Who Are You? Read online

  But when she says, ‘What?' he is stumped, unable to fix his elusive dissatisfaction in words, and merely looks around irritably, until he suddenly asks: 'Why aren't there any flowers?'

  She couldn't be more astonished if he'd said elephants, bewildered, as she already is, by his sudden unlikely interest. She too looks round the room, with a helpless feeling: it still seems beyond improvement — where could one possibly start?

  ‘Tell the mali to bring some flowers in buy them in the bazaar if he can't grow them. What do I pay him for?' The man keeps his eyes fixed on her angrily, all his grievances boiling up inside him. He doesn't realize the dismay at the prospect of having another antagonistic native to deal with prevents her from answering; to him, her silence appears a deliberate provocation. It's precisely this silence of hers that he always finds so maddening, and the way she simply sits about doing nothing at all. 'I believe you're trying to drive me insane !' he explodes, at the end of his tether. ‘Why don't you ever do anything ? It's your job to make the house look decent — I thought you were supposed to be so artistic. . .’

  The sneer neither relieves his anger nor stops the fever rising in him. Everything is slowly starting to move round and round in the dark closed world that confines him; and, although he clings on tight to the back of a chair, he seems to be floating round too. He longs for the security of his bed, but daren't let go of the chair; in fact, the effort of coming down here has taken so much out of him that he can't move.

  It's all his wife's fault. As always, he blames her for everything. If he could trust her he wouldn't have to get up and wander about the house. How dare she bring that devil of a doctor into his home ? The whole world seems to be in a conspiracy against him in his illness. And he's helpless. He can only cling on desperately to the chair that looks bloodstained, made of the raw red sticky wood they use in the jail. Even the fan against him and has started to squeak as it trundles round, making a fiendish sound which strikes right on the nerves, expressly in order to torment him . . . as she does . . . knowing the secret of some sore spot in the depths of his being . . . The throbbing in his head impels him to brandish his fist at the fan . . . at the girl . . at the whole bloody universe. In his rage and resentment he can only mumble inconsecutive phrases that fall from his lips like moribund toads. — call in that fucking bastard behind my back . . .' And then, shifting to a different grievance: 'To look at this room no one would think a woman lived here . . . it doesn't look like a home at all . .’

  These last words have the totally unforeseen effect of touching off some illumination in the hearer's mind. With sudden hope, she realizes that she's never felt any sense of permanence here; never thought of the place as her home. Which seems to mean that she won't be here for the rest of her life, after all. But she at once loses sight of this gleam of encouragement, as the aggrieved mutterings continue.

  The man is so full of rage that he lumps everything into one colossal grievance: the depressing room, the diabolical major, the badly functioning contraption of metal fins on the ceiling, the perfidious wife who's dragged him down here from the sick bed where he ought to be lying — where she ought to be cherishing him, waiting on him . . .

  There's nothing left in him now but the sort of blind fury and grievance a bull might feel, pricked by all those maddening banderillas it can't see, stuck in its flesh, from which blood is streaming. Only it's darkness, black blood, that streams into the room, flooding everywhere, so that he's drowning in it. He can't see properly and tries to call for more light, but now he can't get out a word. In front of his eyes his wife's face turns into a pallid clock face, solemnly ticking. He feels he is dying of thirst, his throat and mouth dry as sand. The whisky bottle appears before him, three times larger than life; but when he reaches out for it his arm breaks off at the shoulder.

  The throbbing in his head becomes a loud sustained buzz, like a dentist's drill, pierced intermittently by the thin intolerable screech of the fan . . . of a nail hammered through his skull. Everything is rushing away from him, falling apart. Fragmentary elements of a room race past, dissolving in the general torrent of disintegration . . . into which he falls too, and is falling to pieces . . .

  Nothing is real any longer; except a pair of thin, blackish, wiry arms, which materialize mysteriously, and mysteriously retain their solidity, grasping him strongly, holding him up . . . and finally carrying him up the stairs like a baby . . .

  Luckily for him, he is spared the knowledge of this culminating indignity.

  11

  The mercury in the thermometer by the door has crept up one degree higher this afternoon. Otherwise nothing has altered. The brain-fever birds keep repeating the question that will never be answered. Mr Dog Head is still alternately sweating and shivering, his fever high and his temper vile beyond words. Everything is exactly the same. And yet everything is entirely different, for the girl has a visitor.

  The only visitors she's had so far are the condescending club ladies, who occasionally honour her with their presence and patronisingly ask her to join this or that. Now, for the first time, she has a visitor of her very own. And the incredible thing, just like magic, is that this visitor is actually the person she's always wanted to know but been sure she never would, because her husband dislikes all young people. The thought of the sick man makes her feel slightly guilty. But why should she feel guilty? She's not responsible in any way for this amazing meeting, which has come about quite spontaneously, without any action on her part, like a gift from the gods.

  She can hardly believe it, and has to keep glancing across to make sure 'the man in suede boots' really is sitting there under the squeaky fan, his legs stuck out in front of him, looking quite at his ease. The famous boots are extremely elegant at close quarters, obviously made for him, in that lovely pale leather, soft and supple as velvet.

  The two of them are sedate at first. They talk politely to one another. They sip their tea. They speak of the heat, of the snakes that inhabit the swamp and sometimes crawl on to the path along which the young man walks every day to his work. In serious tones they mention the power of coincidence : if he hadn't killed that snake . . . if she hadn't happened to see him from lie verandah . . .

  In a sudden flash, she knows that here is someone she really can talk to - it's like being released from solitary confinement at last ! Her pleasure is so evident that he feels glad too. There really seems to be something rather remarkable about their meeting. The girl is a bit carried away, intoxicated almost, by the wonderful new prospect of communication. The young man has been lonely too, among all those much older chaps who order him about and make fun of his expensive mosquito boots -- it says something for his independence that he hasn't been teased out of wearing them. He is relieved now to be with somebody near his own age for a change; somebody who obviously likes him.

  He's seen her before at the club, but she's always been quiet — stand-offish, he has assumed, judging her by that awful husband with the notorious temper who thinks he's God Almighty and quarrels with everyone. Now he finds that she's really quite different: engaging and rather quaint, unlike other girls. All of a sudden, he is reminded of the young sister he's fond of, who has the same vague, dreamy, helpless look which appeals to the masculine chivalry inculcated during his schooldays, which he hasn't grown out of yet.

  He thinks what a perfect infant she looks that husband must be a real baby-snatcher. And before he knows it he's asking how she comes to be living out here as a married woman when she looks as if she ought to be still at school. 'Why did you marry a man so much older, and so . . .' He breaks off, not liking to say what's in his mind about the fellow's queer reputation, and certain rumours he's heard . . .

  Without any further encouragement, she starts telling him her life story. It's been bottled up inside her so long that it comes pouring out to the first sympathetic listener. ‘I never wanted to marry him, or anyone else. . . I was going to the university, I had a scholarship. . . It was my mother who in
sisted that I should get married instead. . .' She tells him this quite simply, like a good little girl who always obeys the grown-ups because they know best.

  'What a damn shame !' He stares at her, a bit staggered can such things happen in these days?

  But she takes it perfectly calmly, as a matter of course. 'You see, my mother wanted to get rid of me. She never liked me — nobody ever does.'

  'Well, I do !' he asserts promptly.

  On the spot she decides he's the nicest person she's ever known, and looks at him gratefully, without speaking. Their eyes meet, and something happens. They both feel slightly overcome without quite knowing why, To extricate them from embarrassment she continues: 'I don't think my husband likes me he says it's my fault he's gone down with malaria.’

  ‘How could it possibly be your fault ?' Reacting from that curious moment just now, Suede Boots bursts out laughing. ‘Sorry — but I can't help it ! I never heard such rot !'

  So it's actually possible to laugh in this house ! The breezy infectious sound quite astounds her she's almost forgotten what laughter's like. He seems to break some spell by laughing, for she finds herself laughing too . . . as long as she doesn't remember about the rats . . .

  Now they chatter away like old friends, their heads close together. He's only a year or two older than she is, and, as they're both so very young, a somewhat childish atmosphere builds up around them. The continuous buzz of the fan encloses them in a small tent of sound, a private room of their own where they're oblivious of the passing of time.

  The three windows behind them, on the shady side of the house, are wide open. They are deep in their conversation. Neither of them notices, or looks round, when, framed by the first window, a big white turban appears, surmounting a bearded face which gazes in and then vanishes, reappearing at the second window, where it stays rather longer. At the third window it does not put in an appearance, presumably having already seen all there is to see — which certainly isn't much. Soon after this Suede Boots looks at his watch. ‘Heavens ! I must be going !’ He pushes back his chair, but seems stuck to it. He doesn't want to leave her. They start talking again. But he thinks of the husband in bed upstairs and feels slightly uneasy. Does the man know he is here? If so, he must be wondering what on earth they are talking about all this time. 'I really must get along now.' He stands up, suddenly determined, says goodbye to her briskly, and walks off, pushing between the panels of the door. To the girl, it's as if he takes the light with him. She listens to his receding steps, which sound rather loud on the stone floor. For some reason this makes her think of' the man upstairs too. But what does it matter if he hears? There's nothing he can object to in someone coming to tea what could be more harmless? Nevertheless, she suddenly feels alarmed. She can't let her visitor go like this, and runs after him impulsively, catching him on the verandah just as he's about to step down to the compound.

  'Hello !' he says, surprised to see her. He doesn't want to delay his departure, having got to this point. Besides, this is no place for lingering over goodbyes; although the porch cuts off the full impact of the afternoon heat and glare it's far too hot to be comfortable.

  She feels his impatience, almost feeling he's lost already. Instead of looking at him she looks down at the splintery wood under her feet as she asks, in a whisper almost : 'Shall I see you again ?' hanging her head and hiding behind her hair.

  'Of course. Tomorrow why not ?' he replies, so positively that at first she feels better. But after a moment he seems to be tempting providence by being so certain. Her fears return, and she murmurs pathetically: 'Everything always goes wrong with me. . .’ On her face is the helplessly apprehensive look of a child who knows the grown-ups will disapprove of her new friend and forbid them to meet again; and, like a child, she feels this will be the end of the world — she can't see past such a disaster.

  But as he doesn't know what is in her mind her behaviour seems a bit odd, artificial; he thinks she's pretending to be a sort of tragedy queen ' to impress him. All the same he assures her that, where he is concerned, everything about her is quite all right.

  Grateful, she gives him her attractive smile. And, because she really seems rather a sweet child, even if she does make a drama out of nothing, he recklessly tells her he'll drop in each day, as he has to pass anyhow, until she gets tired of him and tells him not to. He smiles again, waves his hand in final farewell, jumps the three steps to the compound and hurries out of her sight.

  Instead of going back to the room with the fan, where it's cooler, she stays there, staring after him, still feeling a little disturbed without admitting the reason. A big lizard, hidden in the rafters over her head, starts tonelessly repeating, Gekko, gekko, gekko, like a clock striking. While simultaneously, giving her a fright, Mohammed Dirwaza Khan unexpectedly appears, his big bare feet soundless on the steps from the compound. With bent head he quickly slips past, no expression whatever on his averted face.

  All her obscure alarms are strengthened, alarming questions come into her head, one after another. What was he doing out there in the sun, at this time, when he's supposed to be off duty? Why did he come in this way, when he never uses the front entrance? Why didn't he look at her?

  She runs down the steps and stands at the extreme edge of the porch's shadow, looking all round, her eyes searching the searing dazzle outside. Suede Boots has vanished already. The compound is deserted, the road and the pathway too. Nobody is to be seen anywhere. Nothing is happening.

  It's too hot to stay here, and she turns back to the house. The lizard is still calling, Gekko, as she goes in. She counts its cries mechanically. There are twelve more of them.

  12

  Suede Boots is here again for tea. He looks in every clay as he promised, and fancies he's falling a little in love with the girl, though not seriously enough to commit himself. Now and then, when he remembers his existence, he's faintly worried about the husband, who has recovered and is now back at work. He hears that he hasn't once mentioned him, and wonders whether he doesn't know about his daily visits. But that's impossible in this grapevine country, where each branch sprouts a crop of wide open ears — how extraordinary that he makes no comment. He tells himself the man must be simply indifferent, or perhaps even glad to have someone talk to his wife, so that he needn't bother. But as he never has bothered about her in the slightest the argument is not very convincing.

  Marvellous to relate, nobody seems to have noticed his visits. And as few Europeans use the marsh path he deludes himself into believing they can escape observation indefinitely. Of course he's not ashamed of going to see the girl — quite the reverse. But he knows, once the secret is out, the two of them are bound to become targets for pernicious gossip; their innocent relationship will be smeared with all sorts of disgusting hints and rumours. In this climate, always seething with sex, the small white community is a hotbed of scandal. An intense interest is taken in each new affair that comes to light, which is endlessly discussed and reported, without much regard for truth. Some people, with too little to do and over-stimulated by the heat, seem to confuse reality with the sexual fantasies they embellish with obscene detail, and are apt to accuse others of indulging in their own perverse imaginings. He knows how hungrily they will pounce on the news, circulating it eagerly among themselves, distorted out of all recognition by their morbid fancies. He hates to think of his pure affection being so basely degraded, and can't bear the idea of the girl being victimized either, as she's so helpless and vulnerable.

  However, his youthful optimism prevents him from being seriously troubled. He concentrates on enjoying the present, without too much concern for future eventualities. Things are going very well at the moment; the girl seems happier and more relaxed when he's with her, at any rate. Not being insensitive, he has become aware of her idea that she's doomed to perpetual bad luck, but feels sure he'll be able to make her outlook more cheerful.

  For a start, he's already almost persuaded her that their friendship wil
l be allowed to go on. If only he could spend more time with her. His visits are always far too short for all they have to talk about. They discuss everything under the sun, and also laugh a good deal she has so much lost laughter to make up for. But this afternoon, as it happens, the conversation is more serious, for she's just told him about the precious letter, and brought it downstairs to show him.

  When the bearded spy, unsuspected, unseen, for a moment looks in at the window, he's puzzled by the sight of their two heads bent over the familiar worn sheet of notepaper, which doesn't seem to fit in very well with his love-letter theory.

  In blissful ignorance of him and his machinations, Suede Boots tells her it certainly isn't too late to do as the letter writer suggests, and take up her scholarship at the university. Why should she stay out here, in this vile climate, tied to a man twice her age she ought never to have married, who neglects her, and whom she doesn't care twopence about ? He gets quite excited while he is talking, and is disappointed because at the end she says nothing. Her face is half hidden from him by her hair, which falls forward as she bends over the letter, carefully returning it to its envelope.

  He always likes to look at her hair. She must have washed it today, as it is slightly ruffled and there seems more of it than usual. The straight, fair hair refuses to conform to the shape in which it's been clumsily cut, and strands keep on escaping. The fan stirs individual hairs on the surface, and their tiny movements, amplified by the mass of hair, create constantly changing eddies with shining highlights. But, attractive as it is in itself, the hair's perpetual motion accentuates its owner's unmoving silence, which begins to make him slightly impatient. He can't understand why she puts up with the situation, without even trying to change it, which he thinks she could easily do.

  'All you've got to do is walk out and book your passage,' he tells her: and, as she still doesn't speak, adds impatiently: 'You're not in prison !' Still he waits in vain for her to say something, and finally bursts out: 'You've only got one life, you know ! Are you always going to let other people run it for you, as if you were six years old?'