Seahorse

by Janice Pariat

  From the window, I could see the formless shapes of trees, and hedges, and length of wall, shadow layered upon shadow.

  By the bed, a narrow bookshelf overflowed with old classics—Dickens, the Brontës, Hardy, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth. Going by the collection, modernism and everything after had never taken place. The fridge stocked a lonely bottle of milk, a loaf of bread. In the corner, an unobtrusive door opened to a tiny airplane-style bathroom, fitted with a toilet and shower. I washed at the sink, flinching in turn from icy water flowing from one tap, and scalding heat from the other.

  Finally, I walked out. One step down and the flood light blazed on. It felt as though I was alone on a stage, and didn’t quite know which part I was meant to be playing.

  I walked across to the house, my breath forming spirits before my face. Should I go to the back door? No, I was a guest. Not a family friend.

  I pressed the doorbell, and waited. The piano player had stopped. Above the wooden mailbox hung a nameplate carved in dark grey stone—Wintervale.

  I expected Myra to come to the door, or her father, but it was opened by a boy, no older than nine or ten, breathless, clutching what looked like a decapitated toy penguin. We stared at each other—thick dark hair curled messily around his ears, his cheeks flushed.

  “Hello,” I said.

  He had bright, wide eyes with no hint of wariness or fear. They were green or grey, it was difficult to tell.

  “Is that for me?” His gaze had fallen on the gift under my arm.

  “Elliot.” It was Myra, coming down the stairs at the end of the foyer. “You mustn’t keep people waiting.” She looked at me. “I do apologize.”

  We entered the drawing room, spacious and surprisingly modern, with an ivory sofa set in the centre, arranged around a fireplace draped with holly. At one end, wide shelves and an elegant chaise longue, more for style than convenience, and at the other a deep bay window. The ceiling rose pristinely white, while the walls were papered by pale floral damask, tinged in leaf-green. In a corner, a Christmas tree gleamed and flickered, decorated in silver and gold.

  For a moment, everything seemed touched by something unreal.

  “This is Elliot…” Myra paused before adding, “my son.”

  I tried to sound casual while greeting him, hoping the surprise didn’t show through.

  “Elliot,” she continued, “this is an old friend… you can call him Nem.”

  The boy, still holding on to the headless seabird, gave me a long scrutinizing stare. “Mummy told me you’re from India… is that true?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you have an elephant? I saw on TV… a man from India who had a pet elephant.”

  “No… but I know a man who can speak to birds.”

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  “You can ask him all about it tomorrow,” said Myra. “Now, go find Flapper’s head, and put all your toys away.”

  You didn’t tell me you had a son…

  Except, of course, she had no reason to. We’d shared no more than a fleeting encounter, years ago, in a bungalow in the old city on the other side of the world. Nothing in common but Nicholas. Then and now. Running through us like a fault line. But it was enough to have drawn us here together so we could untangle the past.

  “This is for you…” I handed her the chocolates.

  “Thank you, Nem… you shouldn’t have…” She walked over to the tree, and placed it alongside a pile of other gift-wrapped boxes.

  “What’s in it?” Elliot stood at the door, Flapper dangling inelegantly by his side.

  “It’s a surprise, darling,” said Myra. “Now, let’s get you ready for bed. Come along…”

  She said she’d be down soon and ushered him upstairs.

  I stood by the fireplace and put my hands to the flames. It made me nervous, this scrupulous pristineness. What if my shoes had dragged in dirt? I checked, quickly. They hadn’t, but I wished I’d worn a smarter pair. (Thank heavens I’d splurged on the chocolates.) The overmantle mirror calmly reflected the door and walls, a large impasto painting of white tulips, a floor lamp, me. A framed certificate hung left of the fireplace, a blue insignia with a declaration of an appointment to the Order of the British Empire. I stepped closer: for services to education. More intriguing, though, was the cabinet below that held an assortment of alcoholic beverages, as well as a decorative glass dome covering a pair of taxidermy birds. Mud brown apart from a gash of scarlet on their heads, they looked eerily, disconcertingly alive.

  On the mantelpiece, stood slender candle holders on one end, and on the other, two tilting black and white photographs. Of Myra’s mother—clear skin and fine bones, her eyes, I imagined, in shades of cloudy sky—and a man in uniform, glancing into the camera, rippling with youth. A heavy mustache, a strong chin. I leaned in, drawn to the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.

  “When did you arrive?”

  I whipped around.

  “Half-past five,” Sir. I almost added.

  “Just off the boat then?”

  He held out his hand. “Philip.” It was firm, cold to the touch.

  “I’m Nehemiah… Myra’s friend.”

  “So she told me. From London, did you say?” His eyes were pale blue, shadows in the snow.

  “Yes, I mean, that’s where I am now… for a few more months. I’m from India.”

  “India.” He said the word with affected grandeur. “Brought the monsoons here, have you?”

  I smiled. “Seems like it.”

  He gestured to an armchair—I sat down—and he moved to the table with the bottles and birds.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  My polite refusal was met with boisterous disapproval. “Come now, nothing to warm you up? Whisky? How about a gin and tonic? Or a nice dry sherry? Yes?”

  “I was offered a job once in India…” He mentioned a public school in the north of the country. “You might have heard of it…”

  I said I had. Did he take it up?

  “Oh no… I didn’t.” He didn’t offer a reason why.

  Since the conversation seemed to have halted, I asked the most perfunctory of questions—whether he’d ever visited the Indian subcontinent.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The closest I got… was Australia… no, Jakarta, for some conference or the other.”

  The glow from the fire spilled into the room; above the spit and crackle of the wood, I could hear the low drum of rain. Discreetly, I studied Philip’s profile—an outline of bold strokes, a long, sturdy nose, a rugged expanse of forehead and cheek, and oddly delicate, feminine lips. A portrait by Francis Bacon, completed by someone else.

  His face seemed strangely familiar.

  Where could I have possible seen him? Perhaps it was a trick of light. Or alcohol. My G&T, I could tell, was more generously supplied with gin than tonic.

  “So how do you know Myra?”

  The safest answer was we’d met through a common friend.

  “Over in London?”

  I hesitated. No, years ago in India.

  Surprise glimmered on his face for a moment, and then it was gone, replaced by mild curiosity.

  “Oh, I don’t recall when she went…”

  I could tell him. To the day.

  He laughed. “But then, one can’t be privy to everything in our children’s lives, can we?”

  “No.” It was Myra, at the door. “One can’t be privy to everything in anyone’s life.”

  Supper, she went on to announce, was ready.

  The dining room across the foyer was a smaller space painted eggshell blue, with a series of still life paintings—fruit, fish and game—on the wall. We sat on slender, high-backed chairs; Philip at the head and Myra and I on either side. Her dress matched the hydrangeas arranged at the centre of the table, a deep royal purple. Strung around her neck, a discreet line of pearls.

  As with every meal shared, this too began with a ritual—the flurry of napkins, the polite passin
g around of food. A dance of hands and cutlery. We started with a creamy mushroom soup, and moved on to long-simmered coq au vin. On the side, glistening Brussels sprouts, potato mash, and rolls of crusty, rosemary-infused bread.

  Myra served herself small, tidy portions. Philip poured the wine, a rich Burgundy Bouchard Aîné Fils, elegantly woody and spiced. I was ravenous but ate slowly, taking care to compliment the food—“Did you make this, Myra?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m afraid my culinary skills are mostly non-existent. We have a lady coming in to help around the house… Mrs. Hammond… you’ll meet her tomorrow.”

  Of course, I should have known, and not asked what now seemed a silly question. Given where they lived, it was hardly likely Myra managed the household. Somehow, the exchange dampened my hunger, compressing it into a tight, leaden ball at the bottom of my stomach.

  “What are you doing in London?” asked Philip. “Do you play a musical instrument too?”

  No, I didn’t…

  “Ah, you play cricket then, I’m sure.”

  “Not everyone in India plays cricket,” interrupted Myra.

  “Daddy…”

  “I’m only joking.” He looked at me. “You know I’m joking, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Besides,” he said, “I prefer tennis. Do you play tennis, Nehemiah?”

  No, I was afraid not.

  “Swim?”

  Not much.

  He went on to say that was a pity; else we might’ve used the pool or courts at Kingsley, a school nearby where he used to be headmaster.

  “They’re indoors,” clarified Myra. “What are your plans for the holidays?” she added, perhaps in a bid to change the subject. She sounded like Eva.

  “Let me guess,” said Philip, looking at me over the rim of his wine glass, “you don’t ski either?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you?”

  “No… I was joking.”

  Philip laughed, a hearty, wholesome laugh—with me, or at me, I wasn’t sure.

  We’d just started dessert—apple crumble and warm custard—when Philip said he’d met Geoff, while taking the horses out that afternoon. “Geoffrey Ritchie… he lives down the road from us,” he added for my benefit. “Poor chap… still having problems with his neighbors.”

  “You mean the young couple?” asked Myra.

  Allegedly, they’d driven a fence a few meters into his property, and after a number of rows, each more escalated than the last, he was taking them to court.

  “Oh, dad, he’s a crotchety old man.”

  Her father chuckled, sipping his wine.

  “I think it’s silly, to fight over a bit of mud…” said Myra.

  “I suppose he feels, well, three meters today… four tomorrow… and soon he’ll be feeding them supper too.”

  “What horses do you have?” I asked.

  Philip leaned back, appraising me, my question. “Only ever kept Irish Hunters.”

  “May I come round to see them? If that’s alright…”

  “Do you ride, Nem?” Myra seemed surprised.

  She didn’t remember.

  “Yes… although it’s been a while.”

  The dessert sat tart and ripe on my tongue. I could feel the tiredness now, seeping into my limbs.

  “Come see the horses tomorrow,” said Philip. “General and Lady. Fine animals. Unless you have other plans…”

  “I thought I’d take Nem for a walk… down Triscombe Way.” Myra sketched out our plans for the next three days—perhaps a drive to the moors, a visit to the village. “All depending on the weather…”

  “I’m in London on Saturday,” said Philip. “You can do what you like, but don’t take the horses out. Not if I’m not around.”

  “We won’t.” She turned to me, “Dad goes up for monthly meetings at the Whiley Club.”

  “What sort of club is it?” I asked.

  “Like the Bullingdon,” he replied, “only the members are fifty years older.” He pushed himself away from the table, “Now, how about a whisky? I’ve got a lovely twelve-year Lochnagar… they say it’s the Queen’s favorite.”

  Later, Philip retired to his study, while Myra and I sat by the fire; the flames now burning low. I still cradled the whisky; denser than I was accustomed to, though with a pleasant dryness around the edges.

  “I know it’s absurd but I feel like I’ve seen your father before… some where…”

  “It is absurd! Dad doesn’t leave the house. Apart from going riding or hunting.”

  “And London.”

  “Yes. To mooch around with a bunch of stuffy old men.”

  I hesitated. “I hope I haven’t offended him in any way…”

  “Good grief, no. He’s—I told you, he can be a bit… forthright.”

  “I wouldn’t like to be here if—”

  “It isn’t a bother, Nem… I invited you. It was only fair. We couldn’t possibly have you travel back to London or god knows where in the middle of the night. Besides, it’s quite a victory he relented. One of few.”

  “How did you convince him?”

  “I told him you were an Indian prince.”

  We laughed into our drinks, and I said, “It would’ve been a waste, to come all this way and then leave without seeing you…”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think we both need… help.”

  I’d expected her to say to talk.

  She glanced at her watch. “I must check on Elliot… and look through some music. You must be tired… would you like to go to bed? Shall we talk tomorrow?”

  I couldn’t wait any longer. Suddenly, I didn’t think I could ever sleep.

  “What about tonight? Later…”

  She hesitated. “I’ll come across if I can.”

  Back in the loft, I lay on the bed and stared out the skylights into pitch darkness. Waiting for footfall, for a soft knock at the door, but no one visited apart from the wind, stronger and louder here, away from the enclosures of the city. A fluttering came from the roof, the movement of small creatures, birds or bats. My eyes burned, but I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was the silence. In London, always the stirrings of the night, the wail of police sirens, or ambulances, the distinct whir of helicopters.

  When the creatures stopped moving, the quiet lay deep and unyielding. The strangeness of being here kept me awake. The utterly unexpected turn of events. The awkwardness of being a guest in a household where I was little more than a stranger.

  I stood up for a glass of water. Maybe I could read something from the bookshelf. Or, if I was truly enthusiastic, work on my article for Nithi. That would send me right off to sleep. Yet I suppose what truly provoked my sleeplessness was that I was here, and still hadn’t had a chance to speak with Myra. I’d waited a century already. And who knew how much our stories would tally, how many of our memories were similar, how far they’d diverge.

  Do you ride, Nem?

  What other things had she forgotten?

  And what of all the things I couldn’t remember?

  When I moved to the window and looked out, I saw a lit window in the main house. What a strange, unrestful place. If Myra was still up, why didn’t she come across?

  A figure moved into view; it was Philip. Standing between the gap in the curtains, looking down, at something in his hand. He lifted his head and glanced outside, the darkness held his stare briefly before he moved away.

  One afternoon, when I visited the bungalow on Rajpur Road, Nicholas and Myra were talking about horses. The previous night, they’d visited the Delhi Gymkhana Club, and one of the members offered them, on his invitation, to ride at the Army Polo and Riding Club. Myra was thrilled.

  “She attended some horribly posh school where they learnt useless skills like that,” said Nicholas. A shower of cushions flew at him across the veranda.

  “While you played rugby at your all-male, all-gay boarding school.”

  “I won’t deny it. I was star scrum half.”

  Myr
a was nursing a gin and tonic on the divan; she’d declared it much too warm for tea that day, even in the dead of Delhi winter. “Won’t you come with us?”

  “Who? Me?”

  She laughed. “Of course, who else do you see here?”

  It was hard to believe, since, so far, she’d hardly taken the trouble to include me in any of their plans. Nicholas was sitting at the table, watching me. I wished he’d offer an indication of what my answer should be.

  “Well,” I replied. “I don’t know how to ride a horse.” That was an understatement. I’d never been near one in my life.

  This time, Nicholas spoke up. “Don’t worry, all you need to know is which way is front.”

  The next afternoon, I found myself wishing it really was that simple.

  We were at the riding club, nestled in the leafy environs of central west Delhi, carved out from the Ridge,

  What petrified me was their height.

  I hadn’t imagined horses could be so tall. That far off the ground.

  And I looked ridiculous in the gear, the shiny boots, the fitted pants, the nut-shaped helmet. Hastily sourced from Nicholas’ wardrobe and the alleyways of Connaught Place.

  At the dressage arena outside the club house, Myra adjusted her riding boots, while Nicholas spoke with one of the instructors.

  “Two advanced,” I could hear him say, “and one absolute beginner.”

  When our horses were led out, I was relieved to see I’d been allotted the smallest of the trio—a black mare with patient eyes and a sweetly curved mouth. We were encouraged to acquaint ourselves with the animals, speak to them softly, stroke their long noses. Soon, Myra had mounted her horse, laughing in delight. It was easy to see she was a skillful rider, light and confident. She’d been doing this all her life. Beyond the arena lay acres of forested ground, with winding trails crossed by jackals and peacocks; that’s where, she said, she’d like to head. Nicholas too, mounted, and moved about in a gentle trot.