Who Are You?

by Anna Kavan

  As a terrific thunderclap rocks the house, the flickering light dies right down, only recovering partly, so that she's left in near-darkness. Wind gets up with a sudden crash, something outside keeps on frantically banging, the tamarinds make strange rushing noises. She stands bewildered in the midst of all this, rubbing her arms without knowing she's doing so. The glimmer of light is too feeble now to show the red fingerprints, already darkening into bruises; but, by some chance, it does illuminate her dress, and the sandals lying beside it, which she puts on hurriedly and quite mechanically. Lightning is now almost continuous. Vast hollow crashes of wind or thunder fill the darkness, together with the wild rushing noise of the trees.

  All of a sudden, in a brief lull, the miniature crash of a glass breaking sounds unexpectedly, startlingly near, to remind her of her husband, drinking in one of the other rooms.

  Beginning to tremble a little, she goes to the door, softly pushes the flaps apart, and lets them close soundlessly after her. The man is not in the centre room, but in his bedroom; she hears him shout for his boy from the back window, which faces the servants' quarters. Then, without waiting a second longer, she runs down the stairs, her heelless sandals silent on the bare floors. In any case, the opening and shutting of the front door is inaudible in the uproar of the storm. Instantly she's sucked out into a black, boiling vortex, a ripping, rushing, thundering bedlam, in which she can't stand, hurled along helplessly by the gale.

  A blazing white streak of incandescence splits open the sky, and reveals the solitary palm tree, bent over in a thin, impossible arch, its topmost leaves sweeping the ground like a witch's broom.

  16

  Climbing out of the turmoil of wind and thunder, a slight figure appears on the back porch like a castaway sailor. Sheltered there from the violence of the gale, Mohammed Dirwaza Khan's successor pauses to get his breath, and to adjust his white coat and turban, before going into the house. He doesn't seem quite as impassive as usual as he goes upstairs, carrying in both hands a small brass tray with one tumbler on it. His movements are jerky, and from time to time his eyes roll, so that the white shows all round the black pupil. Moreover, he has omitted to fasten his collar. These manifestations of discomposure are perhaps the result of having been torn away from his private absorbing pursuits and hurriedly dispatched on this unexpected errand; or they may come from a superstitious fear of the storm.

  Having set down the glass near his master, who is wearing only a pair of shorts, he starts fumbling with his collar buttons. But the man doesn't even glance at him, ordering him to pick up the shattered remains of the glass he knocked off the table just now.

  The youth stoops obediently, his dark hands shaking. One of them, with its paler palm and delicate tapering fingertips, gropes for the broken pieces and puts them on the tray the other hand is still holding. The fragments are scattered all over the floor, and not easily seen in the weak wavering light; it takes him some time, with his imprecise movements, to find them all.

  While still engaged in this task, he says, without looking up: 'Missis has gone out.'

  In precisely the same tone he might have said, 'Dinner is ready,' or anything else at all. He invariably speaks in the same flat, level voice, so that all his sentences sound alike, whatever their content. Besides, no native servant ever attempts to understand anything about the white people he serves.

  On this occasion, it's doubtful whether the meaning of his expressionless words penetrates to his hearer, who merely tells him to send his superior. And, as he has now managed to collect all the broken glass on the tray he at once goes out with it.

  The wind brings no coolness; there is no respite from the heat. The night is a black asphyxiating tank, bubbling and steaming. On to the protection of the porch, out of the boiling dark, emerge now, first the long skinny legs, then the rest of the Mohammedan, whose thin grey beard the wind has twisted grotesquely around his neck — his first action is to comb it into place with his fingers.

  The youth climbs up after him out of the darkness. And in this order they enter and pass through the house, the leader's lean shanks opening and shutting like giant scissors against the dim light. Without hesitation he goes straight into his master's room and stops in front of him, the youth stopping when he does, just inside the door, where he remains, arms dangling at his sides, a silent, passive appendage of the older man, who has brought him along in case his evidence or corroboration should be required.

  'Boy say missis gone out.' His English is less accurate than his junior's, but he speaks louder and with more assurance, looking the white man full in the face. The youth, on the other hand, looks up at the ceiling, where several small lizards are darting about in confusion, frightened by the thunder, taking short aimless runs which they interrupt suddenly to dash off at a tangent, their tails undulating behind them.

  'Boy say he see missis go out.' Getting no answer, Mohammed repeats his sentence in a slightly different form, and with a perceptible note of impatience, which Dog Head is too drunk to notice.

  The latter displays no interest or concern, and might not have heard him. He fills the glass to the brim, lifts it, and tips the contents down his throat as if he didn't need to swallow but poured the whisky straight into his stomach. He then puts the glass down empty and speaks a few casual words, ending in English : 'Go after her and bring her to me.' Simultaneously he lifts his hand in a gesture of dismissal, and a fluctuation of the feeble light catches the reddish gleam of the hairs on the back, so that he appears to be wearing a fur-backed glove.

  The servant immediately turns round and leaves the room, the youth following, and descends the stairs, his long, thin legs moving as rapidly and silently as a spider's in his scissoring gait.

  He says nothing to his subordinate until they are again on the back porch, confronting the turbulent darkness, where the faint glimmerings from their homes are intermittently visible through the tremendous tumult of straining, writhing and streaming branches.

  The emotions of both are deeply stirred by the coming of the monsoon the climax, each year, of their lives. Both resent being distracted from it. For once Mohammed Dirwaza Khan doesn't mean to obey his master. He hasn't the slightest intention of chasing off after the silly, worthless girl who is his rival — if she's really gone, so much the better; it will spare him the trouble of getting rid of her. This is clearly understood between them; as is the fact that the youth won't go after her either, as he now orders him to do in his place.

  The bearded man steps down quickly into the dark stormy turmoil, and is blown along like a scarecrow before the wind, his white garments wildly flapping around him. He doesn't look back to see whether the youth is pretending to obey him, but keeps straight on, rapidly disappearing. The other follows him into the darkness at once, striking out in the direction of his own abode.

  If there should be any further disturbance during the night neither of them will hear. The thunder conveniently drowns all lesser noises.

  17

  The loudest thunderclap there has been so far jars the decaying timbers of the house, and one of the lizards drops its tail suddenly, just missing Dog Head's drink. Although it hasn't fallen into the glass, the sight of the tail wriggling madly all round it, before jerking itself off the table and on to the floor, irritates him; he wants to chastise the presumptuous lizard, whose tail he is grinding under his naked heel; but he can't even make out which lizard it belongs to. He feels frustrated, insulted. And now that he's interrupted his heavy drinking, he is in need of an outlet for the violence drink always builds up in him.

  He takes the tennis racquet into the next room, where the rats, as disturbed by the storm as the lizards, are immediately in evidence. Constant flashes of lightning increase the distortion caused by the feebly fluttering light, so that the game is extremely chancy. The additional hazard is all on the side of the rats. All the same, it gives the man a fresh thrill, although he has difficulty in following their swift moves, his own movements less coord
inated than usual owing to the amount of whisky he has consumed, which also seems to affect his judgment. Over-estimating the reach of the racquet, he misses the first rat completely, and has to suffer the humiliation of watching it escape into the rafters. But he makes up for this failure by dispatching the next candidate with one driving blow.

  Hardly has he kicked the corpse under the wardrobe and out of sight than a new rat appears, so enormous that he can scarcely believe his eyes. It disappears in the shadows, and he supposes the distorting properties of the inadequate light must have magnified it to such vast proportions. But no, there it is again; now he sees it quite clearly - a monstrous great brute, with a lion's mane of coarse hair and a tail like a sjambok. Never in all his days has he seen such a colossal rat; it must be the father of all the rats in creation.

  He half recalls the rat-king ' legend, and that the monster is said to appear to evil-doers when the monsoon breaks; but he at once forgets the story in his excitement, and starts stalking the creature. It won't come into the open, gliding from one piece of furniture to the next, difficult to distinguish from the tremulous shadows. Before long, however, he drives it into a corner, where it crouches under a table, and he knows he's bound to get it when it emerges. ‘Come out of there !' he shouts, furiously banging his fist on the jail-made table, that looks the colour of blood. The rat defies him by refusing to budge, remaining motionless and invisible, except when the occasional gleam of its reddish eyes betrays its presence.

  'I'll soon settle you !' he yells fiercely. The wild excitement by which he's possessed has given him unnatural strength; he swings the table bodily into the air with one hand, while the other twirls the racquet high over his head and brings it down with tremendous force, administering the coup de grace. The beast contorts itself with a shrill blood-curdling scream, then rolls over and lies quite still.

  He's rather disappointed by this easy victory. The brute ought to have put up a better fight. Is it dead? As it's still in deep shadow and practically hidden he can't be certain, merely assuming it is, as it doesn't move. He steps forward to make sure and to examine the monstrosity.

  But before he's had time to look, something moves behind him turning, he sees a rat of ordinary size calmly crossing the floor, in full view, as if it owned the place. Such unheard of impudence immediately makes him forget the other; he goes in pursuit of this newcomer, hoping to hit it first time, before it takes cover. But again he's misled, either by the flickering light or his own faulty judgement, and the beast eludes him. Now of course it's very much on the alert, and turns out to be almost fiendishly cunning. It persistently keeps out of reach, and when it does emerge from one hiding place to dart to another it's always too quick for him. Exactly as if it were playing with him, it leads him on to exhaust himself to no purpose, while economizing its own strength, making only such moves as are absolutely essential to avoid his blows.

  At first he curses it with all the swear words in his vocabulary; but gradually he falls silent, conserving his breath. He is panting; sweat pours off him in streams; the contest already seems to have lasted for hours. Again and again he's on the point of dealing the fatal blow, but each time something puts him off his stroke — and there's the devilish rat, still waiting for him as large as life.

  His excitement wears off by degrees. His blows get wilder and fall wide of the mark. He stumbles once or twice, no longer quite steady on his feet. Though he won't admit it, he's tired, he's had more than enough of the bloody rat, and wishes it would take itself off to hell. Deliberately giving it a chance, he pauses to mop his face. But instead of flying up the wall to the security of the rafters the diabolical creature continues to lead him on, darting here, there, and everywhere, always evading him. Not once has he even managed to touch the brute.

  All at once it vanishes under the table, swallowed up by the shadows. But its eyes give it away, glinting malevolently as they reflect the light's fluctuations. He waits for it to move, breathing in hoarse gasps, but with a triumphant face. At last the rat's made the same mistake as its predecessor, and will meet the same end as soon as it comes out. He does nothing to hasten the fate of this one, glad of the respite in which to collect what remains of his strength for the final effort.

  The moment the beast starts to slide out of the corner he lunges at it with all his force, savagely shouting, 'Got you!'

  But he never knows whether he really has killed, or even hit it, for at the same time he staggers wildly, losing his balance, his arms flailing. Unable to save himself he falls headlong, sprawling full length on the floor, face downwards, on top of the object that's tripped him up. He must be slightly stunned, in his drunken state, by the heaviness of the fall, for he doesn't get up immediately, doesn't know what he's fallen over. An inexplicable, indescribable movement rouses him: hairs coarse as wire are scratching his chest, neck and chin. With sudden horror, he realizes that he must have tripped over and be lying on top of the monster rat, which he'd completely forgotten until this moment. And the beast's moving . . . it's come to life . . . Its cold sharp claws scrabble at his chest, becoming entangled in its furlike growth, as he struggles desperately to get hold of it somehow, he's unable to throw it off; there's no power in his hands, which can't get a grip on its body . . .

  Precisely as in a nightmare, he feels its teeth sinking into his throat. He can't see it properly, though its heavy limp inert shape dangles in front of him, hanging on by its teeth and claws . . . while he beats at it ineffectually, his blue eyes frantically glaring about the room — he shouts for help, but nobody answers . . .

  He must get up in order to get a firmer grip. But his strength is going, and though he makes a terrific effort he only succeeds in dragging himself to his knees. Blood is streaming over his chest, mingling with the river of sweat.

  After a final flicker, the light goes out. Seeing only some huge black object looming above him, he clutches it to pull himself up. The wardrobe starts to wobble and sway before he gets to his feet; his fingers, sticky with blood, adhere to the tacky surface, pulling it down on him. Like a giant coffin, it falls with a crash, imprisoning him in stifling darkness beneath in the dustbin to which he consigns his victims.

  As if the bottom has fallen out of the sky, rain comes down with a thunderous smash. Pounding on the roof, the vast mass of water adds its continuous battering boom to the ponderous roar of great thunder-wheels rolling loose in the blackness outside.

  All lesser noises are hopelessly lost in this ceaseless bludgeoning of tumultuous noise.

  18

  It is very early, not yet day. In the east the leaden clouds have parted, exposing a segment of slowly brightening sky. Soon the clouds will come together again in combat, crashing and thundering against one-another, flooding the world with rain as with their life blood. But first there is this moment of peace, a fugitive breath of coolness, a pause which belongs to neither night nor day.

  The purple-blue of the sky slowly lightens to pure piercing turquoise, a shade only seen at this hour, and for a few seconds only, before the sunrise. Light grows imperceptibly, infiltrating the shades of night.

  The servants are still asleep in their own quarters after the excitement of the monsoon's arrival, The house stands silent, as if deserted; the open shutters reveal only black holes of rooms. Last night's bath has emphasized its latent dilapidation; the neglected exterior is more noticeable, the cracks in the walls, and the splintering woodwork. What is not seen is the more serious secret damage, where termites have undermined and eroded, so that, unaccountably, objects come crashing down.

  The solitary palm tree in front looks battered, bedraggled and shabby, among pools of rain water left in the hollows of the uneven ground. The swamp has changed colour overnight like a conjuring trick, covered in bright blue flowers. Almost visibly, new green shoots are everywhere piercing the newly sodden earth, from which mist slowly steams up and hangs in long trails just above the ground. A soundless procession of yellow-robed begging priests passes
, ankle deep in the white vapour, ghostly and transient as a dream.

  From the sheltered recesses of the forest trees the great snake moves slowly towards the light and negligently loops its pale length, swaying gently from side to side. Those of the small parrots which have survived the storm's bombardment are waking with drowsy wing-stretchings, so many handfuls of brilliant feathers that seem barely held together by the frail thread of life.

  Who-are-you? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? The brain-fever bird's harsh cry is always the first definite sound to be heard, although the birds themselves remain mysteriously invisible among the sparse foliage and involved tracery of the tamarind branches. All day long their interminable unanswered question will continue, an irritating inescapable background noise, mingling with every second, with all situations, weaving its way into the whole human fabric of talk, thought and action, until the sudden curtain of darkness falls.

  Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? The same loud insistent cry is transmitted from bird to bird in a whole succession of identical but more remote cries, coming, not only from the vicinity of the house, but from much further afield: from the other side of the road, from all over the confused tract of country beyond, even from the distant jungle where thousands of the same species must congregate. Some of these ceaseless cries are louder than others, or more prolonged: but all alike share the common exasperating suggestion of a mechanical noise nobody can stop; they don't express hunger, or love, or fear, or anything else, but seem uttered with the sole object of maddening whoever hears them.

  The tops of the tamarinds suddenly burn, fiery; the sun is up, gilding the topmost point of the roof. Instantly the air fills with the shrill, continuous din of innumerable insects of every kind, which at once seems always to have been going on.