Who Are You? Read online

  'You strain your eyes reading too much,' he retorts. Then: 'Why the devil can't you get used to the climate, like everyone else ?' Her failure to make this adjustment also seems an exasperating device for making him angry. But, though she doesn't answer, he lets it go, preoccupied with a new idea, originating in her looking unwell, which slowly takes shape in his head.

  The way he's still staring reminds her that she hasn't tidied her hair since the wind blew it about, and she smoothes it down with her hands, so that it catches his eye. He looks at the glossy, vigorous hair, in which all her vitality seems concentrated, and which is now so long that it rests on her shoulders, as she hasn't had the energy lately even to have it cut. All at once, he finds that his hands are twitching involuntarily — he wants to stroke it, which he hasn't done since the period of his infatuation. His gaze becoming proprietory, possessive, he takes a sudden step forward and puts his hand on her shoulder.

  She is quite unprepared for this, thinking only about her hair. It makes her jump to feel the big, hard, heavy hand descend on her shoulder, like a policeman's, and tighten its grip there.

  'Anything happened while I've been away?' he asks now, in a changed, peculiar tone, ingratiating and artificial; he doesn't really want to know, or expect an answer, and might equally well have made any other remark. The question is in the nature of a preliminary, part of a routine, which she recognizes with horror from the bedroom, as he pulls her against him.

  She feels the insufferable heat generated between their two touching bodies spring up like a flame and, acting purely on impulse, not stopping to think, wrenches herself out of his grasp. Instantly a murderous flare appears in his blue eyes, his face goes rigid, his hands clench as if to drag out by the roots handfuls of the hair they were about to caress. But he says nothing, turning his back on her, and marches out of the room.

  She doesn't see him again until they meet at dinner, when he hardly speaks a word. To pay her out, as soon as the meal is over, he gets the racquets and starts the rat game. Though he can't compel her to play with him, he forces her to stay in the room. But she shuts her eyes tight and won't watch, so he's frustrated again.

  He feels like bashing her with the racquet, and is only restrained by the resolve that's come to him suddenly to make her give him a son and heir; it's the least she can do in return for the honour of being married to him. Besides, it will take her down a peg or two, and show her which of them is the boss.

  Grinning to himself over these thoughts, he goes on bashing the rats with particular gusto.

  14

  Without warning one evening, while dinner is being served, the electric light starts to fade. It doesn't go out altogether, but gives the impression of being about to do so at any moment, meanwhile maintaining a rapid, distracting, continuous flickering that has a distorting, hallucinatory effect, and makes everything seem unstable, unreal.

  The girl asks what's gone wrong, looking anxiously at her husband. Any mishap of this sort generally starts him swearing and shouting abuse at everyone within earshot. But to her surprise he remains calm and only says, 'It's always like this at the end of the hot weather,' adding something about hydraulic pressure she doesn't take in.

  The queer quick fluctuations have already made her disagreeably conscious that her head is aching; also, they produce a disturbing, impossible effect, as if the day's shimmering heat-haze had invaded the night-time room. Which is doubtless why she doesn't notice when, after the butler has handed the main dish, the vegetables are offered, not by his proper assistant, but by the youth in the white turban.

  Nor does the man at the head of the table appear to be aware of any irregularity in the service, as he helps himself generously. He keeps his eyes on his plate, eating with his usual appetite, preparing each mouthful in advance, putting it into his mouth and repeating the process before he's finished masticating the last, displaying a somewhat doglike conscientiousness in scrupulously cleaning up every morsel. After he's consumed a second helping with the same thoroughness, and while the butler's occupied with the next course, the youth slips out to the back porch. Here Mohammed Dirwaza Khan is waiting for him and mutters a brief question, which he answers by a quick affirmative nod, returning immediately to the dining-room.

  His bearded superior too leaves the porch at once, silent as a shadow, entering the central corridor which divides the house and into which the stairs and all the rooms lead. He passes the flickering light in the dining-room, where only his master's legs are visible under the door flaps, and, without attracting attention or making a sound, mounts to the floor above. He does not hurry. If he is seen, he is merely on his way to prepare his master's room for the night, as he always does at about this time.

  Instead, however, he goes straight into the girl's room, which he's never supposed to enter. Considering this fact, he's remarkably well acquainted with its contents and their exact position, for, without putting on the light, guided only by the feeble wavering gleam from below, he goes straight to the cupboard where she keeps her dresses, and a row of shoes on a shelf underneath.

  He makes a sign of superstitious significance, to avert whatever evil would otherwise befall him in consequence of touching these forbidden objects, then squats down on his haunches and, with evident aversion, picks up one shoe gingerly, shakes it, and puts it back, picking up the next. In the near-darkness it's hard to see what exactly his gnarled strong fingers are doing as they busy themselves with the shoes; but his activities are certainly not legitimate, though there is nothing furtive about his movements, and only their speed indicates a desire to finish the operation before dinner is over. Picking up each shoe in turn he eventually finds what he's looking for, extracting from the toe of one a sheet of notepaper, folded very small, which has been handled so much that it's practically falling to pieces. This is not the first time he's had it in his possession; but he shows considerable interest in it now, taking it into the lighter centre room, where he stands at the top of the stairs, scrutinizing it closely, turning it this way and that, as if a new angle might make it disclose its secret. He surveys it for some time upside-down before slipping it into his pocket and silently entering his master's room, just as the scraping of chairs below marks the end of the meal.

  He stays here, letting down and arranging the mosquito net, and performing several other small duties, as he does every night, until Dog Head comes in calling for his racquet. This he solemnly gets out of a cupboard, dusting the strings and undoing the nuts of the old-fashioned press; while its owner, with his hand inside his shirt, stands waiting, scratching his hairy chest. Nothing is said. No looks are exchanged. It's quite impossible to tell whether the master knows what his servant has just been doing. He shows no surprise when the letter is produced and handed to him, but this he would be unlikely to do before an inferior, in any case.

  The Mohammedan makes rather a long statement in his own language, to which he replies, fluently but concisely, and then sends him away, still as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. No doubt he is well aware, from his long experience of eastern customs and intrigue, that he's not required to admit complicity with a subordinate, who must be prepared to shoulder the whole of the blame should this be necessary.

  It's just as well for the said subordinate that the letter is not read in his presence, for its contents obviously displease the reader, whose muttered curses seem directed against him rather than the letter's recipient. Dog Head's hand, backed with sparse reddish hair, clutches the fragile paper as though he were going to crumple it up; but caution or cunning makes him hesitate. Still holding it in his hand, he goes to the door.

  He is tall enough to see over the centre panels by stretching his neck slightly, and looks into the next room, where the girl is sitting as usual close to the screened window, with a book in her lap. She appears to be reading, although the dim, unsteady light is so far away from her that this is not possible, unless she has trained herself to read in the dark.

  Her hus
band watches for a few moments, frowning: then glances, undecided, from her to the flimsy piece of notepaper, wondering how to use it against her to the best advantage. Since this doesn't seem to be the right moment, he ends by putting it away in his wallet.

  He then picks up the racquet, and makes some practice strokes, powerful forehand and backhand drives, before going in to try and bully her into playing the rat game with him.

  15

  It has now become almost too hot to live. One would think the fiery core of the earth had come to the surface, so that the shallowest excavation would reveal raging flames. The world is assuming a uniform coppery tinge with shades of orange, like a Martian landscape. Each afternoon the giant clouds gather and slowly roof in the world, excitement and tension accumulating beneath. Each morning the sun leaps triumphantly, unchallenged, into an empty sky; but always, by midday, the clouds are back, pitch black and sulphur yellow, inexorably piling up overhead; while the red-hot earth seethes like an immense cauldron in the eerie thunderlight of an eclipse, electric tremors vibrating in the breathless air.

  The excitement of the approaching monsoon emanates from the servants, who appear with strange additions to their usual attire - flowers, medallions, and silk headscarves they twist into points like rabbit's ears. They might be zombies, working in absence, their whole attention concentrated elsewhere, in secret, intense, febrile preoccupation. The girl feels they may vanish at any moment, to go about their own compulsive mysterious affairs.

  Gongs boom at all hours of the day and night. More bullock carts than usual pass on the road, in clouds of dust, fluttering flowers and pennants; and sudden weird falsetto singing bursts out, or the unexpected squeal of a pipe. Everybody is waiting, tense. A peculiar coppery film hangs in the upper air, as though electricity were made visible.

  'When will the rains come ?' she keeps asking wearily: always receiving the same noncommittal reply from her husband: ‘Soon.' He always seems to be watching her these days, out of those eyes that look to her like bits of blue glass but which now have a new glint of cunning, a disturbing secretiveness. She gets the uneasy feeling that he's planning something against her in secret, though she can't conceive what it is.

  The strain of trying to read by the flickering dim light has given her a permanent headache. But one good thing about the unsteadiness of the light is that it interferes with the rat game. This evening the player gives up after a few unsuccessful slashes, and hurls his racquet into a corner, swearing loudly. A few moments later, she hears the car start and drive away.

  Now she's alone in the house. The servants have all gone to their own quarters, and might be on another planet. Night has brought no relief from the heat. Looking out of her window, she's surprised to see the great clouds racing across the sky, though down here the air is as still as death - the effect is rather uncanny.

  She fancies she can still make out the queer metallic film under the hurrying clouds, except when the moon escapes them for a second, showing a sick livid face which is engulfed again almost immediately.

  She slips off the sandals she's been wearing for days — it's far too hot to wear shoes, she hasn't even looked at her shoes lately. Why should she notice, in any case, if they are disarranged ? The servants are often careless about putting things in their right places; she's told them dozens of times not to put books upside down in the shelves, and shown them how to tell top from bottom, but still they go on making the same mistake.

  Taking off her clothes, she goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower; it reluctantly yields a thin trickle of scalding water, which gradually cools to tepid — supplies are getting low. The water refuses to run cold, and this luke-warm spray only makes her hotter than ever. After it, she can't bear to put on even the thinnest nightdress, but drapes the flimsy garment round her shoulders, and sits on the edge of the bed, too hot to lie down.

  The fan in here has also developed a squeak that disturbs her and finds its way into her dreams. She always means to see about getting the fans put right, but hasn't the energy when it comes to the point. She wouldn't be able to sleep in this heat, anyway. Already, directly after her shower, her whole body is burning hot; a rivulet of sweat runs between her shoulder blades, the nightgown sticks uncomfortably to her shoulders. Shrugging it off, she lets the fan play on her naked flesh. The heat is stifling, volcanic, as if masses of lava were pressing against the walls. Her eyes are dry and hot in her aching head; she can't make the effort to read a book, and knows she won't sleep . . . so what can she do ? Shutting her eyes, she presses her fingers against the eyeballs, and sits limply under the fan. Without actually thinking about her husband, she's vaguely relieved because he is not in the house.

  Perhaps she dozes for a few moments — anyhow, there he is suddenly, in the room, right in front of her. Startled, she snatches the nightdress and covers herself; how can she not have heard the car?

  'Why so modest? ' he sneers with a vicious leer. And she knows he's been drinking as usual. There is a dangerous look about him, he looks a bully, a touch of hysteria in his slightly unbalanced air.

  The white trousers he put on for dinner are now crumpled, his shirt is undone to the waist, displaying his hairy chest, which he scratches, raking his fingernails through the reddish fur, as he comes towards her, moving his big, muscular, bony body like a machine which can't be stopped or avoided. He is so close to her now that she can smell his male sweat, mixed with the stale smells of smoke and whisky.

  ‘What about this ?' he demands suddenly, and, to her utter astonishment, flourishes a sheet of writing paper in front of her face, which she recognizes at once by the heading, exclaiming : ‘My letter !' indignantly reaching out for it.

  ‘Oh, no !' jeers the man, snatching it back and stowing it away for future use. ‘So you're planning to rat on me, are you, behind my back ?' His voice has become venomous; he stands over her menacingly, his lips tightly compressed, a muscle twitching above the jawline, his blue domineering eyes madly bright.

  ‘I'm not planning anything,' she mutters, overcome by shuddering repulsion at the word rat, and shrinking away from him.

  ‘You'd better not !' Suddenly violent, he seizes the flimsy nightdress and, with one savage tug, rips it in half, tossing the pieces over his shoulder. Come here !' he shouts, determined to get her down finally, contorting his face in a fierce grimace as he grasps her arms. She struggles desperately to push him back, protesting breathlessly: ‘Oh, no ! It's too hot — go away ! '

  ‘Why should I go away ? You're my wife . . .' Roused by her resistance, his repressed rage and resentment suddenly mount to frenzy, his eyes flashing blue murder. His expression now is an extraordinary blend of arrogance, lust and fury, with which is mingled something dangerous and demented, reminiscent of a mad dog. 'You'll do as I want !' he snarls, swinging her off her feet, rabid.

  Although she writhes and fights and struggles, she has no chance against him, he's so much stronger. In his mad frenzy he flings her down on the bed, holding her there with one arm while the other hand tears off his clothes. She hears the clash of metal when his belt buckle hits the floor, and sees his blue blazing eyes just above her, full of insane dominance and frantic lust.

  Down comes his whole hard heavy body then, crushing her flat, the prominent bones digging into her flesh. Now she can struggle no longer, can't even move her head, immobilized by his weight, and his hot mouth glued to hers. Sickened, she's forced to inhale his breath, stinking of whisky, and can only gasp in repulsion. She becomes panic stricken . . . she's suffocating . . . she can't breathe . . . His hot heavy body is hard as rock — a rock overlaid with damp, dank, shaggy fur . . . It's as though a fiery rock from an erupting volcano has fallen on her, and is painfully crushing her to death . . . she can't stand it another second . . . she's dying . . . being horribly murdered . . .

  'There, that ought to fix you, my girl,' the man says, with bullying satisfaction. He unglues himself from her, tearing away his sticky, hairy flesh from hers, an
d stands up by the bed, dripping all over, as though he's just emerged from the sea. Sweat drips from his chin, from his nose and ears, from each drooping hair of the saturated pelt that covers his body, from his dangling fists, and from his limp penis.

  For an instant of nightmare panic, she really feels out of her mind, looking up at his well known nudity as at some horrid apparition — a sort of devilish merman, he seems, standing there in triumph, after raping an earthly woman. The rapid flickerings of the light distort everything, and add to the unreality of the scene. She still sees him as an overbearing figure of nightmare as she struggles up, the imprints of his fingers standing out red on her arms, and shakes back her hair, strands of which remain damply plastered to her face and neck. But now his spiteful, gloating expression and crazy grin (exactly like the grin of a mad dog) make her recall what he's just said.

  'What do you mean ?' She stares at him, blankly uncomprehending at first, gradually growing aghast as what he implies dawns upon her. 'You mean . . . you didn't . . ? '

  He nods, with that slightly demented grin, enjoying every moment of her horrified agitation, as she jumps up and flies to the bathroom. 'That's no use !' he calls after her. 'It's too late to do anything now ! '

  Desperately splashing water, she hears his malicious laugh, followed by a shouted, 'Leave me, would you ? I'll teach you !' and then the smack of the door flaps as he goes out. It can't be true, she is thinking . . . this can't really be happening to her . . . she must be having a nightmare . . .

  Now that he's gone, she turns back to her room. At this moment, a blinding flash of lightning forks its way down the sky, splitting it apart, its lurid brilliance lighting up every detail : the broken mirror, a few jagged splinters of smashed glass adhering to the frame; the disordered bed and half torn down mosquito net, collapsed in draggled folds on the floor, like the wreckage of an airship disaster; the torn halves of her nightdress, lying among the scattered clothes the man has left where they fell.