The Guide

by R. K. Narayan

  Three days later Marco’s photograph appeared in the Illustrated Weekly of Bombay, on the middle page. The Illustrated Weekly was one of the papers Nalini always read—it was full of wedding pictures, stories, and essays she enjoyed. The photograph was published along with a review of his book, which was called “An epoch-making discovery in Indian cultural history.” I was looking through my accounts in the hall, free from all visitors. I heard footsteps clattering down in a great run. I turned and saw her coming with the magazine in her hand, all excitement. She thrust the page before me and asked, “Did you see that?”

  I showed appropriate surprise and told her, “Calm yourself. Sit down.”

  “This is really great. He worked for it all his life. I wonder what the book is like!”

  “Oh, it’s academic. We won’t understand it. For those who care for such things, it must seem interesting.”

  “I want so much to see the book! Can’t we get it somewhere?” She suddenly called my secretary, an unprecedented act on her part. “Mani,” she said and held the picture up to him, “you must get me this book.”

  He came nearer, read the passage, brooded for a moment, looked at me, and said, “All right, madam.”

  I hurriedly told him, “Hurry up with that letter, and go in person to the post office and remember to add a late fee.” He was gone. She still sat there. Unless she was called to meet visitors, she never came downstairs. What was this agitation that made her do these unusual things? I wondered for a moment whether I ought not to bring the book out to her. But she would ask me for so many explanations. I simply suppressed the whole thing. She returned upstairs to her room. I noticed later that she had cut out the photo of her husband and placed it on her dressing mirror. I was rather shocked. I wanted to treat it as a joke, but could not find the right words, and so left it alone. I only averted my eyes when I passed the dressing mirror.

  It was a long week in town; otherwise we should have been fully occupied in moving about, and probably would have missed that particular issue of the Illustrated Weekly. On the third day, while we were in bed, the very first question she asked me was, “Where have you kept the book?”

  “Who told you about it?”

  “Why bother? I know it has come to you. I want to see it.”

  “All right, I’ll show it to you tomorrow.” Evidently Mani must be responsible. I had made it a convention in our establishment that my secretary should have no direct access to her, but the system was breaking down. I decided to punish him properly for his lapse.

  She sat reclining on her pillow with a journal in her hand, to all appearances reading, but actually preparing herself for a fight. She pretended to read for a moment and suddenly asked, “Why did you want to hide it from me?”

  I was not ready for this, and so I said, “Can’t we discuss it all tomorrow? Now I’m too sleepy.”

  She was out for a fight. She said, “You can tell me in a word why you did it and go to sleep immediately.”

  “I didn’t know it would interest you.”

  “Why not? After all—”

  “You have told me that you never thought his work interesting.”

  “Even now I’ll probably be bored. But anything happening to him is bound to interest me. I’m pleased he has made a name now, although I don’t know what it is all about.”

  “You suddenly fancy yourself interested in him, that’s all. But the book came to me, not to you, remember.”

  “Is that sufficient reason why it should be hidden from me?”

  “I can do what I please with my own book, I suppose? That’s all. I’m going to sleep. If you are not reading, but are merely going to think, you can as well do it in the dark, and put out the light.”

  I don’t know why I spoke so recklessly. The light was put out, but I found that she was sitting up—and crying in the dark. I wondered for a second whether I should apologize and comfort her. But I decided otherwise. She had been bottling up a lot of gloom lately, it seemed to me. It would do her good to have it all out without my interference. I turned over and pretended to sleep. Half an hour passed. I switched on the light, and there she was, quietly crying still.

  “What has come over you?”

  “After all, after all, he is my husband.”

  “Very well. Nothing has happened to make you cry. You should feel pleased with his reputation.”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Then stop crying and go to sleep.”

  “Why does it irritate you when I speak of him?”

  I realized it was no use trying to sleep. I might as well meet the challenge. I replied, “Do you ask why? Don’t you remember when and how he left you?”

  “I do, and I deserved nothing less. Any other husband would have throttled me then and there. He tolerated my company for nearly a month, even after knowing what I had done.”

  “You talk about a single incident in two different ways. I don’t know which one I should take.”

  “I don’t know. I may be mistaken in my own judgment of him. After all, he had been kind to me.”

  “He wouldn’t even touch you.”

  “Should you taunt me with that?” she asked with sudden submissiveness. I couldn’t understand her. I had an appalling thought that for months and months I had eaten, slept, and lived with her without in the least understanding her mind. What were her moods? Was she sane or insane? Was she a liar? Did she bring all these charges against her husband at our first meeting just to seduce me? Would she be leveling various charges against me now that she seemed to be tiring of me—even to the extent of saying that I was a moron and an imbecile? I felt bewildered and unhappy. I didn’t understand her sudden affection for her husband. What was this sudden mood that was coming over her? I did my best for her. Her career was at its height. What was it that still troubled her? Could I get at it and find a remedy? I had been taking too much for granted in our hectic professional existence.

  “We must go on a holiday somewhere,” I said.

  “Where?” she asked in a businesslike manner.

  I was taken aback. “Where? Anywhere! Somewhere.”

  “We are always going somewhere. What difference is it going to make?”

  “We’ll go and enjoy ourselves, on our own, without any engagement.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be possible until I fall sick or break my thighbone,” she said and giggled viciously. “Do you know the bulls yoked to an oil-crusher—they keep going round and round and round, in a circle, without a beginning or an end?”

  I sat up and told her, “We’ll go as soon as the present acceptances are finished.”

  “In three months?”

  “Yes. After they are finished we’ll pause for a little breath.” She looked so unconvinced of this that I said, “Well, if you don’t like an engagement, you can always say no.”

  “To whom?”

  “Why, of course, to me.”

  “Yes, if you would tell me before you accept and take an advance.”

  There was something seriously wrong with her. I went over to her bed, sat on it, shook her by the shoulder a little just to make it look personal, and asked, “What is the matter with you? Are you not happy?”

  “No. I’m not happy. What will you do about it?”

  I threw up my arms. I really could not say anything. “Well, if you tell me what is wrong, I can help. As far as I can see, there is nothing for you to be sorry about—you are famous, you have made money, you do what you like. You wanted to dance; you have done it.”

  “Till the thought of it makes me sick,” she added. “I feel like one of those parrots in a cage taken around village fairs, or a performing monkey, as he used to say—”

  I laughed. I thought the best solvent would be laughter rather than words. Words have a knack of breeding more words, whereas laughter, a deafening, roaring laughter, has a knack of swallowing everything up. I worked myself into a paroxysm of laughter. She could not remain morose very long in the face of
it. Presently she caught the contagion, a smirk developed into a chuckle, and before she knew what was what her body rocked with laughter, all her gloom and misgivings exploded in laughter. We went to sleep in a happy frame of mind. The time was two hours past midnight.

  Our life fell into a routine after this little disturbance. After a break of only three days, during which time I steeped myself in the card game, avoiding all discussions with her, our encounters were casual and slight. She was passing through a period of moodiness, and it was safest to keep out of her way and not to rouse her further. The engagements for the next three months were all-important, running, as they did, into the season of music and dance in South India, for which I had taken heavy advance payments. We had ahead of us a travel program of nearly two thousand miles, from Malgudi back to Malgudi, and if we went through with it there was ample time for her to get over the mood, and then I could push her into another quarter-year of activity. I had no intention of slackening this program. It seemed so unnecessary, so suicidal. My only technique was to keep her in good humor to the best of my ability from quarter to quarter.

  We were getting through our engagements uneventfully. We were back in Malgudi. Mani was away for a couple of days, and I was attending personally to an accumulation of correspondence on my table. Offers of engagements I piled up on one side. I had some misgivings about accepting any of them right away as I normally would. I felt I should do well to speak to her before replying. Of course she’d have to accept them, but I wanted to give her a feeling of being consulted. I sorted them out.

  Suddenly I came upon a letter addressed to “Rosie, alias Nalini.” It had on it the address of a lawyer’s firm in Madras. I wondered what to do with it for a while. She was upstairs, probably reading one of her inexhaustible journals. I felt nervous about opening the letter. I had half an impulse to take it to her—a sensible part of me said, “It must, after all, be her business. She is an adult, with her own affairs. Let her tackle it, whatever it may be.” But this was only fleeting wisdom. The letter had arrived by registered post some days ago and Mani had received it and kept it on the table. It had a big seal on its flap. I looked at it with misgiving for a while, told myself that I was not to be frightened by a seal, and just cut it open. I knew she would not mind my seeing her letters. The letter came from a lawyer and said, “Madam, under instruction from our client, we are enclosing an application for your signature, for the release of a box of jewelry left in safe custody at the Bank of——, in the marked place. After this is received we shall proceed to obtain the other signature as well, since you are aware that the deposit is in your joint names, and obtain the release of the said box, and arrange to forward it to you under insurace cover in due course.”

  I was delighted. So this was going to bring in more jewelry for her? Of course she would be elated. But how big was the box? What were the contents worth? These were questions that agitated my mind for a while. I looked through the letter for some clue; but the lawyer was sparing of words. I took the letter and turned to go and give it to her. But on the staircase I paused. I returned to my room and sat in my chair, thinking. “Well, let me think it over. Where is the hurry?” I asked myself. “She has waited for this box so long. Just a couple of days more is not going to matter. Anyway, she never mentioned it, perhaps she doesn’t care.” I took the letter to my liquor casket and locked it up. A good thing Mani was not there. Otherwise he might have created a mess.

  I had some visitors after this. I talked to them and went out in the evening to see a few friends. I tried to distract my mind in various ways, but the packet bothered me. I returned home late. I avoided going upstairs. I heard her jingles upstairs, and knew that she was practicing. I returned to my office table with the letter from the liquor chest. I opened it carefully and read it again. I looked at the enclosed application. It was on a printed form; after her signature was going to be Marco’s. What was the man’s purpose in sending it now? Why this sudden generosity to return her an old box? Was he laying a trap for her, or what was it? Knowing the man as I did, I concluded that it might not be anything more than a correct disposal of his affairs, similar to his acknowledgment of my help in his book. He was capable of cold, machinelike rectitude; his vouchers were in order; he saw probably no sense in being responsible for Rosie’s box any more. Rightly, too. The right place for Rosie’s box was here. But how to release it? If Rosie saw this letter she would do God knew what. I had a fear that she would not view it calmly, in a businesslike manner. She would in all likelihood lose her head completely. She was likely to place the wildest interpretation on it and cry out, “See how noble he is!” and make herself miserable and spoil for a fight with me. There was no knowing what would set off the trigger nowadays. His mere photo in the Illustrated Weekly drove her crazy—after that book incident I was very careful. I never showed her the book at all.

  Next day I waited for her to ask for it, but she never mentioned it again. I thought it’d be safest to leave it there. I was very careful. I kept her in good humor and engaged, that was all; but I was aware that some sort of awkwardness had developed between us, and I kept myself aloof with extreme care. I knew that if I allowed more time she would be all right. But I felt that to show her this letter would be suicidal. She might refuse to do anything except talk about his nobility. Or (who could say?) she might insist on taking the next train to his place, throwing up everything. But what was to be done with the letter? “Just let it rest in the company of whisky bottles till it is forgotten,” I told myself and laughed grimly.

  During dinner, as usual, we sat side by side and spoke of things such as the weather, general politics, the price and condition of vegetables, and so on. I kept the subject rigorously to inconsequential affairs. If we held on for another day, it’d be perfect. On the third day we should be on the move again, and the bustle and activity of travel would shield us from troublesome personal topics.

  After dinner she sat down on the hall sofa to chew betel leaves, turned over the pages of a journal on the hall table, and then went upstairs. I felt relieved. The swing was coming back to normal. I spent a little time in my office, looking into accounts. The income-tax statement was due to be sent in a couple of weeks. I was poring over my very personal account book just to see where we stood, and how to prepare our expense accounts. After brooding over this mystic matter for a while, I went upstairs. I knew I had given her enough time either to be steeped in the pages of a book or to sleep. Anything to avoid talk. I was becoming uncertain of my own attitude nowadays. I feared I might blurt out about the letter. I laid my head on the pillow and turned over, with the formula, “I’ll sleep, I think. Will you switch off when you are done?” She grunted some reply.

  How much jewelry might be in the box? Was it his present to her or her mother’s or what? What a girl! She never gave it a thought! Perhaps they were antiquated and she did not care for them. If so they might be sold now and converted into cash, and no income-tax officer would ever dream of its existence. Must be a substantial lot if it had to be kept in safe custody. But who could say? Marco was eccentric enough to do strange things. He was the sort of fellow to keep even a worthless packet at the bank, because that was the right thing—to—do—the—r-r-ight thing to—do—I fell asleep.

  Soon after midnight I awoke. She was snoring. An idea bothered me. I wanted to see if there was any time limit mentioned. Suppose I kept the letter secret and some serious consequences arose? I wanted to go down and examine the document at once. But if I got up, she would also wake up and ask questions. Or if I took no notice at all of it, what would happen? The box would continue to remain in safe custody—or the lawyer might write a reminder, which might come in when I was out and slip its way through to her, and then questions, explanations, scenes. This was proving a greater bother than I had at first thought. Nothing that that man did was ever quiet or normal. It led to unbelievable complexities. As I kept thinking of it, it magnified itself until I felt that I had dynamite in my poc
ket. I slept fitfully till about five o’clock, and then left my bed. I lost no time in going to the liquor casket, pulling out the document, and examining it. I carefully read through the document, line by line, several times over. The lawyers said, “Per return post,” which seemed to my fevered mind an all-important instruction. I took it over to the office desk. I found a scrap of paper and made a careful trial of Rosie’s signature. I had her sign so many checks and receipts each day that I was very familiar with it. Then I carefully spread out the application form and wrote on the indicated line: “Rosie, Nalini.” I folded it and put it in an addressed cover which the lawyers had enclosed, sealed it, and I was the first to appear at the window when our extension branch post office opened at seven-thirty.

  The postmaster said, “So early! You have come yourself!”

  “My clerk is sick. I was out for a morning walk. Please register this.” I had walked down for fear that opening the garage door might wake her up.

  “Yes, sir. But if it is only a registered parcel, I can sign for you.”

  “No, no. This is an insured parcel and it will have to be signed for by one of us. Tell the postman to bring it again on Tuesday.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mani, and I left him abruptly; otherwise he might have started expanding on the subject.

  We were back on Tuesday. The moment Rosie went upstairs I asked Mani, “Did the parcel arrive?”

  “No, sir. I waited for the postman, but there was nothing.”

  “Did you tell him that we were expecting an insured parcel?”

  “Yes, sir, but there was nothing.”

  “Strange!” I cried. “Per return,” the lawyers had written. They probably wanted the signature, that was all. Perhaps Marco planned to appropriate the box himself and had tried this ruse. But as long as that lawyer’s letter was with me, I could hang them; none of their tricks was going to succeed. I went to my liquor chest and reread the letter. They had committed themselves clearly. “We shall arrange to dispatch, under insurance cover . . .” If it meant nothing in a lawyer’s letter, where was it going to mean anything? I felt somewhat puzzled, but told myself that it would ultimately arrive—banks and lawyers’ offices could not be hustled; they had their own pace of work, their own slow red-tape methods. Slow-witted red-tapeists—no wonder the country was going to the dogs. I put the letter back and locked it up safely. I wished I didn’t have to go to the liquor chest every time I wanted to read the letter; the servants, knowing the contents, might begin to think that I took a swill of whisky every few minutes. My desk would be the right place for the letter, but I’d a suspicion that Mani might see it; if he caught me studying the letter so often, he was sure to want to take a look at it by stealing up at my back and pretending to have some question to ask. Awful cunning! He had worked for me for months and months without my noticing anything against him, but now he and everyone around appeared sinister, diabolical, and cunning.