Three Continents (13 page)

Michael and I had been swimming by the waterfall with Crishi. I ought to say that we did this every night and we
stayed there many hours before slowly trailing back to the house; sometimes we lay down in a field for a while and looked up at the moon. When we came back that night, we were surprised to see the lights on in the house and everyone woken up, with the boys having their party. By that time Jean had emerged in her robe and slippers and was reading what she called the riot act to them; but they just invited her to join them, and one of them put his arms around her and made her dance with him. She pretended to be angry but couldn't help laughing; it was all quite good-natured, and some people in the house had stuck their heads out the windows and were enjoying what was going on.

Michael and I stayed down in the grounds to watch, and though we joined Jean in making some feeble protests to the boys, we didn't mean to spoil their fun. Crishi, however, had gone straight up to the house, and it wasn't long before he came out again with all the male followers behind him like an army. And like an army they converged on the boys, and what followed was unexpected and shocking. The boys didn't have a chance against the followers, who used what looked like some very sophisticated techniques on them. It happened so fast—one moment everyone had been laughing and kidding around and there was music playing, and next thing there were these horrible thuds and cries of pain and the grim-faced followers stomping around on the cassette players, the pizzas, and the beer cans. In no time it was over; the boys had been pushed into their cars and the followers were cleaning up the mess on the grass. Everyone went back in the house and soon the lights were out again, and I guess we were all supposed to be asleep and not thinking about what had happened.

But we did think about it—I did, and Michael did, and Michael must have talked about it to Crishi, because by the time I came to talk to Michael, which was the next morning, he had already come right around to Crishi's point of view and explained it to me. I tried to protest—I said I didn't think the boys had actually been doing anything so bad—but Michael said it had been a challenge, which had to be faced and dealt with. Well maybe, I said—but dealt with in that way? Then Michael said that action has no degree, and either you do something or you don't do it.

The Rawul was more accommodating—he had to be because he had to deal with Grandfather. I came in on them at breakfast in the dining room next morning: The Rawul had as usual heaped his plate from all the silver-covered dishes on the sideboard, while Grandfather, at the opposite end of the table, was only stirring a spoon around his cup of tea. Whenever the two of them were together, they gave the impression of two potentates conferring on matters of high state; and like two such potentates, they usually didn't have to say anything because everything had been said by others at preliminary discussions, and all that was required of them was to be there face to face. But this time that was not so; for while Grandfather did sit there stirring in silence, the Rawul was talking quite volubly, as one out to convince, and justify.

If someone else had been saying what he was, I might not have accepted it. But it was the Rawul talking, whom I knew to be kind and a gentleman; a kind gentleman. He spoke in his old-fashioned upper-class accent, stopping every now and again to take another mouthful of scrambled eggs with kidneys; and his voice was soft and so were the graceful gestures he made with his plump hands, one of them holding a fork. And he was utterly and absolutely sincere, as was obvious from the vibrations that came into his voice, and the passionate way he shut his eyes when he spoke of what was most precious to him: his plan for a new world, a Fourth World, where all that was best in the other three would come to fruition. That sounds abstract and unreal, but it wasn't like that at all when he said it, because it came so deeply out of him, out of the Rawul in his English suit, eating his breakfast. It was, as he said, his world view, which he was in the process of putting into action with whatever means were available to him. These were not extensive, he admitted; indeed, to the casual eye they might appear extremely, even ludicrously, limited: just himself and the Rani and Crishi, and a handful of followers. But, he asked Grandfather, wasn't that the way every great world movement had started off—whether it was religious or, in keeping with our times, secular and political, a drive by men not toward God but toward other men, toward humanity? He balled his fist against his heart, as if the weight of feeling there was heavy and hurting—his feeling for the
humanity he wished to redeem and lead into the paradise of his Fourth World. Grandfather kept right on stirring his tea to cool it; his silence was disconcerting, as was the way he stared at the painting over the Rawul's head—a portrait of Lindsay's grandfather, who had made his money in the dry-goods business but here looked more like a Renaissance prince. The Rawul faltered a bit, and then he had to come down from the lofty height to which he had risen to a lower level, to discuss the boys who had been thrown off the property. And in view of what had gone before, it did seem petty that this incident had had to be mentioned, let alone justified; and it was magnanimous of the Rawul to see the boys' point of view the way he did. He said he knew they meant no harm, that they thought they were only having a party, but that in fact and unbeknown to themselves, they
were
doing real harm: for they were challenging and thereby obstructing the work of his followers, the global regeneration that had been set in motion, and no one said the Rawul—and here he did look less like a kind gentleman and more like a world leader—no one would ever be allowed to do that.

After the night of the boys' invasion, security measures were introduced, and though there was no actual boundary wall, a very definite demarcation line was drawn around Propinquity. Trees along the lake and on the outskirts of the property had red
PATROLLED
and
POSTED
signs stuck to them; gaps in the hedges were carefully closed with new plantings; one of the two entrances to the main driveway was barricaded completely; and at the other a sort of checkpoint was set up where two followers monitored all entrances and exits. Even Mrs. Pickles, when she arrived to work next morning, had to be cleared; she muttered darkly as she pushed her vacuum cleaner to and fro and packed up and left early, without having her cup of coffee with Else Schwamm. The same dark mood was shown by the deliverymen who came on their usual rounds that day, and the heating people who were checking our oil supply. They brought news of general indignation in the neighborhood, for it seemed some of the boys had been quite badly hurt and their parents were making a complaint to the police. The Rawul and his party carried on smilingly with their daily routine; only Crishi was busier than ever that day, talking a lot on the phone in his easy, persuasive manner
and from time to time roaring off in the convertible he drove to make visits in the neighborhood. I don't know whether it was as a result of his activity, but neither parents nor police appeared at the house on that day or the next; and on the third day there was a beer-and-tacos party at which parents and police mingled in a relaxed way with the people in the house. By that third day Mrs. Pickles too had got over her bad feelings, even though by then there was not only a checkpoint but a walkie-talkie system by which the followers at the gate called up for clearance to the house. That morning over her coffee with Mrs. Schwamm, Mrs. Pickles expressed her appreciation of the general discipline and order that were now so apparent in our household; and she confided that, speaking for herself and a few others she could mention, and these did not exclude some parents, what had happened to the boys was not altogether undeserved, and maybe it was about time they learned that they couldn't do as they pleased with everyone.

Was I the only one who remained uneasy? What made it worse was that I couldn't talk about it to Michael—couldn't admit to having such feelings because he himself completely approved of what had been done. I couldn't understand it—Michael had always been so much against every kind of outer order and discipline that he couldn't ever stay in a school. He would accept nothing except what came from inside himself; no discipline except self-discipline. Of that he had much more than anyone else I had ever known. Even as a child he used to impose days of fasting on himself, also days of silence and other austerities he knew of; he told no one except me. He would have been the last person to wear any kind of uniform, but he had laid aside his
kurta
, steel bangle, and earring and dressed like the followers in blue shirt and navy jeans. Crishi issued orders to him the same as he did to everyone else, and Michael followed them. He and Crishi were very close—they worked together during the day, supervising the followers on the Xerox machines and teleprinter, and every evening the two of them went to the waterfall. They always expected me to join them, but after the incident with the boys, I no longer wanted to. They didn't press me but went off by themselves while I stayed back, feeling miserable and waiting for them to return. It was very
late when they did, and I watched them from my window, walking across the lawn with their towels and wet hair—dreamy and happy, which was the way we always felt when we had swum and afterward lay in the field under the moon. Next morning again I couldn't bring myself to join them, and again they went off by themselves and I felt more miserable than ever. The third night too—this was after the beer-and-tacos party—I had intended to stay behind; but when Crishi said to me, quite casually, over his shoulder almost as he was about to go off with Michael, “Coming, Harriet?” I went to get my towel and hurried after them.

During these days, after his breakfast with the Rawul, Grandfather stayed the entire time in his bedroom. When I went to see him there, I found him propped up in the great four-poster in which our other grandfather had died. Sonya sat beside him on a chair, very wifely and domesticated, with some embroidery in her lap; she smiled at me and said “This big bear isn't feeling so good today.”

“Nonsense,” said Grandfather; and “We're leaving tomorrow.”

“
If
you're better,” Sonya said.

“There's nothing wrong with me at all.” But he did look sick; his head was laid back against the pillows, as one who is very, very tired. He appeared immensely aged, and grand, with his large head and the tufts of white hair showing where the top button of his pajamas was undone. His hands lay like sculpture on the covering sheet. Sonya laid her own little warm plump hand on one of them and said “Stubborn as a mule, as always”; she looked at me and tried to smile again, but her eyes were scared.

And next day, in spite of her protests, they did leave. Their car, packed with books and luggage, drove up to the porch, and everyone came out to watch their departure. It did not have the stateliness of their arrival, although the Rawul and Rani were both in attendance. In fact, it appeared rather scrambled, as though they were getting away in a hurry; people had to be sent back in the house several times for things Sonya had forgotten to pack. She was crying, and I don't know whether it was because she thought Grandfather wasn't well enough to leave, or because she was sorry to part
from her friends new and old. She embraced everyone with the same fervor—that is, all of us as well as the Rawul and Rani and whatever followers were within reach. Grandfather stood a little to one side, as though it were nothing to do with him. I thought he still didn't look well, almost frail in spite of his heavy build; it seemed to me that his clothes had grown too large for him, but perhaps this had been so for a long time and I hadn't noticed it before. The Rawul tried to make a little farewell speech, but with Grandfather remaining grim and withdrawn, it died, and the Rawul was left standing there, smiling and patting one of his hands on the other. While Sonya was still kissing and embracing, Grandfather went down the steps of the porch and settled in the back of the car. He beckoned to me from there, and when I came to the car window, he asked “Where's Michael?”

It was embarrassing, but I had to tell him Michael wasn't there. He had driven with Crishi to the printers to collect a new set of Fourth World literature. If he had known that Grandfather was leaving that morning, he might have postponed his errand; but, as I said, Grandfather left in a hurry—wanting to get to the Island, or just wanting to get away.

“Tell him—” Grandfather began to say to me, and then stopped. His eyes swept up the porch steps, where the Rawul stood smiling with the Rani beside him and some followers behind them. Whatever it was Grandfather had wanted me to tell Michael, he changed his mind and said instead, “Why don't you come to the Island, both of you; come and be with us. I want to see you,” he added and stopped looking grim for the first time that morning. He had his hand on the car window and I took it and held it in mine. He smiled at that, and seemed completely to forget about the Rawul and his party standing there. “See that you come now,” he said. “Bring Michael; and soon.” I said “I'll tell him.” “Not just tell him: make him. Make him come home.” I couldn't say anything to that; I couldn't promise. I didn't think Michael would want to go to the Island and I didn't think I myself wanted to either. I too felt that we had work to do here, that we had begun to undertake something.

But Grandfather didn't want to know about this. He withdrew
his hand from mine and called to Sonya. Before they drove off, he said again, “I want to see you there soon”—but he seemed to have lost interest in me almost as much as in the others standing on the porch. I guess he was just looking forward to being on the Island and doing his work there, writing his book to sum up all his life and what he had done in it.

B
UT Grandfather had a heart attack on the Island and died before we got there. As soon as we had the phone call, Michael and I left for the airfield. Crishi drove us there and chartered a plane to fly us and was both sympathetic and efficient. Michael was very tense and white and silent, and I must have been the same, so it was just as well that Crishi took charge. As we were about to board, he embraced Michael and held him for a moment, and Michael leaned his head against Crishi's shoulder and stood as if he didn't want to leave him. Crishi gently pushed him away, and then he turned to me. I thought—Is he going to embrace me too? and when he didn't, I felt more relieved than anything else.