18
Minnie was scratched all over, like she’d been pulled through barbed wire. Jewels of blood criss-crossed her cheek; her arms were scraped. She was wearing the pink pants suit she had worn last time he saw her; this however was untouched, not a spot of blood on it. For some reason this did not surprise him. She seemed undisturbed. Didn’t he ask her if it hurt? He could not identify the place where she was standing. She was pulling off pieces of kitchen roll. Only gradually did he realize she was not mopping herself. One by one she was offering the pieces to him.
Her face, usually anxious, was calm and she was talking in a flat voice. He could not make out the words, as she pressed the cloth, sure, it was cloth now – as she pressed it against his cheek.
Duke was awake by now and pushing the sheet from his face. He was sweating. The room was black; the air-conditioner was humming on to itself. He sat up, breathing deeply. He never dreamed; leastways he never remembered them. He had never credited his imagination overmuch. But lately he had not been sleeping too well. Himself, Duke Hanson, who usually slept like a log.
He switched on the lamp. 2.35. The sheets were twisted half off the bed, as if he had been making violent love. He climbed to his feet. He felt both heavy and drained. He fetched his bathrobe and went down the stuffy stairway, switching on the lights as he went. He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk. Then he fetched himself a couple of coconut cookies. He was not hungry. Gul Khan kept the house well stocked; he looked after Duke as competently as a wife. Minnie had remarked on this before she left, she herself of course never having lived with a servant before. ‘I needn’t worry about you,’ she had said, ‘after I’m gone.’
Min is Minimal. Someone had said this, one of these nights. Was it Minnie, scratched? Someone in some echoing, further dream. Some of these had featured Shamime, usually altered. He could visualize Shamime saying it teasingly, turning her head to avoid his face. Min is Minimal. Blowing out smoke as if exhaling, from her lungs, the stirred ghost of his wife.
He munched under the bright strip light. He tried to put Minnie back into this kitchen, right here beside him. He wished to God she had not gone away. Two weeks and it still did not get better; in fact it got worse. He had kept himself away from Shamime all this time, hoping for a cure. He would keep himself away for as long as it took. He would keep phoning Minnie. Last week she had told him the nurses were teasing her about the number of calls she received from Karachi. ‘And you’ve been married twenty-six years?’ they said. ‘You lucky lady, you.’ Minnie herself sounded pleased but surprised. ‘Honey, really I’m fine. It’s all gone fine. It wasn’t one bit as bad as I thought. Dear, don’t worry yourself.’
She was back home now in West Boulevard. Chester was home for vacation and working at the gas station just two blocks away; evenings he was back. There were the neighbours coming round for coffee. In addition Duke Jnr’s wife, Corinne, was at hand to make sure Minnie didn’t overdo things. She would have her work cut out; Minnie was that active.
He could picture her in the home they had saved so many years to buy; comfortable enough, nothing fancy. He hoped she was in the lounge with her feet up. She told him she had bought a stack of paperbacks on Third World problems, so she would return better informed. The door slamming beyond the kitchen as Chester came in from the garage, staggering under the box of groceries. He could picture her in each of the rooms, sunlight coming through the windows. He could see her fetching the mail and leaning, arms flexed, on her electric blender as she fixed something for her lunch. He knew every inch of that house, he had decorated it himself over the years and put up every shelf. But they were not as usual, these pictures. They were not running through his veins, all homesick familiarity. Now they had become distanced and boxed, as in a TV screen; something he had to decide to switch on. He did switch them on, but painfully.
The freezer door dug into his back; he moved his position. Inside there lay Minnie’s shopping: the steaks and packs of bacon she had bought from the Commissary. She had made him pecan pie, too, knowing his sweet tooth. He had touched none of these parcels, neatly labelled and furred with frost. He could not eat them. Instead Gul Khan cooked him something, or else he went to the Intercontinental and ate a tandoori. In fact by now he preferred Pakistani food, subtle and spicy, burning him, bringing tears to his eyes.
He had not wept for years, until that night. She had not seen in the dark. She had thought him a hungry middle-aged man who did this often. She had not believed him when he said this was the first time; her voice had changed back to its old mocking tone. He realized now it was better that she thought this. By now she had probably forgotten it had happened.
He stuffed dry cookies into his mouth. He had been down to the chapel but he could not pray. He felt altered. He could not sit easy in his old chair facing his old God. Years of living away from home, and all of a sudden he felt a foreigner. Yesterday he had been down at Ginntho Pir; the first time since that day with herself and Mr Chowdry. He had gone into the shrine. He had expected something cluttered and cheap; after all, she had laughed at it. He had visited some large shrines before but never a small village place. In fact it was whitewashed and quiet. He was awed by the simple faith. Bits of ribbon and string had been tied to the railings around the tomb, each knotted with a prayer. Some were mere threads. His eyes had filled with tears.
Then he had heard Shamime’s low laugh, mocking the pink cloth. Had she really been so amused? She had entered, after all, with her handful of flowers. He could not presume to know her feelings. She was too complex for him. Then he had thought: maybe I only came in here so I can stand where she has been.
In what did she put her faith? Shamime driving away, leaving his car keys with the chowkidar at his office. Greeting him next day as if nothing had happened, when they chanced to meet on the sidewalk. Something had amused her back at Cameron’s. He could not remember the story. She had laughed, the hot wind blowing her clothes against her body.
He would not think of her. He was not going to contact her.
Next day in his office the phone rang.
‘Duke? My uncle’s back in Karachi. We’re going to some do at the Gymkhana Club on Sunday but after that he’s bound to come home with us for a drink.’
Duke sat still, listening to the traffic outside.
She paused. ‘Would you like to come along and meet him? He wants to talk about your project, I think. I’ll tell you how to get to our house.’
He had no need for instructions, of course. He knew every window of her parents’ home. In fact on the way to the airport this past couple of weeks he had purposely not looked in its direction. How easy, those sweet and painful questions: was that her bedroom light? Whose automobile was that in the drive?
He was being impolite. He could not think how to refuse so he said sure, and thank you. He put down the receiver. Of course, even if they were the slightest acquaintances she would have suggested this meeting. It made sound business sense and it would hardly go against his principles just to meet the guy. In fact it would seem odd if at this stage he did not. Of course he would go no further: just a drink and a few friendly words.
He sat, his head in his hands. He pushed up and down the loose skin of his forehead. How much was this a business arrangement, and how much a reason for himself and her to meet? Could she in fact want to see him again?
He had forbidden himself to think like this. He felt, stirring in his heart, questions that had long since lain quiet – if, that is, he had ever asked them since his youth. Why did she do this? Did she mean what he thought she did? What, oh Lord Jesus, should he do?
He looked out of the window at the shops opposite. The lunch hour was over; the metal shutters were being wound open, the doors unlocked. He could feel his heart unclosing beneath his shirt.
Punctually at 9.30 he drove there, shaved, showered, his wet hair brushed. He felt he was borrowing someone’s else’s automobile. He felt lik
e one of his own sons.
Along the airport highway the homes were set back behind tall walls. A service road ran parallel between them and the dual carriageway. Sure, he knew the house. Even before that night he had connected Shamime with arrivals and departures. The constant traffic along the road and in the sky gave her a public but temporary air. At any moment she might take off herself. She often did. The capital cities of Europe were familiar to her; she mentioned them so casually. He himself had visited only London and Paris, once, on vacation. He was a hick.
Her gates were open. He parked outside. The sun had sunk and most of the bungalow was in shadow. Bougainvillaea frothed over the wall, from inside. The topmost blossoms were lit by the sunset, a fiery pink. He sat still for a moment. He had never seen it this close; only from the highway. Each day she must steer her car through those gateposts. This was her place. His reluctance to enter, he told himself, was on account of the Minister.
And of course there was also her father to meet. He had met the man months ago, and respected him. He was courteous and distinguished, the chairman of a large investment company. Duke must clasp his hand and meet his eye, man-to-man. He was an imposter; he felt weak with nerves. He had never considered himself a coward. He had knocked around the world and been through some weird encounters. He had earned a Silver Star from his service in Korea. Still he sat looking at the dashboard. He had emptied the ashtray now.
One evening. If he could get through one evening of pleasant conversation, nothing special, as if they were mere acquaintances, maybe then he would be cured.
He walked through the gates. The garden was drenched. Heavy green foliage hung against the walls. The air was warm and scented. Two cars stood in the driveway, one of them Shamime’s. The other carried no government flag, but then nobody turned up on time here.
He was shown into a large foyer. From one side came the sound of beat music, disco type. For a moment he could be back home, with his boys in there.
The door was opened. The drapes were drawn and the lamps lit. In the light sat Shamime and Aziz playing checkers. They looked as if they were posed on a stage.
She rose from the table and turned down the music. ‘Thank heavens you’ve come. I’ve been longing to see you.’
He could not speak. She led him across the room, her cool hand in his. ‘Aziz is so hopeless.’
She let go his hand. She was wearing a sari; he had seldom seen her in one before. She flicked it back over her shoulder and opened the cocktail cabinet.
‘This is Zizzy’s den.’ She poured him a Scotch. The sari was a rich silky brown with a gold border. Her hair was twisted up in a coil. She looked older, and statuesque. Nobody could touch her.
‘I’ll just polish him off.’ She walked back, in the slow swaying way women walked in saris. Her midriff showed. Most women bulged there. He kept his eyes off her and looked at the room. It was papered in dark stuff, like a night club. On one wall hung Baluchi guns and knives; on another hung one of those printed mirrors you found in boutiques back home. This one featured Frank Sinatra. Aziz had a heck of a lot of equipment: stereo, TV with video recorder. Wires snaked across the fine old oriental carpet.
Over at the table they laughed. Did Aziz know anything about that night? Duke wondered where the others were. Shamime was dressed up; they must have returned from the Club. But they looked so absorbed he did not like to ask.
Beside the cocktail cabinet stood some framed photos. Maybe some featured Shamime. When he thought of her childhood he ached. There were twenty-four years he knew nothing about; worse than this, now he must find out nothing more. It was for some other man, at some future date, to leaf with her through the albums.
Shamime did not feature. The snapshots showed formally-dressed men. Shamime’s father sat at a banquet next to the King of Jordan. Another showed two men shaking hands against a curtain; they wore garlands around their necks. One was President Kennedy, the other a tall Muslim in ceremonial leggings.
‘That’s Uncle Bobby,’ called Shamime. ‘Hey, Duke, I’m terribly sorry but apparently they had to go on to some dinner. I couldn’t face it, sitting around on sofas with wives going on about how expensive everything is nowadays. Anyway, you were coming.’
Duke paused, confused. Those rusty old stirrings in his heart. Had she meant this to happen? Surely her uncle was not some excuse for her to see him? It could not be; it must not be. Aziz must not leave them alone together. He drained his whisky. His hand felt large and clumsy, clutching the tumbler.
A clunk and rattle of counters. ‘That’s that,’ said Shamime. ‘Do you want to play this stupid game, Duke?’
He managed a nod. Aziz rose from the table. He was not leaving the room; affable as ever he lit a cigarette, refilled Duke’s glass and went over to his shelves. ‘Any requests?’
‘I’m way behind the times,’ said Duke. ‘My boys kid me about it.’
‘Zizzy’s a born disc jockey,’ said Shamime, setting out the counters. ‘He sometimes does it at parties. It suits his exquisite looks and nocturnal habits. But you’re too lazy, aren’t you, Ziz.’
Aziz smiled; he did not seem to mind. He was fiddling with the amplifier. Duke thought of him playing with his stereophonic toys while the men of the family gazed down from the snapshots. In this place statesmen bred playboys.
He sat down. The table was fragile; he must not knock it with his knees. He felt he was in some sophisticated playroom with foreign rules. He did not want to understand them; he should not be here. The board was laid out.
‘I’m black and you’re white,’ said Shamime. ‘Ho ho.’
She looked across at him. Her lips were painted deep red; her skin glowed.
He moved his counter forward. ‘Haven’t played this since the boys were small.’
‘You mean you played draughts? They didn’t watch TV all the time?’
He paused. ‘Well, I guess we played it some of the time.’ Now he thought of it, he could not remember how often. He had bought a box one Thanksgiving; they must have played. Maybe not so many times as he had imagined. He preferred to visualize that than visualize the TV. In fact he could not visualize the boys at all.
Music was playing but Aziz kept it soft. She pushed forward a black counter. She looked smart at this game; maybe she already had a plan of action. He needed to talk about the boys.
‘We have this yard back home,’ he said. ‘Not the size of yours but big enough for ball games. I spent time training the kids. That I do remember.’
‘How energetic you Yanks are. Don’t you find us indolent? Actually Father’s friends keep reading articles in Time about blood sugar and aortas, and now they rush off to the Sind Club gym. Unwise, I feel, after centuries of ease.’
‘I jog,’ said Duke. ‘Maybe I told you before.’
‘I’m sure you’re nice and firm.’
He looked up sharply but she was inspecting the board. ‘One shouldn’t fight this climate.’ She said something in Urdu. ‘What will be, will be.’
Duke pushed a counter forward. ‘Minnie came up against this.’
‘Ah ha. Bad luck.’ With a clunk she jumped his counter, took it and put it her side.
‘That was dumb.’ He concentrated on the board. Black and white checks, clear and simple. Her perfume made his head swim.
‘Yep, Minnie came up against this. She was – she’s always trying to make things better. Like if she sees a pigeon with a broken wing she brings it home. Which makes it kind of difficult out here.’
He paused. Shamime did not seem inclined to answer so he went on: ‘Back home in Wichita she was involved, on a voluntary basis, in an Inner City Program – working in the slum areas and building playgrounds on derelict sites.’
‘How fascinating. I wouldn’t put it there.’
‘Ah.’ He put back his counter and moved another one forward. ‘Well, out here straightaway she got involved in that rehousing project out at those slums – you know the place – yeah, Liari.’
; ‘You mean on the way to the beach.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Sure. That’s it.’ He looked at her smooth brown forehead. She was watching the board. ‘The place was full of disease, right by the sewage outlet for the city.’
‘You have to wind up the car windows. Zizzy calls it Pooh Corner.’
‘Yeah, well Minnie used to come home quite sick. Couldn’t eat her dinner. But then she said they didn’t have any dinner to eat anyway. She was real upset. So there’s this housing project and medical centre – purpose-built new homes on the reclaimed land near by. The first phase was completed maybe four months ago. Beautiful homes, electricity, piped water.’ He paused. ‘And would they go? Well, they let themselves be moved, that went fine. And know what happened? Next day they were back in their slums. No reason, nothing. That organization was baffled.’
She pushed the sari back over her shoulder. ‘We’re deep,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s no telling, with us.’
He paused. ‘I met a stewardess once, on a Saudi flight. She used to do the Haj run from Karachi to Jeddah. The planes were full of these village people, simple folk like the ones who visit the Ginntho shrine. They’d saved up all their lives for the visit to Mecca. And they’d sit on the floor because they’d never sat on a seat, they were so confused . . .’ He was going to say, they perched like birds on the toilets because they had never seen a sit-down lavatory.
‘And you think that can be changed by re-designing the planes? Duke dear, the gulf is deeper than that.’
She smiled, her dark lips parted. Such smooth skin, smooth and sure. He looked down. He tried to picture Minnie’s face; it was always puckered with doubt. The world’s hardships were sent to trouble her.
‘Minnie felt helpless. I know how she feels. Like, trying to come to terms with the place. If only we could put our finger on the solution.’
Hot Water Man Page 16