Rajmahal (8 page)

“Money, money, money.” Jack hummed, and thought, “I cannot pass on any of our assets or give power of attorney over any of my affairs to Martin. How can I take the risk? And who knows what Gwen might do?”

“Time enough for Martin to enjoy our money once we've gone,” he muttered. And he added in sudden fear. “We have each other, don't we my darling?”

He looked at his beloved wife, at her lined face with the heavy jowls, the wrinkle nest around her eyes, the carefully blue-tinted hair held in place by a fine net. He looked over her once exquisite body, the stiff waist encased in its corset, the hard-looking, well-bound breasts which had long ago lost their natural shape, the blue-veined legs. A thought took shape in his head.

“
Qui hai
,” he called out in Hobson-Jobson, and added, “we must get that bell repaired.” He went on calling, his voice getting louder and louder, aided by Myrna's shriller calls. Their old bearer, Abdul came in.

“Where were you Abdal?” Myrna scolded. “Have you gone deaf? Or were you loitering in the
bobachee connah
instead of laying the table? Go on! Answer me! Are you
deaf
?”

“Enough.” Jack murmured. “That's enough, dear. Abdal's here.” He carried on before Myrna could interrupt. “Abdal,” to this toothless old man with the round eye glasses. “Two whiskey
bilayatee-pawnees
please. Doubles. And tell
consommah
to give us our supper half an hour later today.”

“Yes huzoor.” Abdul cackled, a lately acquired nervous habit. “I get whiskey-soda.” He cackled again, showing red pan-stained gums.

“You've been eating betel again,” scolded Jack mildly. “And tell Ayah to come. Bring memsahib
mora
for feet and give massage. Wouldn't you like that, darling?”

“What? What was that?”

“A massage. For your feet, and a nice whiskey!” He put his arm on Myrna's back and stroked it. “Ayah's coming to massage your feet with a little powder. You'll like that, won't you?”

The ayah came in. A wizened little Bengali woman in a plain white sari. Her head, though covered by the sari, was clearly shaved. A widow following the orthodox Bengali tradition, shaving her head, giving up meat, and wearing white. Initially the ayah had discarded the wearing of blouses too, thus sometimes inadvertently exposing a shriveled breast, like a famine case out of '43. Myrna had firmly opposed this. Now the ayah sat demurely bloused, next to her memsahib's feet, which were stretched out on a cane stool. She took them in her lap one by one and massaged them with talcum powder dabbed on with an enormous puff. There were little cries from Myrna when a tender spot was touched.

Abdul came in with the whiskeys on a silver tray, and deposited them by his masters.

“Remember
lawl shrub
? And evening time
hugger
?” Jack said to Abdul.
Lawl shrub
the Anglo-Indian for
lal sharab
, red wine, and
hugger
the Hindi
hukka
, hubble bubble. “Remember?”

“Of course,
Huzoor
. How I can forget? So nice,
Huzoor
, in British time. Everything gone now 'day.” No good . . . ”

“Yes, yes. Quite. But at least you don't have to wash ice with soap any more, eh? At least you have good fridge, and making nice clean ice. That's better than before, eh?” Jack laughing, watched Myrna out of the corner of his eye, hoping she would be amused enough to join in. This was the sole purpose of the contrived conversation with Abdul.

“When, when? I didn't see him washing ice!”

“Oh come, darling. Surely you remember that morning. There was Abdal, out on the lawn at Nagarpara, bright and early, scrubbing away at the ice block with soap . . . ”

But Myrna was distracted by the ayah. “You can go, Ayah
,
” she said. “Enough, enough. Bones old. Hurting you know. Bones old like yours, and such hard pressing not good, not good.
Bas
! Enough!”

“Good enough, good enough,
bas bas bas
,” repeated Jack.

The ayah malevolently applied a final pressure of the thumbs to her mistress's ankle. Myrna cried out and lashed at her with a tremulous palm. The smack sounded resoundingly on the ayah's shaven sari-covered head. She jerked back, her sari fell off her head and trailed on the floor, exposing the stubble on her head and dark brown nipples dangling below her short blouse. The glass-powder bowl spun across the floor and shattered as it struck the wall. The sweet scent of talcum powder increased and tears streamed down the ayah's cheeks.

“Go!” Myrna cried half in shock. “Out! Get out!”

The ayah tottered up and out, muttering to herself and weeping.

Jack usually ignored such outbursts, but today a spark of anger was ignited. “You shouldn't have slapped her, Myrna! Why did you have to slap her like that?”

Myrna cried, softly keening and Jack was instantly contrite. He stroked her and soothed her. “I'm sorry, Myrna. I said I was sorry. Ayah was in tears too, and you must have hurt her.”

Myrna mumbled, sounding remarkably like the ayah and Jack swallowed the lump in his throat.

 

Abdul came in and without looking at his master and mistress, shakily swept up the shattered glass fragments and powder with a brush and dustpan leaving some behind.

“Cheerio my darling!” said Jack, after Myrna had become quiet. He put her glass into her hands, holding up his own, and clinking it gently with hers. “Here's to the future!”

“Future indeed!” Myrna snorted, her tears forgotten.

Jack put his glass down carefully and leaned across. Taking Myrna's glass and setting it down, he held both her hands in his. “Listen. I've been thinking of something, something important, and the time has come to talk about it. Are you listening to me, Myrna?”

“Of course I am.”

“We have to make a pact, a covenant with each other. Do you understand?”

“What
are
you on about?”

“It's to set your mind at rest. Do you follow? I want to set your mind at rest, my darling!” Jack took a deep breath. “Tell me. What do you worry about most these days? What were you talking about a short while ago?”

“I was talking about getting senile,” said Myrna promptly. “Getting senile, forgetful, incontinent, all those things. And I said I wouldn't like to live if that happened. If I were to get senile.”

“And . . . ?” Jack prompted, hope surging back at her coherent reply.

“And what?”

“You said something else as well . . . ”

“I, I don't remember! Oh my god, it's started . . . Jack! It's started!” Myrna's voice was dry, hands up at her throat.

“There's no sign of it at all,” said Jack, taking her hands and clasping them again. “Your mind, at the moment, is as clear as a bell.” He willed himself to sound confident.

“Then what was it I said? What
was
it?”

“Just this, my darling. You said, “What if I become senile and
don't realize it
.” That's what you said . . . ”

“Yes. I remember,” Myrna whispered. “I remember. But that's true, isn't it? It's true. If I become senile
I'll never know,
will I?”

“And I? Have you thought about me in the same predicament?” Jack added gently.

“Of course I have. I don't know if I'll have the strength to look after you. I'm not so strong, you know that! You
know
I have angina . . . ”

“I'll tell you what. I'll tell you exactly what, Myrna.” Jack's voice became thinner, the tremor in it increasing. “Look. It's hardly likely that we'll both go down the hill at the same time, is it? Tell me,” he urged, “is that likely?”

“I suppose not, no, I suppose not.”

“Well. In that case, the answer's clear.” His grip on her arthritic hands became painful. Myrna snatched them away.

“I'll make the arrangements, and I'll show you what I plan.” Pausing. “We'll have to promise, solemnly and honestly, to help each other, Myrna.” Pause. “And the one who remains normal, in control, will have to promise to help out, by, by . . . ” He came to a standstill.

“By what? What are you going on about, Jack Strachey?”

“By helping the other to end it all!” blurted out Jack.

“To what?”

“To, end it all!”

“You don't mean . . . ”

Myrna's mouth had fallen open, her face was contorted. “But that's
murder
!” Her voice was thin and tremulous too, like Jack's. “How do I know you won't
murder
me? You, you evil man! I'm going home before you murder me. I don't care if you stay on here. I'm going to, to Martin! Oh you
evil
man . . . ”

The ghosts were equally distraught. “Oh what is to happen?” they muttered.

Jack tried to embrace her again but Myrna pushed him off in an extravagant gesture of panic, dislodging the delicate arrangement of her hairnet. Her hair fluffed out exposing bare pink patches. She struggled to get up but fell back heavily. She talked on, demented, incoherent, continuing to struggle on her seat. Jack stared at her aghast, and swallowed fearfully. A refrain went through his head, “Murder evil, murder evil.” Listening to her and looking at her, his face slowly suffused with blood. “But where is she trying to go? Where
can
she go?”

The light from the veranda haloed Myrna's white, blow-away hair. It was yet another languishing day. Myrna sat in a chair with the television on in front of her, talking, incessantly. Jack sat next to her, paying attention to the TV and responding with practiced fluency. Today, instead of saying
anything abrasive or accusing she was reminiscing, recollecting the early days of style and splendor. Jack gave up watching the TV to listen to her.

“Who would have thought men could be so manly with jewelry and perfume and kohl! He was so handsome, Jack, wasn't he? Wasn't he handsome?” Her reference was to an ex-lover, the Maharajah of R.

“Why don't I have such memories?” thought Jack. “Don't I have an erotic side? All I can remember is Abdal out on the lawn, washing the ice with soap . . . That's all I remember . . . Silly old Abdal out on the lawn, washing the ice with soap . . . ”

“Do you remember Abdal, washing the ice with soap,” said Jack out loud yet again. “In the garden . . . Remember?”

“Oh yes! Wasn't that funny! And shaving you in bed, every morning.”

“Before his hand started shaking . . . And talking of luxuries, there was “Lady” Myrna, reclining in bed with ayahs massaging her from all ends!”

And then Myrna laughed, a natural, easy laugh, putting him into a state of painful suspense, suspense that her mood must soon return to normal. “No, not ‘normal',” he corrected himself, “‘usual'.”

The distinction seemed clear for the moment to Jack, whose mind broke up in confusion over two things: Myrna and his failed career. The latter lurked hidden, bursting out sometimes like a monster from a cave. Myrna overpowered most of his waking moments with her vexation and her emotion. When she screamed at the servants, he forced himself to remember her innate kindness. Servants were by definition imperfect and for compensation, perfect whipping boys. But Myrna had always looked after them, hadn't she? Clothing and feeding them, spending freely on them. Martin, a native born “Anglo-Indian,” understood. Poor boy. How he had loved his India, Calcutta in particular. But . . . back he'd gone, and rightly . . . Is that what they should have done? Gone back?

“Oh but yes, yes,” said the
swadeshi
ghost, gently for once. “You would have been so much better off!”

At the bottom of Jack's decision to stay on was the fear of an uncared for old age, accessible to Martin but neglected because of a strong daughter-in-law's dissent. Was it the right decision? Here they were, with an inaccessible Martin, plumb at the end of that old age. Was that better than the neighborhood neglect he had feared from his son? Who was here to care for them? The servants? Did he feel secure? Would he feel secure anywhere? Wasn't old age the ultimate insecurity, the end without solution? Did he subconsciously hope that by staying on he could take
on the enviable attributes of an Indian extended family, loving care till the very end? What of Myrna's mental state? What about all the cajoling for her to just step out of the apartment, through a stream of invective, complaints about the heat, about the cold, about a weak heart, the stairs ... ? But Jack was glad of the stairs. He took a sadistic pleasure in hauling himself up. It proved him still active and able, didn't it? Even if obscured by stopping often for Myrna, which gave him a rest too, a rest to prolong the anticipation of reentering their last refuge, their apartment.