Travelers (6 page)

“You have lovely eyes,” Asha said. “What color are they? Gray? Or green? Lovely.” She gazed at Lee with hunger: to have such skin! Untouched, unflawed.

But Lee was taken up with trying to express her thoughts: “If it's really like you say—like everyone says—then it's a waste. I mean, such feelings, they should go for something higher.”

“There is nothing higher.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Listen to me. . . . Should I be telling you this? God knows. But I will because I love you. I truly truly love you, Lee, like a dear little sister.” She put out her hand and snatched Lee's lying
in the lap of her peasant skirt. She kissed it and then she squeezed it; she wore many rings which hurt Lee a bit.

“You've seen his picture on my dressing table? My husband. He was a rotter. I can't tell you. He was a rotter through and through. It wasn't only other women—but with boys too. . . . For him I was only an object—less, less than an object—for an object you can have some respect, you don't want to break it for nothing, it has some value. But for him I was only there to be ill-treated and crushed, the way he wouldn't do to a paid woman. But I was his wife and the only pleasure he took in me was to be able to humiliate me, to bring me lower than the dust under his feet. You don't like to hear all this, I can see from your face.”

“Well, it's only that it's so painful, Asha.”

“Yes, it was painful—terribly, terribly painful. But also you don't know what joy! What bliss and happiness I had in him! Not at the end—then everything went—
he
went—he was a sick man, he had cirrhosis of the liver, that's what he died of. But in our first years together, I can't describe to you—oh, my God, what can I say? Even to think of it is unbearable. . . . And what is also unbearable is to think that it has gone and there is nothing like it any more and won't be ever again. Now what is left for me? How should I spend my days? How go from one day to the other?
You
tell me.”

“I can't tell you,” Lee said.

“I know you can't. What should you know about it, my poor lamb? But don't go away. Stay with me. You have no idea how lovely it is for me to have you here. Shall I put on a record? Should we dance?” She rose impetuously but stumbled over Sunita's little white Pomeranian and gave it a kick that sent it flying from its footstool.

Lee watched impassively. She had never cared much for dogs, especially not pampered little lap dogs; and here in India they infuriated her.

Raymond Writes to His Mother

“. . . Whereas a well-off middle-class Indian home will be stuffed with all the material possessions it can hold, the less affluent live in rather a bleak way. You remember I wrote to you about that rather nice boy I met, Gopi? Well he took me to tea with his family. His father is dead and his mother lives with his sisters and I think some more relatives in a couple of rooms in the upstairs part of a crooked little house in a very crowded locality. I don't know how many people are living in that house. I'm told only two families, Gopi's and the landlord's downstairs. But what families! That place was
bulging.
Most of Gopi's family had been banished into the second room and all that could be heard from them was whispers and suppressed giggles. Whenever the door opened they took the opportunity to peer in. Inside the room there was only Gopi, myself, his mother, and a couple of sisters who had been allowed in because they had to serve the tea. Conversation was very, very difficult. The two sisters didn't say anything and the mother couldn't say anything because she spoke no English. So she and I had to exchange a succession of smiles and she kept pushing plates at me and said, ‘Eat, eat.' And I did eat—heaps of sweetmeats and other heaps of salty, spiced things. And the sisters kept coming in with more dishes and they kept refilling my plate and I kept at it manfully. I
had
to! It was the only thing to do, it was what I was there for; apart from feeding me they didn't know what to do with me.

“But they had taken such a lot of trouble. Not only frying all that food but cleaning up the room and making it as nice as they knew how. Only I'm sorry to say they didn't know how very well—esthetic living isn't something they ever pay much attention to, I think. There's hardly any furniture, just a sofa with worn-out springs and a couple of hard chairs which I think had been borrowed. The crockery too seemed to have been borrowed and none of it matched and some of it had cracks with dirt ingrained in them. Yes, I know, unforgivable of me to
notice these things—but I promise I didn't make what you call my
fastidious
face, I really watched myself and did my best to be enthusiastic over everything. Perhaps I overdid it a bit—an awful lot of ‘delicious' and ‘divine' and ‘most kind' and ‘thank you so much'—but I dare say you would call that erring in the right direction. And I smiled, I think, continuously. So did Gopi's mother; it was all we could do. Sometimes a harassed expression would come over her face, and I saw she was perspiring with effort and every now and again she wiped her face with her veil. I too perspired, with effort
and
with heat.

“The only relief from the silence that engulfed our tea party came from the people downstairs, who seemed to be having a row. At one point they got very noisy indeed—and this rather animated our party and Gopi and his mother and sisters had a lot of uncomplimentary things to say about their neighbors. Evidently relations are strained. When the party was over and I was led away down the stairs, I was told to take no notice of them, which I didn't though they came pouring out to have a look at me; obediently I never glanced in their direction and neither did I turn my head when one of them called after me ‘Good morning, sir,' which Gopi said was just a characteristic piece of impudence on their part. . . .”

Gopi Is Displeased with Raymond

Although Gopi had made no attempt at conversation during this tea party—he had sat there and scowled, disowning all of them—afterward it was not himself he blamed for its failure but his family and his guest. He was upset for days. When he was at home, he was sulky with his family, and when he was with Raymond, he kept picking quarrels with him. He found fault with Raymond's living arrangements and sneered at all his little decorations. He characterized him as a fussy, snobbish English sahib. The tea party was never mentioned between them, but Raymond knew it to be the cause of Gopi's displeasure. He had
to admit that this displeasure was not entirely undeserved. It was true, he had tried hard—he had smiled, he had eaten to excess, and praised continuously—but he realized that Gopi was sensitive to the fact that inwardly he had remained withdrawn and critical.

Lee came to see them quite often now and Gopi enjoyed her company. He made it clear that he enjoyed it more than Raymond's. He would suggest some outing and then he would say to Raymond, “I think you don't want to come.” Lee was surprised; she said “Oh, why not?” and Gopi would answer for him. He said, “He has been there before and he didn't like it at all.”

Raymond did not contradict. He suffered but acquiesced. He stayed in the flat by himself and put on records of Indian music. He had grown very fond of Indian music. It had become for him like a distillation of everything he loved in Gopi and everything he loved in India. These two were now inextricable.

Lee and Gopi Eat Kebabs

Gopi had taken Lee to the place where the best kebabs in town were to be obtained. He always knew the best places: there was one shop called Lahore Milk House that sold the best buttermilk; another, Mithan Lal Halwai, had the best jelabis; a third, Your Fry-Up Please, the tastiest fried fish in town. This kebab place was in the Muslim area, just opposite the big mosque. They sat at a table inside the dark interior of the shop; the man rolling and frying the kebabs sat at the front, facing the bazaar, amid cauldrons and pans sizzling on open fires. The shop was a family affair and everyone smiled in a knowing way and looked sideways at Lee. Gopi was embarrassed but also proud. Even the little hunchbacked servant boy who came to wipe the table with a filthy cloth smiled in the same way. But Lee didn't notice anything, she was too busy eating the kebabs.

Gopi liked seeing her eat. She made swift, neat, dipping movements into chutney and other side dishes and chewed and
licked her fingers and enjoyed just like an Indian. She could eat the hottest food, and bit into fierce green chilis with relish. Watching her, Gopi commented, “You're not like Raymond.”

“No?” Lee said, too busy to be really listening.

“No. He couldn't eat this food. It would burn his mouth and how he would scream. And he couldn't eat with his fingers either—oh, no, he has to have his knife and spoon. Like this,” Gopi said and gave an imitation of Raymond eating. He made very refined movements with imaginary cutlery. Lee, looking up briefly, laughed.

“But you're quite different,” Gopi said with enthusiasm, leaning across the table toward her. “You know what I think? I think you were Indian in your last birth.”

“Really,” Lee said, too busy at present to realize that a very great compliment had been paid to her. “Hand me one of those, will you?”

“These?” He held out a chili to her but instead of taking it in her hand she darted forward and bit into it. “Hm, lovely,” she said.

Gopi burned and blushed. He was aware that everyone, everyone in the shop had been watching them and had seen her bite into the chili which he held out for her; and for them, as for him, the gesture was as intimate as a kiss. There was a great silent gasp. Even the party of Sikhs at another table—huge burly men who had seemed totally absorbed in eating—even they had seen and their mighty jaws stopped chewing in wonder.

Someone came to serve them with a new plate of kebabs. He spoke to Gopi in an appreciative undertone. Gopi nodded and tried to smile. The man offered the kebabs to Lee, who said, “I couldn't.” “Just one more, Memsahib,” said the man, holding up one tempting forefinger. “Oh, all right,” Lee said. The man winked at Gopi and moved off. The Sikhs made a joke to him as he passed and he answered with another joke. Everyone was having a grand time. To celebrate the occasion, someone put a record on the phonograph. It was a very old machine with a
horn and the record too was very old. It was hardly audible, but “Ah!” everyone cried as they recognized the song. The woman's voice that emerged from the scratching and crackling was laden with passion.

“She is singing for her lover,” Gopi told Lee. “She says, ‘Love's madness has carried me away in its embrace.' It is a very old popular song. Everyone loves it. Ah!” He shut his eyes in ecstasy. “Now she is saying, ‘Save me, bring me back, don't you see that I have been snatched away by this madness!' They are very beautiful words.” He leaned again across the table toward Lee. “This place is a hotel also.”

“I like it,” Lee said. She looked around the little dark room: it was painted green and was dense with the smell of spicy cooking and incense. She liked the song too and the way everyone was enjoying it so much.

“The rooms upstairs are also very nice,” Gopi said. When she didn't react, he swallowed once or twice and said with effort: “Would you like to see?”

“Not especially,” Lee said. She had been inside a lot of homes by this time and was no longer as interested as she once had been in seeing how people really lived.

“There's a very good view,” Gopi said temptingly. Lee showed more interest—as he had expected. How these people cared for views! Gopi had learned this lesson from Raymond. What it was they saw so much in a view God only knew.

“Would you like to see?” he asked again.

“All right.”

Gopi felt victorious. He raised his hand and soundlessly snapped his fingers. The proprietor nodded and beamed. The hunchbacked boy was sent over to their table; he was carrying a bunch of keys as well as his filthy cloth.

Gopi jumped up. “Come on.” But Lee took her time; she leaned back luxuriously in her chair and held her stomach. “I'm so full,” she said happily. She saw everyone looking and smiling at her and smiled back. “Lovely food,” she said. They nodded
at her encouragingly. The record came to an end on a last note of passion and pain. “Again!” cried the Sikhs.

“Come on,” Gopi repeated. The little servant boy also stood waiting. Lee stood up slowly. “I can hardly
move
,” she said, holding her stomach again. Gopi followed her closely. He knew all eyes were upon him. He was a hero and he liked it, but he was also rather nervous. To hide this, he gave a jaunty hitch to his pants and walked in a careless, swaggering way.

They groped up the dark staircase, holding on to both side walls for support. They came to a landing with two doors and the boy opened one of them with his keys. He ushered them in and shut the door on them. The mosque was so close it seemed to be right there in the room with its huge domes and its flight of steps and the booths huddled at the foot of the steps. Lee gave a cry of pleasure and strode to the window. She stayed there looking out, so enraptured by what she saw that she quite forgot about Gopi.

He didn't know what to do next. For a while he stood behind her, also looking at the view; but he couldn't see what was so interesting about it—it was just the usual things. Then he turned back into the room and that wasn't interesting either. He sat by the side of the bed and eased himself out of his shoes; this was always a luxurious moment for him and he sat wriggling his toes and pulling and cracking them. Next he lay down on the bed. His eyes roved over the ceiling and down the walls; there was nothing to hold his attention except a framed sampler in cross-stitch hanging crooked from a nail. So he looked at Lee standing by the window. How slim and strong she was; her light brown hair trailed down her back. He desired her very much.