Waiting for the Monsoon (26 page)

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THE SUN CASTS
its morning rays and a tram bell tinkles. Peter doesn't know if it's the sun, the sound of the tram, their new house, or the new clothes Charlotte bought for him yesterday, but he feels calm. And he isn't plagued by his usual urge to rush off to the hospital. The coffee he ordered is delicious and the view of the harbour reminds him of the first time he saw his wife. It was a good idea to move house. Here in the city on the peninsula, with the sea on all sides, the soothing sound of the waves, and the cool evening breeze, he senses that some of the vigour he enjoyed before the war has returned. On the quay a little girl is jumping rope. Her braid jumps with her, and her striped socks keep falling down. She smiles in his direction when she sees him. For years, his old desire to have children has lain dormant, but as he watches this little girl at play, he doesn't understand why he was so fearful of becoming a father. The fact that Charlotte hasn't raised the subject recently doesn't mean that she no longer wants children. He knows that it is one of her most fervent wishes. He's seen how her gaze is drawn to mothers pushing baby carriages or women placing their hands protectively around their swollen bellies. For the first time, he considers the possibility that a child could change everything. His agitation, his melancholy moods, and his sleepless nights. A sensation of warmth fills his underbelly. He wonders what it's like to be a father. A child — his and Charlotte's — suddenly becomes an ardent and overpowering longing. He smiles back at the little girl jumping rope, and feels a blush coming to his face. Then he feels the blush on his cheeks spreading to the rest of his body. His heart begins to pound frantically and he starts to sweat. The smile on his face freezes into a terrified grimace. He is no longer aware of the girl smiling at him. The insidious plague that led to their decision to leave New Delhi has tracked him down. For an instant he thinks it's the ground that's shaking, a heavy truck passing by, perhaps, or even an earthquake. The smile on his face becomes an expression of panic. Then the cup slips out of his hand and falls to pieces on the marble floor.

~~~

HE DOESN'T REMEMBER
how he got to the hospital or who helped him into his white coat. He's standing at the operating table with a scalpel in his hand, and a patient is lying in front of him. The man groans. He hears the sighs of the jungle: the dripping trees and the rustle of the leaves. He sees wisps of mist that obscure his view until well into the afternoon. He is conscious of eyes that are spying on him from their invisible hiding places. He puts the instrument back on the stainless steel tray alongside the others and, without a word, walks away in the direction of the large swinging door.

~~~

CHARLOTTE IS SITTING
in her chair near the door, keeping watch. On her lap she has a book, which she reads after Peter has fallen into a restless sleep. During the hours that he lies there trembling, with his eyes wide open, she continues to watch him, trying to understand what has happened. The dental surgeon, a Scotsman who has a permanent smile on his face and whose office is next door, has left behind a bottle of whisky. All Peter has to do is drink a large glass of single malt before going into the operating room. That was his advice. “We all shake once in a while.” Charlotte knew that one glass wouldn't help. Not even a whole bottle helped. She has tried everything.

Peter groans. His gaze is focused on the ceiling and the rotating fan. He's afraid to close his eyes. Afraid of being drawn into the daydreams that transport him to places he never wants to see again.

HE HEARS THE
echo of the bullets reverberating inside his skull. He wants to yell that they can shoot his brains out, too, and that he's not afraid anymore, but now everything is still. The bullet he hoped for does not come. Slowly he raises his head. He can taste the blood in his mouth. The piercing sound in his head ebbs away. Why is nothing happening? Where are the Japanese? Why is he still alive? He can still move his legs. He pushes himself into a sitting position. He feels the heavy weight of the rucksack on his back. He tries to shake it off, but that doesn't work. When he holds up his hand, he sees that there's blood pouring out. Through the flow of blood he sees his mates lying nearby, each with a small hole in his forehead. Suddenly there's a resounding clap, and the trees around him shake. He starts to crawl away in a panic. Another explosion. Burning fragments come raining down. A sharp pain in his lower leg. He registers the pain but continues to crawl, until the trees stand closer together and the scent of the jungle overwhelms him. Again he hears that skimming noise. A bullet barely misses his head. He's happy that it's over, that they've seen him, that the torture of fleeing is over. He doesn't want to think about what is coming next. Now it's his turn, he knows that. A corpse in the jungle is less trouble than a wounded prisoner of war in a camp. He wants to stand up and raise his hands, but his legs refuse to co-­operate. He hears no orders, no shouts. Nothing is happening.

He lies there for several minutes. Why don't they come? Surely that bullet was meant for him? A powerful boom, the ground shakes. The point of impact is far away. Where are they? Why don't they come and shoot him?

Peter senses that he has to get away, that he can't wait any longer, that they haven't seen him. He starts to crawl again. Away from the spot where he lost more than his little finger. Over tree stumps and between the thick trunks of centuries-old trees. Under bushes with thorns and through muddy trenches. If he doesn't treat his wounds, he might as well stay where he is.

He sits with his back against a tree, panting. The treetops disappear into the dense, leafy canopy. With trembling fingers he works the thread into the eye of the needle, stuffs a wad of cloth into his mouth, and sticks the needle into the flesh of his hand, where his little finger used to be. The little finger that did not save the lives of his mates. That did not save him from madness, from cruelty and injustice. He doesn't want to think about the faces. The panic he saw in their eyes. The cry of the older man. With a jerk, he pulls the thread through his flesh. He bites so hard on the wad of cloth that he can hear his jaw crack. He does not give in to the haze before his eyes. He sticks the needle into the flesh of his hand and pulls on the thread, again and again, until the wound is closed. Then he bites off the thread, pulls the cloth out of his mouth, and tears it in two. He binds one half around his hand and the other half around the gaping wound under his knee.

IT IS DARK
. The explosions have stopped, and after an hour of crawling, he gets to his feet as best he can. Pain no longer fazes him. The word has lost its meaning. He hasn't seen or heard anyone. The path he is clearing for himself leads through the woods. By the light of the stars he can see that the woods are becoming thinner. He wants to get back under the protective cover of the trees before it gets light. He has no idea whether he's heading in the right direction, if he's leaving the enemy behind or limping straight into their arms.

He cannot get the smell of rotting meat out of his nostrils, any more than he can banish the memory of the row of men who were shot, one by one. The rucksack he's carrying is heavy, his wounds are throbbing and smarting, he is hungry and thirsty — but those sensations don't even register. He stumbles along haphazardly. Branches lash his face. Sometimes his clothing catches on something, sometimes his hands or feet sink deep down into a muddy hole in the ground. Mosquitoes in their thousands have launched an attack on him: ears, eyes, neck, arms, and ankles, every bit of flesh that is not covered by army khaki is endangered territory. After falling for the umpteenth time, he doesn't get up. He worms himself out of the rucksack and unbuttons the flap. Until now, he's been afraid to stop, but here in the dark of night, he thinks he's safe. He reaches into the bag. The contents consist of something damp and smooth. He pulls it out. The smell is unmistakable.

He awakens with no recollection of having fallen asleep. Next to him lies a large hunk of meat. The mosquitoes are gone, but the flies have found him, and in even greater numbers. They are swarming over the bloody hunk. The sickly sensation of hunger that has been tormenting him for weeks is gone, making way for an unfamiliar feeling that is more like a punch in the belly than an empty stomach. His eyes are swollen from all the mosquito bites. The slightly sweet smell of rotting flesh is all-encompassing. He remembers how one of the Japanese hung the rucksack on his back. He had assumed it was his own. He doesn't want to know what kind of meat it is. He hopes that it's the thigh of a cow, a holy beast that the Japanese do not eat. It doesn't even occur to him to leave it behind. He has no idea how long he'll have to walk and when he might find food again. This piece of rotten meat is his salvation. With a small penknife, which he finds in the flap of the rucksack, he cuts off a small piece. The flies buzz angrily, barely begrudging him a single bite. He wipes the insects off and puts the meat in his mouth. He doesn't try to taste it. There's no point. The smell is stronger. He attempts to get rid of the flies, and when that doesn't work, he just pushes the meat back into the rucksack, flies and all.

~~~

THE MAN IS
younger than he is, actually still a boy. His blond hair contrasts sharply with his dark skin, which has been scorched by the sun. He is naked and he's carrying a Pekinese in his arms. The dog's tongue is hanging out of its mouth. Its protector looks at Peter imploringly. From his rucksack he pulls out the meat that's left. It has turned grey and the smell is so revolting that even the flies have left. He cuts off a small piece and gives it to the boy. His eyes begin to shine. He bites and then chews. For an instant he seems about to throw up, but then he takes a small piece of meat out of his mouth and gives it to his dog. Peter doesn't ask him where he comes from or where he's headed. Even without words, they know that they will move on together. How the boy lost all of his possessions except for his Pekinese is probably the same story as that of the woman who died in his arms yesterday, or the man whose body lay in the ditch in an advanced state of decomposition, or the child who went to sleep and never woke up again. None of the people who lived here were able to take their possessions with them.

He finds more and more people along the way. The first time he saw another man, he hid among the trees and watched him until he recognized the same fear in the man's eyes. They shared the meat. That night the man died. Peter buried him under a few stones, without ever learning his name. He continued his trek down the mountain, and gradually more people appeared. Not military men like himself, but civilians, missionaries, and civil servants who had been dispatched there, whose past had been lost, stolen, plundered, murdered, beheaded, burned. The future of those who survived was uncertain, but they found strength in that uncertainty. It could mean that this very evening they would be out of danger, or perhaps tomorrow. No one thought about two days from now, a week, a month, a year, or never.

The fear that plagued Peter in the jungle — that without a compass he would never find his way back — was unfounded. The meat is almost gone, and there are dozens of people on the path, all going in the same direction. They are all fleeing the jungle. They have brown or white skin and they are hoping that they will not again run into the enemy, who, in this jungle, has yellow skin.

The boy holds out his hand. Peter slices off another strip of meat. He crams it into his mouth greedily, and later pulls out a small piece and gives it to his dog.

“His name is Bear,” the boy says, and he licks his lips.

“
PETER! WAKE UP!
Look at me! Peter!” The boy with the Pekinese shouts and pulls at his hand, shakes his shoulder, and slaps him in the face. The dull light that heralds the beginning of night has blotted out the contours of the mountains.

He can't take any more. He's had enough. This is where his journey ends. An hour ago, things went wrong when they had to cross the river. Peter has led the group for weeks, keeping everyone's spirits up: when someone was ill, he kept them going with encouraging words and stopgap measures. When they got to the bridge, he mounted the rickety wooden construction with the old Frenchwoman whom he had carried on his back for five days. The woman was frightened. Peter told her to look at the sky or the trees in flower on the other side of the river. He would see to it that she made it safely to the other side, he said. He took it step by step. The woman's legs dangled gently alongside his knees. Her legs protruded from holes he had made in the rucksack. She weighed less than the hunk of meat on the first day he found it in the rucksack. Then, without any notice or warning noise, the bridge broke in two. They fell into the fast-flowing water and were dragged down by the powerful hand that lived in the water and pulled unwelcome guests deep into the caverns below. He fought with the burden bound to his back. He didn't want to die. Not here. Not now, when he was almost there. Each time he felt that they were near the surface, they were sucked down again. He kicked, lashed, and swam. Until he felt the backpack slipping from his shoulders. It was as if she was pushing herself away, freeing herself from him. He grabbed her, but the spindly legs slipped away before he could get a grip on them. He came to the surface, gasped for air, and dived down again. She was gone. He came up for air once more and went down again, but she had disappeared.

He doesn't know how he reached the shore. All he can hear is the panic in the boy's voice.

“Peter! Look at me! You can't leave me alone!” The Pekinese barks as he opens his eyes.

IT'S DARK. SUDDENLY
a man emerges from nowhere. He snatches the apple from Madan's hand and crams it into his mouth. Madan has no idea where he is. He wants to protest: the apple is for Abbas. But when he sees the sardonic look on the man's face, he holds his tongue. The lightning fingers glide over his entire body, just as the fingers of Brother Francis did, but they fail to find what they are searching for — Madan is wearing only a torn pair of shorts. He left everything behind, next to the body of his friend.