The Indian Clerk (17 page)

Why does he dread it? Too much expectation, he supposes; too much wrangling with institutional forces, and too many delays,
and far, far too many letters. A fat file of them: from Neville, from Alice Neville, from various colonial bureaucrats, from
Ramanujan himself. As it happens, finding the money to get Ramanujan to England has proven to be far more difficult than was
persuading him to come. In the opinion of Mallet, it was highly unlikely that funds sufficient to support a student at Cambridge
could be raised in Madras. Trinity promised only to consider giving Ramanujan a scholarship after he had been there a year.
Nor was there any question of the India Office itself contributing so much as a penny. Indeed, Mallet wrote to Hardy, in his
opinion Neville had made a grave mistake encouraging Ramanujan to come in the first place; there was "a danger that a student
in India might count on Mr. Neville's kindly assurance, and assume that a Cambridge Don would find it easy to raise the money
required." Which, beyond the £50 a year that he and Littlewood were prepared to pledge, this Cambridge don hadn't.

No sooner, though, had Hardy rushed off a letter warning Neville to "be a little careful" than he learned that Neville, entirely
on his own, had managed to persuade the University of Madras to provide Ramanujan with a £250 per annum scholarship, a £100
clothing allowance, the money for his passage to England, and a stipend to support his family in his absence. What the India
Office had assured Hardy could never be done, Neville, in the course of three days, had done.

Neville the hero.

And now Ramanujan is in England, and Hardy has still to meet him face-to-face, to see if the reality of him bears any resemblance
to the image his mind has conjured—an image, no doubt, to which the descriptions offered by each of the Nevilles has contributed,
as has (he cannot deny it) the endlessly fascinating spectacle of the cricketer Chatterjee. Not that it's been easy to forge
from these fragmentary and not always complimentary clues a face on which his mind's eye, at least, can gaze. Neville is hardly
what one would call a wordsmith. "Stoutish, darkish," he said when he got back from Madras. Well, what else? Tall? No, not
tall. A mustache? Perhaps. Neville couldn't recall. Hardy thought of asking Mrs. Neville but feared that if he did, he might
give away the game; might reveal to her shades of anxiety that she, unlike her husband, would be perspicacious enough to glean.
So he has kept his mouth shut and tried to make do with the little he's been given.

And Ramanujan? Standing outside 21 Cromwell Road, Hardy has no idea. Perhaps he comes in or goes out. Perhaps not. Nor will
Hardy ask Neville—though he knows that Neville is coming down to London on Saturday to fetch Ramanujan—whether he might accompany
him and Ramanujan to Cambridge. He does not want to give, even indirectly, the impression that his attitude toward this momentous
arrival is anything but blase. After all, G. H. Hardy is an important man, with many important things to worry about. Still,
on Saturday morning, he takes a last stroll by the Natural History Museum before heading off to Liverpool Street to catch
his train.

Back in Cambridge, he returns to the safety of his rooms, to Hermione and his rattan chair and Gaye's bust. Ramanujan, he
knows, will be staying with the Nevilles until accommodations can be found for him at Trinity. Everyone agrees—it's much commented
upon in Hall—that the Nevilles have been absolutely splendid, have gone beyond the call of duty. Indeed, a few days ago, a
classics fellow came up to Hardy and congratulated him on the role he'd played in "bringing Neville's Indian to Cambridge."
Hardy smiled thinly and walked away.

The day of the lunch, he meets Littlewood in Great Court. Littlewood is whistling. "A great occasion for us," he says as they
head out through the gates on to King's Parade. "After all this effort, we've finally got him here."

"So we have," Hardy replies.
"Now we have to decide what to do with him."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Let him continue as he's been going. Oh, and teach him how to write a proof."

Ethel, the housemaid, answers his knock. Hardy hasn't seen her since the tea the previous autumn. In the interval, she's put
on weight, looks like a loaf of unbaked bread. The sitting room into which she leads them is flooded with a natural light
that lends to the purple wallpaper a gruesome, almost funereal aspect, exposing the smudges on the window glass and the thin
coatings of dust on the mahogany side tables. This effect, of sunlight on a room meant to flatter the dark, enchants Hardy.
For a moment he's so distracted that he fails to notice Neville getting up from the Voysey settee, holding out his hand in
greeting, guiding Hardy to the spinster armchairs, from one of which a murky figure rises. This is Ramanujan.

The time-skipping machine works: the moment's over before he even blinks.

Familiar names—one of them his own—are repeated. They shake hands (Ramanujan's dry and slippery), and all at once some other
voice—some public orator's voice, a headmaster's voice—is booming from Hardy's throat. Words of hearty welcome. A pat on Ramanujan's
back, which is warm, meaty. Ramanujan appears to be even more nervous than Hardy is. Sweat beads on his forehead: that's the
first detail that Hardy takes in. His skin is the color of coffee blended with milk, and pitted with smallpox scars. He does
not have a mustache. Instead there's a shadow that, from a distance, might be mistaken for a mustache, because Ramanujan's
nose (squat, pronounced) comes down very low, nearly touching his upper lip. He is neither as short nor as stout as Neville
suggested. The appearance of shortness and stoutness, rather, owes to his clothes: a tweed suit a size too small, a collar
so tight around his neck he looks as if he's being strangled. The jacket, every button of which he has buttoned, strains to
cover his belly. Even the shoes seem to clamp his feet.

Littlewood is introduced—a smoother business. Then they all sit down, and Mrs. Neville comes in, aflutter with apologies for
being delayed, and greetings for Gertrude, and questions about Gertrude.

She sits next to her husband, who puts his arm over the back of the settee so that his fingers fall lightly on the nape of
her neck.

A disquieting silence falls, which no one seems to know how to fill, until once again that headmaster's voice comes crashing
forth from Hardy's throat. "Well, Mr. Ramanujan," he says. "And how was your journey?"

"Quite pleasant, thank you," Ramanujan says.

"Although he was seasick for much of it," Mrs. Neville puts in.

"Only the first week."

"And how do you find England so far?" Littlewood asks.

"I must admit, I find it rather cold."

"Not surprising," says Neville. "Today in Madras it's probably a hundred degrees."

"For us, Mr. Ramanujan, this is warm weather," Mrs. Neville says.

"Still," Hardy says, "I'm sure the Nevilles will have made you comfortable." (What idiotic chatter! Every cell in his body
resents it. He wants to rip off his clothes, to smash windows.)

"Most comfortable, yes. They have been very good to me."

"He didn't close his door last night! I said to him this morning, Ramanujan, why didn't you close your door? But Alice reminded
me, when we were at the hotel in Madras, the Indian guests never closed their doors."

"Eric, don't embarrass Mr. Ramanujan."

"I'm not. I'm just asking a question. Why don't Indians like closed doors?"

"In our dwellings we do not have doors to close."

"Whereas we English do everything behind closed doors!" Littlewood says, laughing and scratching his ankle.

"Yes, I fear we're a prudish people," Alice says. "I've heard that at the department stores in London only ladies are allowed
to change the clothing on the female mannequins."

"Is that true?" Hardy asks.

"Of course, times are changing. For instance, I feel I can say with comparative certainty that of those of us present—those
of us who are English—not one had parents who slept in the same bedroom."

The silence that greets this supposition also affirms it. Neville coughs in embarrassment. What a saucy character this Alice
is, Hardy thinks, or at least aspires to be! Fortunately at that moment Ethel announces lunch. She holds open a door and the
five of them file into the dining room, which faces the back of the house. Here the furniture, like the wallpaper, is William
Morris, the chairs slat-backed and rush-seated. As for the round table, Hardy can tell from the way it's been set that Mrs.
Neville considers this an occasion. She has put out silver, the best wedding china, starched white napkins. At the center
there is an arrangement of spring flowers, bluebells and violets and crocuses, in a fluted bowl.

Ethel circles with a bottle of wine, which Ramanujan politely refuses. No doubt another injunction imposed by his mad religion.

And his vegetarianism? For an awful moment, Hardy fears lest Mrs. Neville should have prepared a traditional Sunday lunch—a
joint and Yorkshire pudding and two veg and spuds, to welcome the foreigner and introduce him to English ways. In which case,
what will he do? Hardy panics at the prospect of this poor Indian having to refuse even the potatoes, which will have been
cooked with the meat, until he remembers that, having been to India, Mrs. Neville should know perfectly well that Ramanujan
is vegetarian and have made for him, at the very least, a separate set of dishes.

It turns out that she's gone one better. "In anticipation of your arrival, Mr. Ramanujan," she says, "I've been studying vegetarian
cookery."

"Much to the chagrin of the cook," Neville adds, laughing.

"Eric, please. The last time we were in London, Mr. Neville and I ate at a vegetarian restaurant—the Ideal on Tottenham Court
Road—and we had a very appetizing meal."

"Aside from the meat, the only thing missing was flavor."

"And I purchased a vegetarian cookbook. I hope you're pleased with the results."

Ramanujan waggles his head in a way that might mean yes and might mean no. Such effort on his behalf seems to have left him
at a loss for words. Fortunately right then Ethel comes back in, bearing a soup tureen. Lentil soup—not bad, if a little bland—is
followed by a salad, after which Mrs. Neville disappears into the kitchen, only to return bearing an immense silver platter
covered with a bell. This she lays ceremoniously on the table. "As our main course today," she says, "we have a special dish.
A vegetable goose."