“One day I’ll tell you about him and me and all of us, Harriet. How we found each other. What we are to each other.”
“Hadn’t you better tell me now?”
She stroked my cheek and smiled at me—on me—very lovingly. “That’s not what he asked me to talk to you about. Not at all. Not about him and me but about him and you. A very different story altogether, Harriet dear.”
I was beginning to feel smothered. She was too close to me, too large and smooth, too creamy and perfumed: a fleshy flower of too strong a scent. Or was it that my mind was in such turmoil with what she had told me, and hadn’t told me, that I had to put some distance between us to allow me to think. I got up abruptly, and the stool she had pulled up for me fell over. I exclaimed “I don’t understand this!” and began to pace around the room, which was too small for much pacing and full of little wicker stools and tables to stumble over.
“Oh dear,” said the Rani, “I’ve made a mess of it.” Although she was blaming herself, she remained calm and self-possessed: “I put it wrong. It’s my fault entirely, Harriet; absolutely.” She went on, still relaxed and in command, “I did my best, but you have to admit that it’s something very, very difficult to do for another person. It’s impossible. He’s just put me in an impossible situation, that’s all. He should never have asked me.”
“But why did he! Why did he ask you!”
“I wish you’d come and sit down.”
There was a hint of sharpness in her voice. I hesitated for a moment—why should I obey her? Nevertheless, I did. After all, I did want to go on talking because what she was saying was of such overwhelming interest to me: more interesting than anything that had ever been said to me in all my life.
“That’s better,” she said, when I picked up the stool and seated myself at her feet again. “You can’t shout this sort of thing across a room. It’s difficult enough as it is.” She fondled me again—my hair, my cheek, my neck; and as the Rawul had been tender as a father, she was so as a mother. And physically, in spite of her youthfulness and beauty, there was something maternal about her; probably it was her abundant bosom, so different from Lindsay’s tight little breasts, which I had inherited. I felt tempted to lay my head on that bosom—perhaps she wanted to tempt me that way, knowing in what great need I was at that point of love and support.
“Do you like him very much?” she suddenly whispered to me. “Very very very much?” And then she did what the Rawul had done earlier—she drew me down to rest against her. It was as if that fleshy flower was enfolding me completely, so that I wanted to fly off like an insect from a trap; but also I wanted to stay and sink down there in all her warmth and softness; and when she whispered again, “Do you? Very much? Tell me how much,” I shut my eyes and did sink—or would have if she hadn’t pushed me away, smiling a little bit. “Of course you do,” she said. “How can you help it?” and gave my cheek a dismissive little slap.
Normally I would have gone straight to Michael and told him about this extraordinary conversation. But the way things were, I didn’t. That evening we went swimming by the waterfall—if I had expected Crishi to give me soulful, searching glances, and perhaps part of me did, it didn’t happen. Everything was as usual—that is, cheerful and nice. He didn’t come that night, perhaps to let me think his—or the Rani’s—proposition over. She didn’t mention it again, and I hovered around her, hoping she would. I so longed to talk about it, but the way she and Crishi carried on was as though she and I had never spoken. The routine of the house continued in its orderly, disciplined way, with a part to play for everyone—from the Rawul in the drawing room to the watchmen by the gate and Else Schwamm with her helpers in the kitchen. And underneath everything there was the groundswell of emotional tension I had already noticed among the followers—but drowned out for me by our own disturbances: Michael’s and mine, Lindsay’s and Jean’s, the original inhabitants of the house whose lives had been so plowed up and changed by the Rawul and his party.
One could say that the change was good—anyhow, exciting—for everyone except Jean. We might have gained, but she had lost—her position in the house, her life with Lindsay, her contentment, everything. If I had been less absorbed maybe I would have had more sympathy instead of being as irritated with her as everyone else. She struck such a discordant note with her tear-stained face, swollen and middle-aged, and the way she dragged around without occupation; and her constant bickering with Lindsay, or outright fights, so that they lived in a state of exasperation with each other, which made Lindsay hide from her whenever possible. Jean could be seen wandering around the house and grounds searching for her and probably unaware herself that tears were running down her face. It was awful, but as I said, none of us had the time to spare any thought for her.
All my thoughts were concentrated on waiting for Crishi to follow up the Rani’s proposal. When he didn’t, I began to wonder if he was waiting for me to make the next move: to give him my answer, as it used to be called. I didn’t think much about what that answer would be, but only how and when I would be called upon to make it. When I wasn’t, I became frantic. He didn’t even say anything when he came to my bedroom again—at last—the second night after my talk with the Rani. He carried on as usual, and I have to admit that I was so anxious for this to proceed, that I carried on with him; and it was only afterward, when he was very sleepy—he had rolled away from me and was curled up in a sleeping position—that I asked him: “What’s all this the Rani was talking about? Or don’t you know?”
“Of course I know,” he said, without turning around. I poked my finger in his back; it was firm and smooth and I liked the sensation and did it again. “Ouch,” he said. “Don’t.”
“But you have to say something.”
“What?” he said. “What do you want me to say?” But now he did turn toward me. “Anyway, I thought she’d said it all for me.”
“That’s another thing: How could you let her? How could you ask her to?”
“Oh but didn’t she tell you?” He was lying on his back looking up at me where I sat over him, scanning his face. “Didn’t she tell you I was too shy?”
I continued to scan his face—which he kept very serious for as long as possible. When I saw his lips twitching, I said “Oh God, Crishi,” and collapsed on top of him. We both laughed and kissed and rolled around together, so I guess that was his way of confirming the Rani’s proposal.
Anyhow, I assumed that it was confirmed and wondered what the next step would be. Nobody made one; it seemed left to me. I decided that I had to tell Michael and thought this would be very hard, but it turned out not to be so. Michael didn’t pretend that he had known all along, but he certainly showed no surprise. He seemed pleased rather than anything else; he said it was a good idea.
“A good idea!” I exclaimed. Since I had never thought of getting married, I had never thought how Michael might react: but certainly not like this.
Unaware that he was disappointing me, he went on calmly: “You don’t have to be so torn now, about giving the houses and joining the movement and all of that.”
“Joining the movement,” I repeated, feeling sad.
“Yes, you’ll just be part of it. It’ll make it much easier for Crishi.”
“Oh is that what you think? That he wants to marry me so he can get hold of everything? . . . What are you saying, Michael?” I knew that consideration was there and might even be uppermost in a lot of people’s minds; but I hadn’t expected it to be in Michael’s.
And of course it wasn’t; not in such a crude way. “Be reasonable,” he said. “Think for a moment. Stop walking up and down. Come on.” When I was calm enough and sitting close by him, he said “Don’t you think it’s better to marry more than just a person—to marry for something, beyond that person?”
“No,” I said. “No. No. I don’t think so. I’m marrying just a person. Just Crishi.”
Michael looked pale and stubborn. There was something he was hiding, d
idn’t want to say. Not that he didn’t believe what he said—about marrying beyond a person, for something better and higher, some ideal held in common: Michael did live and think on that level. But not entirely. He wasn’t as cold as people thought he was—didn’t I know that better than anyone from the feelings he had for me?
I said “If you don’t want it, I won’t do it. It won’t happen.” I hadn’t expected myself to say that, but I meant it and was going to stick by it. Let Michael decide. It was a relief. But it made him furious: “What do you mean? What do I know about such things or care about them? You know very well I’ll never marry anyone, thank God,” he said, gritting his teeth. “So don’t involve me.”
“Did you think I’d never marry anyone too?”
But it was what both of us had thought. When we were small, I used to say so all the time—how when I grew up, I was going to live with Michael. Later, I no longer said it but still meant it, and I was sure he did too. It was like a promise to each other we had been born with.
Now that was changing, and it was I who was changing it. But I couldn’t do so without his consent, and again I asked him for it: “If you don’t want it, it won’t happen.”
He became more exasperated: “But I’ve said, haven’t I, it’s a good idea. I want it. I like it!” he shouted.
“Because I’m marrying a movement?”
He gritted his teeth again and came out with “And Crishi.”
“You’re glad because it’s Crishi?” I had never been like that with him—pushing him, making him say things that he didn’t want to say but I wanted to hear.
And there was something else I wanted to hear but didn’t ask: that question between us—did Crishi go to him on the nights he didn’t come to me—remained unspoken. But supposing it was true? Supposing we did share him? It seemed ideal that, if I had to marry, it should be someone we both loved—and in such an intense physical way, which was the one way that had been left out of our love, Michael’s and mine.
Perhaps he was thinking along the same lines, because he relaxed suddenly and said “It’s okay. It really is.”
“What’s okay? Joining the movement?”
“Yes that.”
“Giving the house?”
“Yes that.”
“Crishi?”
“Yes that. There—that’s three times yes and no sage ever gives more. Which they call tyad,” he quoted from one of those old texts he was forever into. He grinned, and I guess if we had been the hugging sort we would have done it. He looked so sweet, with his slightly crooked grin, his seafarer’s eyes in his very white face, and his freckled nose: dearer to me than anyone, still, even now.
THE interest that my intended marriage to Crishi might have generated at this time was usurped by a publicity event. The Rawul was very keen on publicity, for he considered it the best way to penetrate into—this is how he put it—the minds of men, the hearts of nations, and the core of the world. Up till now his access to it had been limited to our local paper, some call-in radio programs, and the pamphlets and bulletins that were compiled at Propinquity and sent out around the country. As a result there had been some stir of interest, if not quite on a national level, at least from peripheral publications and from groups and individuals of similar belief in global reform. Each of these stirrings was greeted by the Rawul as a straw in the wind, and as we kept on generating our wind of pamphlets, more and more straws came flying in our direction, so I guess the whole thing was really building up. The Rawul was particularly pleased and satisfied—he had a way of gleefully rubbing his hands when he felt like that—because a free-lance writer and journalist was coming to do an in-depth study of our movement. She was called Anna Sultan, and the Rawul seemed to think she was very famous; none of us had ever heard of her. Her visit was being prepared for as an important event, and one that put my own marriage plans entirely in the shade.
As it turned out, it was lucky that so much trouble had been taken: Anna Sultan was extremely nervous and fussy—she had to be, because to enable her to function at her best, the greatest possible care had to be taken of her health and general comfort. She was received as only the most important visitors were; and there was no one like the Rawul to make a welcome royal. Unfortunately she was too tired that evening to go through anything social, or to eat the elaborate dinner Mrs. Schwamm had prepared. She had to be immediately shown to her room—the Rani herself did that—and a tray sent in with clear soup, scrambled egg, and a salad without dressing. Lindsay was delegated to carry in the tray, and she did so with the air of proud responsibility that we all brought to our allotted tasks. When she came out, she looked pleased, as one who had acquitted herself honorably; but she was waylaid by Jean, who attacked her furiously: “What are you—their maid or something!” Everyone heard her, and some of us came running to see what the matter was.
I was shocked by Jean’s appearance. It struck me that it had been several days since anyone had seen her. She must have holed up in her room without bathing or eating; and there was something about her of a wounded animal that had dragged itself out of its lair for a desperate confrontation.
Lindsay, cool and crisp in pale-green linen, and with her good-girl expression, was so shocked by this sudden attack that she was speechless. We all were, and the Rani actually said “I’m speechless.” She said this in general, to air her indignation in a dignified way, before addressing Jean in particular: “Don’t you think it’s rather inconsiderate to make a scene when we have a guest in the house?”
“A guest in the house! More like five hundred guests in the house, and my Lord they’ve begun to stink like the Chinese fish!” When no one said anything, she yelled “To stink and stink!”
“I’m afraid she’s hysterical,” the Rani addressed Lindsay. It seemed like a command, and Lindsay obeyed it by stepping up to Jean and slapping her face. The sound of this reverberated and made everyone fall very silent.
“Why did you do that to me?” Jean said in a quiet bewildered voice, as intimate as if the two of them had been alone together.
“You made me,” Lindsay said, but a bit desperate.
“And in front of everyone. All these people.”
Lindsay began to look around at everyone—maybe for support, or maybe not to have to look at Jean. No one wanted to look at Jean with a red mark on one cheek.
Only the Rani was brisk and commonsensical; she had taken on her aspect of English games mistress: “Well I for one am not going to stand here and watch this kind of bad behavior.” She turned and marched off with a determination that made everyone else turn and march with her. They went down the stairs, and only I stayed with Jean on the second-floor landing where this scene had taken place.
I’ve never been any good at comforting people—it doesn’t come natural to me—but I couldn’t leave her standing there by herself, disgraced and hurt. As I wondered what I could do to make her feel better, she turned on me: “How could you, Harriet! How could you allow these people—these strangers—to take over your house? Our house? It’s like a nightmare,” she said, covering her face and shuddering as if she were really seeing one.
And at that moment, for just a moment, I saw it too—could it be, and how had it happened? I stared at the staircase, empty now, down which the Rani had marched with all of them meekly following her. And the Rawul holding court in our drawing room. And the guards at the gate, screening visitors, all of whom were for the Rawul. And the computer, the Xerox machine, and teleprinter in what had been the library. And the helpers in the kitchen endlessly cutting, grinding, and stirring under the direction of Else Schwamm. How had it happened to us, to our scrappy amorphous household, that we had been turned into someone else’s organization?
Lindsay came hurrying back up the stairs, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid of being followed. When she reached us on the landing, Jean burst out again: “How could you!” at Lindsay this time.
Lindsay thought she meant the incident of a moment before and b
egan to justify herself for that: “You know perfectly well you deserved it for being horrid”—but she stroked Jean’s cheek where she had slapped it and made a sweet kissing sound at her. “It didn’t happen; it never happened,” she assured her, rotating her hand on Jean’s cheek.
“I didn’t mean that. As if I’d care about that: as if you couldn’t do anything you wanted with me. But the rest of it! The nightmare of it!” Again she covered her face and shuddered, clinging to Lindsay.
“Sh-sh-sh,” Lindsay said, looking around nervously. So did I. The three of us standing on the second-floor landing were very exposed—at any moment someone might come and order us to go away, or send us on some errand. We went quietly, almost on tiptoe, to the end of the landing, where Jean’s room was, next to Lindsay’s, and once inside we locked the door and felt safer.
Being in Jean’s room was like a homecoming—I think Lindsay felt the same, even though neither of us had been aware of missing any sense of home. But here we were in Jean’s room with her clunky, homey objects, like the American history dolls—Betsy Ross and Sitting Bull—her aunt had been famous for carving out of apples, and the photograph of her grandparents and parents on the porch of their yellow Victorian house in Dubuque. It was here in Jean’s room that all our birthday presents were opened—Jean had this tradition of hiding them so you had to go seek while she yelled “Warm!” or “Cold!” or “Brrr—Iceland!” Usually the room was meticulously tidy, with the green-and-red embroidered quilt smooth over the bed and handmade doilies under the vases of the wild flowers she loved to pick on her walks. But today the bed wasn’t even made, and the wild flowers had crumbled away into dead petals and pollen all over the dresser and floor.
“Jean Potts, I’m ashamed of you!” Lindsay cried. She threw herself into an inept effort to straighten the bed, and while she tugged and pulled at it, she scolded Jean—a complete role reversal, for usually it was Jean who, rightly, grumbled about Lindsay’s messiness. Lindsay soon gave up on the bed and started on Jean instead: “You haven’t even combed your hair, and when did you last wash it?” She passed her hand over Jean’s tangled mop of hair, and Jean, utterly delighted, beaming through her tear-swollen face, caught that hand and held it against her cheek.
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