Hot Water Man

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Funny you should say Baluchis . . .’

  ‘Seven, eight . . .’ Carrots fell into a tin bowl. ‘We’re fighters, this little team, Ronald. And those loathsome Yanks won’t win either. Fifteen, sixteen . . .’

  She straightened up, with a sigh, and tucked her blouse into her slacks. ‘I shall go into the office and check the medicines.’

  He followed her. ‘What Yanks?’

  ‘Haven’t I told you our latest saga?’

  Inside the office it was even stuffier. She looked so fresh; with her matt white skin she seemed inviolate to heat. His shirt stuck to him, front and back now.

  ‘We will stand firm,’ she said. ‘I rent this land from the Government of Sind. They will bulldoze us over my dead body.’ She started opening cupboards and checking bottles.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ronald, and I don’t care to know. Some ghastly conundrum – no, conglomerate. Faceless international money-men, no doubt. Not like you or I, Ronald. If necessary my faithful servants and myself will man the barricades. I can handle a gun. I’m not senile yet.’

  He imagined her crouched in the office, barrel pointing through the window, eyes narrowed under her dotty boater. It seemed so wonderfully English, this place. Crumbling walls erected against the mutinous natives one side and mid-Atlantic mediocracy the other. Holding out, holding on.

  ‘That’s what they’re after.’ She pointed through the window, down to the right. Leaning over, he could see the bushes. ‘The shrine with the warm springs. Did I tell you about it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘They’re turning it – correction, they’re trying to turn it, over my dead body – into some vast – what do they call it in the letter? A Leisure Complex. I presume they’re trying to say hotel.’

  Donald paused, his hand on the windowsill. Studying the tacked-on mesh, he did not turn round.

  ‘You mean that shrine is Ginntho Pir?’ He kept his voice conversational.

  ‘That’s right. What’s Manny done with that iodine?’

  He had not realized. Ginntho Pir was the proposed Translux site. There were no signs to tell him. In a few days he would have known, because Duke was planning to bring him here on a visit.

  There was a silence, broken by the clunk of bottles as she moved them, and the whirr of the table fan behind him. He gazed at the windowsill. Dead flies lay with their legs in the air. He tried to remember Duke’s words. She’s an old dame, Don, one of these recluse-types. Must be crazy to be out here. We’ve gotten her this beautiful site a couple miles outside town, piped water, bigger too. The works.

  He did not know how he could speak to her. What had she called his face – frank and open? He turned round. ‘Here, do let me help. And, by the way, what does one do about this adoption scheme?’

  14

  There was no shade to speak of out at Ginntho Pir, under that gauzy blue sky. Duke had parked his automobile on the verge, beside the highway that led from Karachi. He sat inside, the engine and the air-conditioner running. You had to keep the one going for the benefit of the other and today, boy did you need the other. Through the window stood some thorn bushes, furred with dust. Buses and rickshaws passed this way. They parked down the road behind him, where the path led up to the shrine and the old mausoleum.

  It was a small place, kind of shabby and kind of likeable. There was no part you could call a village, as such; just a few huts the other side of the mound. This side, the pathway up to the shrine was lined with tea stalls, food stalls and men selling religious offerings. Around them, the scrub. It was real insanitary, with its excrement and scavenging dogs. These people had to use whatever place they could find, on account of there being no toilet facilities. He remembered Walter V. Hirschman, Translux Chief Executive, stepping round the place and lifting his feet. And that was way back in December when the odours were not so apparent.

  Today, Tuesday, Duke had the windows closed. He could not hear the sounds outside because of his cassette playing. It was one of his Nashville tapes.

  ‘You’re swe-e-et as blueberry pie,

  You’ve broken my heart, my Rosalie . . .’

  Back home they teased him about these tunes, calling him sentimental. His boys were reared in the rock‘n’ roll generation. But this old country-and-western it spoke to him, straight to the heart. Through three continents he had grunted along with the words, driving down a hundred freeways.

  ‘Your hair black as a raven’s wi-i-ing . . .’

  He would not think about her hair. Instead he fixed his concentration on the dashboard clock. 3.30. Soon Don would be here with Mr Chowdry, Under-Manager of the Lahore Translux. From this position Duke could see the highway leading back toward the city, straight as a ribbon but wobbling in the heat.

  He was looking forward to showing Don the place. Don had this enthusiasm. You wouldn’t think it first time you met him; seemed that his wife did all the talking. But just get him on to his favourite subjects. In fact Don knew more about this place, from his old books, than most of the Pakistani businessmen and sub-contractors Duke had spoken to, and more than Duke himself but that wouldn’t be so hard. When he was at their home for dinner Don had gotten out these tomes. He had spent a long time thumbing through and reading stuff out, the bearer waiting with the liquor and Don not noticing. They were these travellers’ tales, when the British were the real explorers, riding on horseback hundreds of miles in this heat to chart the frontiers and manage this place. Don had read out about Ginntho Pir and the history of the name, how it had changed from some old Hindu word when the place was India. No doubt he would be informed of more facts today. He, Duke, wanted to know; in this respect – in fact in every respect – he was uneducated. He remembered one sentence: The Sind Desert is a land of sepulchres and dust and somesuch, full of holy shams and holy humbugs. And some more about dating the tombs and shrines and how they were scattered everywhere, but in this region of intense heat, dreary aspect, sure that was it, and shifting river-beds, it was impossible even for the British to chart all the antiquities. See, this place shifted; you never got quite where you wanted. He himself was realizing this. Then something about the warm springs being a remarkable feature, but the big Moghul-type mausoleum (in better repair, for sure, when the book was written) and the small new shrine being nothing so special, architecture-wise. You saw wayside shrines in all these parts, whitewashed tombs with rags stuck on sticks. Sometimes little buildings around them for the important guys. No, it was the hot springs and this particular pir who was unique. Seemed that the belief here was more exceptional than the surroundings.

  Duke opened his cold box and took out a can of Coke. He pulled the tab; it hissed. 3.45 and still the road was empty. You couldn’t trust the cold drinks up in those stalls there. People had gotten dysentery from them. Or visitors thought they would, so they brought their own. And then there were the beggars and the staring; worse for a female, of course. That was the trouble with this place, Karachi. They had their one or two monuments: fine. They had their beach: fine. Period. You saw them and then what? You could hardly take a stroll out into the desert. Not even in the more fertile land upcountry because it would be somebody’s little plot and you were tramping on their corn. There was nowhere just to sit and relax, with a drink you could trust, with somebody serving you who spoke your language. It wasn’t open to people. As he told the tourism guy, how could a country get itself up off its ass, well he hadn’t put it like that. How could a country develop, if when folks came they just wanted to do what business they’d come for and hightail it out of there? Christine Manley, she said the same thing but in a different way. You couldn’t really get into a country, not really understand it and want to stay, if all you could do was sit in your automobile and drink your own Coke.

  He slid in another cassette.

  ‘It’s okay by me, it’s ok-a-ay . . .’

  He tipped the can. Icy, it pressed against his lips. He drank from the sharp hole. Ok-a-ay by
me. Okay, was it? How was she? How could either of them be okay, since Saturday night? Say he was under the anaesthetic, like Minnie. Say he dreamed. If only he had.

  Far down the highway a blob shimmered. As it drew nearer it whitened: the Cameron car. It was Don he wanted to see. He kidded himself that he just wanted old history. Any other day he would want it. But Don worked in the next room to hers. Through the wall today he must have heard the rattle of her typing. Did it ever pause? Mr Chowdry he had met before – a nice guy, but there were no questions he wanted to ask Mr Chowdry. Like what was she wearing this morning. Had she twisted up her hair or did it lie like a raven’s wing against her cheek? Her cheek had lain on his chest. Had she acted different on Monday? He could not bear her to have to act anything. He would give anything in the world for it not to have happened.

  The car drew nearer. Duke switched off the engine. He snapped shut the cold box. He could not be devious; he did not know the method. He would just ask Don a straight question, like was she in the office today? He would bring up her name casually. But he did not know these techniques. Long ago, perhaps, when he was a young man. No, he guessed not even then. He had always said things direct, but then there had been nothing to hide.

  The Cameron car stopped on the other side of the road. The driver climbed out and held open the back door. Duke reached forward to eject his cassette, then stopped. Mr Chowdry stepped out, and then Shamime.

  He could not move. His tape played on with twangy guitars. She was saying something to the driver, nodding her head and indicating her wristwatch. She was wearing traditional shalwar pyjamas, dark-blue and plain as if she was in mourning. She had a dark dupatta wrapped around her face. She was walking towards his car.

  He fumbled with the door catch. His fingers had gone flabby. Big useless hands. He ejected the tape, climbed outside and managed to greet her. He shook hands with Mr Chowdry.

  ‘I’m so sorry about our colleague,’ said Mr Chowdry. She was a dark blur beside him.

  ‘He hadn’t come back from lunch,’ said the blur. Duke turned. Her voice was bright but muffled oy the dupatta. ‘Apparently he phoned Mary and said he’d be late. Mary forgot to remind him we’d switched it to today.’

  Mr Chowdry waved it away with his hand. ‘It is not important. Miss Fazli kindly consented to be my escort.’

  In fact it was not too important, that part of it. Mr Chowdry’s visit was purely a courtesy call; after all there was nothing much to see at this point. Besides, Translux was a turn-key operation; once built and ready for occupation the hotel was out of their hands. Individual managements then took them over. ‘And you ride off into the sunset,’ Shamime had once said, smiling.

  ‘Let’s start this way, with the tomb and shrine,’ said Duke and they crossed the highway. Why did she hold the dupatta across her mouth – to protect herself from something? Only the dust?

  He started leading them the wrong way, down towards the water – himself, Duke, who forty times had paced this site with architects and engineers.

  ‘Pardon me.’ They retraced their tracks between the bushes. He held the thorns aside for his guests to pass. He wanted his hands to be scratched. More than anything he needed to speak to her alone. They arrived at the pathway that sloped uphill. She was walking behind them. She seemed so withheld, swathed darkly and following them like a village wife. He had tried to phone her these past two days but it was always her sister or mother who answered; she had never been at home. And no way could he speak on something so personal by phoning her at the office. Had her mother told her he’d phoned? He felt adolescent, waiting at home for his own phone to ring; jumpy, wandering about the rooms. He felt very old.

  They walked up the path. At the top of the mound, ahead of them, stood the mausoleum. It was a heavy, pitted building, eight-sided, made of weathered brick with a domed roof. It had arched doorways each side in the Moghul style, a common feature. Closer you could see the decoration. It was built for some minor ruler four hundred years ago, what was his name, he needed to tell Mr Chowdry, there wasn’t much else to tell him – Mir Ali Beg or Mir Ali Khan. Behind it, with just its edge jutting out, stood the saint’s shrine.

  They walked up through the bazaar. There were stalls full of garlands for the faithful, sticky candy and roasted nuts. The hawkers sat in the shade of the bushes. The place buzzed with flies; there were few people about this sleepy afternoon – a mullah; cripples of all ages come to get cured. Along here Minnie had gripped his hand, squeezing it in her anguish. There were plenty of beggars. These Muslims, for the good of their souls, gave away their small change in the holy places. The beggars who could do it clambered to their feet; the ones who couldn’t leant forward rattling their tin bowls. ‘Sahib, sahib.’ They recognized Duke because he was in the habit of giving five-rupee notes; it had gotten to be embarrassing, walking up here. He guessed the reason might be that soon these stalls would be Translux car park. Mr Chowdry threw little paisa pieces. He looked neat and urbane, with his grey suit and grey hair. Maybe he was superstitious; maybe he was devout.

  He tried to concentrate on Mr Chowdry. She was not catching them up. ‘You been here before?’

  ‘Ah no, though I have visited many places like this. I’m a Punjab man. Lahore for me. We have so many tombs up there.’

  ‘Plenty of tourists too, lucky fella.’ Up in the north of the country the Lahore Translux stood in the centre of town, surrounded by gardens, historic monuments, museums and Kim’s cannon. In addition to its natural advantages, tourists passed through on their way to India.

  Mr Chowdry glanced around. ‘Certainly a new departure for Translux.’ He stepped over a piece of dog dirt. He wore shiny pointed shoes, very small.

  Lahore had that kind of old-world Raj atmosphere. It was like India up there. Down here it was just desert, an international airport, a port and a big city full of slums with the multi-storey blocks coming up.

  ‘This is where the action is, business-wise,’ said Duke. ‘So the place is wide open for us. We have to develop the potential, Mr Chowdry, wherever we can find it.’ He pointed at the tomb ahead. ‘Make a feature of whatever we can grab.’

  Behind them Shamime said: ‘We had a picnic here once, when I was a child. Under that tree up there beside the tomb.’

  Duke’s throat constricted. She moved no nearer them.

  ‘My ayah told me about the pir. His head found the place first and his body followed after. Down in the pool the fishes always swim with their heads facing him, never their tails.’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t so run-down then. Nowadays the young bloods don’t come here. They hang out at Nazimabad Happyland. That’s where the action is.’ Her voice was bright and social but still she did not move in beside them, though they had slowed down. ‘Lots of slot machines. The car park’s full of studs, ten to a Toyota, revving their engines.’

  They reached the top of the hill and paused in the shadow of the old mausoleum. It was quiet. There were some trees up here. Shamime stood a little apart from Duke, facing the breeze. The dupatta blew against her mouth.

  Duke turned away. Down there lay patchy scrub, the highway and the asbestos works, surrounded by a wire fence. A truck was bumping along in a cloud of dust. Way beyond was the smudged sky where the city lay.

  Beside him Mr Chowdry took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. They sat down on the step. Duke pointed out the site below them: the place where the screened-off staff quarters would be, the tennis courts over there, where the animals’ home lay at present. The gardens and steps leading up here to the tomb, where they sat.

  Minnie had had to sit down here. She said it was the heat; in fact he knew it was the damaged pilgrims who had upset her; the hopelessness of their case. He knew Minnie. She did not want to spoil things for him, when he was so keen. She had tried to show interest in his site. He remembered her efforts to be chatty, all the while her hands clenching. He wished he could shield her from them. From everything else besides.

  He tried to show in
terest in his site, now. He tried to picture it down there amongst the bushes, for Mr Chowdry’s sake. ‘Steps up to this boundary will have fancy railings in rendered concrete, Moghul-style, ending with a pre-fabricated archway.’

  A little apart, Shamime lit a cigarette. Her gold lighter flashed in the sun. He smelt the smoke but he did not dare turn his head. She must despise him; a man twice her age. But she gave no clues, acting as if nothing had happened. Maybe she felt humiliated. He could not bear this. Maybe she felt indifferent. He could not bear this either, but that’s what he should be hoping for.

  He tried to think of something to say to Mr Chowdry. He turned round and pointed at the doorway behind them. It was set in a larger arch, and the intervening space filled in with honeycombed granite – kind of decorative Islamic ventilation. This patterning, he told Mr Chowdry, was going to be the main personality motif of the Translux, found in the screening of the car park and staff quarters. But mainly, of course, in the hotel proper, both externally and internally: in the latter case, in rigid plastic. Mr Chowdry was wiping his neck with his handkerchief, turning his head from side to side. He had not loosened his tie.

  His shirt was unbuttoned. Her neat fingers had done it. ‘You’re like a grizzly bear,’ she had said, stroking his chest. ‘Wall-to-wallfur.’ She had laid her head against it. She had rubbed her nose in his hairs. ‘Are they grey? I can’t see in the dark.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I was saying, just how will you incorporate this tomb and the shrine behind?’ asked Mr Chowdry.

  ‘They remain on public property,’ said Duke. ‘The Translux land is all to the front of them. There will still be public access from the rear. But even in the public sector, the tourist authorities have undertaken to smarten the place up.’

  ‘The tomb looks vandalized,’ said Mr Chowdry. ‘People always steal, when monuments are unsupervised. Pieces of marble and mosaic tiles; they sell them to the dealers. Another few years and there would be nothing left. We rely on yourselves, as foreigners, Mr Hanson, to preserve our heritage.’