Seahorse

by Janice Pariat

  “Still a bit painful,” I began, “I’m not sure I’ll manage…”

  “Well,” said Philip, “the more you ride, the easier it’ll get.”

  Later, after I changed into my riding clothes, strapped on a helmet and wellies, I met Philip at the stables. Today, as before, I’d be riding Lady—“Try not to injure her this time.”

  I could never tell if Philip was joking. His jibes divided by a fine line from his jests.

  Again, gripped by sullenness, I wondered why I’d agreed to come out riding. Oh, but I hadn’t. I’d been pushed into this. And I was too polite to adamantly decline. Methodically, and meticulously, Philip saddled the horses; we mounted and made our way out the gate.

  I began to relax, my posture loosening. This is why I’d agreed. I enjoyed it greatly. Out in the open, the air stinging my face. A sense of delicate balance, poised carefully at the top. The sudden, uplifting freedom.

  “Careful,” said Philip. “Move your calves closer to Lady’s side.”

  “Yes… sorry…”

  In the daylight, Philip’s features were less complex, flattened, bereft of shadows. I was wrong when I’d called him an elderly Hercules that first evening. He was wholly, utterly, human. Not a sculptural force carved with the vigour and resplendence of a god. But something pettier, more paltry, more real.

  I glanced at him—the strong nose, the oddly delicate mouth.

  In winter, the birds are silent.

  Finally the path broadened and we could ride side by side.

  “So, Myra says you’re staying on… for Christmas.”

  I tightened my grip on the reins, wondering which direction this would take. “She’s been very kind… and asked if I’d like to stay on…”

  Philip laughed; it didn’t sound as though he was amused.

  “Of course, if you’d prefer—” I began.

  “There are many other things I’d prefer, but it’s not always the way life pans out, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you think may happen… what this great wave of generosity may bring to you… but it will not be my daughter.”

  “I’m afraid—”

  “That it’s none of my business? She made it my business when she showed up eight months pregnant at my door like a common….” Slut. He didn’t need to say the word.

  Lady was moving faster, as though she’d sensed it, the frisson running along my back.

  “My grandson has a father she can’t even name.”

  She hadn’t told him. Nicholas.

  “I’ve put her back on her feet… do you know how long that takes? To put a person back together?”

  I glanced down, the ground seemed liquid and far away.

  Into a mold that should not contain her… perhaps that’s why people break apart in the first place. That’s why they found places that were dungeons of secrets.

  “And now you come waltzing in here,” Philip was speaking in a steely, steady tone. “thinking you can fuck her to happiness.”

  The word hung in the air, crystallized like a snowflake.

  I don’t think I imagined it, the trace of disgust in his voice. I struggled to stay calm, but it seeped into my throat, a seething anger—“It isn’t as though Myra has no agency, no will of her own. She—”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I don’t think you understand me. You’ve had your little holiday, your trip to the moors, your bit of pre-Christmas snow, your fun with my daughter, and now… it’s very simple really… it ends. Let me ask you again… are you staying on for Christmas?”

  The track had taken us to the other side of the field, where instead of the wall ran a length of barbed wire fencing, and beyond that a road.

  If I looked down, I knew I would fall. Lady had broken into a canter. General had no trouble keeping up.

  I tried to steady my hands, but they burned, like the rest of me, with a strange heat.

  “Perhaps you should tell Myra.”

  For a moment, Philip seemed confused, but it was swiftly replaced by annoyance. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps you should tell her what makes you this way. So… wretched.”

  My host was silent, out of confusion or anger or surprise, I couldn’t tell. I continued, “The day I arrived, I stood by the fireplace in the drawing room… and looked at your photograph… and then you walked in, we talked and had a drink. And over and over again, I was thinking, I’ve seen him somewhere before… When I told Myra this, she dismissed it, saying you hardly left this house, except to go riding… or to London.”

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense. I asked you—”

  “Sweet Saturdays… I saw you there.”

  The mud and stone crunched, brittle under the horses’ hooves.

  Philip’s voice was scornful. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I usually get up for a glass of water at night… did you know I can see your window from the loft? And there it was, through the gap in the curtains… the same profile. I saw you there…”

  “This is absurd.”

  “You won’t even admit it to yourself, will you? You keep Myra caged in this house… just as you keep yourself trapped in that dungeon…”

  With an instinct I didn’t know I possessed, I turned, just in time to dodge Philip’s hand.

  It was a glimpse, of something on his face, a mass of distorted flesh that warned me of what would happen next.

  “Stop—” I shouted, but Philip lunged again, this time his fingers grasping my jacket. I pulled away, kicking, and leaned forward, lifting myself from Lady, bringing up my hands, shortening the reins. It took another kick for the horse to gallop; I struggled to steer her off the path and onto the field. I’d done this rarely, I could barely hang on, her movements uneven, accelerating. General was catching up, keeping pace. When I glanced back, it was still there, that look on Philip’s face. I almost slipped off; I tried to lean forward further, clutching now at Lady’s mane. Philip needn’t catch me; at any moment, I’d fall and be crushed.

  His horse was closer now—I felt the first push, as General galloped into me broadside. Somehow, I managed to stay on.

  A second push almost threw me off.

  He’s mad… I remember thinking… he’s mad…

  Then, all of a sudden, the world swirled before me, in a cold and endless rush. I didn’t know whether it was real or if I was dreaming, sailing through the air for an infinite moment, as though we were flying, or falling. And then a merciful slowing, a loping, a canter, and then a trot. I opened my eyes. I tightened the reins, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Despite the cold, sweat filmed my face, my hands.

  Lady had almost come to a complete stop.

  I dismounted, sinking to the ground. My legs were air. The soil smelled sweet and grassy.

  Only then did I hear the whinnying behind me. I glanced back.

  In the distance, behind us, General moved restlessly; Philip was lying on the ground.

  Slowly, I edged closer; I recognized what it was, the feeling of infinite suspension, Lady had jumped a ditch, but General had halted, abruptly, and thrown his rider off.

  He was still alive when we reached the hospital.

  I’d left my cell phone back in the loft, out of signal, out of battery, so I stood by the road, waiting, wondering if I should attempt to find the nearest farmhouse, a neighboring cottage. Or my way back to Wintervale?

  Although I couldn’t possibly leave Philip alone. I’ve never been adequately competent in the face of emergencies; the time I discovered Nicholas’ disappearance, I sat, paralyzed, in the veranda.

  Behind me, some distance away, Philip lay on the ground, unconscious, fallen at an awkward angle. Had I read somewhere that an injured party must not be moved? Or did that pertain to about murder victims, a crime scene? I’d edged around him, watching the rise and fall of his chest; the trickling dark stain spreading down his temple.

  It rose swiftly, the dark, wide wing
s of panic.

  Yet in answer to a silent plea, a car approached down the narrow country lane; I stepped out and hailed it, waving my hands. The vehicle rumbled to a stop, gravel spitting under its wheels. The couple inside, fair-haired, middle-aged, well-spoken, were assiduously concerned.

  “Please…” I asked, “may I use your phone?”

  I didn’t realize it until I tried to punch in the numbers, that my hands were trembling.

  “Emergency, which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance?”

  After that, the questions were numerous—which number was I calling from? What was my exact location? With the couple’s help, I stumbled through the answers. The ambulance was dispatched and mobile, but I was asked to stay on the line.

  “Sir, how many people are involved?”

  “One… two… no, one, I’m unharmed.”

  “What’s the age of the patient?”

  “About… late sixties… early seventies…”

  “Is he breathing?”

  Yes, he was breathing.

  “Is he bleeding?”

  Yes, on his head, slightly. From a surface wound.

  Don’t move him. Keep him warm.

  The lady in the car pulled out a picnic blanket—indecorous in red and white chequered cheerfulness—and laid it over Philip. We pressed her hanky, piteously insufficient, against the cut. We waited, watching, as instructed, for any changes; his breathing, I was convinced, was growing considerably more rapid and shallow.

  Finally, the ambulance arrived, along with a police car.

  The medical team was small, a paramedic and her assistant, yet briskly efficient. All at once, Philip was monitored, tubed, and braced, his neck wrapped in a cervical support, then carefully lifted and strapped onto a stretcher. The last I saw of him, the familiar outline of his profile, his forehead, the slope of his nose, his mouth, suddenly bereft of all emotion, of everything that had animated them, seemingly moments ago.

  Before accompanying the two sombre-faced police officers, I bid a hasty thanks and farewell to the couple. Only when we drove off, me in the backseat, did I realize I hadn’t asked them their names. What would I tell Myra?

  Myra.

  I needed to inform Myra. What about the horses?

  “We’ll take care of that,” said the officer in the passenger seat. He was older than the silver-haired driver, with a stern, tensile face. I couldn’t recall her telephone number, but I did know her address. The driver and I sat in silence while he made a call. When he was done, I asked whether we were headed to the house.

  “Not yet.” We were driving to the hospital first. I must also undergo a check-up.

  The officer glanced back. How did it happen? We have so many cases of horseback injuries in these parts, he added.

  It was a car, I said. A speeding car, that set the horses off. And I couldn’t control mine, and Philip followed.

  The words rolled off my tongue.

  He was trying… to stop my horse.

  I thanked her, and stepped out, looking for Myra.

  The waiting room was busy, a child wailed, a youth held a bloodied rag to his hand, an elderly lady coughed violently into her handkerchief. I filled a plastic cup with water from the dispenser, and sat in the corner.

  Forty minutes later, I asked the receptionist if she had any news.

  “Philip… Philip Templeton…”

  At a loss, I headed outside. Standing in the driveway was the police officer who’d brought me here, smoking.

  “She’s here,” he told me. “She left as soon as we informed her.”

  He exhaled—swirls of smoke and mist.

  “You better go in…”

  I was shivering, my jacket doing little to keep out the cold.

  Around me, the walls of the hospital gleamed gritty and bright, all steel and glass.

  Back inside, I looked for the nurse who’d given me a check-up earlier, but she was nowhere in sight. The corridors were white and endless, lit with stark squares of light.

  “Nem.”

  I turned around. It was Myra. Her face colorless as the snow I’d held in my hand that morning. When I clasped her, her words muffled into my shoulder: “He’s in a coma.”

  One evening, Nicholas explained why he was in Delhi.

  “Ananda?” I reiterated.

  We were in the garden, past midnight, sitting on the wicker chairs, our drinks gently perspiring on the table. It was early June, a few days before I headed home for a month. Outside the gate, gulmohars blazing scarlet flanked the main road like liveried dancers, while the flowerbeds in the bungalow garden rambled with purple-pink petunias, tissue thin in the heat. Somewhere close by, a champa tree was in bloom; I couldn’t see it, but the air carried its deep, golden fragrance.

  Nicholas said the path of scholarly enquiry was strewn with surprises.

  “You start out reading about the genesis of the bodhisattva ideal, and end up intrigued by hagiographic literature…”

  “Who is he?” Should I be jealous, I added in jest.

  Ananda was the Buddha’s faithful servant and inseparable companion. A most devout and beloved attendant.

  “What scholars find puzzling is his apparent absence within the framework of Gandharan narrative art. He was important to the Teacher… so it’s hard to believe he’d be wilfully ignored, or anonymous in a crowd.”

  Was there much known about him, I asked?

  “Buddhist texts offer accounts of their relationship, strange and non-linear as they may be. He was quite an odd figure… sharing this close yet awkward relationship with his master. Despite his devotion, he wasn’t a particularly good disciple. He was weak and wavering, slave to his baser nature, persistently giving in to his passions…”

  “Why did he choose him then?” I asked. “The Buddha, I mean… why did he choose Ananda?”

  Nicholas’ eyes were the color of stillness, between water and mist. “Because he was human.”

  I sipped my drink. The smoky malt filling me with the scent of forests and pine.

  “Ananda also knew the dharma best, even if he hadn’t reached a state of arhat… worthiness or perfection… like the other monks. He alone is credited with hearing Buddha’s enunciation of the Doctrine in its entirety: Ananda represents his historical memory.”

  Seems a bit nasty then, I said, to exclude him from the visual narrative of the Buddha’s life.

  “Precisely… which is why I don’t think that’s the case. It’s more likely that a criterion of transcodification was used that’s now no longer recognizable.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Don’t you think? Now if only my supervisors were that easily convinced.”

  “Perhaps, like me, they have no idea what transco-di-si-cation means.”

  He laughed. “I could explain… but only if you’re truly interest-ed…”

  “Tell me…”

  What I didn’t mention was how this was spurred not by an incipient interest in Gandharan art, but that lately, for me, everything we shared was tinged with a current of urgency. I’d be gone a month, and although I’d return in early July, it seemed endless. Someday, Nicholas too would leave. When, I wasn’t exactly sure. I wanted and didn’t ever want to know. On the rare occasion I asked, he’d say, mysteriously, that he was staying in Delhi forever. Or melodramatically, that the city had captured his heart. If I persisted, he’d turn impatient. He could be mercurial, quick to anger.

  And I? I was uncertain how much time we could claim together, a month or an eternity. Everything I could carry and cherish, every piece of him, his life, must be gathered now.

  Later, in the study, as he talked of the elusive Ananda, I remember—not the academic details—but the way his fingers leafed through pages. How a terse line ran along his cheek, down to his mouth. And his hair, dark as a gathering storm.

  “Here,” he exclaimed, holding a book open. “Vajrapani… Bearer of the thunderbolt sceptre… the Buddha’s devoted acolyte. Vajrapan
i is Ananda. A suffering hero, who through his labors, like Hercules, transfigures himself. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  Ananda artworks, he believed, were littered all over; the British Museum, Delhi’s National Museum, and further away in Chandigarh. That’s why he was here.

  In time, all was revealed.

  It might have been that night or another, lying half-awake, half-dreaming, when I asked him again about Ananda. Did he gain arhat? Did he finally become worthy?

  Nicholas was on his back, bare to the soft swirl of air from the fan. He tilted his head, his chin resting on my shoulder, speaking softly, murmuring like a stream. “After the Buddha’s death, the monks gathered to listen to him share the Doctrine… but they thought his narrative faulty, full of omissions. The sole, incompetent heir of the master’s words was forced to measure his inferiority in their presence, and they say this burning humiliation pushed him to conquer the arhat state. He was greatly tormented… in immense pain, and finally overcome by exhaustion, he fell asleep.”

  Nicholas placed a palm on my thigh. Unmoving.

  His hand trailed up, across my chest, the dip of my neck, my cheek.

  “One of few instances… if not the only… where an awakening happens during sleep.”

  I felt his mouth on mine, at the base of my throat.

  My breath was short, barely enough to whisper, “When will you leave?”

  “Didn’t I tell you… I’m staying forever.”

  The first night Philip was in hospital, Myra and I sat up in the letter room almost until dawn. Elliot was upstairs, sleeping; I presumed Myra didn’t wish to be alone. Although in all honesty, I had little inclination to be on my own in the loft—either staring at those rectangles of blackness on the ceiling, or looking out the window at another, darkened now, no longer framing a familiar profile. So we lit the fire, as we did a few nights ago, even though it seemed more distant than ever, sat on the sofa, and cradled our drinks. Tea for her, neat Lochnagar for me.

  For long spells, we didn’t speak.

  My gaze fell emptily on things, the upright Bechstein piano, the sturdy curves of a Georgian wing chair by the hearth, the long, pale fall of floral curtains, undrawn, unable to keep out the night. Here too, as in the larger drawing room, few photographs or intimate memorabilia adorned the mantelpiece. Only a triptych painting, large, and taking up most of the wall opposite us. How did I not notice it the other evening? Perhaps I was occupied with board games, food, wine, and happiness. Some art can only be witnessed when you are bereft.