Under the Jeweled Sky (24 page)

“Sometimes,” he said, skirting quickly over his memories. “It's being turned into a hotel.”

Night fell across Delhi, the lampblack sky holding the freezing mists that drifted coldly down from the distant Himalayas. Throughout the city, chilled figures squatted around bonfires, huddled in groups, swathed in blankets and shawls, ghostly streams of warmed white breath pouring from their mouths into the bleak December air. When morning came, it would do so reluctantly, moving slowly through the thick fog that hung around with the stubborn persistence of an unwelcome guest. It would be hours before the sun showed itself, if at all, barely able to pierce through the winter blanket that held over the city before evening fell again, drawing in another long cold night.

Lucien lit a cigarette, pulling deeply into his lungs, his mind wandering as his eyes fixed on the reflection thrown back at him from the shuttered window. He must tread carefully and steer the cart without disturbing the natural order of things. Patience had never been his strongest suit, and he mulled this over now for a little while smoking his cigarette. It didn't do to push too hard. He would be well advised to take a leaf out of his wife's book. Sophie never pushed. There was something powerfully stoic about the way she handled herself that he couldn't quite pinpoint. It was disarming, and even on those occasions when he had wanted to vent his frustrations upon her, he would find himself sidestepped, left standing with nowhere to place his argument. He hadn't really noticed at first. It was only since living with her, sleeping under the same roof night after night, that it had begun to dawn on him that perhaps she was not quite as guileless as he had thought. She had a way with people, a way that left them with the impression that she was whiter than white, without agenda, and he wasn't entirely sure how she did it. He would have to study her more closely, to see if he couldn't pick up a little of her subtle temperance and learn how to use it to his advantage. It might prove valuable in matters of persuasion. He puffed again on his cigarette, deliberately softening his manner before inquiring, “Has Tony mentioned anything about the final pecking order for the PM's visit?”

Melanie Hinchbrook frowned at him. “Why on earth are you asking me?”

“You're his wife. If anybody's in the know about the workings of the inner circle, it's you.”

“Well I'm afraid I don't have the faintest idea. Tony knows I'm not interested in those sorts of things. I stopped listening years ago. Not that he minds, I suspect. So long as I toe the party line and smile charmingly at the right people.”

“But you must have heard something? The PM's itinerary is all pinned into place. Surely you've seen it?”

“Whatever for?”

“Lady Macmillan. You're supposed to be—”

“Oh, don't be a bore.” She helped herself to a cigarette, leaning toward the flame he offered her. “Tea parties and tittle-tattle.” She let out a plume of smoke. “That's all I ever hear, because it's always the same. Cutting ribbons here, patting the heads of vile little invalid children there, while adopting a look of great sympathy for the cameras.”

“Oh,” Lucien said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am, I suppose.”

“Then why don't you speak to him about it yourself?”

“I was rather hoping you'd be able to give me the inside track.”

“Afraid not.” She took another puff. “He'll be back on Thursday, although I wouldn't bother trying to tackle him until the journey's worn off. He's a terrible traveler, you know. Puts him in a foul mood. I always thought it was very strange that he should have joined the Foreign Office at all.” She paused for a moment, noticing Lucien's uncharacteristically quieted manner. “We're having the Appletons over for dinner on Saturday. It was supposed to be just the four of us, which really means the two of them cozied up over cigars while I have to endure Rosamund all evening. Perhaps you'd like to come along?”

“Won't Tony mind?”

“I don't see why he should. And even if he does, I'll just tell him that it was my mistake and it's too late to undo the invitation.”

“I wouldn't want you to get yourself into an awkward situation on my account.”

“Nonsense. Come at six-thirty for cocktails and I'll make sure the two of you get a little time alone together.”

“Well, if you're absolutely sure,” Lucien said. “Although I'll have to check with the little woman, of course. See that there's nothing else in the diary.”

There wouldn't be anything else in the diary. Of that Lucien was sure. Aside from their official engagements, there was never anything in his wife's diary.

“Wasn't she supposed to be back by now?” Melanie asked.

“Four days ago, but the weather's been bad, so she decided to stay on for a bit, then take the train up to Madras and pick up a flight from there.”

“I told her she shouldn't have gone,” Melanie said. “Ros Appleton is mightily unimpressed with her absence. The run-up to Christmas is such a headache, especially now that everyone's children have descended. The club is a complete madhouse, youngsters hanging around and making a terrible racket. At least there'll be no shilly-shallying about sending them all back this year. Appleton wants the whole lot gone by January third so we can get everything shipshape by the time Macmillan flies in.”

“To be frank, I've rather enjoyed her absence,” Lucien said, dragging hard on his cigarette.

“Oh,
tush!
Now look what you've gone and done!” Melanie Hinchbrook flicked the satin coverlet aside and brushed the spilled ash from the bed.

Dr. Schofield broke stride and waited for Sophie to catch up with him. “Do you want to stop for a minute?”

“No. I'm fine.” Sophie puffed on, snatching hard gasps from the brisk air.

“That's the trouble with you young people,” her father said. “No stamina.”

“No exercise, you mean.” She gave in and stopped, hands on hips, panting a little. “I swear I've hardly walked two hundred yards since we left London.” She took a moment to recover herself, pressing a hand against her hammering chest. “It's all very nice having a driver at one's disposal, but it never even occurred to me what it might be doing to my muscles. Goodness me.” She pulled in another deep breath and let it out with gusto. “I doubt I could get from one side of Hyde Park to the other nowadays.” She rested herself for a little.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Sophie said. “Much.” Her father took off again at his regular pace.

“Then let this be a lesson to you. A good bracing walk every day keeps the doctor at bay.”

“Lucien won't hear of it. I went off to Lodhi Gardens on my own a few days after we arrived and anyone would have thought that I had run through the streets in my underwear, the way he went on about it.” To Sophie's relief, the pathway began to level off beneath their feet, opening on to the narrow roadway. “He was right, of course,” she admitted. “It doesn't do to be out on one's own. It only invites trouble and endless pestering.”

“Then get your husband to go with you.”

“He's a swimmer, not a walker. He likes to get up early and do laps in the pool at the club. Nighttime too, sometimes. Says it helps him think.”

“I wish you didn't have to go back so soon.”

Sophie stopped and thought for a moment. She had already stayed far longer than she had cleared with Lucien, so she would be in trouble anyway, and she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She had meant to speak to Lucien about it before she left, but she could never seem to catch him at the right time. He would always say,
later, we'll discuss it later
, but of course they never did. When later came, he would be too tired, or too busy, or
for
heaven's sake, can't it wait?

“Come to us for Christmas?” Sophie asked.

“Christmas?” Her father mulled it over for a moment. “Why not?”

• • •

Veneet Gupta wandered into the guardhouse and pulled up a stool at the rickety table set with a single kerosene lamp, the small brazier on the floor radiating a welcome pool of heat around his legs. “It's quiet tonight,” he said, picking up a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Have you walked the perimeter?” asked Bhavat Singh.

“There's nobody around,” he said. “I'm not freezing my balls off for nothing.”

“Waiting for your fancy woman to get back, are you?” said Bhavat Singh. He turned to the newcomer. “The woman at number six leaves her bathroom shutters open. She thinks nobody can see her.” He grinned widely and put his hands to his chest. “Ripe white mangoes with pink teats. Isn't that right, Veneet? You would like to try some of that fruit for yourself one day, huh?”

“Her husband is a fat pig. I could show her a thing or two.” Veneet grabbed his crotch, laughing.

“You should be walking the perimeter,” said the newcomer.

“And who are you talking to?” said Veneet. “You've only been here five minutes and you think you can tell us what to do?” The newcomer got up.

“Then I'll go,” he said, stepping out into the night.

Jagaan Ramakrishnan set off at a slow pace, his footsteps deadened by the cold, damp air, his breath spilling out in thick white streams. The houses were quiet, a few lights left on here and there to keep the ghosts at bay while soft-footed servants turned down beds and hung up discarded clothes. A porch light came on at number five, the door opening. The housekeeper emerged and lit the storm lamps, their warm yellow glow softened by the mist. “Namaste.” Jagaan called a softly voiced greeting and raised a hand, showing his presence as he continued along his route. Through the window of number eight, he saw the man from the café, the one the women called Vicky. He was asleep in an armchair in the memsahib's drawing room, his head tilted back, mouth hanging slackly open. Jagaan smiled to himself. He hoped that he was so deeply asleep that he would not wake up when his household came back. With any luck, the sahib would walk in and find his servant snoring in his favorite armchair, empty whisky glass by his side, and he would be dragged from it and thrown out of the door with the sack. That would be a fine result, Jagaan thought to himself, a fine result for the scavenger who would be reborn as a rat.

He walked on, surveying the shadows, listening to the steady backdrop of frogs and night insects. The cold air hung still, punctuated only by the warmth of his breath. He stopped outside number six and looked up at the building. The porch light was on, one upstairs room illuminated, the rest of the house in darkness. Jagaan took the flashlight from his pocket and turned it on, aiming its beam across the white rendering, backing up a little to peer around the wall. He flicked off the flashlight and leaned over the wrought-iron fence, stretching his frame, taking his weight easily on his hands. He thought as much. That crude devil must be creeping into the garden to spy on the woman in the bathroom. He would know if the light was on because it would cast its reflection against the windowless wall of the house next door. Jagaan tucked the flashlight back in his belt and continued toward the last house in the enclave. As he approached, he caught voices arguing, a pair of servants by the sounds of it, the louder of the two complaining that he did more work than the other.

Jagaan reached the end of his round and stood for a while, hand on his night stick, looking up at the faint stars held back by the mist. He used to know about the stars, stories that had been passed down to him, but he had forgotten them now. He must remind himself of them some time. Ask someone who knew about such things. An old person, probably. It was important to remember the stories and to hand them down, especially now that so many people had left their history behind and started again somewhere else. Delhi was a strange place. Or perhaps it was a place of strangers. He couldn't decide. It seemed to him that it was a lost city, that it had been tipped upside down and emptied out and refilled with people from elsewhere. A lost city with no memories and no one able to recount its past. How unforeseen, that he should end up here in this place where all the yesterdays had been erased.

He turned and began to retrace his steps, patrolling slowly on his way back to the guardhouse. More lights had been turned on since he had set out on his rounds, storm lanterns lining pathways, illuminating hazardous steps. The armchair in number eight was empty now, the glass beside it gone. A sliver of disappointment passed through him. Not that it mattered. People had a habit of getting what was coming to them, whether in this life or the next, and Jagaan did not care to concern himself with the mere issue of timing. He stopped outside number four, looking up at the darkened window of the bedroom where she slept. She was not there now, of course. She was away somewhere, according to the log in the guardhouse, and her bed would be empty, the sheets cold.

His first glimpse of Sophie had shaken him to the core. He had seen her, coming out of her house with her husband, and it was as though no time had passed, as if they had seen each other just yesterday, sitting by the fountain in the orange garden. She seemed unchanged to him, the only differences too small to notice: her hair tamed and pinned, the smart clothes and high-heeled shoes. And then, within a few days, he had seen through the veil of darkness what life had done to her, and it had cleaved his heart open. He wished he could spirit himself through the walls and lie upon her bed, warming it for her, praying for her. He would leave it appearing untouched so that when she lay down to her rest, she would wonder how the sheets had come to feel so perfect against her skin, and she would fall into a deep slumber wrapped in the protection of his prayers and dream of him. Jagaan's hand wandered instinctively to his breast pocket, resting briefly against the letter that lay there always, held in the small protective sheath of blue silk that he had sewn so carefully with his own strong hands. He took his eyes from the window and walked on.

“Here he comes,” Bhavat Singh said. “The lone ranger.”

“Everything's quiet,” Jagaan said.

“Ha!” said Veneet. “I told you, so now you've been out and freezed your balls off for nothing!” He turned back to Bhavat. “You should see the size of her brassieres! They are like hammocks! You could take one down to the river and catch fish all day long.”

Bhavat Singh looked at Jagaan. “What's the matter with you?”

“I don't care to hear about the woman in number six.”

“Number six? Who said anything about number six!” Veneet laughed. “We're talking about her in number ten. The old woman with the fat bottom. Her brassieres are like—”

“Hammocks,” Jagaan said. “I heard you.”

“And how about you? I bet you would like to have a white woman. Mrs. White Mangoes from number six, huh?”

“No,” said Bhavat Singh. “He likes the fat missus from number ten, don't you, newcomer?” Jagaan ignored them, pouring himself a small cup of chai from the pot stewing on the brazier. “He wants her to squash him with her big fat breasts.”

The beam from a car's headlights passed across the guardhouse window, bathing them momentarily in a shaft of harsh light.

“Car!” Bhavat Singh leaped up from his seat and rushed out of the door.

“Huh.” Veneet bucked his head and followed after the other guard. “Now we all have to go back outside and freeze
all
our balls off. Are you coming?”

“In a minute,” Jagaan said, his back to the window. “Let me drink this.”