Three Continents (42 page)

Michael and Crishi stood confronting each other while everyone watched them. Now that he had Crishi's attention completely, Michael calmed down; he tried to speak reasonably: “Can't you see that I've come for some work? There's a meeting tomorrow.” “There is?” said Crishi. “Poor Michael. Always working; slaving away for everyone. Poor old Mike.” And he held Michael's chin and fondled it, and Michael, who so hated being touched, didn't jerk away but looked back at Crishi with steady eyes. They stood there, face to face, daring
each other; and Crishi took his hand away but went on talking in the same sweet and taunting tone: “Shall I tell you something, Michael? You might not like it; you
won't
like it.” Crishi ran his tongue over his lips: “I don't care one fuck for your meeting. Not this much: not one fuck.” Crishi was rather drunk, or I don't think he would have done what he did next—he snatched Michael's duty sheet, which was clipped to a board, and he held it up high and started to fling it in the fire. Michael, who was of course very sober, easily prevented him; and besides retrieving his board, he gave Crishi a push that sent him sprawling against the people standing around watching. “You belong with the rest of these swine,” Michael said and turned and went out without glancing back: except for one look at me, which under normal circumstances—I guess I mean in the past—would have made me follow him. But all my attention was on Crishi, lying half sprawled in the arms of the people who had caught him; and he had that smile of his, which might also have been a snarl. Next moment he released himself and said “Is this a party or what is it,” and at once it became one again, with drumming and dancing.

A
ND then suddenly one day Sonya arrived. She had flown straight from New York and was suffering from jet lag but otherwise was entirely her old, her usual self; in fact, a familiar apparition, for we were used to Sonya turning up wherever we were, at whatever embassy Grandfather had been posted to—whether it was London or Beirut, sooner or later she arrived with all her matching luggage and her jewel case. So after the first amazement at her unexpected arrival, it was really quite natural for me to go into the suite where she had already made herself comfortable, having unpacked and set out the things she needed most urgently, such as her makeup and her pills. She was propped up in her nightgown and lace jacket and hairnet, pursing her lips and saying “Give Sonya a kiss, darling.” Oh but I was glad to do so; I rushed over to the bed, and while she pressed her mouth to mine, I hugged her so hard I halflifted her out of bed. She cried aloud and laughed and then she said “Let me look at you.” She tried to study my face—but I got up and walked away from her, at the same time assuring her that I was as happy as she had hoped and prayed for me on the night of my wedding. We were laughing together at my happiness when Michael came in—rushed in, rather, and he didn't have to be invited over to kiss Sonya, he was by her side in no time, and it was he who held her. I think Sonya was as amazed as I was: This was not Michael at all, Michael, who, however happy he was to see anyone,
wouldn't do more than give a cool, indifferent nod. But he didn't let go of Sonya for a long time, though he wouldn't let her look into his face any more than I had; and when she at last managed to do so, he turned it away and he released her and got up. I watched him and saw what she saw—only I looked away again at once because it didn't seem becoming for me, for anyone, to see Michael dash tears out of his eyes, even if they were tears of joy at Sonya's arrival.

Sonya made a big splash—I mean, she was a presence. To the hotel staff, for one; she was the type of hotel guest who was forever calling for room service and the housekeeper and the laundry and whatever else there was to ask and tip for; she knew everyone's name and, quite soon, personal history. But besides the hotel staff, her arrival was a big event for our family, including the Rawul and Bari Rani, who both paid her every courtesy. She was invited to his meetings, and he was also available to her for private audience whenever she might desire it; and the Bari Rani entertained her to lunch and took her shopping and sightseeing, treating her as a close and dear member of the family. Both she and the Rawul let her into their plans for the movement and gave her details of the present state of its development. Well, Sonya listened to them but not, anyone who knew her could see, with the rapt attention with which she had received such communications before. The movement was not apparently what she had come for and not what she wanted to hear about, nor was it the subject she had traveled all this way to discuss—if, that is, she had come to discuss anything.

“What's she want?”

“Crishi! To see us of course.”

“You and me?”

“And Michael.”

Crishi made no comment, but not as if he had nothing to say but as if he weren't saying it till more was known.

Although Sonya appeared to be as fond of, and doting on, Crishi as before—even more, because he had made me so happy—what she liked best was to be alone with Michael and me. Michael too seemed to like that best—any free time he had from the organization, he would be with her in her hotel suite, where she spent most of her time. She had no interest
in going out and seeing anything, however much Bari Rani urged her and put herself at her disposal. Sonya told us she hadn't come here for the sights, and in any case she had already seen them. She had seen everything, she said—this was when the three of us were in her room, in fact all three of us on her bed, she inside the covers and Michael and I lying on top of them—everything there was to see and do in life she had seen and done, so now all she wanted was to be with those she loved; that is, with Michael and me. “Am I hurting you?” said Michael, who was lying on her feet—his voice was gruff, his intention tender. “No, no, darling, perfectly comfortable, perfectly happy.” She went on to say that she knew it was wrong of her, since we had our own lives to lead, but she did miss us terribly at home—everyone did, she said, prompting Michael to ask “Like who?” “Everyone,” she said. “And especially at darling Manton and dearest Barbara's wedding—” “Oh they've had it, have they?” said Michael. She was brought up short—“Didn't you know? They said they called and called and sent cables—” Michael looked at me and I felt embarrassed for a moment—it was true, after calling me in England, they had repeatedly called me in India and I had promised to come, but it had gone completely out of my mind, especially after I spoke to Crishi again and he said “Oh leave it, forget it.”

Sensing an awkward moment and wanting to cover it up, Sonya went on to describe the wedding. It had been in a side chapel of the same cathedral where Manton and Lindsay had been married twenty-three years earlier; many of the guests were the same, though now including Lindsay accompanied by Jean. Everyone was very moved by the ceremony—Barbara had wept copiously; so had Sonya and all her friends who had come in full force, except for the Princess, who had gone into a coma and was no longer taken out. The archdeacon had spoken beautifully—he was an old friend of Manton's, had been to school with him, knew about him and the whole family, and wasn't in the least put out by the fact that Barbara was so hugely pregnant. No one was, Sonya assured us; on the contrary, it was a heightening of the occasion to see the bride at the altar so beautifully bearing the fruit of the love they were there to consecrate; and then
the pride with which Manton carried himself as bridegroom and father-to-be. He was even more handsome than at his last wedding, for he was more mature, more ample, amply filling his superbly tailored cutaway and striped trousers, his belly straining against the latter, the four-in-hand curving over his thrust-out chest, the white carnation in his buttonhole blooming in a maturity as full as his own. And when he turned from the altar and walked down the aisle, his bursting bride on his arm, leading her in slow measure to the notes swelling out from the organ—if only, Sonya said, we could have been there to see him; but of course she knew we couldn't. And Grandfather, if only it had been possible for him to see his son at that moment—it would have been the end of all those superficial little differences between them: not that they had ever counted for anything—what were they in face of the great fact that the two of them
were
father and son, just as Michael and Manton were son and father, and now another son would come. It was so wonderful, a matter of such gratitude, she said, squeezing one hand of Michael's and one of mine, that we were one family, all of us belonging together; including, she said, Lindsay and dear Jean too, and also, she ended up for good measure, Else Schwamm, who had been there at the wedding, crying as much as everyone else.

“Looks like we missed a big event,” said Michael at the end of this recital. He glanced at me: “You didn't even mention it.”

“As if you'd have cared.”

“It doesn't matter at all,” said Sonya quickly. “Not one bit. Sometimes it isn't possible for people to be where they most want to be, but all the same they're there in their feelings. Just as long as you have those, and Manton knows you do and Barbara too—they know you'll love your little brother when he arrives, in the same way as you love each other.”

“When's he due?” said Michael—surprising me again by his interest in such a subject.

“Any day soon.” Sonya was silent; I could see her reflecting on how to start on her next theme. To save her the trouble, I said “Manton wants you to talk to us about the money.”

Sonya blushed as if I had caught her out in something. She did look sweet, very girlish with her round face and
wrinkled, pampered skin. Grandfather had always been touched by her blushes, and now Michael was too—he went up closer to her so he could put his arms around her in a protective way; and since it was I who had caused her embarrassment, he seemed to be challenging me when he said “Well why not—it's a perfectly natural subject for a family to talk about.”

“Of course it is,” I agreed, not reminding him that it was he who had up till now imposed silence on it.

Whenever she and I were alone, Sonya spoke to me of Michael. She said she was worried about his health. I reassured her the way he had me—“It's just the usual stomach things everyone gets.” “And what's this on his mouth?” “Just a sore, it's nothing.” “He's changed, he's not Michael.” I pretended to laugh: “Of course he's Michael!” She shook her head: “Our Michael was—he was—” “What?” “Strong. A rock. You couldn't change him this much, not from here to there. Like his Grandfather.” “He's still like that,” I tried to maintain. It hurt me to have to lie—disguise my own feelings—to Sonya, but I couldn't very well tell her that there was trouble between Michael and Crishi. Anyway, I thought, it was temporary, it would blow over when we moved away from this place and went to what was our real destination: that is, to Dhoka, to the Rawul's kingdom, the source and fountainhead of our movement, where everything would be refreshed and restored.

I discovered that it wasn't only his deteriorating relationship with Crishi that was making Michael unhappy. One evening there was an important function to which some big shots were invited. Bari Rani was as usual in charge. She rented a house and put up a spacious tent on its front lawn for the general meeting, and afterward there was a grand feast inside the house arranged by the leading caterer after detailed consultation with Bari Rani. Usually these parties went off very well—the Rawul would be very pleased, and the next morning he would discuss the event with Bari Rani while she helped him dress. They would talk about the important people who had been there and what effect the function had on them and consequently what the Rawul's chances were of being nominated. Apparently each time they had a big party these
were enhanced, and the Rawul and Bari Rani were satisfied. But that evening something had gone wrong, and next day Bari Rani was in a state. She called for Michael, who was having breakfast with Sonya, me, and Robi. When he had gone, Sonya said “Why is he so upset?” I said “Is he?” I hadn't noticed; he was always pale and silent anyway. But after she had said it, I became uneasy, especially when he didn't return; and Sonya said “Yes, why don't you go and see.” I left her and Robi to entertain each other, which they always did very well, and went to the Rawul's suite.

I could hear raised voices from the corridor, and when I went in, I found the Rawul and Bari Rani in the middle of an argument. I couldn't make out at first what it was about and Michael gave me no help. He didn't even look at me but stood there all clenched up. The Rawul was saying to Bari Rani, “You're exaggerating, as usual,” which made her address herself to me as a new person to take her side. She said that nothing was closer to her heart than her husband's career, and everything that it was possible for a human being to do, she unstintingly did: but unfortunately she was born neither with four pairs of hands nor with eyes at the back of her head, and she did have to rely to some extent, in some little ways, on the help and vigilance of others; and if these others let her down, then all her work and efforts were in vain. As, for instance, last night—and here she turned to Michael: Surely, she told him, he was not so overburdened with duties that he could not have checked up on the dietary laws of their most important guest and provided the unpolished rice and onionless vegetables these demanded. But no, this detail was omitted, thereby giving grave offense to the most influential person there—defeating the entire purpose of her efforts and instead of promoting the Rawul's career setting it back by months, years even—“Years and years!” she cried, working herself up, so that I couldn't help being amused at the thought of the unpolished rice and onionless vegetables. But Michael was getting to the point where he had difficulty holding himself in. I knew this point in him so well—rarely reached, but when it was, his anger would burst through all the controls he had imposed on it. And as if afraid of this himself, he turned and went out of the room, leaving
Bari Rani in indignant midsentence and the Rawul looking after him with concern.