Waiting for the Monsoon (13 page)

Charlotte sees how Peter stiffens. He tries to continue, but the knife sticks in the meat.

“What unit were you with?”

“The fourteenth,” Peter murmurs.

“So,” says Victor, with a look that says nothing but suggests a great deal. “Did you cross the Irrawaddy River, too?”

Charlotte, who is just as interested as her father, looks at her husband. She sees the colour drain from his face as he stares at the roast beef in front of him with fear in his eyes. Very slowly, he nods.

The old man stares into his son-in-law's face, which he has not seen since the meeting in the hotel room and the accelerated wedding ceremony. He is searching for something he recognizes.

Then Peter puts down the knife, turns his hand, and shows Victor the missing little finger.

Now it is the old man who turns pale.

“Will you have some roast beef?” his son-in-law whispers, and holds out the platter with the sliced meat. His hand is shaking. Victor cannot take his eyes off Peter's mutilated hand.

“It's really excellent beef, Father,” Charlotte says, when she sees that her father has not served himself.

~~~

Dear Donald,

I wish you a happy birthday and hope that this year it's really going to work out and you can spend your vacation here. I've talked it over with Father, but he's afraid that you'll miss too much school if you take two extra months off. I told him that a lot of children whose parents live in India take longer vacations, but he still didn't think it was a good idea. But I'm not giving up. It can't be good when you never get to see your family. Later, when we have children, I'm never going to send them to boarding school. Not even if they turn out to be really difficult children. Here in Delhi everything is much bigger than in Rampur. The roads are wide and there are lots of big buildings. Would you do me a favour and have your picture taken? I guess you forgot. I'll enclose some extra money in the envelope. Part of it is for your birthday and the other part for the photo. I would love to see you again. I think that Father would, too, so could you have two prints made? Sometimes I can't even remember what you look like. When I went away, you were a year old, and now you're thirteen. Maybe I won't even recognize you when I come to pick you up! I hope we'll soon be seeing each other.

Your sister Charlotte

ALONG WITH THE
ironing board, the wife of Adeeb Tata had left behind a list with the names of all the women who wanted to make use of the services of the new
darzi
. Naturally, the name at the top was that of the wife of Nikhil Nair. Charlotte knew that she had drawn up the list and passed it on to the wife of Adeeb Tata.

She called Hema and asked him to send the tailor to her. He stood near the door, his head bowed slightly. “What's your name?” she asked.

He took a business card out of his chest pocket and handed it to her. Charlotte had never heard of a tailor who presented his card at the first meeting. Wholesale buyers had cards, and businessmen, and the men at the pawnshop, but not artisans or manual workers. It was a simple card bearing the text:

MUKKA — TAILOR

“Mukka. Is that your name?”

Madan shook his head no.

“Can you read? What a stupid question: of course, a tailor with a card can read.”

Madan shook his head.

“That's all right,” said Charlotte, relieved that there was at least one thing about this man that was normal. She took the list and began to read out loud. “You'll start with Mrs. Nair; she lives behind City Hall in a big house with a red front door. Then you go to Mrs. Singh; she lives two streets behind Mrs. Nair. There's always an old Ambassador parked in front of the house, with her chauffeur. After that, you go to . . .”

Madan listened to the warm, soft tones of the woman's voice. He didn't know her name, since she hadn't introduced herself. He peeked at her face from under his eyelashes: she was wearing reading glasses, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue while she read from the piece of paper.

And again it was there, his first memory, which kept returning at the strangest moments. For a long time he had thought it was a dream, but the emotions and the images that he saw before him were so lifelike that he had concluded that they must be real. He was in pain, a lot of pain, and he'd fallen asleep. At the very moment he woke up and opened his eyes, he looked straight into the face of a white woman, a beautiful woman, who was like a princess. He felt her warm arms close around him, and her red lips had kissed him. She had smelled like jasmine.

“Can you remember all that?” Charlotte asked.

Madan's daydream evaporated. He hadn't caught a word of what she said, and had no idea where he was supposed to go. But he nodded.

“You start with Mrs. Nair in the house with the red door. You show her the list, and she'll help you with the rest.”

Madan stood up, took his leave with the usual slight bow, pressing his hands together in front of his chest, and departed.

THE HAND-SEWING
machine,
a heavy black Singer, was sitting on the table in the middle of the room. Next to it lay a large pair of scissors and a piece of chalk, as well as a small bottle of sewing-machine oil that the
darzi
had used that morning. On the floor lay a sleeping mat and a sack with a few clothes. Hema stood next to the ironing board. He looked around the room, which was otherwise empty. The man hadn't uttered a word, merely nodded or shaken his head when he asked him a question. Hema had hoped that something of the old atmosphere would return to the kitchen, now that he was no longer alone. But he felt uncomfortable in the company of the
darzi
, whose name he still didn't know. Not that the man bore him any ill will. On the contrary, he was quite friendly and smiled the whole time. But Hema was always eager to hear stories and gossip from other cities and villages.

The bell rang. Hema hurriedly put his
beedi
out in the ashtray, a habit that memsahib did not approve of. Then he picked up the bowl of yogurt and walked over to the big house.

Madan rang the bell next to the red door. A uniformed servant opened the door. He gave the man his card. The man read it, glanced up at him in surprise, and let him in. The hall was full of antique furniture, each piece with its own pink satin cushion. Madan waited by the door as the servant disappeared behind one of the hanging carpets. The house was delightfully cool inside. On a small table next to the door there was a silver vase with a few flowers. Nearby stood a candelabra, also made of silver. He heard someone walking upstairs. Next to the candelabra lay a silver comb. Madan could not keep his eyes off the precious objects. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and stared fixedly in another direction. A plump woman in a bright pink dressing gown entered the hall. She was holding his card in her hand. Her eyes went from him to his card and then back to him.

“Can you hear?” she asked, after some hesitation, but in a loud voice.

Madan nodded

“Oh, thank heavens.” Then she turned and started down a hallway, saying, “Follow me.”

The room they entered was spacious and even cooler than the hall. On the table lay a length of pink Chinese silk.

“I want this made into an American evening gown,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair in a loud voice.

With a thrill Madan picked up the material and ran it through his fingers.

AFTER THE SALE
of her china service, Charlotte had filled the empty spot in the sideboard with the unread books from Reverend Das. She shook her head in irritation. No matter what she tried — rearranging the sideboard, having tea, tallying up her loans, thinking about the monsoon that should already have started, or about her father — her thoughts kept returning to the silent tailor. The telephone rang and the widow Singh asked her what time the
darzi
would be at her place, since she wanted to play mah-jong at the club. She'd only just hung up when the wife of the police commissioner was announced and entered the room carrying an ironing board. The woman looked around inquisitively. Charlotte had told her that there was already an ironing board, and that the tailor was doing the rounds of the houses, taking everyone's measurements.

“My place as well?” asked the wife of the police commissioner, and hurried back to her car.

Charlotte had barely closed the door when the telephone rang again.

“My, what a strange man,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair. “But I'm glad he can hear.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlotte.

“Because he's dumb.”

“Dumb?”

“Yes, didn't you know?”

“No,” said Charlotte in amazement.

“It's on his card.
Mukka
means “the mute.” But he can hear. Did you notice how he handled the material? I've never seen anything like it, they say that the blind have extra senses, maybe he does, too, now if only he knows something about sewing, I have a very costly length of cloth, you'll keep an eye on things, won't you, he seems quite respectable, but you never know, and it is already half a metre shorter than it was . . .”

He can't speak
. The thought echoed through Charlotte's head. Stupid of her not to have realized earlier. The milkman's eldest son was dumb, and he did the rounds with his brother. He was a tall, lanky boy, and when he was trying to make something clear, he would resort to high-pitched, bestial sounds. For a long time she had thought the boy was retarded, until one day he helped her to get her car started when it was acting up again. The retarded beanpole was suddenly transformed into a clever deaf and dumb boy who needed to make only a few adjustments under the bonnet of her car to get it started again. She'd been ashamed of herself, and she gave him a generous tip.

Charlotte pulled the bell above her bed.

Hema came into the room with a cup of coffee.

“Did you know that he can't speak?”

“Who, memsahib?”

“The new
darzi
.”

“No, ma'am, he doesn't talk.”

“Thank you for the coffee.”

She wished he'd leave the room. Today, everyone got on her nerves.

CHARLOTTE HOPED HEMA
hadn't noticed that she'd been up in the attic, rummaging around among broken chairs and torn boxes. Somewhere there was a bag with a length of fabric, she was sure of it. Everything of any value had been snapped up by the first wholesale buyer. Back then, it didn't occur to her that he would not be the last.

That was the month the cyclone raged over Andhra Pradesh, taking more than ten thousand lives, many years ago now. On the radio she heard how the miserable huts were swept away and how the rivers had overflowed their banks. There were dead bodies everywhere, floating on the surface, but people still waded through the water with the last of their possessions on their heads. She had an attic full of stuff that no one used anymore. Initially, she wanted to give it all away, until the man from the bank arrived with the letter that changed everything. After that she had opened all the envelopes and kept track of all the bills. On the advice of the man at the bank, a wholesale buyer had come and taken everything away. First from the attic, later the rooms on the first floor, and ultimately the ground floor. She had become a master at rearranging furniture and accessories in order to disguise the empty spaces. She knew she could get used to anything. And once in a while, when no else was around, she played Schubert or Mozart. She placed her fingers on the edge of a table and closed her eyes. And as she played, she listened to the music in her head. That brought her some solace.

She slid two boxes apart and saw the bag with the length of silk. It was still there!

EVERYWHERE THERE ARE
people shouting “
India zindabad
!
India
zindabad
!” Madan looks around, wondering where the others have gone. They were there a minute ago. All around him, he sees nothing but men's legs, all going in the opposite direction. No one pays any attention to him. Then he catches sight of his sister's blue coat. He tries to get closer, but then the blue disappears among all the legs. Every time he thinks he sees someone he knows, he is shoved aside by some man shouting enthusiastically. He is in pain. The unknown legs propel him forward, but he wants to go back. He wants to find his sister. He's reeling on his tiny legs. Everything hurts. A fat man in a brown
longhi
passes him. He is drawn to the man, with his solid build and measured tread. He feels safer behind the big man, who smells like horses. The little boy follows him without the man noticing. Suddenly the man stops and bends forward. Madan presses his whole body against the man's back. He's frightened by the wild cheering and the dancing throngs. “
India zindabad
!”

Madan sees that the man is drinking water that's spouting from a pipe. He's thirsty, too. When the man walks on, Madan tries to drink, but he can't reach the pipe. He stretches out his hands and manages to catch a few drops, which he licks from his hands. He wants more water, but he is pushed aside. He turns around, but the fat man in the brown
longhi
is gone. Now a man with a black beard is holding his mouth over the spouting water. Madan looks at him, in the hope that the man will pick him up, so that the water will spout into his mouth, too. But the man growls something at him in a language he doesn't understand. Madan is pulled backwards and carried along by the thousands of legs around him. There is no sign of his sister.

THE THRONG OF
people begins to thin. The men fan out into the side streets and the shouting ebbs away. Again Madan sees a car go by, and a horse and cart. He's tired and in pain. Across the street, under a tree, he sees a boy drinking out of a bottle. Madan crosses the street without looking. A car honks angrily. Madan doesn't hear it. All he sees is the boy who's drinking water. He goes up to him and points to the bottle.