The Deceivers (17 page)

Her voice throbbed, and William remembered the baby; and, as he had become an Indian and seen the road, he became a woman and faced Mary’s lonely fight. He wanted to speak and comfort her but could not.

She went on, ‘I’ll stay in Madhya as long as I can, even after it’s been discovered, so that you can send me messages and I can do things for you, perhaps. I -- I don’t think it’s going to be easy. Later, if I have to, I’ll go to Daddy in Sagthali.’

She got up and stood close to him, not touching him. ‘William, I love you. I think sometimes you don’t trust yourself to believe it. I don’t know what faces me, but I know it’s going to be bad. And you, you who are so -- so shy, you can become a mad red dog. I’m frightened.’

She began to cry and pressed her wet face into his chest.

William and Hussein walked between fields, and ahead the lights of a little town sparkled through the chilly night. William breathed deeply and wrinkled his nostrils. India was beautiful, above all on this night of the year. It was the Dewali, the festival dedicated to lights and gambling, which fell always on the twentieth day after Dussehra. Hundreds of open lights, in tiny earthenware bowls, flickered outside each house and hut.

Tonight, as for two weeks past, he was truly a part of India. He had worked here all his adult life -- nineteen years, the last three in Madhya. As an Englishman he had fallen in love with Madhya, and this central land’s pattern of beauty had grown into him -- its earthy reds and deep greens, the shading of its still water in old masonry tanks, its rivers that flowed by white and smoky blue villages. Yet always his race had held him back from complete absorption in it. He had been physically unable to see or hear or smell beauty without noticing the dirt and disease that were part of it. Then, when he noticed, his love changed to something else -- to reforming zeal, desire to raise up, to alter.

These weeks alone with Hussein, as in the months to come, he had to be Indian to keep his life, and nothing but Indian. He had to make no mistakes in feel or tone; he had not to reform but to accept, not to fight squalor and cruelty but to become part of them. Only by being Indian and thinking Indian and feeling Indian could he hold any hope that he would return at last to his English ways and his English wife. Already they were altering in the perspective of his mind. He knew that the man who had stepped out of the bungalow, clung briefly in Mary’s arms, and then vanished in the darkness with Hussein would never go back. It would be another man who returned to Mary, and William did not know what kind of man that would be.

At his side Hussein walked with shorter strides, and William thought of the cross in the little fellow’s loincloth. Their second day in a jungle hiding-place, before the lessons had begun, Hussein asked him with sudden aggressiveness, ‘This god, this Christ of yours, this cross is his symbol, isn’t it? For
all
his followers? It isn’t a trick, a secret sign, to show him which are black people and which are white?’ William tried to reassure him, but Hussein was nervous and did not settle down until they set out on the road. Since then they had walked together for six days north-westward on a little-used road east of and roughly parallel to the main Madhya-Saugor-Lalitpur-Jhansi artery.

William looked down. It was dark, but even by daylight he had confidence in his disguise. Those who looked at him saw what the woman by the pyre had seen that February evening by the Seonath -- Gopal the weaver. There had been no question of making him up to look like Gopal; when stained, he
did
. His legs worried him a little. The colour had taken well and evenly, as it had all over his body, but the shape of his calves was wrong; they were fatter and smoother than the muscle-corded sticks of a working peasant, thinner than the suet curves of a merchant or bannia. For the rest, he was Gopal, plus the high ankled Bandelkhand slippers.

There had been a strange incident one evening in a lonely place where Hussein was showing William the rumal. It was the three-foot-square cloth the Deceivers used for strangling, and Hussein was instructing him how to stow it in the loincloth, one end just peeping out ready for the hand to grab. William said, ‘It doesn’t matter, of course, because I’m not going to use it, but surely it would be safer to carry it like this.’ The rumal turned easily in his fingers; he twisted the top corner over and down and back inside the coil of the rest in a loose knot; it was all hidden from sight. ‘And it’s just as easy to get out.’ He flipped one forefinger into the loincloth, the rumal sprang out in his hand. Hussein leaped away from him, his eyes starting from his head, and stammered, ‘Who -- who taught you that?’ William tucked the rumal away. ‘No one. It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Hussein said, ‘All the gods help us!’

William did not know the name of the town ahead, but Hussein did -- Jalpura; he’d been this way once, twenty-odd years before. A small lake bordered the road in front of the town, and William stopped, muttering, ‘Let’s rest here a minute before we go in. Dewali’s so beautiful.’

Hussein answered, ‘It’s not beautiful, but unbelievers like you think it is holy. We will stop, but only to rest.’

‘All right. I understand.’

‘Then we will go into the town and look in the harlots’ quarter for -- them.’

The lights rode like swarming fireflies along the houses at the edge of the town. The lake reflected them, and lights floated on the surface of the water. Brighter lights glared in the streets. Light glowed over the housetops, imprisoned in dust. It was November. The rains had long gone and the raw depth of air made a tiny jagged halo around each flame and light.

Soon Hussein trudged forward again; William followed. In the narrow principal street of Jalpura the shops crowded together, standing for the most part closed and shuttered. In one or two the owner worked with abacus and quill to finish the task of closing his annual accounts. Once, glancing down an open passage, they saw a shopman bending in prayer before his ledgers; a lamp flashed on a single bright rupee laid on the topmost tome. Hussein checked his step, then muttered, ‘You idolaters! I forgot that all the bannias do that at Dewali. Come on.

Groups of kneeling men gambled in the dust at the side of the street, shouting cheerfully and watched by small crowds. Everywhere travellers mingled with townsmen.

Hussein paused at the open front of a spice shop. The proprietor, a young fat man with a cheerful face, was playing cards with three other men and calling bets. Wooden tokens and some pieces of the Company’s copper coinage littered the mat they squatted on. Hussein said, ‘Friend, which way are the women?’

The spice merchant laughed good-humouredly and waved his hand up the street. ‘Up there, second turning on the right. You can’t miss them.’

‘God be with you.’

They pushed slowly on through the crowd. The harlots displayed themselves, each squatting on a cushion, in open-fronted rooms at street level. The rooms were bare, except that in some a small clay image of Krishna stood on a pedestal in a back corner. In all, an open staircase at the side ran up out of sight to the second storey. The old retired crones who were the harlots’ body-servants leered toothlessly down through half-drawn curtains from the upper balconies.

Always a dim lamp on the floor shone up under the harlot’s chin and into her face, erasing the lines of age and transmuting into living flesh the heavy mask of makeup. Every harlot wore a layer of white powder on her face and circles of violent rouge on her cheekbones; black antimony ringed their eyes. They stared unseeing at the crowds that jostled up and down the narrow slope of street before them.

Occasionally, without fervour or coquetry, a harlot’s eyes locked with a man’s. Occasionally a man stepped over the low sill and squatted close to the woman inside and talked. The passers-by paused to hear them haggle about the price. The woman gestured unemphatically, the man argued.

An old peasant beside William said clearly, ‘Thank God my loins no longer squander what my fields produce!‘ and went on his way, shaking his head. The haggling customer shrugged at last. The woman rose and stalked up the stairs, her head high. The man followed her. Above, the old crone jabbered, pulled her head back, and closed the curtains. Hussein and William moved on.

In front of the next house the crowd pressed thicker. Inside, a young girl sat on the cushion. William saw that most of the staring men were travellers. He noticed Hussein carefully inspecting them. Finally Hussein made up his mind about something and said to one of the strangers, ‘Greetings, brother Ali. How much does this one cost? She ought to be good.’

William had learned that the form of greeting was the challenge and countersign of the Deceivers. Ali was no particular person; the Deceivers used the name in their salutations, adding a Hindu or Mohammedan phrase according to the religion of the speaker. He remembered when he had first heard it and clenched his fists involuntarily. He had wondered then who Ali was, but had since come to understand that an Indian so greeted would not even notice the phrase unless his own name was Ali, or he was a Deceiver. Most sects and many areas of India had their own customary form of greeting; a Sikh would work in the word
Khalsa
, a Mohammedan
Allah
, a Hindu
Ram
.

The man spoken to turned, nodded, and said, ‘I don’t know. She makes my loins tighten. So young! She is like our southern girls before they are blessed by children. Like a boy almost.’

Watching closely, William saw that a pair of travellers, on the far side of the speaker, turned to eye Hussein. One of the pair, a small man in his forties, with large bat ears and a sharp face, moved unobtrusively closer. After a minute William heard the familiar low tones. ‘Greetings, brother Ali.’ Then, in an ordinary voice, ‘She is too expensive for the likes of us, brother. Two rupees.’

Hussein laughed. ‘I must wait then, and curb my appetites. That’s what the maulvi says: “What the harlot gets, the servant of Allah loses.” Perhaps there are as lickerous girls farther north.’

He turned away as he spoke and moved up the street, William close at his side.

Everyone was talking, not loudly or in excitement, but giving out a continuous clatter of human voices. Lights shone everywhere, lined in rows along the balconies on the second storeys, grouped on the sills and projecting lintels of the doorways, in ranks by the fronts of the stores and houses. Glancing carelessly over his shoulder, William saw the lake and floating squadrons of lights on it, but he could not see the men who were the brothers of Ali. Up a side lane lights outlined the black loom of the local rajah’s castle, for they were in prince’s territory now.

He walked slowly with Hussein, and they talked as everyone around them talked. In this full-smelling noisy place he lost the last traces of his self-consciousness in his role. As he talked the right words came easily into his mouth, and as he walked his hands and feet and shoulders moved as Gopal the weaver’s should.

A high-pitched voice close behind him said, ‘Where is there a good place to eat in this town? We’re hungry.’

William twisted his head. The speaker was one of the pair from the harlot’s shop -- the little one with the bat ears. The other was darker and taller.

‘Haven’t you eaten already?’ he said.

Hussein cut in, ‘I believe there’s a Mohammedan eating-house up this street, but I haven’t been here for some time, and things change.’

‘They do, more’s the pity,’ Bat Ears said. ‘Well, I’m a Hindu, and I see our friend here is too’ -- he jerked his head towards William -- ‘but I don’t think you’ll worry about that, will you? We won’t. Is this the place you mean?’

He led the way, as if he knew it, down a dark alley, through a half-open door, and into a dingy room. The four of them squatted on the floor in a far corner. The owner of the eating-house came and slammed down rice and lentils and cold curried potatoes before them, all mixed on brass plates. It was dark in the room, and the few other people there ate without talking.

When they had finished, Bat Ears leaned back on his hams and picked his teeth. His dark, ruminant eyes surveyed them from head to toe. Finally he said, ‘My name is Piroo. This is Yasin Khan.’ His tall companion smiled; he had a luminous, priestly calm and always moved slowly. Piroo of the bat ears continued without emphasis, ‘What are your names? Why are you not with a party?’

If he had been a yard away William would have sworn the man was not talking, just picking his teeth.

Hussein answered, ‘I’m Hussein. This is Gopal. He sprained his wrist. He couldn’t -- work. He’s not quite better yet. Our party went without us.’

Again no one spoke. Piroo looked at them; all the expression had gone from his eyes, leaving them flat and lightless. Yasin Khan turned something over in his mind. William felt that of the two he was the most important, and waited anxiously.

Yasin Khan carefully put his thorn down on the earth floor. ‘We have some merchandise. Our Jemadar must decide whether he wants you, though. Come with us.’ He rose to his feet.

Each of the four paid his own share of the meal. They stepped out into the alley, turned left, reached the street, turned left again, and strolled down the hill. In the open country they did not speak to one another but loudly chanted a war song in unison, stopping every few minutes to shout together to frighten away wild beasts that might be following them. It was very dark.

A mile outside the town they came to a grove of trees, such as in India are planted everywhere for shade and for the comfort of travellers. The glimmer of white tents showed that some of the people staying here were rich. Several fires burned cheerfully, and men crouched round them, wide awake and talking. Piroo seemed to shrink in stature as he came to the edge of the firelight. Followed by the others, he crept mouselike to the centre of the grove and said to a man by the fire, ‘Lord, is your master the Nawab back yet?’

The servant growled, ‘What’s it matter to you?’

‘Nothing, nothing, lord, except that here are two of our friends -- good, honest, strong men, who wish to join the Nawab’s following.’