For the first time Sadrettin felt no disloyalty in thinking that something his boss had decided on was not simply evil but also foolish.
The man had snubbed him, patronised him like a little child: as if he didn't know why Antonio chose to live in India so far away from his wife and brat! As if he was unobservant and stupid like all the other staff! And the man had the nerve to tell him to get married! Agitated, he lost his grip on the torch and it rolled beneath him. Shuffling around to find it, he loosened his grasp on the file and papers started to slide out. Rimi called, 'Got a mouse in there, darling? Shall I come help you look for it?' There was muffled laughter. Obviously the others thought he was up to something sexual. He squirmed in embarrassment, then lay very still and pretended to read his novel.
When the others had stopped talking, he found his place in the file. Antonio and his cute British architect obviously thought they'd found Nirvana at last; and maybe they had. Maybe all the locals would welcome the project and dance with glee at the thought of being displayed at a premium to wealthy foreign tourists? But Sadrettin didn't care; he didn't care anymore and he ached with the pain he'd been caused by the one and only man he'd ever loved.
*
Tanya and her father sat across from each other in the freshness of the garden, sipping tea. He gazed at her, lovingly, wanting to take her into his arms and tell her all that he was feeling. Sensing his wish, Tanya came off her rocker and hefted herself over to the swinging seat on which her father reclined. He wiped his eyes and asked, not for the first time, 'Are you sure it's all right for the baby?' and she responded, 'Yes, papa. Doctor says so.'
From inside the house they could hear the tinkle and chime of small bells. Mrs Hàrélal was having a puja to celebrate the reconciliation between her husband and daughter and to beg the Gods for a suitable boy to be the baby's father.
At last Tanya broke the silence.
'You forgive me?'
'Yes, my child. You know I do.'
'Then tell me what's troubling you. Tell me your worries. Share them with me. You know you would if I was a boy.'
'Daughter, don't start that again! Aren't you ever satisfied?'
'Do you love Kailashbabu more than you love me?'
'You know the answer to that.'
'Then tell me. Ma says that you've been beside yourself recently.'
'The woman talks too much.'
'She says we may have to move out of the bungalow! I have right to know why little fellow won't be born in his own house.' She laughed nervously as she spoke and the knowledge that his daughter was still, really, deep-down, afraid of his opinion, desirous of seeming good even when she had transgressed so badly, that knowledge did more to change her father's mind than all her pleading.
He glanced around the garden. What a pleasant place it was, with its roses and sunflowers, its border of sweet-smelling herbs. He could remember exactly when he'd purchased each of the coy statues and when he'd had the men in to set up the wrought-iron swing. His wife loved the garden too. Her circle of lady-friends would laugh at her if it was taken away. It would be a shame to lose this place, for want of trying. And Tanya, after all, did have a law degree. So he began at the beginning, with Sara McMeckan and her stained T-shirt, and continued until his daughter told him to stop. Because, she said, he'd give himself high blood pressure, and it wasn't necessary; in the morning, she was going to make some expensive phone calls. And she was going to find out exactly where those two foreign tourists were.
Unaware of Tanya's resolve, Sara and Adam were just beginning to speak to each other again, for the first time in several days. Propped up in bed, Sara had on a clean gown and a towel around her wet hair. The fragrance of coffee filled their suite and their door clicked shut as room-service departed. There was an awkward pause as Adam fiddled with a diminutive cheese sandwich. He seemed to come to a decision.
'Did you know what you were saying about me in your sleep?' Placing the sandwich uneaten onto the platter before him, Adam picked at one of his teeth with a fingernail.
Sara looked away. 'What was I saying?'
'You were saying a load of weird shite! It kinda' felt like …You said . . . oh never mind, fuck it, let's go get a drink.' He grabbed the edge of her bed and gave it a playful shake.
'I don't feel like a drink just yet, Adso. I haven't eaten a meal for six days.'
'Well, that's just too bad . . . be a bore then and eat before drinking!' Adam's tone was light, but his eyes didn't rest on Sara for more than a second and she couldn't understand why he was being so unresponsive towards her. Perhaps it was because she had phoned her mother the previous week when she was feeling really low and Mrs McMeckan had called back and told Adam to bring her home. Maybe he was just pissed at her for being sick and spoiling his fun at this beach resort – although how he could even dream of enjoying himself after what they'd been through was a mystery.
What had she said in her sleep? Had she . . . oh God! She hoped she hadn't said anything about Cameron! That would be too awful, especially since she knew it couldn't be true. There simply hadn't been any reason for him to . . . and besides Adam was too soft to do anything like that, even if he had found out . . . about the engagement.
She sat up and shrugged off her cardigan, trying to meet Adam's eyes.
'Come on, I'll accompany you to the bar and have a soda while you drink!' She tried to placate him. The towel came undone and fell across her shoulders. Her hair looked strange and fluffy, its brown roots showing. She tidied it with her fingers and smiled at Adam to show that she was better. She'd already thanked him several times for looking after her. She moved around the bed so that she could see him more clearly. But when he did finally meet her eyes, she felt a chill creep through her that had nothing to do with the fever, which had left her so weak, and everything to do with what they had left behind in the Himalayas.
25
It was like one of those tiny scars that itch intolerably just when you think they've healed. Or something that tickles in your sock but that you can't quite reach without taking your shoe off. Or a broken corner of fingernail when you've just had them 'done'. A memory but not a memory. Water all around him and pain – was it the showers again? Were they hitting him? Was that a needle or a knife inching its treacherous way across his flesh, carving out a tattoo that would stay with him forever? Karmel struggled to deny the pain its hold over him, to get away from the hands that held him down. But his body simply couldn't cope and he drifted off again into a semi-conscious world.
He was running down a street with a book under his shirt, pressed against his body and he'd run so fast that his ribs hurt and the book was cutting into him but he knew he had to get away because the manager of the book-store had called him a thief and he was being followed. He was suffocating, panting, crying out for air. There was a man on top of him. An old man with a tobacco smell and baggy white skin and rough fingers forcing his face downwards, gripping him by the chin, murmuring something about money. Oh God no! It couldn't be? Did people do that? How was he to breathe? Then quite suddenly he was fully aware, conscious and overwhelmed by nausea.
Karmel only managed to move a few feet before vomit poured from him and laced the air with its grim perfume. When he had wiped his mouth several times, he looked around. With gratitude he confirmed that the shards of childhood were but nightmares; then, aghast, he realised that he wasn't in his Delhi flat after a rough night's drinking. He was by a fire in a familiar room and a woman was bending anxiously over him.
Out on the mountainside beneath the trees, chunks of soil began to detach themselves from the slopes and to slide, ever faster, downwards. Areas of plastic sheeting were uncovered, where the corpse lay, and then covered again by successive torrents of mud. Gusts of wind chased each other between looming trunks. Trees shuddered and moaned beneath their weight of water. A sudden gleam of lightning cast itself across the mountainside and illuminated the alleyways of the village. They appeared for a second, narrow and
winding, but empty of human beings. Thunder cracked the atmosphere as a slim figure detached itself from its position against the bole of a tree and slid stealthily towards Saahitaal.
Karmel looked up at Thahéra who was bending over him; she looked back down at him. His expression was wary; hers was ambiguous, full of some suppressed emotion – anger? anxiety? contrition? Karmel, great reader of faces, was unable to decide.
His stomach lurched around at every thump of his pulse and there was a sickening pain at the side of his head. He was very aware of being watched. Looking around 'his' cabin, he noticed that the tin trunk had disappeared. Why was Thahéra there – had she been sent to spy on him? He didn't want to speak to her.
'Gauri said you slipped on her steps and had a fall.' She offered, at last. Unable to help himself, he asked, 'How did I get here? Someone must have carried me?'
'My son – and I. Gauri couldn't move you, so she came to us.'
'How did you–? Oh . . . it doesn't matter. Why don't you go? I'm awake.' He knew even as he spoke how feeble he sounded; yet, the small fear that had crept into his voice was nothing to the larger one that was struggling for articulation in his mind.
He wasn't entirely clear about the sequence of events that had brought him where he was, but he did know that he hadn't been on anybody's steps when he fell. And he hadn't fallen until someone hit him with savage force on the head. If he hadn't been moving at the time the blow could have killed him. As it was it had glanced off his skull, splitting the skin and landed with diminished force on his shoulder. The similarity of his injury to the one on the corpse's skull did not escape his notice.
So, whatever tale Thahéra was spinning was either her own pack of lies or one Gauri had told her. He tried to tune her out but her voice was persistent.
'I'll stay for a while. If you want?' She seemed to be pleading with him. Why was that – a guilty conscience? Where had she been when he'd 'fallen'? He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of asking; nor was he going to allow her to try again – if it had been she who'd tried to harm him in the first place. Or perhaps it was her oldest boy, the one who never smiled. What had Stitching Woman said about him? Twice abandoned and bitter. Or was it foolish? He couldn't be sure.
Though few people could be aware of his return to the village, in Karmel's mind Saahitaal was now the sinister site of murder and violence. Everyone was implicated. Everyone was a watcher.
He tried to turn on his back, away from her, but the pain in his neck and skull was so alarming that he remained still.
'Go. Go to your children. I don't need any help.' His voice sounded irritable, even to his own ears.
'They're asleep now. It's late. Maybe I can make you something to drink? See, I've made a fire! I should have done it days ago. I lived here, in this cottage, when I was a child and in those days the water didn't intrude in this manner. We never raised this off the ground properly because father came to stay with us and it remained empty. What did we need with another place, we thought. This place is very damp. No one uses it in this season. Usually.' Thahéra chattered on about inconsequential subjects, moving bits of wood around, putting water on to boil. Then she knelt down and cleaned up the mess he'd made, scattering ash onto the floor to mask the acrid smell of his bile.
He felt helpless and humiliated. The firelight hurt his eyes and he tried to close them to shut out everything but only succeeded in scaring himself for, as soon as his lids closed, it seemed as if something huge was leaning over him, just waiting to smash down on his skull.
He opened his eyes.
Thahéra was several feet away by the fire, preparing tea. 'What if she poisons it?' he thought. But when she handed him the mug he sat up and drank the tea, relishing the way the skin in his mouth was scalded and his mind brought back to life by the liquid.
The room smelt smoky and his eyes were beginning to smart, for there was no ventilation. She seemed unaffected by the stuffy air. Feeling a bit more alert, he dropped his feet to the earth. She had been perched on her heels a few feet from the bed. She rose and settled herself on the far side of the cooking fire. Once he was upright he thought she seemed more wary, less relaxed.
'So no one stays here in this season?' He forced back bile.
'No. It's too wet.'
'What about other seasons? What about winter and spring?'
'Not usually. We're not a popular destination, as you pointed out before. So isolated. No men.'
'So who was here before me? Or was it just another man who had a 'fall' on Gauri's steps?' His expression was hostile; his cheeks were very pale and there were dark smudges beneath his long-lashed eyes.
'Why are you so angry with me, stranger?'
'You're asking me why? Somebody tries to kill me and you lie to me and everyone here is a liar and you're asking why I'm angry?' The quiet revulsion with which he spoke was more menacing than violence. It was not a technique he had mastered nor one he would ever use in the course of his work – Kailash Karmel was not an aggressive man. But fear had brought his anger to the surface and it swirled around them in the murky room like scum on a pond.
'No one tried to kill you.' Her tone was soothing, her grey eyes shining and clear. Should he trust her?
'And no one stayed in this cabin in the winter?'
'Why are you going on about that?' Now there was an edge to her voice.
'Did anyone stay here – can you answer – yes or no?'
'Yes! Yes someone stayed. A man stayed, okay?' She was panting. 'He was working here, just like you are working. My sister told me to give him the room because he offered us money. Lots of money; and she needed to take my nephew to a temple in Malundi. We are not all liars, whatever you may think! So. Don't go too far with that tongue of yours! Now you explain please, what does all this have to do with you?'
'I don't have to answer you, woman. I don't have to believe anything you tell me.'
'Why are you so angry with me?' She bit her lip. Firelight danced on the stone and mud walls, illuminating the cracks like tiny black decorations.
'Where did the trunk go?'
'The trunk?' She scanned the room, apparently puzzled.
'Yes, that piece of furniture which was there. BIG BOX?' He pointed to the place where it had lain under the window. She passed a hand over her eyes but replied almost instantly.
'That belongs to my sister. She said she needed it; my older son came and took it for her while you were gone.' Karmel didn't know whether it was her lie that made him angrier or her stepson's supposed impertinence.
'He came in here? Into my place?'
'Yes! You're only ''renting'' it from us! You don't own it! This isn't the city. He had a right to come in here; he hasn't stolen anything of yours!'
'Where is he now, your stepson?
'He's asleep, of course. He was exhausted after carrying you down the hill.'
Karmel felt no remorse. Instead his fury grew at this snide reference to his helpless state.
'And I suppose you were also asleep when Gauri came to call you, not waiting somewhere near her house?'
'Why should I do that?' She sounded surprised.
'You tell me.'
Thahéra blinked and turned her face away for a moment. 'You're insulting me.' She stood up and walked to the door.
He could hear the thunderous energy of the rain against his roof like the patter of funeral drums. One of the walls glistened; it was thick with slime. Occasionally a drop fell through the roof and sputtered into the fire. Karmel shuddered.
Thahéra stood by the door with her back to him; he wanted to call out to her but found that his tongue wouldn't move. All his earlier delight in her presence came rushing back; he was desperate for her not to leave, for her to turn so that he could see her face. Even as he'd interrogated her just now, he'd been drinking in her features, the glorious grey eyes, the stud in her nose like an earth-star. How old was she? Maybe thirty? Maybe much younger. She was ageless. And he was completely crazy. She was t
he first woman he'd desired – in months. And he was pushing her away.
Perhaps she had a reason for everything she did and it had nothing to do with his case. Sick with anxiety in case he'd picked on her unfairly, he tried to stand up but felt too weak. Blood jumped in his veins.
Just as he thought Thahéra would leave without turning around, she did turn. Her face appeared wretched, strained with unshed tears. She darted back towards him, towards the bed where he lay, her skirt dragging across the floor. He held out his hands to indicate that she should sit next to him but she collapsed onto her knees beside the bed, taking his hands in hers and kissing them in impetuous tenderness, her tongue wet on his fingers, her tears wet on his thighs. Then she jumped up and ran out of the cabin, leaving the door wide open on the blackness outside.
Wearily, Karmel rose to shut the door. Gritting his teeth, he changed out of his clothes, which were wet, filthy and stained by the blood from the wide gash on the side of his head. Then climbed into his sleeping bag to ponder on the insane cruelty of human desire.
An hour ago he had been lying like the piteous corpse on in the village mud wet to the bone with rain and blood.
Now he was craving the touch of the woman he'd accused of attacking him. Perverse. And dangerous.
Karmel assumed he wouldn't be able to sleep, but within minutes he was drifting off, thinking about his boss's feisty daughter Tanya and all the things he had planned as a much younger man. Then he'd considered her the most amazing creation of God, and all he'd wanted was to rise in his profession, to build her a beautiful house – even better than her father's – to marry her, if she would have him: what had become of those dreams now? And of him? And of her?
Truth Lake Page 17