Authors: David Leavitt
The Indian Clerk (22 page)
T
HE FRIDAY AFTER war is declared, Hardy takes part in an expedition to Leintwardine Manor, on the Welsh border, to watch an
open air performance of
The Tempest.
Alice Neville organized the trip at the beginning of July, before anyone guessed that war was imminent. She has people near
Leintwardine, and the performance is to benefit some charity to which they have connections. On Thursday, Hardy sent her a
note asking if, under the circumstances, she might not prefer to cancel the outing, and she replied that she could see no
reason why they should. "There is no fighting in Hertfordshire, or so I'm told," she wrote. This both irritated and disappointed
Hardy, who had been hoping, at the very least, that the war would give him a reasonable excuse not to do things he did not
want to do.
And so that Friday morning he finds himself gathered at the Nevilles' house, along with Ramanujan, Littlewood, Neville's brother
Eddie, and Eddie Neville's friend Mr. Allenby. Of all the invitees, only Gertrude has begged off, pleading a fictitious cold.
Ramanujan and the Nevilles will ride with Eddie in his Jowett, Hardy and Littlewood with Mr. Allenby in his Vauxhall.
Once they set off, Cambridge thins out quickly, giving way to open countryside. The weather is fine. Still, Hardy's dismay
at the roar and stink of the Vauxhall inhibits his ability to take any pleasure in the view. He sits in the back, alone. Littlewood
is up front with Allenby, who has red cheeks and heavy jowls. Like the elder Neville, he lives north of London, in High Barnet.
Both are members of a motoring club; "mad for motoring," he tells Littlewood, who nods and smiles in that irritating, inevitable
way of his—Littlewood, with his confounding ability to make himself at home anywhere, no matter how dire the circumstances.
Hardy, on the other hand, finds that the older he gets, the more ill at ease he feels venturing beyond the walls of Trinity.
He's never liked cars, and Allenby is not what you would call a conservative driver. He takes the turns with a ferocity that
brings Hardy's heart to his throat, all the while laughing and chattering with Littlewood above the engine's clamor, while
Hardy hallucinates rifle tips pointing up from the roadside hedgerows. Hours turn into weeks, then years, the rifle tips seem
with every mile to poke him more urgently in the bowels, until at long last they pull up outside Leintwardine Manor. Hardy
is let out of the backseat. He has been sitting for so long, his legs feel as if they're going to collapse under him. He needs
a loo. He stumbles over to Ramanujan, who looks complacent enough, if a bit dusty.
"Enjoy the ride?" he asks.
Ramanujan merely smiles. "The scenery was splendid," he says—yet another of the department store replies.
A visit to the toilet, followed by a pint in a nearby pub, restores Hardy's composure a bit. By now the sun is setting, and
the group heads off—on foot this time, thank God—to the manor. A great lawn sweeps away from the house, toward a tennis court
on which a makeshift stage has been erected, complete with footlights. Some members of the audience, mostly old women, sit
in folding chairs, while others picnic in groups—and indeed, not to his surprise, Hardy now discovers that Alice, too, has
brought a picnic, a gallimaufry of her vegetarian horrors, which she proceeds to lay out on a cloth of faded red ticking.
Vigorously she divvies up the goods, passing a plate of something stuffed with something else to Mr. Allenby, who gazes at
it with a stunned expression. Another plate she hands to Hardy. As he examines its contents, he takes in, as if from a great
distance, fragments of talk about Shakespeare, Alice's charity, Vauxhalls versus Jowetts. What a strain it must be, all this
effort to direct the conversation away from the subject it yearns for, like trying to hold a magnet away from a pole! And
why are they bothering? Why are they even here?
He is just starting to butter a piece of bread—the only eatable there he can stomach—when he hears his name being called.
He looks up. Harry Norton is striding toward him, accompanied by Sheppard, Taylor, Keynes, and, lingering a few paces behind,
Count Bekassy.
Hardy stands. Crumbs drop from his trousers to the grass. Later he will reflect grimly that there is something inevitable
about coincidences of this kind. Far from negating randomness, they confirm it. Hence 331, 3331, 33331, 333331, and 3333331
are prime, but 33333331 is not.
"Hello, Hardy," Norton says. "And what on earth brings you to these parts?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"We've come to see Bliss, of course. Oh, sorry if we're interrupting-"
"Bliss?"
"You know Bliss." Norton leans closer. "The new recruit. He's Caliban and his brother's Ferdinand. We're here to look on with
Bekassy as his boy has his moment in the limelight. Isn't that right, Feri?"
Bekassy, whose back Keynes is now touching, nods.
"But I had no idea Bliss was in the play," Hardy says. "We came because Mrs. Neville . . . Forgive me. May I present Mr. Norton?
Mrs. Neville . . ."
Oh, the horror of introductions! As Hardy rattles out the names, how-do-you-do's cross like swords; the requisite "Won't you
join us?" is followed by the requisite "We couldn't possibly . . ." "But there's plenty to eat." "Well, if you're sure . .
." "Of course. Do sit down."
And then, before Hardy knows what's happening, space is being cleared; a second picnic cloth, this one blue, is being laid
out.
The
quadrants touching.
Sheppard, recklessly abandoning any pretense of discretion, points at Ramanujan and whispers to Taylor, who gapes. His hair
looks even whiter in the dusk light than it does in his rooms at King's. And what does Ramanujan make of these curious men?
Does he take Sheppard's pointing as a signal of his celebrity ("the Hindoo calculator") or of his obvious foreignness? The
duskiness of his skin? The squatness of his nose?
Plates are moved out of the way. With his terrible inquisitive gusto, Sheppard sidles up to Ramanujan, asking him the usual
questions—how is he settling in, is he happy at Trinity—but also ones of a decidedly more Apostolic nature, such as, "Speaking
as a Hindu, do you believe Heaven can accommodate worshippers of your Gods as well as of our God?"
"There are many Christians in India," Ramanujan says. "And Muslims. Generally speaking, the adherents respect one another's
beliefs, though of course some conflict is inevitable." (Answer purchased at Spencer's, price I rupee.)
"Naturally, naturally. Still, the Hindus must have feelings on the matter, when for instance they see Christians entering
a church, or Jews a synagogue."
"It is my personal view that all religions are more or less equally true."
"Really?" Keynes says. "How fascinating. A pity McTaggart isn't here." He and Sheppard are now peering at Ramanujan assessingly,
as if he's an embryo. Is he an embryo? Is all this a set-up? In which case, why hasn't Hardy been informed? And who is the
father?
Dusk is falling. Footlights flash, the crowd quiets, the play begins. From the darkness behind the stage, young Bliss emerges,
his good looks set off, oddly enough, by the stoop he affects, the rags and smears of grease paint on his face. Not a bad
Caliban, all told. Hardy closes his eyes as Bliss utters some lines that Gaye loved especially:
When thou camest first,
Thou strok'dst me and mad'st much of me; wouldst give me
Water with berries in't, and teach me how
To name the bigger light,
and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I lov'd thee
And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle,
The fresh
springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile:
Cursed be I that did so!
Hardy turns to look at Bekassy. Tears glisten beneath those heavy Hussar lids. So this is what it's like, then, true love
or comradeship or what have you, between men! What Hardy thought he knew with Gaye; what sometimes he still dreams of knowing.
And will he ever know it again? Perhaps because the world's about to end, that old yearning for romance, for passion, seems
to have reawakened in him; he looks, haltingly, about him, wondering if there's anyone here tonight, anyone at all . . .
Then the first act ends. Norton gets up to smoke, and Hardy follows him. They stand huddled together, out of earshot of the
picnickers.
"Honestly, Harry," Hardy says, "I had no idea about Bliss. Our being here is pure coincidence."
"Very like you, hiding your lights under a bushel," Norton says. "But really, you should have at least introduced him to
me.
Sometimes I think you forget I'm a mathematician."
"Only because you forget yourself."
"Yes, yes, I know. It's just that trying to do the degree nearly drove me to bedlam."
"Sheppard certainly seems keen to get to know him."
"Sheppard is doomed to be a conversationalist." Norton blows out smoke.
They are quiet for a moment, and then Norton says, "Beastly thing, this war, isn't it?"
Hardy almost laughs. After so much strained evasion of the topic, to hear it mentioned straight on—and so casually!—comes
as a relief.
"I'm surprised Keynes could get away, what with his work at the Treasury."
"It was for Bekassy's sake."
"How so?"
"Haven't you heard? He's going back to Hungary to join the army. To fight against Russia. Supposedly we'll be at war with
Hungary next week, so if he doesn't get out before that, he'll be interned. Of course, Keynes tried desperately to talk him
out of it, but Feri wouldn't hear of it. So now Keynes has agreed to pay his passage, since the banks are closed, and Feri
can't get his own money. But he's wretched about the whole thing. We all are."
"And Bliss?"
"He says he's signing up, too. Following Rupert Brooke's lead. Rather romantic, isn't it, the lovers fighting on opposite
sides? We brought Feri down tonight because, well, really, it's his last chance to see Bliss before he goes off."
Hardy looks toward the house, where presumably the actors have set up their dressing room. Bekassy is emerging from a side
door.
"How very noble," Norton says.
"What? That they're going off to die?"
"No, that they're going off to defend their respective fatherlands."
"I despise this war. I can't believe every intelligent human being doesn't despise this war."
"Well, from what Keynes tells me, Moore hasn't made his mind up yet one way or the other. And McTaggart's already declared
himself a rabid anti-German."
"This from the man who wrote 'Violets or Orange-Blossom?'"
"Still, you've got to admit the Huns are proving to be rather brutal. A cold military machine. I've read they're bayoneting
children."
"That's just propaganda."
"It wouldn't surprise me. You know, Nietzsche and the whole
ubermensch
business. Not every German's a Goethe, Hardy."
"They're defending their interests. They're afraid of Russia, just as we're afraid of them. The dreaded German Navy. Everyone's
afraid, everyone's acting in anticipation of someone else acting in anticipation of someone else acting in anticipation."
"Like Russell's infinite regress."
"Exactly."
The footlights flash, indicating the end of the interval.
"We should be getting back," Norton says. "Oh—are you stopping the night?"
Hardy nods. "The Nevilles are staying with her cousin. The rest of us are putting up in some inn. Knighton, I think." He blows
out smoke. "And you?"
"Some friend of the squitter-squatter's. At least that's where Sheppard and Keynes and the squitter and I are headed. Maybe
I'll finally get a look at
the three.
Tristan and Isolde, who knows?" Norton lowers his eyelids. "Isn't it a pity we can't . . . well . . ."
But the second act is about to begin. They stub out their cigarettes, then return to the lawn to watch the rest of the play.
Which goes on.
And on. All told, the slowest performance of
The Tempest
through which Hardy has ever been obliged to sit. By the time it's over, his legs have fallen asleep under him. But then he
looks at his watch and sees that only two hours have passed. In fact the performance went rather swiftly. And then, perhaps
even more anguishing to him than the introductions, the farewells begin. Ramanujan could probably produce an equation to calculate
T, the amount of time it takes before everyone finally leaves, based on
P,
the number of people present, and I, the interruption variable, which of course multiplies the length of time required for
each goodbye by an uncertain quantity. And oh, the words!—
So charmed. . . We must meet again soon . . . Fascinating to
have learned of your motor club
—endless words before, finally, Norton kisses Alice's cheek, and Littlewood shakes Keynes's hand, and Bekassy rushes off toward
the house to find Bliss, with whom he will no doubt soon be escaping into the shadows of the summer night, the forest and
its dark canopy.
At last it's over. Hardy climbs into Allenby's beastly car, which carries him and Littlewood to Knighton, to the George &
Dragon Inn, where they learn that an error has been made; instead of reserving five rooms, as Alice requested, the innkeeper
has put aside only two. Indeed, the inn doesn't even have five rooms! One room has one double bed; Eddie Neville and Allenby
cheerfully agree to share it. As for the other: "There are two large beds, sir," the innkeeper tells Hardy. "Certainly big
enough for the three gentlemen."
"Doesn't bother me," Littlewood says.
Of course it doesn't! And Ramanujan? His expression is impenetrable. Maybe he doesn't care. Back at home in India, don't they
sleep willy-nilly, all over the floor?
And so the innkeeper, carrying a candle, leads them up to the room, which is in the attic, spartan and frowsty, the two big
beds arranged opposite each other, one against the north and the other against the south wall. There is no electric light.
Instead the candle that the innkeeper sets on the mantel imparts to the room its warm, flickering glow.
