walk. I
need the exercise." In her eagerness to expend restless energy, Olivia
almost ran out of the house.

The
extensive park land across which she had ridden so often fronted the Birkhurst
mansion and enjoyed great popularity as an avenue for recreation. Early showers
of the monsoons had washed away layers of dust and given the nascent grass the
look of a lime green carpet. Children frolicked with armies of ayahs and
nannies in exasperated attendance, their parents probably out on the Strand
enjoying more adult pleasures. Those who preferred exercise to social chit-chat
on the Strand took brisk constitutionals across the park, marching in rhythm as
if preparing for a military parade. Smartly outfitted army men from Fort
William, contained within the extensive park land, cantered on superbly brushed
horses and looked very superior to those unfortunate enough to be on foot. It
had been a long time since Olivia had walked across the park. There were many
surprised glances as gents doffed their hats and ladies avoided looking at her
stomach. Some halted to exchange a few pleasantries, and one or two men from
the business district were bold enough to probe cautiously about the hotel.

It
was a cool, breezy evening with a fine mist of sporadic rain from scattered
clouds that hovered uncertainly overhead. No doubt it would rain more
decisively during the night. The leisuredly amble considerably helped to settle
Olivia's mind. She felt better for the exercise, her brain clearer. The
day-watchman was not yet off duty at the Templewood bungalow. He greeted her
unexpected visit with surprise tempered with relief, glad that he had returned
when he had from a surreptitious smoke with his
cronies around the corner. No,
he said, the sweeper was no longer on the premises and yes, he would personally
supervise the cleaning of the drains in the morning. Had there been any
visitors, any messages? A letter, perhaps? Stoutly he shook his head, swearing
that he had been on guard every minute and there had been no one and nothing.

She
knew she would have to wait.

Vagrant
footsteps and a wandering mind took Olivia aimlessly in the direction of the
cook-house. She unlocked the door and went inside, not knowing why or what it
was she sought. With no Babulal, no Rehman, no bands of frisky scullery boys,
the kitchen looked desolate. There were lathers of black cobwebs everywhere and
termites had again mounted assaults on her aunt's sacrosanct larder, the
marauding lines of insects at one time considered a calamity of major
proportions. The larder itself, scene of so many hot skirmishes between cook
and mistress, was as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

Through
the soot- and oil-encrusted wire mesh at the window, Olivia gazed steadily
across the deserted wastes of the servants' quadrangle. Long, shadowy fingers
crept over it to make a vibrant patchwork of vermilion light and shade. A touch
of setting sun turned a heap of rubble into something exotic and unfamiliar. In
the mournful silence a pair of geckos chased each other or some choice insect
across a kitchen wall with their plaintive cry of
satti, satti, satti,
which
the Indians, in their zeal to philosophise everything, interpreted as truth,
truth, truth.

Out
in the compound against an umbral back-drop, something moved. It might have
been a rat or a stray cat or dog or, indeed, merely a trick of the changing
light. But it wasn't. Every muscle in Olivia's body tensed; her shallow
breathing deepened into rasps, her heart bolted into gallops. Even without
being able to see clearly, her every instinct told her that she was not about
to be disappointed. At last, Jai Raventhorne had arrived to strike his bargain.

His
bargain
but on
her
terms!

She
had not been face to face with him since their encounter in his office. But in
a business environment as close knit as in Calcutta, her awareness of his
presence was constant. Through the window of her office she had often distinguished
the sound of Shaitan's hooves as they thundered past the Farrowsham main
entrance, for Raventhorne's day, like hers, started early. Sometimes she had
seen him striding along the wharf with that eternal impatience with which he
announced his contempt for the world. Once in a while in the early morning she
had even heard his voice in all its deep-timbred richness as he read some
unfortunate Customs official his fortune, for at that time of day voices
carried clearly. In whatever situation she had observed him covertly, it was
always he who was in control of it, his authority not for a moment in question.

This
was not so now. The picture Jai Raventhorne presented to Olivia in the filtered
light of impending dusk was very different. Head slung low between hunched
shoulders, he sat on an upturned bucket carelessly left behind by one of the
workmen. In one hand he held a twig with which he doodled on the soil around
his feet. His elbows were balanced on his knees. Cast downward, his eyes stared
at nothing in particular but with unmoving intensity. There was now no sign of
the conceit, the hauteur that was such an integral part of his bearing. Save
for his right wrist as he doodled, he was still. He had no suspicion of being
watched.

The
taste in Olivia's mouth was suddenly nectarine sweet. With careful cat treads
she stepped out of the kitchen house to glide silently down the court-yard at
his back. Keeping to the darkening verandahs that ran alongside the quarters,
she positioned herself as close to him as she could without attracting his
notice. A few
fat drops of rain plopped down from a visiting cloud; glancing upward, he
pulled up the collar of his shirt but otherwise ignored them. In the fractional
lift of his head he had revealed his face. It looked harrowed. The taste in
Olivia's mouth turned even sweeter.

Softly
she called out, "I was expecting you earlier. What took you so long?"

His
back straightened. Were it not for the hush of the dusk, she might have
altogether missed the hiss with which he pulled in his breath. She sauntered
past him unhurriedly and strolled towards the doorway upon which she knew all
his energies were concentrated. He remained seated and stared blankly, without
recognition, as if tangled in some distant dream not yet shaken off. She had
surprised him in a moment of intense privacy: It was on a pilgrimage that he
had come. How fortuitous the timing of her own visit!

With
a finger-nail Olivia scraped off some splinters from the door jamb. "Ugh!
Eaten hollow by termites. It's worse inside, believe me."

He
still did not speak. But in the saffron blaze of the dying sun his expression
changed. He rose, walked away and turned his back upon her.

"Would
you like to see inside for yourself? You will not again have the opportunity.
Tomorrow all this comes down, every brick, every roof tile, every last rotten
beam." She laughed under her breath. "No? Well, please yourself. My
offer of inspection remains until the morning."

His
back was like a wall, hard and unbending. She could read fury in its every line
and contour. Slicked with sweat, his forearms glistened and in the eerie light
that dusk brings they looked metallic. She knew that if he were to turn now,
his face would be ravaged. But then he did turn and she was disappointed. He
had reconstituted his face into such emptiness that she felt cheated. Raw
emotion dispensed with, he loosened as he confronted her.