Who Are You? Read online

  Countless birds, too, explode into screaming, whistling, whooping or chattering cries, impossible to disentangle. Darting to and fro, the small parrots trace complex emerald diagrams on the air, their thin screeching lost in the general commotion which is called silence.

  From this confusion of noise, only the cries of the brain-fever birds emerge distinctly, nerve-racking and unmistakably clear, violently assaulting the ears with their loud, flat repetitions, like mechanical instruments of torture.

  They implant an obscure irritant in the brain, eternally calling out the monotonous question nobody will ever answer, from all points of the compass, from far and near . . . which others of their kind infuriatingly echo . . . and others still . . . driving the crazed hearer into delirium . . . until the ultimate nightmare climax — when suddenly everything stops . . .

  19

  Suede Boots drops in for tea as usual, cheerful, smiling, matter of fact. At once the girl feels happier and more relaxed. She's become much more tranquil under his influence.

  But she's still nervous about her husband, who has now recovered, and spends most of the time working in his office. He hasn't said a word to her about the daily visits, which strikes her as ominous, sinister. She can't believe Suede Boots is right in saying that, by keeping silent, he shows he has no objection.

  Not that there's anything for him to object to. Their relationship is perfectly innocent. Anybody might listen to their conversation, even when it's personal. Their intimacy has not progressed beyond an almost childish enjoyment of being together, exchanging smiles, talking nonsense, or, alternatively, discussing life with great seriousness.

  'Before I met you I used to feel as if I was in a nightmare,' she tells him, 'and that I'd never escape.' But she no longer remembers this feeling with any distinctness, and might be describing the sensations of a girl in a book.

  Sometimes she has an uneasy sense of the precariousness of the present situation, and is afraid her new happiness may vanish suddenly. But she refuses to admit this or to think about it, though it shows itself in her superstitious desire to keep everything between them exactly the same as it always has been she can't bear any change to creep in.

  The young man is really fond of her and concerned for her welfare. He has made up his mind that her unsuitable marriage must end; then she'll be able to go to the university as she's always wanted. Whether their relationship is supposed to become closer eventually is not very clear in his mind. But he's taken the step of writing to his family about her, so that she can stay with them, as she's got nobody to take care of her over there.

  She is touched when she hears this gratitude overwhelms her. She's never known so much kindness existed in life. Carried away by his enthusiasm she eagerly discusses her future with him. They make up all sorts of different plans, each leading to a fresh favourable outcome. For the possibilities seem endless, each more glowing than the last. So that she gets quite excited about them; excitement perhaps goes to her head a little.

  But as soon as her excitement dies down, the whole project begins to seem unreal. She can't believe it will ever come off. Things don't happen like that in her case — they always go wrong.

  'It's just a fairy tale you've made up about me — it can't possibly come true.' Thus she demolishes all the plans they have been constructing together. It's no good inventing a happy future for her, since she's always been unlucky, and always will be.

  Silence falls after this. The young man is disappointed; but he won't give up, and is now thinking how he can persuade her to take a more optimistic view. She has told him she'd like to live through their original meeting all over again, so he asks if she remembers their conversation then. 'We said that if I hadn't killed the snake on that particular day, and you hadn't happened to see me, everything would have been quite different.' He sees her looking at him with interest, and is encouraged to go on. 'I wouldn't be here with you now. This wouldn't be real something else would. You'd have been another you, instead of the one you are now. You can't be tied down to a predestined fate when you change according to your situation, and your fate must change too. Everything depends on circumstances — on which "you" you happen to be at a given time . . '

  Interrupting exactly as if it wanted to join in, a brain-fever bird just outside starts shouting, Who-are-you ? so loudly that no human voice can compete with it. He can only wait for it to stop. They smile at each other, sitting helplessly, while the monotonous, everlasting question is taken up by all the brain-fever birds for miles around. The girl can't even think about what he's been saying — though it sounded reasonable, she has a vague idea there's a flaw in the argument somewhere. But she can't detect it with this row going on — she's never heard the birds make such a din_

  Loud, flat and persistent, the repetitious cries come from all distances and directions, filling the room, the house, the whole afternoon with their exasperating sound, which expresses no normal bird-feeling, but seems only meant to drive people mad. Like mad machines nobody can stop, the birds go on and on. Their deafening chorus hammers upon her nerves until she's half dazed.

  This no doubt explains why she's slower than her companion to hear the new mechanical noise he heard several seconds ago — she becomes aware of it first when she sees that the smile's disappeared from his face. Now she strains her ears to follow the low continuous hum or buzz through the birds' commotion, and has barely identified it as the noise of a car when it stops abruptly.

  Everything else seems to stop with it. The bird-calls abruptly break off. In the ensuing silence, footsteps are heard approaching, loud, heavy, regular as machinery. The door flaps fly open to admit Mr Dog Head, who doesn't speak but stands staring at the pair, a curious blend of indignation, contempt and triumph on his arrogant features. He's delighted to have caught his wife in the act — of what, he doesn't trouble to think, but tells himself that now he really has something to blame her for. For the moment, however, he concentrates his offensive gaze on the visitor, who gets up in confusion and holds out his hand.

  Dog Head looks down his supercilious nose at him in amazed contempt, as much as to say, ‘Good God ! Surely this scum of the earth doesn't expect me to touch him' — he'd never dream of contaminating his lordly self in this way ! But aloud he says nothing, merely continuing to glare at the hand, until its owner withdraws it, muttering something incomprehensible in his indignation at the silent insolence of the man's behaviour who the hell does he think he is, standing there as if he expected people to fall down and worship him?

  Restraining his anger, the guest decides that the most dignified course is to shame him by his own politeness, and says: ‘I'm glad we've met finally; I've always missed you before. Our office hours must be different.'

  Not a word comes in response to this. A lengthy pause follows, and then he goes on, although the other has shown not the slightest interest, ' We have to start early, but then we get off early too,' embarking on a rather detailed account of his work schedule, which would be more appropriate if he'd been questioned about it. Not a single inquiry is made, and no comment either. The man he's talking to simply goes on staring at him with the same contemptuous arrogance; until his personal servant brings in a fresh pot of tea, and he sits down and pours himself a cup, taking no more notice of Suede Boots than if he were a fly buzzing round the ceiling. Apparently he doesn't hear a word he is saying, not even glancing at him now, his overbearing countenance fixed in stony disdainful indifference, as if he'd been petrified with this expression.

  Catching sight of his face, the young fellow suddenly interrupts himself, his own face turning scarlet. He looks like a furious little boy, but chokes back the angry words on his lips and turns to the girl instead, saying, ' Well, I'll be off now.' He smiles at her with a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, then hurries out, the smile changing to a grimace as soon as he turns his back.

  Humiliated, enraged and embarrassed, he leaves the house as fast as he can. Something makes him glance back at it
over his shoulder while crossing the compound, and he sees a tall, gaunt bearded figure posted outside the door like a sentry, watching him off the premises. The same grimace, openly furious now, crosses his face. Soon he is out of sight.

  The squeak of the fan gets louder and louder in the room where husband and wife have been left alone. The man has turned all his anger against her now. But she's only thinking about the sudden end of her happiness, which she has always feared she seems to have known all along that things would end like this. Despair has fallen upon her. She hardly cares what happens. Of course there's bound to be an appalling row. She waits almost indifferently for it to begin. She's disgusted by her husband's rudeness to her friend and repelled by him when she catches a glimpse accidentally of his staring blue eyes, like a pair of marbles in his tanned face. The red ring his hat has left round his forehead might be a royal symbol, judging by his high and mighty expression. She can't stand this assumption of superiority after the way he's been behaving, and instinctively picks up a book and pretends to read, so that she needn't see him.

  Naturally, this enrages him even more. ‘What were you doing alone with that young whippersnapper?' he asks in a bullying tone.

  ‘Now it's coming,' she thinks helplessly. But she says nothing. What's the use of talking to him?

  ‘Answer me !' He jumps up and stands over her, his fist coming down in a nerve-shattering thump on the table, making the cups jump and rattle and slop the dregs of cold tea into their saucers.

  The agonizing squeak of the fan seems to be trying in vain to drown the noise of his heavy breathing. She knows the superior look she can't stand must be on his face, so she doesn't look up or see how strangely his eyes are glittering. We were having tea.' She can hardly bring herself to answer him, and speaks the words with difficulty.

  But to the hearer her low voice sounds indifferent. It certainly isn't apologetic this and the way she refuses to look at him drives him nearly frantic. ‘What sort of a bloody fool do you take me for?' he explodes. ‘Do you imagine I don't know you've been seeing him every day?'

  Is she really expected to answer this? It seems too idiotic. Although she still hasn't raised her head she's aware all the time of him looming over her menacingly, and feels somewhat apprehensive. She wouldn't mind if he'd kill her outright, but is afraid he may beat her up. At the same time, he seems quite insignificant — her friendship with Suede Boots is responsible for the new and more critical attitude she adopts towards him. He seems like some base object, repulsive and disgusting, with his incredible arrogance where in the world did he get this grotesquely high opinion of himself ? Let him do the quarrelling she's not going to argue. Overwhelmed by the utter futility of saying anything to him, since he neither listens nor understands, she simply remains silent.

  The man thinks she's provoking him intentionally trying to drive him out of his mind — by not apologizing or even speaking. The glint in his eyes can't be described as normal, as he shouts at her: ‘He's not to come into the house again ever ! Do you hear ?' She still doesn't open her mouth even now, and he seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her violently to and fro, as if to shake it open, but only succeeds in shaking the book out of her hand. 'I won't have him walking past the compound either — if he does, I'll set the chuprassi on him !' Hardly knowing what he's saying he adds a few more abusive, threatening phrases at random, while continuing to shake her furiously.

  But after a moment he begins to feel baffled, deflated. He can't go on shaking her forever, and he has no idea what else to do. He can't discover any way of forcing his will upon her. It's absolutely maddening to be so frustrated: but there seems to be nothing he can do about it. The next thing is that he has to let her go.

  Still she hasn't uttered one word of apology, contrition, or anything else. All that's happened is that her hair has been shaken loose and falls forward untidily, the fine, freshly-washed hair separating into two masses, one on each side of her face, which it hides completely, showing only the back of her neck.

  Gazing down at the pale nape of her neck, extended before him like that of a victim, he feels the mounting pressure of violence inside him, a rabid frenzy of rage which frightens him suddenly - all at once he's afraid

  of what it might make him do. Swinging round abruptly he strides away from her and out of the room.

  It is evening, after dinner. The girl is sitting reading, alone under the squeaky fan. Her husband hasn't spoken to her all day. The few remarks he made at the dinner table were for the benefit of the servants, before whom a facade of normal conduct must be maintained. She doesn't know where he is now, or what he is doing. He may be somewhere in the house. Or he may have gone to the club. She hasn't heard the car drive away, but this doesn't necessarily mean he's still here, as he sometimes walks this short distance.

  He is not in the habit of telling her when he goes out. He seems to keep her in ignorance of his movements deliberately, hoping to take her by surprise, as he's done occasionally when she's been relaxing under the impression that she was alone in the house. It's as though he perpetually suspects her of doing wrong, and is eagerly waiting to catch her in the act again. This is why her attitude remains tense. She keeps her eyes unwaveringly on her book, although the light is really too faint for reading. Presently she puts the book down on a table and rubs her eyes, afterwards sitting quite still, her wide open eyes looking towards the door.

  The noise of the frogs fills the night, as the brain-fever birds' cries fill the day. The two sounds are interchangeable in her head, composing one continuous, exasperating background sound, without end or beginning, that finds its way into every single second of the day and night. Not for one of all those seconds has she ever felt at home in this house. She has no clear impression of the darkened country outside; it is to her just a feeling of alien, burning brilliance, heat and confusion, and of mysterious nocturnal cries that burst unaccountably out of solid blackness.

  Her gaze does not leave the door, and now, under the two flaps, in the lighted passage beyond, she sees a pair of slim brown ankles approaching, and the border of the red skirt belonging to the young woman who looks after her clothes, prepares her bath, and so on, who, unlike the Mahommedans, is a native of the country. Her appearance so late in the evening is puzzling, since she is off duty and ought to be at home.

  There is a certain elegance about the red skirt, shot with gold, above which is worn an exceedingly abbreviated white jacket, a wide expanse of smooth brown flesh exposed between the two garments. The wearer's movements are supple, graceful and self-possessed. Although her face has not got the blank look worn by most of the other servants, it is no more accessible; its expression, lively but unconcerned, seems to impose a sheet of glass between her and her mistress, who is several years younger. She looks at her amicably but remotely, keeping herself apart, unapproachable. Or perhaps it is the girl who has never made any attempt to approach her. At all events, there is no contact between them.

  'The other master has come.' This announcement is made in a soft voice that might sound cautious, were it not for the calm, matter of fact way the speaker is adjusting the comb which controls her long coil of oiled hair, black and shiny as patent leather.

  The words are so totally unexpected that the girl looks at her with a startled face, uncomprehending. A familiar voice then calls to her softly from outside the room : 'Come out here for a second — I must speak to you ! '

  Immediately she jumps up and runs to the window giving access to the verandah, passing the messenger without seeing her, not giving her another thought. The latter quietly closes the shutters after she's gone out, then leaves the room through the door she's just entered, moving with her soft, loose gait, and swaying her hips, the soles of her light slippers (worn with the little toe outside the embroidered upper part) hitting the floor with a muffled slap that is hard to hear above the noise the frogs make.

  The girl's progress along the dark verandah can be followed by the very similar slight sl
ap of her sandals on the wooden floor. The soft-soled mosquito boots advancing to meet her make no noise at all, even when the frog chorus is silenced momentarily by one exceptionally deep croaking boom, after which it at once starts again.

  It's pitch dark out here, without a breath of air. There is no moon. The faint ghostly sheen of starlight over the swamp doesn't reach to the compound. Only a thin pencilling of parallel light lines marks the position of shuttered windows. The roofed verandah is like a black tunnel of airless heat, where the paleness of clothes, faces and limbs can only be guessed at, not even discernible as lighter blurs on the black.

  'What are you doing here ? You must go at once,' the girl whispers, terrified Dog Head will spring out at them like a jack in the box.

  'It's all right — I gave that girl of yours a present to tell me when the coast was clear.'

  This reference to the forgotten messenger fills the hearer with admiration for the practical attitude it indicates, far better at coping with life than her own. But then fear seizes her again, she glances round nervously, murmuring : But I'm not sure that he's out of the house . . . he may be around somewhere . .

  'You simply must leave him.' Suede Boots' muted voice might be addressed to an accomplice; or he might

  be anxious to avoid waking a sleeper nearby. The fellow's quite mad. He ought to be locked up. You're not safe with him. Promise you'll come to my place tomorrow.'

  But it is his safety that's uppermost in her mind, or else she doesn't want to commit herself, for instead of answering she says urgently : ' You mustn't walk along the path any more — or he'll do something awful . .

  'Oh, so he's threatened me, has he ?' Indignation raises the young man's voice half a tone. But her urgent, ‘Hush !' quietens him, and she can only just hear when he starts talking fast, as if against time: ‘Don't forget, I'll be waiting for you you've got to come. You can't possibly stay on here. I tell you what - to remind you, I'll fix a scarf or something on the snake's tree. You're bound to see it there whenever you look out. That ought to stop you sliding back into that nightmare of yours. Don't worry. Lots of people want to help you. Only you must make the first move yourself. You must leave here soon !' The last words are spoken more slowly and emphatically, like a teacher impressing an important lesson upon an inattentive pupil.