‘Should be a cleaner place for everyone, whether they’re Translux guests or not.’ He paused, trying to remember what to mention next. Shamime was scratching her leg; the nylon stuff rustled.
Mr Chowdry lit a cigarette. Like most Pakistanis he had beautiful hands. On either side of Duke, Mr Chowdry and Shamime smoked in silence. Duke’s hands looked coarse and hairy; freckled slabs. They lay heavily, one on each knee. He felt large and hot and foreign. Perhaps they were bored. How alien was this place to them? After all, they were both Muslims.
Shamime scrunched out her cigarette with her foot. Already he felt protective about her smoking. He wanted to pull her hair loose, where it was caught in her dupatta. He wanted to care for her without being allowed ever to touch her. He wanted to speak to her and explain that it had never happened before, couldn’t she tell? And that he hadn’t been drunk, no, not that. He had been intoxicated. He was out of his depth. He would die if he never saw her again.
Mr Chowdry cleared his throat. ‘You have had good news, I trust, from Mrs Hanson?’
Duke paused. ‘Sure, I spoke to her last night. She’s recovering fine. Two of the boys are with her.’ Shamime was bent forward, gazing at her feet. ‘A little discomfort, of course, on account of the stitches.’
Duke scratched his mosquito bites. A small boy approached, barefoot along the platform. Yoked over his shoulders were two pans of nuts. He stepped with care to balance them; they swayed with him.
‘Gram, sahib?’ He held out a paper cone.
‘They are in the vicinity, your sons?’
‘Sure. One’s at college just six blocks away. That’s Chester. He’ll be graduating in two years.’
The boy stood in front of them, his face sombre. He was wearing shirt and shorts; he had skinny legs, grey and dusty. Chester had been a skinny boy once, before he shot up and filled out. Now he was six feet two, one of the tallest freshmen in his year.
‘He’s majoring in business studies.’
‘Two annas, sahib.’
‘Sure.’ Duke bought three cones, though nobody was hungry. Shamime was unstrapping her high-heeled sandals. He wanted to fold his hands over her feet. He wanted Minnie to be here.
‘He hopes to become a sales executive,’ he said.
He climbed to his feet. Shamime rose, the sandals in her hand.
‘Just going to take a look around the shrine,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you back at the car.’
Duke stood still with surprise. She turned to go. The shrine lay behind the tomb. They walked a few steps with her; it came into view. It was a turreted building, kind of plain and small. Modern, compared to the mausoleum. Its whitewashed walls were dappled with shadow from the trees. There was nobody about but a man with a basket of flowers. Shamime bought a garland and pulled the dupatta around her face. She ducked her head to enter, her blue robes flapping.
Duke himself had never entered the place. Minnie had put it into words, saying it was their shrine. She was sensitive about that.
‘Would you care to go in, Mr Chowdry?’
Mr Chowdry shook his head with a polite smile. Was this a site visit on Shamime’s part, or had she gone in to pray?
They made their way down through the bushes.
‘It must be a little frustrating,’ said Mr Chowdry, ‘waiting for the final permission.’
‘You bet. Just one piece of paper. We’re raring to go. I’ve two earthmovers contracted to Translux at three hundred bucks a day. They’re just waiting for the word. And the structural steel in a high-security compound back in Karachi. It’s getting to be expensive.’
The boy was following them; Duke could hear the creak of the yoke. Amongst the bushes lay a few lesser graves, you always found them clustered around the shrines. They were simple plaster blocks the size of coffins.
‘These, I presume, will be shifted?’ asked Mr Chowdry.
‘Sure. We’ve entered Translux land. They’ll be moved round the back of the hill where the village is – leastways those few huts. The tourist office didn’t even know they were here.’
‘And the dead, I presume, will make no objection,’ smiled Mr Chowdry.
Duke tried to smile, too, at the little joke. He glanced behind him, beyond the bushes and the boy, at the turreted roof of the shrine. Within there stood Shamime. Or maybe she knelt. Was she praying for her lost virtue? Last Sunday he had sat in the chapel, in a congregation of six, and prayed for his.
‘I believe they go there to pray for offspring.’
Duke was startled. Mr Chowdry had also stopped. ‘And the warm water from the tanks, I believe, is also claimed to cure a large number of diseases. Every disease, no doubt. The simpler the worshippers, the more prodigal the claims. But it’s mainly for the babies, I’ve heard.’
Minnie, with your stitched belly. Duke scratched his bites. They ringed his flesh at waist level. It must have been Saturday night they had stung. He had inflamed them with his scratching; he wanted them to get worse. At Mohurrum these Muslim men whipped themselves for their sins, until their backs dripped like meat.
They made their way through the bushes, the boy following. Duke held the paper cornets. He felt warm towards this small, precise man who had sat next to Shamime in the automobile and who was sharing this afternoon. Ahead lay the pool. It was muddy; its shores were pitted with hoof prints. Local goat herds watered here but alternative arrangements, involving pipes, would be made for them. Down this side of the water, right by the shore, stood the hot spring. Duke had been disappointed with this. It was kind of plain: a stone tank with steps leading down into it. But the water steamed, all of its own accord. Three young men wearing loincloths sat on the rim, their legs dangling. They stopped talking and stared at Duke and Mr Chowdry.
‘There are two tanks,’ said Duke. ‘One beyond the tomb, without a pond, and this one. The first remains on public land. But this one, and the pond, is what we aim to develop.’ It was easier talking without Shamime here to confuse him. He gathered momentum. A few yards up the slope the boy shifted his shoulders, adjusting his yoke, and sat down. Duke could feel his gaze.
‘At the beginning, the personality factor posed some problems. At the Lahore Tranny, of course, you have the Kipling motif, with your illustrated wall-panels, the Mowgli Suite and the rest.’
‘I was telling the charming Miss Fazli about the latest innovation in our Coffee Shop.’ Mr Chowdry picked from a cone and started munching. ‘Kim-Burgers. And for this trial month, with every Bumper Kim-Burger we’re giving away a free portion of french fries and a cannon ballpoint-stand for the kiddies.’
‘Great.’ Duke laid down his cones.
‘Gram, sahib?’ The boy half-rose.
Duke shook his head, pointing to the remaining cones. The boy sat down again, lowering his pans. He could not be older than eleven, but then you could not tell with some of these kids. They weren’t fixed as children, like the snapshots of his boys at eleven.
‘So here we plan to feature the Wishing Well.’
‘Wishing Well?’
Duke pointed to the tank. ‘We keep the steps and rebuild the wall with fancy brickwork, same as the tomb, with coloured plastic inlay in the old style. We build a rail around, for folk to lean over, build a pavilion roof, and there’s your Wishing Well. Guests will be encouraged to throw in their small change, paisa pieces like you give to the beggars, but this time it’ll be in aid of charity.’
‘You are a man of imagination, Mr Hanson. And the pond?’
‘You’re no longer looking at an insanitary puddle, you’re looking at a boating lake. Six times the size – according to our expert, the natural water source can fill at least six times the capacity it’s filling now. At the far end we’ll have a barbecue pavilion and bandstand for local-type music-sitars and such – and displays of traditional dancing. And the opposite shore from the hotel we’ll have the chalets.’
‘Ah yes?’
‘Sure. Lakeside accommodation with road access round the rear. Eight u
nits, fully air-conditioned of course, with bathroom en suite and personal car port. They’ll have a beautiful view of the hotel across the water and, behind them, the hill with the tomb. We have permission from the tourist office to install spotlights. I have in mind some kind of son et lumière.’
‘Your enthusiasm is infectious, Mr Hanson. I must say, when I first looked at this place . . . And the landscaping?’
‘For a job this radical we’ve found nobody –’ Duke coughed, ‘uh, can’t seem to find any suitable contractors in your country, so I’ve flown in a team of experts – American-trained; I worked with them in the Gulf. Before that they’d been responsible for the revolutionary Abu Dhabi Translux – the one with the underground gardens. They’ll be importing the top-soil, turf and so on. Astroturf in recreational areas. Plus half-mature trees and decorative shrubs. It’ll be an overnight transformation. High-cost outlay, but otherwise you wait twenty years for the place to look good. And it’s going to look good. Mr Chowdry, my heart’s in this one.’
‘It is your baby, as they say. I am right?’
‘Sure. There’s something about this place. I’ve even taken to dreaming about it.’
They gazed across the water. Shamime had told him about the fishes, swimming with their heads toward the shrine. He had imagined them like bright silver filings drawn towards a magnet. But his irrigation engineer had found little evidence of aquatic life, the place was so polluted. There was a silence. Up the slope behind them, the boy hawked and spat like an old man. Duke wanted to explain that he was doing this because he was ambitious not for money but for his homeland. He wanted to bring the best of his country to this one. He felt it like a missionary. It was the hygiene he wanted to bring – hygiene in body and spirit, in business-dealings too. A clean world unmuddied by caste and corruption. Here the water was dirty. Only in a clean world was there a chance for everyone, as there had been a chance for himself, Duke Warren Hanson. But how could he put this into words for a Pakistani, even the Under-Manager of a Translux? Mr Chowdry would be offended. And to Shamime? He did not like to tell her in case she mocked him.
Besides, she just might say: who’s so incorruptible now?
They left the waterside and made their way back up through the bushes. The boy rose to his feet but he did not follow them. They walked past a food stall with its hissing lumps of batter. A family sat on the mat, eating.
Mr Chowdry indicated them, smiling: ‘I think you shall attract a different class of customer, Mr Hanson.’
My hotel will be classless, Duke wanted to say. Sure you had to have the money, but who the hell would mind what job you did? Who would mind if your uncle was a minister? No sign of Shamime here. He hadn’t seen her for so long that he felt clumsy and nervous again.
Both cars stood empty. The Cameron driver emerged from a tea stall. In Duke’s hand, the cones were scrumpled paper balls. When could he speak to her?
He fetched two Cokes. When he straightened up from the car she was there.
‘Phew. Wow. It’s hot. Can’t you just dome-in this whole place, Duke, like Houston or wherever, and air-condition the lot?’
He fetched another Coke. She unwound her dupatta, twisting her head to pull it off. Her hair was damp around her face. ‘It’s sweet, the shrine. Very kitsch, with a puce nylon shroud, all scattered with the flowers of the faithful.’
Duke grunted. Half, he was relieved that she hadn’t been uttering prayers. Half, he felt she should.
‘Humbugs,’ said Shamime cheerfully, ‘most of them. Sham miracle-workers. God I need a drink.’ She took the can. ‘Then we ought to be getting back, Mr Chowdry.’
‘I have a reception at six,’ said Mr Chowdry. ‘A family wedding. But I would so much like to hear more about the hotel itself. I’ve had a most interesting introduction to its outdoor facilities.’
Shamime paused. ‘I know. Duke, you go back with Mr Chowdry, then you can talk.’ She had the can to her lips. ‘I’ll drive your car. After all, I know how to work the starter.’
The Coke fizzed in his mouth. She mentioned it so casually.
Mr Chowdry walked towards the Cameron car. She was waiting for something. She stood near enough for him to make out the stitching, small fancy coils, around her collar and down the front. She lifted her hand towards him, a half-gesture. He opened his mouth to speak.
‘Duke – the key?’
‘Uh. Sure.’
He rummaged in his pocket, holding his can in the other hand. She took the key and climbed into his automobile, smiling up at him for the first time. In the dashboard ashtray lay the stubs of her cigarettes from last Saturday. He disapproved deeply of smoking but he could not bring himself to clean them out.
She drove ahead. For a while they kept up with her. She had opened the window. Her hair flew loose in the wind like black snakes; they whipped and tangled. The blue sleeve billowed. Before she had looked muffled; now she looked released, with her wild hair splaying.
Her hair in his mouth. She was lying on his chest, turning her head this way and that, rubbing it against his face. ‘Dook, Dook,’ she murmured. She mimicked his accent; he tried to lift her face and push back her hair to see if she was smiling.
Duke rubbed his belly. The bites burned. He had not seen her body, only felt it smooth as an eel. He pictured Minnie’s familiar stomach – flat, sallow skin softened by childbearing; the grey pucker of her appendix scar. ‘Life has made its mark,’ she had once said with that grave smile. It hadn’t mattered to him, though how could he persuade her of that now, after what he had done? It would be so obvious to her: a young body instead of a known, used one. If only he could persuade himself it was that simple. Nobody would be harmed then.
Her belly was altered now. He himself had not seen its tacky black stitches. Right now he felt responsible. It was his wound.
He was telling Mr Chowdry about the proposed conference facilities. Shamime drove recklessly. Ahead his Datsun dissolved in the heat haze. He could not grasp her; she mocked him with her teasing hair and her teasing voice. He must let her drive away.
15
Christine had brought the seeds her first week out here. She had filled a Cameron dinner platter with soil. (British Home Stores china.) These at least I can germinate. And five weeks later some had sprouted; just a few. Cosmea: their branched leaves, feathery frail, had opened like babies’ hands.
She knelt in the flowerbed. A strip of sand ran round three walls of the compound, the fourth side being the driveway which was edged with flowerpots. She dug with a spoon she had stolen from the kitchen. It was not the time for planting. Tips for the Tropics made it clear that winter, not summer, was the growing season. But why not, if she kept them watered? Her little seedlings must take root.
She must do something. It was all right for Donald, out at the office all day. He was part of the working city; he arrived home perspiring, drained but elated, with his briefcase full of papers. He had taken root.
She put a seedling into the hole. Three pairs of eyes watched her. These belonged to Mohammed’s girls. Christine poured in the water and the seedling floated on its side. The water drained away; she held the plant straight and pressed in the soil around it.
Mohammed’s wife called the children, her voice a high wail. Easy to think her fat, Christine had told herself several times, rather than pregnant. She herself had not dared go near the quarters since that visit to the doctor’s a week ago. She felt too embarrassed. But she also felt obscurely rebuffed, that the woman had not given her the occasional smile since then. After all, they had sat in the surgery, two women together; they had practically held hands. Sisters under the skin.
The children did not leave. They just moved back a few steps, probably to get a better view. She firmed in the seedling. Perhaps Mohammed was watching, stilled during his morning’s toil. Recently she had not spoken much to him, either. Before, there had been the odd moment of domestic intimacy – when she had tried, laughingly, to use his mosquito spray; when she
had pointed out Joyce’s children in her dressing-table snapshot. Since last week she had been avoiding any social conversation. Just once she had asked him where this hot water man was – ‘kidder’, she knew the word for ‘where’. But he had taken her to the gate, pointed into the distance and gabbled a stream of words. In fact she had also asked Rosemary (Reckitts Rosemary, because her husband was in Reckitt and Colman), when thanking her for that drinks party. ‘Hot water man?’ Rosemary thought she was inquiring about a plumber and had gone on about their unreliability and how her shower unit was already cracked. She could not ask Donald; he would want to know why and that would make her shy.
Beyond the wall a car drove by, blaring its horn. She could see nothing from here. She must get past this wall and into the city. It was no good walking around here; it was just modern streets and chowkidars staring. And it was not getting into the place, to drive to Rosemary’s or Sally’s and drink lime sodas while they discussed tennis fixtures and the heat. To think that she was now the sort of woman who waited for her husband’s key in the lock. Except that he did not have to open the door because Mohammed was there to do it for him.
The problem was, she had lost Sultan’s card. Yesterday she had taken a taxi to Nazimabad but it must have been the wrong part, perhaps West. ‘Kidder East?’ He had driven her to an amusement arcade, a dispiriting place called Happyland. Heaven knew what he thought she wanted. And the office buildings had all looked the same. She could not find his name in the phone book, but then it was full of misprints. Sultan Rahim had disappeared back into the city.
She gazed at the seedlings. They looked frail; some were crooked. Behind her she could hear the children breathing. Sometimes she tried to speak to them, but they just hid their faces like their mother and ran behind the house.
She stood up. The girls scattered, with muffled squeaks. Shestraightened a leaning seedling. She had always presumed to have children some time, at her own convenience; everyone did, didn’t they. She had not bothered to put it into words. Motherhood was a glow on the horizon if she cared to turn her head in that direction. They had talked about everything else, herself and Roz and Cassie, those long smoky afternoons in the shop. More accurately: they discussed in detail the outcome – the career compromise, the child-sharing, father participation, individual fulfilment and all that. But they had never discussed what would happen if one could not have a child at all. Choice was what they discussed: women’s choice for this and for that. Choice, all in their heads. They had never thought of their bodies making the choice for them.
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