Hearing of the dissension amongst the group, many women wanted Sonu to speak. They wished to ascertain if he had a bad feeling about those people, amongst whom white-skinned foreigners had been spotted.
Thahéra's sister appeared glad to have her sons back with her; she did not speak to them much but piled their plates with stew. As Sonu had seemed disinclined for further explanations, the gathered womenfolk had left them alone with their mother. Occasionally now, she cast an apprehensive look at her younger son who was quietly devouring his food; noting the lines of fatigue around his eyes she wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually thinking.
Men were known to be on their way down from the very highest pastures where icy rain was giving the cattle flu and causing grazing conditions to worsen by the day. Word had come that the old men would also be returning from Dahu where their business was concluded to the satisfaction of other old men. There was a stirring and activity amongst the women that signalled both anticipation and anxiety: some of them had not seen fathers, brothers or husbands for several months. Others, whose husbands were further off in the plains or down in foothill towns, became mournful and contemplated their hard lives; yet others felt a deep resentment against the women who would soon hold their men close. The rain gave a sense of timeless enclosure to all the proceedings – there was nowhere else to go.
As darkness came, Thahéra watched from her doorway, pretending to embroider like many of her neighbours but actually in a state of barely-tethered trepidation. She had fed her younger children and sent them to her sister's house to practise writing with their cousins. The eldest, her stepson, had left without finishing his meal. She guessed that he was with a woman, but it did not bother her since surely there was nowhere they could go unsupervised in the chill downpour. Since her conversation with Gauri the previous night, she had not had a moment to herself and no leisure in which to plan any details. Now she could think. Images of the foreigner floated before her: his humour, his quick hands, his confident smile.
Mingled with these teasing reflections were thoughts of the first time she'd seen the soil collector. Another stranger.
Eyes stinging with fatigue after a day in the valley sowing crops, she had been put out to find her sister intent on dragging her from the cabin that evening. The woman was almost distraught, by her normal icy standards, Thahéra remembered, but she'd simply put it down to the children, to Sonu's condition, and paid it no heed. Her mind, in fact, had been blank, as she'd tried to keep it for so many weeks, and then she'd spotted him waiting by the stream with his pack and thought a ghost had come to haunt her. Her heart screamed. She'd felt faint. Then he'd turned.
Damn these foreign backpacks – they all looked the same.
She'd gathered her wits and spoken to him and led him behind her through the village, reckless of all the stares. She would have done well to be more careful, but the ripple of muscles beneath the stranger's shirt and the softness of his voice had filled her with adrenaline: excitement and apprehension both took her the same way. And her initial responses hadn't been wrong. Their instant attraction could not be doubted; she felt it in every enchanted glance he gave her, in every long-suppressed atom of her body.
She frowned, feeling her skin tighten and her mouth fill with saliva. Then the direction of her thoughts changed.
Would he return today? How would she greet him? Would he be able to read her intentions in her eyes?
23
Films had never done justice to it, nor songs, nor literature; no poetry looked even like a stain of the real thing; no friend had described, nor angry husband cursed it with half the zeal he now felt. She taught him to believe that his body was made for sexual delight and that such pleasure with her was the true breath of life. He teased her curls with his fingers, touched her eyelids, her lips. In response, she drove him through frenzy to sunlit joy and back. In her arms time became so elastic that a gasp was the onset of nightfall and another inhalation the subtle chime of noon.
Abruptly Karmel broke out of the fantasy he had been weaving as he walked. The village was upon him. Having climbed for the whole day, he was fatigued quite unbearably.
A few women were still up and about, sitting in doorways or rocking babies to sleep. He could see into some dwellings through chinks in the wood and occasionally a door was ajar. He noted with unease that the heavy rain was filling alleyways between houses and causing mud to flow downwards in a thick, unprepossessing torrent. He did not pause until he reached Gauri's cabin.
The sculptress seemed less sure of herself than she had been on his initial visit. There was an aura of strained discomfort about her that he couldn't quite fathom. Without questioning him, she took his wet garments and laid them by her stove.
Unlike her neighbours, Gauri seemed to be totally uninterested in her appearance. She looked even more emaciated than on the night he'd first seen her, and her clothes were dotted with wood-shavings. He noticed that she'd been working on some project when he intruded and had hastily thrown her tools behind a blanket strung across the far-side of the room to form a rough curtain; it was still swaying slightly when he entered. Her bed too must lie in the space behind the curtain. His stomach growled. He cleared his throat. Although he had not spoken she guessed his famished state and set about making him something to eat.
When he had warmed himself sufficiently, he found that the silence was becoming awkward.
'I bring you greetings from your uncle. The one in Bhukta.' He decided that the truth would be his best cover. She, however, merely nodded and continued stirring the food she was cooking. He watched her, noting her sharp shoulder-blades and the deep breaths she seemed to take.
'Yes, listen, I hope you don't mind, but he told me you are a great artist, that you sell your work. He asked me if I wanted to buy any and I decided to come to see you again to . . . to see which pieces I might buy. I will be returning to Delhi shortly, as my work here is almost done.'
Ladling soup into a large wooden bowl she brought it to him and set it down at his feet. Then she settled herself on the other side of the square pit that housed the smouldering embers of the cooking fire and stared at him through its smoke. Once he had eaten a few mouthfuls, Karmel felt irritation begin to stir.
What the hell was she thinking? If she was always as impenetrable as this he wasn't surprised that her kin had rejected her. The thought had barely formed before he began to feel guilty. After all, it was after nightfall and he had appeared unannounced in her house and was eating her food. When he had slurped the very last morsel from the hot broth in his bowl and she finally deigned to answer him, he realised why she barely spoke.
Her voice was whispery, almost inaudible, and every breath she took was a struggle. Her words came out between soft gasps.
'You . . . didn't come . . . back and talk . . . to me. You said.' A prolonged cough. 'That day.' Hearing her, Karmel felt uncomfortable; he had escaped from her that first evening with such alacrity to be back in Thahéra's presence that he had said whatever came into his mind. Of course he had intended to question her, eventually, like all the others in the village. But then circumstances had intervened. Perhaps she was a woman who didn't like being spurned?
'I apologise. Forgive me. I'm a stupid man. If I'd known about the soup . . ..' His jest remained unfinished, for she doubled over in seeming agony, coughing and gasping like a dying creature. At last, when she raised her face to him, her eyes were moist. He rose in concern.
'Is there anything I can do?'
'Water . . . over there.'
He poured her a mug. Surely her asthma could be controlled? He wondered once again how anyone in the village lived so far away from doctors and medication. But then, as a boy he had lived in Delhi, a big city, but no one had been given medicine, however bad their condition. He still shuddered to remember the delirious boys screaming on certain nights. You knew what you had to bear and you bore it. If you could.
'You've been down . . . the mountain.'
'Yes,' he answered, eager to keep her attention. 'I was in Bhukta to send a report to my office.'
'And . . . what did you . . . explain to them?' Perspiration beaded her brow.
'I, er . . . you know, about the soil and how I found the condition here. Trees, roots . . . er. Yes.'
'Oh – the soil. Will they be . . . pleased?'
'I hope so. I mean the condition is improving. I mean since last time, better than it was.' Karmel felt rather than saw her shade her eyes to look across at him as he spoke.
'The condition of the soil?' Gasp. 'Last time? Have you been here . . . before?'
'No, that is to say not me. But our office. Yes. Many years ago.'
'I've been here for many years. I don't . . . remember your office sending anyone.'
'You have a good memory?' Gauri nodded, her face sombre. Karmel felt for the first time that he was in a position to take control of the conversation.
'Okay, Gauri … may I call you that? Your uncle spoke of you so much that I feel I know you.'
'You may . . . call me anything. But don't … speak of my uncle or anything he told you.' She cleared her throat and spat into the stove-pit; there was a tiny hiss. Karmel took it as a warning.
'Okay, then, Gauri. Tell me some things that have been puzzling me. I've heard some rumours while I've been here and they've made me curious. You have a good memory, so satisfy my curiosity.'
'You're talking about the foreigners?' He was startled by her admission after Thahéra's caginess, but then, perhaps Gauri had nothing to hide. The curtain at the end of her cabin twitched in some unseen breeze. Eyebrows raised, Karmel did not take his eyes from her face.
'Yes. That's what I'm talking about. How did you know?'
'Thahéra told me that you were asking questions. But as she said, there's nothing to tell. One fair man came. He came months ago . . . maybe four months? He was around a lot for some time; we all saw him; he was quite a friendly man.' Gasp.
'Did he have a name? This man?'
'What's it to you, soil collector?'
'I'm just curious, as I said. Tell me about him. You seem to get so few visitors up here.'
'There were some men here then . . . for the winter . . . and he sat with them and played cards. . .as well as spending time with … us women.' Her breathing seemed to be easing and he felt silent gratitude. When her whole frame was shaken by the cough, he'd felt the urge to hold onto her and support – or was it protect – her?
'Yes? It was winter?'
'He wandered around with his camera and his notebook. We liked to look at his drawings. Every week he'd send one of the boys on a trip to Bhukta to post off his letters. And rolls of film. Stuff like that. He was very generous and the boys loved to be picked but he liked only a young fellow called Samir. That lad's gone now, up to the pastures with his father.' She paused. 'Then another fair man came.' Her tone had changed. Subtly but surely, he felt her anger, her disdain. What had happened? Had she been hurt in some way by 'the other man'? What she was telling him was exactly what Stitching Woman had said. Two men. Not what Sara and Adam had said.
'This other man – he was a foreigner?'
'You know already? So why ask me . . . as if I have . . . breath to waste!' So, either the young tourists didn't know about the other foreign man – or they had lied. Again.
'I'm sorry. Go on, sister.' Karmel rose and stretched his legs. His muscles felt stiff. He started to pace the room and Gauri's eyes followed him, momentarily appearing to be filled with panic. She spoke swiftly, loudly, drawing his attention.
'He was very fair, the new man, and he smoked a lot. He left cigarette stubs wherever he went. They stayed, those two, for some more days . . .. They stayed in the cabin where you stay now . . . then . . . they left.'
'They both left? Together? Are you sure?'
'They were seen by the river together . . . then they went down. Then a woman came . … A fair woman.'
'Alone?' Karmel's eyebrows shot up, although what she said was not a surprise to him.
'Yes, alone.'
'How soon after they left did the woman come? Weeks? Days?' His tone was casual. He seated himself by the fire, closer to his hostess. She didn't flinch.
'She came . . . maybe two days later. She asked for food. She was given food. Then she left too. She was a rude woman . . .. She never returned the vessel Thahéra's sister gave her.'
'You met this woman?'
'No. But I saw her.'
'What did she look like?'
'Slim, unkempt, men's clothing, hair like straw . . ..' Sara. It had to be.
'Who spoke to her?'
'I don't recall.'
'Thahéra's sister?'
'May be.'
'Were there any men in the village at the time? Had they left yet for the pastures?'
'There were some men.'
'And you never saw any of those three again?'
'No. Never.' Had she paused slightly? He couldn't tell. Her eye-sockets looked hollow. He decided that she was even more exhausted than he was; her hands were trembling; she drew her shawl over her head and spat again. This time he thought he saw crimson flash in the phlegm but he wasn't sure. He silenced the other questions rising to his lips, the personal ones, about her life and the way it had turned out. He'd save them for another time.
'You're going now?'
'It's late. You look like you need to rest.' His tone was kind. Now that he had questioned her, he felt more at ease. So, the woman had ascended alone, and all the foreigners had been alive when they left the village. At least according to Gauri.
He was in a hurry to record his findings and to think about the pattern emerging.
'You don't want to. . . no. Go. Go!' She put a hand in front of her mouth as if to stop her words but he thought she was hiding her expression. She lighted a small lantern for him as he gathered his damp jacket and laced his boots. He smiled at her as he took his leave, wanting to show how pleased he was by her candour. But Gauri had already looked away and was studying her hands, a small sad frown creasing her brow.
The second he stepped onto the slippery stairs outside her door, the rain engulfed him. It was pouring. Fat, fast-moving drops came at him almost horizontally and the lantern sputtered out. Momentarily blinded, he felt for the bottom step and sensed rather than heard something approaching him from behind. Stepping onto the mushy ground, he tried to turn and face the movement but there was no time. His arms grasped at air, then everything dissolved into vicious, insufferable, scorching pain.
24
Rimi Charoot and Narayan were playing cards. Taylor and Cornell were tossing pieces of chalk at each other and giggling hysterically. Sadrettin cleaned his glasses and tried to read 'The File'. He had sneaked it out of Rimi's bag while she was peeing in the darkness outside with the others standing guard. Now he had it secreted within his sleeping bag and was using his pocket torch to peruse its contents.
They had arrived at Malundi as night fell, soaking wet, sore and in foul tempers with each other and with their bearers. The village was silent, except for the repulsive chirping of some barbaric insects and the thunderous monotony of rain. No one had come out to greet them and there were few lights showing. Their guide disappeared almost instantly and the bearers grumbled about having to stand in the downpour with the heavy equipment. Taylor was distraught because he thought his laptop screen might have cracked due to an unnecessary jolt from the man carrying his pack. He was screaming abuse at him when their guide returned, dragging a sleepy old woman in his wake.
She was, she declared, the village headmistress. They could use the school to sleep in for a small fee. It was too late to make other arrangements but in the morning she would personally welcome them and show them the village, such as it was. She had few teeth, but her smile was wide and sweet.
Sadrettin gratefully accepted her offer on behalf of his party. He silently blessed her when she said she would make some food and have the bearers bring it for t
hem. She left and their guide took them to the schoolhouse where he was subjected to their acid comments.
'It leaks.'
'There's no fucking electricity.'
'Why's the door locked? Oh hell, I'm going to kick the lock in.'
Sadrettin paid the bearers. He asked them if they'd mind coming a bit later in the morning than previously agreed. Five a.m. was too early for his colleagues.
'I heard that, you lazy bastard' commented Narayan. The two men just stared at him morosely. Sadrettin took out more money. The bearers agreed to meet them at seven. Then one of them muttered something about the rain.
'What did he say?' Taylor wanted to know.
'He says that it might not be possible to move far tomorrow. The river – will be quite flooded. And we have to cross at some point.'
'Okay then! Breakfast in bed and Sunday morning television,' chirped Narayan. The others scowled at him as the bearers left.
The food had disappeared almost as soon as it arrived. They set up two flashlights in order to clear a space in the middle of the cold floor. There was barely enough room for all of them to lie side by side. Rimi sulked because Sadrettin refused to accompany her outside and then cheered up when all the other men rushed to her aid.
It was the opportunity he'd been waiting for all through the trip. He'd seen Antonio's secretary, Mrs Pillai, hand it to Rimi as they were leaving the office a few days before; he knew where she kept it because she was always looking into her bag as if fearful for its safety. Once, when she was leaning against him in the jeep, he'd peeked inside her bag. And there it was – an innocuous looking chrome-coloured plastic file.
Filching it had been the work of a moment. Now, pretending to read a novel inside his sleeping bag, he was memorising the contents: glossy photographs of women and children in various clichéd poses, several of mountains and trees and an icy green lake; plans, estimates, maps and tables – an entire little model village, no less, to be constructed near this splendorous lake they were seeking. His eyes settled on a letter dated late in May: Dear Signor Antonio, the weather up here is better with each passing day. I have discovered a local craftswoman who could, with some coaxing, become a powerful ally in our scheme for she has no means of marketing her wares at present. He flicked to the next page, pulse throbbing and read the postscript, his imagination supplying details his eyes could not see: Why don't you join me up here and let me repay in kind the hospitality you showed me in Delhi?
Truth Lake Page 16