The Wind Cannot Read

by Richard Mason

  “What are you calling it?”

  “I’m giving it a strong title. It’s going to be One Man’s Meat, because when it’s won me world-wide renown and opened up the flesh-pots to me, I’m going to write the equally stupendous sequel called Another Man’s Poison.”

  “Same smart-alec detective?” I said.

  “Same detective.”

  When we went back to Rosie’s that night, he gave me the manuscript to read. It was a carbon copy. The original copy had been typed on airgraph forms and put in the post score by score as they came off the machine. Altogether there had been three hundred and seventy-three pages, and at three annas a time it had cost him something in the neighbourhood of five pounds. The last airgraph form had “The End” written on and nothing else.

  “It’s a very clever idea,” he said. “The publishers will never have seen a book of airgraphs before, and they’ll accept it because it’ll make a good publicity story. It’ll help put my detective on the map.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a detective story,” I said. It was not called One Man’s Meat but The Warring Winds.

  “Oh, you read it,” he said.

  I read the first page, and I thought at once it was a pity that it was a detective story, because he had a clean, easy style that would have done credit to something better than a conventional corpse. Then I discovered that it was not going to be a detective story, after all. He had been pulling my leg for months.

  It was a simple story about an English boy who lived with a French family in the Pyrenees. The war came, and the surrender of France. After some conflict in himself, the boy decided to return home to England by escaping over the mountain range. The book ended as he reached the highest point of his climb and looked down into Spain. Peter had escaped out of France in this way and had been imprisoned in Spain; but he had been strong-minded enough not to spoil this tender book with these latter grim reminiscences. A fine spirit had crept into his pages, almost imperceptibly, as though he had not intended it himself—a kind of deep patriotism that had no jingo about it. I thought it curious that after all the time I had known Peter and all the friendship I had shared with him, I had never really known this side of him.

  I was reading the book when Fenwick came in. Peter had gone out and I was alone in the room. I was lying on the bed, and I did not take much notice of him because of the book. But even from the corner of my eye I could see that he had something on his mind. He was pretending to be jovial to disguise it. He asked me to join him somewhere for a drink.

  “I rather want to stay and read, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “I’d like you to come out for half an hour.”

  “Not tonight.”

  He came farther into the room and looked at the book-shelf and the objects on the mantelpiece, playing for time.

  “You’re sure you won’t come?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Oh, well,” he said. “That’s quite a nice carved box you’ve got. I’ve one not unlike it that I ordered specially from Kashmir. I always say the Kashmir work is incomparable.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He wandered round the bed. He was smiling unnaturally. He stood with his back to me, examining a picture.

  “If you’ve got anything you want to say to me,” I said, “get it over now.”

  “Why should I have?”

  “Because you look as though you’re going to have a baby.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is something I wanted to discuss with you. I thought it would be preferable to do it over a drink, and then we could keep it on a friendly basis.”

  “I’m good at throwing whisky in people’s faces. Indian whisky burns like acid.”

  “Oh, I know you’ll take it all right,” he said. “I know you’ve got a lot of good sense. And remember, this is entirely informal.”

  “Well?” I said.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed with both hands in his pockets. He had obviously planned this scene to take place with a bar to lean on and a whisky glass to twist in his fingers, but he wasn’t going to waste the speeches because these things were lacking.

  “They tell me,” he said, “that the best way to learn a language is with a sleeping dictionary.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Surely I needn’t explain that?”

  “Yes, you need.”

  “Well, it means you can learn best from a woman.”

  “Then why don’t you get one?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I’ve no doubt that I could have done. I was born lucky in love, you know. I suppose that I’ve had as many gay moments as anybody else.”

  I looked at him closely.

  “What did you come in here to say?” I said.

  “Haven’t you got a guilty conscience about something?” he said, taking a half-aggressive offence.

  “What do you suggest it might be about?”

  “If you don’t know . . .”

  “Why did you make that crack about a sleeping dictionary?”

  I knew that if I had not lost control of my temper I might have kept the whole thing from developing into a nasty situation. When Fenwick was pretending to do things on a friendly basis his capacity for harm was curbed by the pretence. But when he was openly at war there was nothing to hold him back. He stood up, and we were facing each other, and it became a vulgar little scene. I know that I was the more vulgar because I was the more angry, and I was too angry to be discreet.

  “You know perfectly well why,” he said.

  “Say it if you dare!”

  “I’m not a fool. I knew a long time before the holiday that you were having an intrigue with the Japanese teacher.”

  “Japanese teacher!” I said. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking about?”

  He went on methodically:

  “I also know you went away with her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That is beside the point.”

  “It’s very much to the point if you’ve been spying on us.”

  “You forget I’m the senior officer at the school.”

  “Anything about Miss Wei or myself is nothing to do with you,” I said.

  “I’m directly concerned with your conduct.”

  “You admitted yourself to being—gay.”

  “I’ve no objection to your amusing yourself—”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “As you know, I’ve not even stood in Lamb’s way. But it is one thing to have a Eurasian and another—”

  “Well?”

  “It’s quite another matter to let yourself be seduced by a Japanese.”

  I struck him somewhere on the face. My closed fist knocked him hard, but it was not the pain that stunned him. He did not even raise his hand to rub the bruise. He stared at me for a moment, and his eyes were hard and bitter in his limp face. Then he turned and went out of the room.

  (2)

  I could not bring myself to think well of him for not making a case out of this. He could have got me into serious trouble, because officially no circumstances extenuate such an impulsive action; but he was not insensible to the pleasure to be had from magnanimity, in which light he presumed I regarded it. On the following morning he said to me pompously:

  “So far as last night’s incident is concerned, Quinn, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones.”

  “Oh yes,” I said.

  “On the other hand, since it’s not a personal matter, I can’t, with a clear conscience, forget the point which I raised.”

  “Did you raise a point?” I said.

  “I shall pass the matter on, and then it will be out of my hands. So far as I’m concerned, it needn’t be any further barrier to our friendship.”

  “So far as I’m con
cerned,” I said, “regardless of what happens henceforward, it will never be anything else.”

  He did not waste any time in passing the matter on. He passed it on to the Brigadier, and I suspect that he intended it to result in the dismissal of Sabby, if not in any further penalty for myself. I waited fearfully and in an anguish of remorse, telling myself that my temper might have cost Sabby her job and both of us our happiness. The house that we had planned, still only a dream, could never become a reality. I began to wonder if I could bring myself to go to Fenwick and plead, and flatter him into taking no action. It seemed madness to throw away everything because one was too proud and angry to devote five minutes to hypocrisy.

  But it was too late. I was called to the Brigadier’s office. He came in during Sabby’s class, smiling at Sabby and then at me, and he whispered to me, “May I just have one word with you?” I went out, trying not to look sheepish in front of Fenwick, who was himself waiting to look as though the matter was ‘out of his hands.’

  “Sit down a minute, won’t you?” the Brigadier said. “Take a cigarette. How’s the Japanese going?”

  “I’m just beginning to break the back of it,” I said.

  “I’m so glad. You still find it interesting?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “That’s the thing. It is the most important thing of all, don’t you think? It’s more important than a natural bent. Once I didn’t believe that tortoises beat hares, but of course it’s true. I once knew a young fellow at Cambridge . . .”

  He told me a long story, and I had another cigarette. Then he asked me about my holiday, and I told him of Jali Tal. I said I went with a friend, but he did not ask me about the friend, only about the ponies and the mountains. We talked about the Himalayas, and somehow we got on to the subject of Burrma, and he said, it was very rude, but would I mind showing him the scars of my jungle sores, because that would interest him greatly? I pushed down my long stocking, and he gently ran his finger over the mottled patch where the flesh was sunk as though acid had eaten into it. I heard the others coming out of the classroom. I pushed down the other stocking, and showed him another sore; only now it was painless, just a trophy.

  “Well,” the Brigadier said, “I’m afraid I’ve kept you rather a long time, but I have so little opportunity of getting to know my students well. Oh, and by the way,” he said. “No names, but someone has told me there’s a rumour about you and Miss Wei. Its very flattering for you—she’s so charming, isn’t she? I wish I wasn’t too old to have a rumour like that started about me. But don’t worry, rumours die.”

  I wanted to say, “I love Miss Wei,” if only to show that I did not wish to keep it a secret from him: but his eyes were saying, “I know, don’t tell me,” and they were fine, grey, amused eyes. I thought: ‘You are a good man, and when I am with you I can feel you bringing the goodness out of me; just as when I am with Fenwick I feel all the pettiness and rottenness coming out.’

  All I said was, “I hope it isn’t embarrassing Miss Wei.”

  “She’s not the sort of person to spend sleepless nights over that.”

  When I saw Fenwick at lunch-time I did not speak to him, but when he asked for the salt I passed it to him, and he said “Thank you.”

  Later on I passed him the bread, and he said “Thank you very much.”

  (3)

  It was Sabby who found the house. She negotiated with the owner who was going away to Karachi, and took it furnished for six months.

  Until she got it ready, I was not allowed to see it. Sabby did not always work in the mornings at the school, and when she was free she spent her time in buying things that were needed. But she would not tell me what she was buying.

  “Very soon you will see,” she said.

  “But I would also like to buy things.”

  “No, you are busy student. I will get house ready, and then you can come in.”

  I lent her Bahadur. He went shopping with her and went with her to the house, but he was too fond of her to betray her secrets. I asked him if it was a nice house.

  “It is not great,” he said.

  “Do you think I’ll like it?”

  “I think Sahib would like all houses with Miss Wei.”

  I told Rosie that I would be leaving her hotel. She said: “You see, it did not matter what I did, the result is the same. If I had let you make love to me, you would have left. And because I did not let you, you are leaving, nevertheless. You will have to kiss me good-bye.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I don’t want to leave altogether. I’d like to have a bed here, and leave some of my things. Also, I still want to use this as an address.”

  “You don’t have to explain any reasons to Rosie.”

  “I’ll pay the rent, of course.”

  “There will be no rent.”

  “Make it a retaining fee,” I said. “Just so that you’ll remember to tell people that I’m living here.”

  “I will remember that you are still living here. I am not Rangoon Rosie for nothing.”

  “You’re a very dear-hearted thing.”

  “Because you say sweet things like that, I shall not make you pay a retaining fee.”

  “That’s different,” I said. “That’s business.”

  “My business is a matter of the heart.”

  “Then sometimes if I’m allowed I shall come and take you out to supper.”

  “Very well, then, that is good. I shall let you take me out whenever you like.”

  Twice Sabby postponed our entry into the house. She said whatever happened we must not move in when it was raining and I teased her that the only reason could be because there was a leak from the roof. Then on the third day I insisted that we could not wait any more, and, as it turned out, in the afternoon it was fine and the sun shone out of a clear sky, and everything began to steam. The evening was the best we had had for a long while.

  At half-past seven I got a ghari and called for Sabby at the Mayfair. She was paying her bill for the last time. Her luggage had gone ahead with Bahadur and she only carried her handbag.

  “Where shall I tell the driver to go to?” I said.

  “Please tell towards Malabar Hill, and I will show way.”

  We clopped off along the wet roads. We went past the Cricket Club and the school and along Marine Drive and I could see the Towers of Silence standing up on Malabar Hill. There were a few vultures circling round, but it didn’t look as though it had been a busy day in the Parsee mortuary.

  “I’m afraid of you being disappointed,” Sabby said. “That is why I wanted fine day. Please will you not pretend to like it if you think it is not nice, and we will find another house.”

  “After all the trouble you’ve taken?”

  “I want you to be happy there, please darling.”

  “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “I have to worry about Michael being happy. You see, I am such selfish woman and I want so much of you, and if that makes you miserable I don’t know what I shall do.”

  “If you see me looking miserable, you can scold me for ingratitude.”

  “Oh no, I don’t want it that way. I don’t want any gratitude, because there is not anything you owe me. I only want you to love me a little bit.”

  “I love you,” I said. “Only I will tell you more about that tonight in your new house.”

  “Our new house,” Sabby said. “Please always remember it is for both of us.”

  We started up as though we were going to Malabar Hill, and then we swung off to the right up another hill that was shaded with trees. Half-way up we turned off again, and on either side there were beautiful houses. Sabby leaned forward and directed the driver.

  “Look,” she said, “it is here.”

  We turned in between some gateposts, and the horse pulled us slowly up a
short, sloping drive. At the top there was a fine bungalow with a pillared balcony and a vivid blue creeper on the wall. At the sound of our arrival Bahadur came out to greet us. For a moment I did not recognise him, because he had a new white uniform and a gleaming white turban, and he had trimmed and combed his moustache to do justice to the occasion. He bowed proudly and said, “Welcome, Sahib”; and I walked through into the sitting-room, and then into the dining-room and bedroom that were on the same floor. Sabby’s touch was everywhere. Especially it was in the bowls of flowers, and I knew how long she must have taken choosing and arranging them.

  I did not know that she had ever noticed the kind of whisky I liked. But in the sitting-room there was a bottle of my favourite brand, and I cannot think how she had got it, because I had hunted for it for weeks without success. She poured me out a glass, and it was the size of a double burra peg. I said:

  “You must also sip a little, because this is a special occasion and it is good to be a bit drunk.”

  “But it also makes sick, and this evening I am going to be well. Please, you drink, and then we shall kiss and in that way I taste whisky.”

  “Your English, darling,” I said.

  “What is wrong with English?”

  “Nothing. It’s charming. I don’t want you ever to speak better English.”

  “You are teasing me.”

  “No, it’s marvellous.”

  “Yes, you are teasing me, and I shall spank you because I am schoolmistress.”

  When Bahadur came in to say that dinner was ready we went through into the dining-room, but the table was bare.

  “It is through here,” Sabby said.

  At the end of the room were french windows. We stepped through these and came out on to a terrace where a standard­-lamp cast a soft pool of light on to a table laid with fine silver and glasses and more flowers. The air was deliciously cool after the warmth of the house, and overhead the sky was deep blue and the stars were only faintly appearing. I walked across the terrace to the balustrade.

  I had not expected to see anything but darkness or the silhouette of another house. Instead, the whole of Bombay lay at our feet, a shimmering sea of lights, and the sea itself was black, its edges laced with gold reflections. I like to be high up in the daytime and look down upon the roofs of cities; but this was more beautiful and more fairy-like than anything I had ever seen, and it was all the more beautiful for being unexpected. Because she had known how it would thrill me Sabby had never spoken a word of it, and I had not noticed in the ghari how far we had climbed or how close we were to the edge of the hill. Also, I had not imagined that Bombay could look like this, and that all its life could lie in this spangled carpet. The life of the Taj was there and the luxury flats with their radios and servants and the life of the slums and the brothels—and because we were two hundred feet above it all, they were merged into a myriad twinkling pin-points and there was nothing to distinguish them. I wondered as I stood there and felt like a god whether that was how God always looked upon life, seeing millions of little souls like lights, but too far away to see the misshapen, fly-infested bodies of beggars. From a distance, how marvellous to have created this!