Waiting for the Monsoon (39 page)

“How much water do we have left?”

“General sahib's bath is almost empty, the bath in the guest bedroom is half full, and the one in the kitchen is empty.”

“How long will that last us?”

“The
darzi
ought to pay more, with so many ladies coming for a fitting.” Although he knew very well that the ladies also came to get a glimpse of the half-empty house, Hema was convinced that it was the tailor's fault that the water was running out so fast. But he conveniently forgot that the general was bathed from head to toe twice a day, with a washcloth and soft soap.

“What's the current price of drinking water?” asked Charlotte, who was already doing the calculations in her head. She had also decided that the time had come to convince her father to sign the papers so that she could sell the house, the outbuildings, and the hill.

Before Hema could answer Charlotte's question, for which he had no answer, the doorbell rang. He was also thinking about prices, rates, and haggling as he shuffled to the front door.

Outside in the blazing sunlight stood a young man with slicked-back hair wearing shiny sunglasses and a wristwatch with stones that looked like diamonds. “Good morning,” he said in a lilting voice. “I've come for Mrs. Bridgwater.”

“Who can I say is calling?”

“Sylvester Ferrao, son of Professor Dr. Bernardo Ferrao of Goa.”

Hema had never seen the man before, but he was most impressed by the titles and the shiny sunglasses. The prediction in the newspaper suddenly made sense. He showed the stranger in and then went into the salon, where he rolled out the large carpet so that this important man could enter the room.

The music room door was ajar, to catch what little draft there was. Madan had heard the bell and was expecting to see one of the nosey club ladies appear at any moment. When he didn't hear a shrill voice, he looked through the crack of the door and saw a slick-haired, fashionably dressed man wearing dark sunglasses. He was rocking back and forth on his heels. Madan could tell that the man was a charlatan from a distance of a hundred metres away. He'd met so many thieves and swindlers throughout his life that he had ultimately developed a kind of sixth sense for crooks. Madan grabbed the ochre-coloured silk cape he had made for the wife of Alok Nath, the goldsmith, threw it around his shoulders, and opened the door. The man had visited the oldest illegal gambling joint in Rampur, where he had heard that the big house on the hill was the home of a ruined English lady and her demented father, and that she was in dire need of money. He was expecting something quite different. The Indian nobleman standing opposite him radiated authority, and judging by his attire, he was extremely wealthy.

“I, er . . . I . . . ,” the man stuttered. He had originally planned to sell tickets for an imaginary lottery with a story about winning a million at the end of the month, but he sensed that it was no use trying that story on this man. He started to panic. The first thing that came to his mind was to say that he was selling tickets for an animal protection society, until he realized that this man had probably hunted his entire life. Then he thought about pretending that the lottery was for Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity, something he'd done before and with some success, but he began to have misgivings — this man had such an air of power. And because he doubted that the lotto would work, he suddenly didn't know what to say. He had nothing on him aside from the book of lotto tickets and a false identity card. He didn't want to pretend that he was looking for work, as he'd done in his younger years, since there was a good chance he'd have to do something he didn't fancy. So he asked a question that, as a child, had gotten him into houses where he was able to nick the odd bauble: “Would you happen to have a glass of water?”

Madan turned around, causing the cape to swirl elegantly, and picked up the pitcher he'd filled that morning in the kitchen under the watchful eye of Hema. He poured a glass and gave it to the man, who was becoming more and more nervous in the presence of this handsome but uncommunicative gentleman. Sylvester Ferrao, which was not his real name, emptied the glass at one draught, thanked Madan, and said that it was about time for him to leave. Madan accompanied him to the front door and let him out. He slid the cape from his shoulders and was back in the music room by the time the door to the drawing room opened.

Hema and Charlotte had unrolled the Persian rug at breakneck speed, and they were both perspiring: laying out the carpet was becoming an increasingly arduous chore in this heat. The faithful butler looked around the hall in consternation. He couldn't figure out where the professor had got to. He had made it clear to the memsahib that this was an important man who — and here he had to search for the right words — would no doubt be able to help relieve their current situation. He was certain that this gentleman with the unusual sunglasses would bring her luck. The horoscope, which the neighbours' butler had read out loud to him, said that “riches were waiting at the door.” He had asked for permission to tear it out of the paper so he could give it to Charlotte memsahib to read, but the butler told him that his employer hadn't seen it yet, and that he was expected to leave the newspaper behind intact.

Madan was about to close the door of the music room when Hema called out, “Where did the professor go?” Madan pointed to the front door.

“Gone?” After inhaling the dust, Hema had fervently hoped that this was the last time he would have to unroll the carpet. Suddenly he knew for certain that the tailor had chased the rich professor away. He ran to the door and saw the man striding down the path to the road. He wanted to call him back, tell him that memsahib wanted to receive him, and that she needed his riches, that the extra expenses for water were a real problem, and that, as the butler, he had to solve all these problems without help from anyone. But the man jumped into a rickshaw and disappeared.

Charlotte saw the smile on Madan's face and found him even more handsome than she had a few hours before. She thought back to the letter from the maharaja — DON'T DO IT — as she closed the drawing-room door and began to roll up the carpet by herself.

By the light of a candle, Madan was busy rubbing a piece of rosewood across a gleaming red ribbon. All around him, the house creaked and moaned. Not only were the trees and the plants suffering under the extreme heat, but so was the house itself. He could hear the mice everywhere, and the insects were gnawing away at the interior, while in the garden the crickets were screeching so loudly that the rain clouds that preceded the monsoon would be arriving pretty soon. Charlotte still hadn't given him the fabric for her dress, but he hoped that he would be able to work the red ribbon into her gown. Red suited the colour of her hair, and the lustre of the silk would illuminate her delicate skin, like an angel.

What are you doing?
Her voice echoed in his head. He immediately stopped rubbing the rosewood. He looked in the direction of the door. It was closed. He jumped up and peered through the open window. The crescent moon illuminated the skeletons of the wilted trees, the dark outlines of the kitchen building, and the rocks that gleamed white along the path to the road. There was no sign of the woman who floated through his thoughts all day. Madan didn't understand how he could have heard her voice so clearly when she wasn't there. Had the distance over which they were able to hear each other's thoughts suddenly been extended? Did the walls of the house no longer provide him with protection? Had she heard the things he was thinking about her eyes and skin, her slender build, and her curly hair? He went back to the table and picked up the red ribbon.

Do you want me to bring my fabric?

Madan looked up again, startled. She must have hidden somewhere. He peered at the pile of fabrics under the table, in which he had buried his head when it was overflowing with thoughts. He looked behind the folding screen, where several dresses hung awaiting a fitting. He even looked under the chest, where only a small child could have hidden. Cautiously, he opened the door, slowly enough to allow her to sneak away and avoid being caught. But the hallway was empty, and he heard no footsteps.
Where are you?
he wondered, but there was no response from the deserted hall. Madan walked back to the table, pushed aside the empty plate, and was just about to unroll a new piece of fabric when he heard her voice —
You finished everything!
Madan looked at the empty plate. He was no longer obsessed with food. He ate if food was available, and otherwise he did without. He had never cooked for himself, and was satisfied with a bit of rice and dal from a sidewalk vendor. He found it strange that the women always exchanged recipes while waiting for a hem to be finished or a dart to be unpicked. Food was food. He didn't enjoy an empty stomach, but he had no trouble cycling for hours with his heavy sewing machine on the luggage carrier without having had breakfast. He was starting to get used to the idea that he could hear her thoughts and she could hear his, but the fact that her voice could creep into his head while he was alone in the room was something he found disturbing. If it was a romantic reverie, then he could have taken it for an expression of his own longing. But after hearing her voice, which seemed to delight in the fact that he had finished what was on his plate, he was hopelessly confused. He wanted to pray to Abbas for an explanation, but he didn't know whether she could hear his prayers as well. So he did his best to think about nothing but the gown for the judge's wife. He cleared away the ribbon, reached for the blue organza, and started cutting.

THE CORK HAD
become smoother over the years and it had taken her a while to find it. The mouse that had made the original hole — the one she had fulminated against because the rodent had gnawed at her sheet music — was the recipient of her retroactive gratitude. She knelt down and started fiddling with the stopper, using the contents of her manicure kit as tools. She didn't actually remember stuffing shredded newspapers and pieces of sisal rope into the hole. But now, using a pair of tweezers, she plucked out the remains, bit by bit, as she thought about the maharaja's letter. Her curiosity and longing were greater, and she continued to fiddle with the bits of paper. The very last wad of newspaper popped out. She blew out the candle, knelt down, and looked through the hole. Between the planks that formed the ceiling of the music room she saw narrow chinks illuminated by candlelight. To get a better look, she lay down on the floor, so that her eye was directly above the hole. There was no more than half a millimetre between the planks, but suddenly she saw part of his hand, which held a piece of red ribbon.
This will go around her neck.
His hand drew back with a jerk. Now only the ribbon was lying on the table. Charlotte adjusted her position, in the hope of getting another glimpse of him. She couldn't hear his thoughts anymore, now that he was out of her field of vision. Would he pick up the ribbon again? Had he sensed that she was spying on him? Had she gone too far? She was even worse than the wife of Nikhil Nair: at least
she
didn't collect her gossip by lying on her stomach and peering through a hole, like a thief in the night. Charlotte was just about to get up when she saw him pick up the ribbon. And again she sensed that he was thinking of her and that the ribbon was intended for her.
Do you want me to bring the material?
It was an idea that popped into her head before she realized it. She drew back with a jerk, as if he'd caught her doing something. She quickly put her hand over the hole. He mustn't know that she's lying here in her bedroom, spying on him. She wanted to grab the cork that she'd pulled out, but in the dark all she could find was a pile of newspaper clippings and pieces of string. Her hand went on searching in the dark. The cork had to be there somewhere. And she had to cover the hole before more of her thoughts could escape. She had one hand over the hole and the other feeling around her when she heard him open the door and then close it again. Had he finished his work, and was he going back to the room next to the kitchen to sleep? Charlotte found the cork. She couldn't help herself: with the cork in one hand, she bent over one more time and peered into the hole. The light was still on. Suddenly she saw him move the empty dinner plate with his right hand.
He's finished everything
, she thought, and immediately she heard his confused thoughts shooting upward. He wanted to know where she was. She quickly put the cork back into the hole and pushed it down so that it wouldn't be easy to pry it out again. She crawled away from the hole, to a corner of the room. She didn't hear him, and she wondered if that meant that he couldn't hear her. Weren't his antennae far more developed, because he could not speak? Her stomach rumbled. She had had the food intended for her sent to the tailor, with her usual excuse: “I'm not hungry.” Her hand slid down to her belly. She could feel her ribs.
Tomorrow I've got to eat something
. She pulled the small wooden box toward her. She had forgotten that it was empty.

CHANDAN CHANDRAN IS
sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a variety of bottles, boxes, and tiny bags. Madan is sitting opposite him, inhaling an intoxicating aroma. This is the first time his boss has taken him up to the tiny attic room. Since the day two years ago when he was assigned a rug of his own in a corner of the weaving mill, where he hems scarves and lengths of cloth, Madan has been happy. He doesn't know that he is thirteen years old, and numbers and dates mean very little to him. He considers himself a man after he discovered black hairs growing around his willy. And his shoulders are just as broad as those of the men at the machines, who all call him Mukka, like his friend Subhash, with whom he shares the lean-to on the roof. Mister Chandran has never addressed him by name.