The Indian Clerk (35 page)

"You terrified me," Alice says.

"What are you doing here?"

"Didn't Gertrude tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"That I've been staying here."

"She most certainly did not."

"Since last week," Alice says. "She said she wrote to you and told you—"

"Gertrude knows I don't always read her letters." (It's true; a side effect of working with Littlewood.)

Alice begins to weep very quietly. "I warned her that this might happen," she says. "I told her you wouldn't like it once
you found out."

"Oh, for God's sake—"

"But she said it was as much her flat as yours, and so long as I was sleeping in her bedroom—and that you only come on weekends,
while on the weekends I go back to Cambridge—"

"I don't only come on the weekends. What kind of absurd notion is that?" (But it's true that the last time he saw her, he
told Gertrude he was only coming up on the weekends.)

"Then you must ask Gertrude."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Please stop crying."

She does not stop crying. She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and brings it to her nose. And in the meantime, absurdly,
Hardy is still standing in the vestibule, with the door open, and the neighbors, for all he knows, listening in.

"Look, there's no need for this. Please just—just don't wail." He shuts the door behind him; hangs his coat on the peg; steps
past her into the kitchen and lays the flowers, in their wet wrapping of newspaper, on the table. "I can't bear wailing."

"And how do you think I feel? Here I am, minding my own business, when the door flies open and you—I could have been in my
dressing gown."

"A good thing you weren't."

He sits down. She remains standing.

"Why are you here, anyway?" he asks.

"I'm working with Mrs. Buxton," she says.

"Mrs. Buxton?"

"What language?"

"Swedish and German."

"Swedish! Where on earth did you learn Swedish?"

"In Sweden, as it happens. I spent some time there as a girl. My mother's half-Swedish. I speak French too, but Mrs. Buxton
needs more help with the German than the French, because she publishes more from the German press and she's got a surfeit
of French translators. Gertrude's working with her, too. Gertrude's doing French."

"I had no idea."

"If you'd bothered to read her letters, you'd have known everything."

"Won't you sit down?" he asks.

"No, thank you."

"Or I could make some tea."

"Whichever of us makes it, some tea might be in order."

"I'll make it." Alice moves toward the stove, where she fills the kettle, femininity trumping ownership.

"And where do you do all this translating?" he asks after a moment.

"Much of it I do here," she says. She is dry-eyed now. "Though generally I'm in Golders Green in the mornings. That's where
the Buxtons live—Golders Green. It's their HQ. I go and collect the articles that Mrs. Buxton has assigned me, and then either
I work there—if there's space, it can get awfully crowded—or I take my work and come back here. I've a desk set up in Gertrude's
room. With dictionaries."

"You mean you're here all week? How long has this been going on?"

"Just a week now. We all need work to do, Mr. Hardy. Especially at this dark hour."

"Yes, but how does Neville feel about your being gone?"

"He understands. I have to do my part."

"But doesn't he mind your not being there?"

She wipes her hands on a dishcloth. "Really, Mr. Hardy, there's no need to drop such unsubtle hints," she says. "It is obvious
that my presence here displeases you. Very well, then I—"

"No, it's not that."

"—then of course I shall, at my earliest convenience, seek other accommodations. However, given the hour, and the fact that
the magazine goes to press tomorrow and I've an article due in the morning, I trust you'll give me leave to pass one more
night under your roof."

"It's fine, please—"

"In your sister's bedroom, of course, for which, I should add, I pay her rent."

"Mrs. Neville, please. It's fine. It's fine if you stay here. I didn't mean—it was just a bit of a shock for me as well, seeing
you there, I—I didn't expect it."

She remains by the stove, back erect, while the kettle sings.

"Needless to say I wouldn't think of doing anything that might interfere with your liberty or incommode you."

"You're not putting me out. Gertrude's right, usually I am only here on the weekends. Today's an exception. And of course
I'm a great admirer of Mrs. Buxton—everyone admires Mrs. Buxton—and I want to do everything I can to support her, and you,
in a very noble effort."

"For which, needless to say, we receive no financial recompense."

"Needless to say."

"Well, I'm relieved that you see it that way." She switches off the kettle; pours the hot water into the pot. "And of course
it goes without saying, Mr. Hardy, that I shall stay out of your way. Once I've had my tea I'll lock myself up in Alice's
bedroom. I'll be as quiet as a mouse. You won't even know I'm here."

Suddenly the bell rings. Hardy jumps. "Oh my God," he says.

"What's the matter?" Alice asks.

"A friend—an appointment. I forgot."

"Well, let her in. Or would you prefer that I—"

"No, I'll go. Never mind." He hurries, and beats her to the door. "Just a delivery, I'll get it downstairs." And shutting
the door behind her, he races down to the entryway; opens the front door, where he finds Thayer, radiant, smiling in the rain.
Rain in his hair.

"Thayer," he says.

"Hello, Hardy," Thayer says, and is about to step through when Hardy blocks his way.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid—" Hardy steps outside, shutting the door behind them. "I'm afraid there's been something of a mix-up," he says,
lowering his voice. "You see"—he leans in, to whisper—"I share this flat with my sister, and, well, without telling me, she
lent—a friend of hers is staying the night in her room. And so I'm not alone. A lady is in there."

A shadow darkens Thayer's face. "Oh, I see," he says. "A lady."

Hardy nods and shakes his head at once; without being aware of it, he realizes later, he is mimicking Ramanujan. "I'm being
perfectly truthful," he says, "she's a friend of my sister's. From Cambridge. She's working in London, and Gertrude, without
telling me—"

"Well, that's smashing, isn't it? And when you think that I came by train from Birmingham just to—"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I'd had any idea she'd be here—"

"Of course." Thayer smiles again, but this time his smile is mocking. "Well, I guess that's that, then. Ta."

He turns. Hardy puts his hand on his arm. "Wait," he says. "Look, if you wait a minute—let me think—we could go somewhere
else. We could meet later at—a hotel."

"A hotel? What do you think, I'm some tart?"

"It's not like that."

"I'm sorry."

" 'Sister's friend, this is Thayer, of the First West Yorks Regiment. Thayer, this is sister's friend.' 'How d'you do?' 'How
d'you do?' Instead of which it's, 'I'm ashamed for anyone to see you, you wait down here in the street and later we'll meet
at a hotel."

"Please don't be so angry—"

"Well, fuck off."

"Wait, please—I'm sorry, I should have. I didn't think. Of course you can come up." He coughs. "Let me start again. Thayer,
won't you please come up and—"

"Too late."

"Won't you come up for a cup of tea?"

"You rich toffs, you never understand, do you? You can't just start again once you've fucked it up. Try it in the trenches
with your arse full of goddamned Jerry shrapnel."

Once again, Hardy puts his hand on Thayer's arm. Thayer pushes him away. "Don't touch me!"

"I'm sorry, I wish—"

Thayer turns; walks across the street, toward the square.

"Thayer—" Hardy calls. He is close to weeping now, as earlier Alice wept. "Thayer, please—"

"Forget it," Thayer says, from a distance, over his shoulder.

"Thayer, wait for me."

And at that moment, just as he's about to take after him in pursuit, a constable passes by. Picking up the scent of discord,
he walks over to Hardy. "Everything all right, sir?" he asks. "This chap bothering you?"

"No, everything's fine, thank you," Hardy says.

"You bothering him?" the constable calls to Thayer.

"No, it's fine." Hardy fixes his face into some simulacrum of ordinariness. "Thank you, officer. Goodnight."

And turning around, he goes back into the building.

That weekend, for instance, she's sitting in the room she's come to think of as Ramanujan's room—the guest room, made over
now as an office, a place for her to work on her translations—when he tiptoes through the door and puts his hands on her shoulders.
She jumps. "Please don't startle me like that," she says.

"Sorry," he says. "I just had an urge to touch my lovely little wife."

"Yes, all right, but the next time you get an urge, knock first, will you?"

"Of course, darling. So what are you translating now?"

"An article."

"About what?"

"England and peace."

"What do they say?"

"That we're delaying peace."

"Let me see." He reads over her shoulder: " 'England blamed Germany for a desire for war during July 1914, but since the end
of August 1914, she has repeated that Germany would like peace, but that the time is not yet here.' Wouldn't it be better
to say, 'the time has not yet come?'"

"Mrs. Buxton likes to keep the translations as literal as possible."

"Ah, Mrs. Buxom. Luring my wife away to work at her brothel five days a week."

"Yes, Eric, I know you think it's very funny."

"And who knows what odd sorts of men you're expected to cater to?"

"Thank you, Eric. Now if you don't mind—"

"But you're always working! Can't you take a few hours off?"

"What about all the hours you spent working, when you were finishing your degree? Hours and hours I spent alone, and did I
even once raise my voice?"

"Now darling—"

"It's perfectly true. You can't expect me to spend the rest of my life sitting here, idle, at your beck and call."

"All right, darling."

"And it's not as if I'm off every week shopping or going to concerts, this is important work. It's war work, of a sort."

"All right, you've made your point. It's only that—well, you're gone so much these days, I—and then when you're back, you're
always locked up in here. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to avoid me."

She closes her eyes. So it's come at last. Understanding. She's almost relieved.

"But of course I do know better than that—"

Damn.

"I'm sorry, I'm being terribly selfish." He nuzzles her hair. "And you're right, you were patient with me, all those years.
And now I shall be patient with you."

He backs away on exaggerated tiptoe; shuts the door behind him; opens it again and peers in.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?"

"No, nothing."

"Something to eat?"

"No, I'm fine, Eric."

"Sorry, then." His voice a whisper. And once again he shuts the door.

Alice breathes deeply. Then she looks at the page in front of her—the translation—and notices a blot just at the end of the
sentence she was working on. No doubt her pen slipped when Eric surprised her.

Well, at least he's gone.

And how is it possible, after all this time, that he doesn't grasp the truth, doesn't recognize—yes—that she's left him, leaving
him?

And why? Does she not love him anymore?

When she first started working for Mrs. Buxton, the reason she gave herself was that she couldn't survive another day cooped
up in the house with Ethel, while frighteningly nearby a war raged. Despite his best efforts to appear jaunty, Eric could
not hide his worry. She knew that he was in trouble with Butler because of his opposition to the war. She understood that
there was a chance he might lose his fellowship. She admired his stoic devotion to his ideals—how could she not?—and yet,
for all the respect she felt, she could not bear for him to touch her. Even after her fantasy of Ramanujan falling in love
with her ended in humiliation, she could not bear for him to touch her. And he was being unbelievably dim.

He asked her what was wrong. In words, she complained only of boredom, her wish to be doing something, not just sitting around
the house. He mentioned all sorts of possibilities. In Cambridge, the Women's Emergency Corps had initiated an effort to employ
women in making toys. Other women were working as train conductors, or tilling the land. She tried not to laugh at his naivete.
What she wanted to be doing, of course, was writing—savage, oblique essays that decimated English complacency about the war
without ever once mentioning the war; that sort of thing. Even if she had the talent, however, she lacked the connections.
She did not travel, as Aunt Daisy and Israfel did, in literary circles. And so she stayed at home, growing more and more irritable,
until one morning she received a note from Gertrude telling her in the most casual tone that in her spare time she had started
translating for Mrs. Buxton. And of course, as Alice had become, like her husband, a devotee of the "Notes to the Foreign
Press," immediately the possibility entered her head that perhaps she, too, could lend a hand with the translating. After
all, how many English people could there be who understood Swedish?

"Perhaps?"

"What's the sentence?"

But before Alice could hear the sentence read—and her Italian was good enough for her to be capable of offering an opinion—Gertrude
had taken her into the dining room, where two women sat at opposite ends of a table covered, like the sitting room floor,
with newspapers. One of the women rose. Her face was beautiful and severe, rather like a Wedgwood vase; she was dressed elegantly
but comfortably, in a long skirt and a blouse the crenellated patterns of which brought to mind stained-glass windows in churches.
"You must be Mrs. Neville," she said, reaching out her hand. "Welcome, please sit down. May I introduce my sister? Eglantyne
Jebb."

The sister rose. She was at once more mannish and less forthright than Mrs. Buxton, the effect of her sturdy handshake undercut
a little by her reluctance to look Alice in the eye. When she spoke, she kept her hands in the air, gesticulating, Alice suspected,
less in order to add emphasis to her words than to keep her face covered.

Mrs. Buxton, by contrast, was a beacon of calm in the midst of the pandemonium into which her house had been transformed,
a pandemonium she acknowledged cheerfully, if with an undertone of regret, telling Alice, "I do apologize for this disorder.
The papers have just come in. You read German, is that correct?"

"And Swedish."

Alice sat rigid. Was she being tested—ever so subtly?

"I cannot say," Alice said, "how much I admire the integrity of your enterprise."

"Thank you," Mrs. Buxton said, then exclaimed suddenly, "Oh, good heavens, I've offered you nothing to eat or drink. Would
you like anything? Luckily I have two women here who, as they cannot type and speak no languages other than English, have
volunteered to run the kitchen. Something, I might add, that my husband and children appreciate. You see, I'm immensely lucky.
There are so many people eager to help. Well, what can we offer you?"

"I wouldn't care for anything," Alice said, "but thank you for asking. In fact, I'm rather eager to get to work."

"It's very exciting," Alice said, taking the newspaper, "to have this opportunity."

"I fear you won't think so after a few days. You may want to run away screaming! But never mind. We shall be grateful for
however many minutes or hours you grant us."

"I shall not run screaming," Alice said, and wanted to add: this is the place to which I have run. But she said nothing.

So this is what her life has become: five days in London, staying in Gertrude's flat, then the weekend at home. She arrives
late on Friday, leaves late on Sunday. Two nights are all she can bear with Eric. As if to celebrate her presence, Ethel has
taken to preparing elaborate meals on the weekends, joints of meat and roasted pheasants and a curried duck that makes her
remember, with a distant fondness, the days when they cooked for Ramanujan. None of this can she stomach. In London her life
is marked by a cultivated frugality. She drinks weak tea, eats sandwiches consisting of the thinnest imaginable slivers of
cheese placed between the thinnest imaginable slices of bread. The occasional orange. She has lost weight, which upsets Eric.
"I like a woman with some meat on her bones," he says, slapping her no longer ample rump.

She ignores him. How can she explain herself to a man who hardly understands his own sorrow? Perhaps she might say to him,
"Eric, what you're feeling is grief, because your wife, whom you love, no longer loves you," and he would understand. But
if she were to say to him, "I cannot bear, at this moment, to be comfortably fed or comfortably bedded, I must walk in the
cold without boots or an umbrella, I must sleep in an underheated flat on a bed that pains my back"—would he be capable of
understanding this need for penance, for penitence? A need, perhaps, to experience an iota—if only that—of the suffering that
the soldiers are experiencing. Or a need to rid herself of that terrible taste in her mouth, that taste of tea that was on
Ramanujan's breath, when she pressed her lips against his and he . . . he just stood there.

Impossible to contemplate, that she did such a thing. That she shamed herself like that. It's something she could never tell
Eric.

And if she can't tell Eric, if she can't articulate to him, much less to herself, what she felt that afternoon, as she walked
home from Trinity, how can she explain to him why it is that she needs the austerity of Gertrude's narrow bed, in that drab
flat?

Hardy has not returned. Not since the one visit. Nor has she asked Gertrude if she has spoken with her brother about Alice's
staying there.

Odd that all during the course of that one night, the night that she and Hardy both slept in the flat, they never once spoke
of Ramanujan. She never mentioned, and neither did he, the dinner to which she was so pointedly not invited. Or Ramanujan's
disappearance, and reappearance, afterward. Or the rather testy correspondence that his disappearance provoked.

Eric never mentions Hardy, either. Or Ramanujan. Why is this? Is it perhaps because, without recognizing it, he senses the
uneasiness that their names call up in her? Obviously he must see them both. Hardy every day. When they don't talk mathematics,
they must talk politics, Russell's refusal to keep his mouth shut, the almost willful effort he's making to provoke Butler.
Eric is happy to tell Alice all about what's going on at Trinity. But for some reason, when he does, he never mentions Hardy's
name.

Dusk is falling. She is glad. One more night, one more day, and she'll be able to return to London. She longs to return to
London. And not just because she is happier there, these days, than here. Also because someone has entered her life whose
presence alone is enough to revive Alice's sense of possibility. Prospects of pleasure, if remote, rise before her whenever
she sees this person. This person whom she saw, for the first time, last week, at Mrs. Buxton's. A new recruit. "Ah, Alice,"
Dorothy said—they were now on a first-name basis—"I wonder if you might show this lady around. She's come to pick up some
work to take home with her. She lives in Cornwall and speaks perfect Italian."