The Linnet Bird: A Novel (73 page)

At the sudden bark of a jackal from the darkness beyond the houses, there was a rush of rubbery wings. I tilted my head back to watch as bats, big as crows, rose from the acacia, their black ribbed wings cutting the fading sky. Leaning against the tree, I looked down the darkening, empty street, straining my ears for the sound of hooves. I knew I was being ridiculous. Every so often a Pathan rode through Calcutta. It meant nothing.

I stayed there, my eyes fixed on the street that led to the Maidan. Finally the fireflies were dancing spots of light and the sky dark and furrowed, the moon resting heavily, and Somers called sharply from the doorway that I was to come inside.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I sat in the verandah fingering the same page of my book over and over. I hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or two, and my head ached in a tiresome way. Malti arrived home from the daily shopping, and I saw that her face was dark with dismay, and she was muttering to herself as she placed a new bottle of ink on the escritoire.

“What is it, Malti?” I said, coming through the flung back doors into the bedroom.

Malti gave me a sideways glance. “Nothing, Mem Linny,” she answered, rearranging the paper and quills and books on the desk. She stopped and looked at me.

“There’s something, Malti. You must tell me.” I licked my lips. “Did you . . . see anything today? Anything . . . unusual?”

“I saw nothing,” she replied, her tone strangely curt.

“Was there any new gossip, then?”

Malti pushed the bottle of ink back and forth on the polished wood. “You do not usually inquire about the wagging tongues in the square.”

“Well, today I’m asking. Did you overhear anything?”

“It is not worth repeating, mem. Many of the ayahs have allowed their voices to grow as sharp as those of their mistresses. They do not have enough work to do, it appears, and so devise stories to pass the time.”

I lowered myself to the chair beside the desk. “What are these stories, Malti?”

There was pain on Malti’s gentle face. “It is just more silly talk of the man, Mem Linny, from the northwest frontier. The ayahs say he continues to ride about the Maidan, looking at the English ladies. It is said he has spoken a name.” She shook her head, her brow furrowed. “Can you imagine such nonsense? He will shortly be arrested. This kind of behavior is not acceptable, and—Mem Linny. What is it?” She looked down, and I followed her gaze. I saw that I was gripping her dark hands in my own.

“Did anyone tell him where I live? Does he know where I am?”

“Oh, Mem Linny, be still. Hush, hush. Do not be worried. It is only the bad memories of your troubled time at Simla which frighten you now. And surely the bitter hens simply wish to stir up trouble with their simple tale, for . . . Mem Linny? What are you doing?”

I flew to the dressing table, pinning up long loose strands of hair, my shaking hands scattering hairpins over the floor. I buttoned the collar of my dress and whirled around to Malti. “Do I look presentable?”

Malti’s face closed. “You are fine, Mem Linny, fine, as always.” Her voice was careful. “But come now, sit down. I will prepare your pipe. That will calm you. And then I will bring you a cup of your favorite tea.”

“I don’t want my pipe. There’s no time. Come, come with me. David . . . David, where is David?”

“He plays with the Wilton children until late afternoon, Mem Linny. Do you not remember?”

“Take my reticule, Malti, and come, follow me.” I ran down the hall, turning to urge Malti to hurry. She trailed slowly, clutching the small taupe bag to her chest. As I approached the front door the
chuprassi
appeared, ready to open the door for me. He put his hand on the brass doorknob.

“Please, Malti! There may not be much time. Can’t you walk any faster?” I gestured to the
chuprassi,
but before he could open the door it swung inward.

I gasped.

Somers stood in the doorway, his blocky frame filling the entrance. “Hello, Linny.” He was very still.

I backed away, bumping into Malti, who dropped the reticule. Somers stared at it.

“Just on your way out, were you, Linny?” He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

“No . . . well, yes, Malti and I were just going to take a turn around the Maidan . . . we often do, at this time, don’t we, Malti?” I turned to her. She stood with her mouth open.

Somers stepped in, leaving the door open behind him. “You were going for a stroll, at the hottest time of day, without your solar topee, or sun parasol—and in this apparel?” He had two hectic spots on his cheeks.

I looked down at the wrinkled cotton of my limp frock, seeing the spattering of grease along one cuff, a button missing at the waist. “What—what are you doing home?”

“Fever,” he said tersely. His old enemy, malaria, poking his spine with its cold, bony finger. “I’m going to bed. Malti, you’re not to allow your mistress out of the house. Do you understand?”

I grabbed his sleeve. “But Somers, I just want—”

He threw up his arm to shake off my hand, catching me across the bridge of the nose. Bright lights burst behind my eyes. “I forbid it. You’ll not make a fool of me, parading around in public like a harridan. Like the whore that you are.”

I heard the sharp intake of Malti’s breath, and the rustle of the
chuprassi
’s clothes.

“In fact, I’m sick of the sight of you. Dirty whore.”

I wanted to spit in his face, to put up my chin and tell him that yes, yes, I was still a whore. It was tempting, so tempting to scream at him that David wasn’t his at all, that I was indeed what he always accused me of, that I had joined with a man joyfully, for my own pleasure, and that David was a child of love, and not of his brutal rape. But of course I wouldn’t tell him this, for what I had kept hidden for these five years was my trump card. I shook with the effort to keep my lips sealed. I tried to push past him.

He grabbed at the front of my dress and as I moved forward, he pulled at the fabric with all his force. There was a terrible ripping sound, and I stopped, shocked. Somers looked down at the clutch of poplin and cambric—he’d even torn away my chemise—then back to me, and his eyes riveted on my exposed chest. The blood drained from his face, leaving him parchment white. He stumbled back, and the
chuprassi
caught him.

Malti stepped in front of me, trying to hold her own head scarf over my nakedness.

Somers dropped the fabrics and pointed, his finger shaking, at me.

“What’s the matter, Somers?” I hissed his name, in a low, shaky voice, pushing Malti away, standing in front of him so that my scar was fully visible. “Don’t like what you see? Thought you knew all there was to know about me?”

“Mem Linny, Mem Linny,” Malti cried, “please. Do not make him angry. Please.” She covered her own face and wept.

Somers shook off the
chuprassi
and straightened, his face still bleached, his forehead beaded with perspiration. “What is that?” he whispered, his finger trembling.

“What does it look like? The touch of an old lover?” I didn’t care any longer how I sounded, what I said. The pure hatred I had for him at this moment flooded all my senses.

But before he could respond Somers groaned loudly and doubled over, and the
chuprassi
helped him down the hall to his room. And at that I lurched through the open doorway. I ran, as best as I could, down the drive, my boots crunching in the crushed shells. I heard the gasp of my own breath, loud in my head, felt the tightening of my chest at the accelerated and unaccumstomed pace. I had not yet reached the end of the drive before large, gloved hands gripped my arms from behind.

It was the
chuprassi,
sent, surely, by Somers to fetch me back. I struggled against his hold, twisting and straining. “Let me go,” I muttered. “You must do as I say.” But the hold remained firm, and his face, as I looked over my shoulder at him, showed nothing as I squirmed like a helpless kitten. Malti was beside us, still crying, reaching up to wipe the spittle from my chin with her fingers, pulling at my dress to cover me, trying to soothe me as I was swept up and carried back to the house in the arms of the
chuprassi.

The small flurry of activity had weakened me; I could no longer fight, and leaned, defeated, against him until he deposited me on my bed.

L
ATER, IN MY BEDROOM,
I dismissed the punkah wallah and Malti.

“I don’t want to leave you, Mem Linny,” she said. “You should not be alone. You are very troubled.”

But eventually I convinced her I was only going to sleep, and she left, leaving my door ajar. I knew she would remain in the hallway, listening to my every move through the half-open door. I sat at my mirrored dressing table, looking at my hands on my lap, curled into each other, still and white as dead doves.

Was it really Daoud, here, in Calcutta, looking for me? I had to know. I would go to the Maidan, no matter what Somers said or did to me. I would somehow sneak out, and walk all the way there, if necessary. I took a deep breath and looked into the mirror.

Long strands of dull hair fell around my shoulders. I saw how thin my face was, the bridge of my nose purple and swollen from the knock Somers’s arm had given it. The skin over my bones was translucent and taut, as if there were hardly enough to cover my nostrils. I had a sudden horrifying impression of my skull beneath the flesh. My lips had grown thin, and lumpy discolored pouches stood out beneath my eyes. I thought of my image in Shaker’s mirror, nine long years ago. If I had been shocked then, it was doubly worse now. What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn’t Daoud. What was I dreaming of? That Daoud would pull me up on his horse, and we would ride away together? I was a fool, a complete fool. David was here, my child, my life. My fantasies about Daoud were nothing more than that—fantasies. I had known him, almost six years ago, for less than a month. He was, as I had told Nani Meera, of another world, a world that could never be mine.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I had lost all sight of the bright hope that had brought me to India. I had lost sight of the woman who called herself Linny Gow.

I prepared my pipe and smoked it until I could smoke no more.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
HE MALARIA THAT HAD PERIODICALLY HELD
S
OMERS IN ITS
terrible grip had indeed returned, and this was the worst episode of the string of his recurrent paroxysms. He had terrible headaches accompanied by nausea and vomiting, followed by chills that were more violent than ever before. The fevers were raging, leaving his skin hot and dry, and sometimes there was delirium. And then suddenly the sweating began; his body was drenched and his temperature fell. Weakened, he sank into deep, deep sleeps that lasted hour after hour. Dr. Haverlock visited every day to check his progress. I was not allowed to leave the house; although Somers might not be aware of where I was, the servants he had paid handsomely to mind me were watching at all times. Even as I passed the front door the
chuprassi
would step in front of it, arms crossed over his chest, and when I walked in the back garden Somers’s
khansana
followed me closely, stopping when I stopped, walking when I walked.