“What’s she want?”
“Crishi! To see us of course.”
“You and me?”
“And Michael.”
Crishi made no comment, but not as if he had nothing to say but as if he weren’t saying it till more was known.
Although Sonya appeared to be as fond of, and doting on, Crishi as before—even more, because he had made me so happy—what she liked best was to be alone with Michael and me. Michael too seemed to like that best—any free time he had from the organization, he would be with her in her hotel suite, where she spent most of her time. She had no interest in going out and seeing anything, however much Bari Rani urged her and put herself at her disposal. Sonya told us she hadn’t come here for the sights, and in any case she had already seen them. She had seen everything, she said—this was when the three of us were in her room, in fact all three of us on her bed, she inside the covers and Michael and I lying on top of them—everything there was to see and do in life she had seen and done, so now all she wanted was to be with those she loved; that is, with Michael and me. “Am I hurting you?” said Michael, who was lying on her feet—his voice was gruff, his intention tender. “No, no, darling, perfectly comfortable, perfectly happy.” She went on to say that she knew it was wrong of her, since we had our own lives to lead, but she did miss us terribly at home—everyone did, she said, prompting Michael to ask “Like who?” “Everyone,” she said. “And especially at darling Manton and dearest Barbara’s wedding—” “Oh they’ve had it, have they?” said Michael. She was brought up short—“Didn’t you know? They said they called and called and sent cables—” Michael looked at me and I felt embarrassed for a moment—it was true, after calling me in England, they had repeatedly called me in India and I had promised to come, but it had gone completely out of my mind, especially after I spoke to Crishi again and he said “Oh leave it, forget it.”
Sensing an awkward moment and wanting to cover it up, Sonya went on to describe the wedding. It had been in a side chapel of the same cathedral where Manton and Lindsay had been married twenty-three years earlier; many of the guests were the same, though now including Lindsay accompanied by Jean. Everyone was very moved by the ceremony—Barbara had wept copiously; so had Sonya and all her friends who had come in full force, except for the Princess, who had gone into a coma and was no longer taken out. The archdeacon had spoken beautifully—he was an old friend of Manton’s, had been to school with him, knew about him and the whole family, and wasn’t in the least put out by the fact that Barbara was so hugely pregnant. No one was, Sonya assured us; on the contrary, it was a heightening of the occasion to see the bride at the altar so beautifully bearing the fruit of the love they were there to consecrate; and then the pride with which Manton carried himself as bridegroom and father-to-be. He was even more handsome than at his last wedding, for he was more mature, more ample, amply filling his superbly tailored cutaway and striped trousers, his belly straining against the latter, the four-in-hand curving over his thrust-out chest, the white carnation in his buttonhole blooming in a maturity as full as his own. And when he turned from the altar and walked down the aisle, his bursting bride on his arm, leading her in slow measure to the notes swelling out from the organ—if only, Sonya said, we could have been there to see him; but of course she knew we couldn’t. And Grandfather, if only it had been possible for him to see his son at that moment—it would have been the end of all those superficial little differences between them: not that they had ever counted for anything—what were they in face of the great fact that the two of them were father and son, just as Michael and Manton were son and father, and now another son would come. It was so wonderful, a matter of such gratitude, she said, squeezing one hand of Michael’s and one of mine, that we were one family, all of us belonging together; including, she said, Lindsay and dear Jean too, and also, she ended up for good measure, Else Schwamm, who had been there at the wedding, crying as much as everyone else.
“Looks like we missed a big event,” said Michael at the end of this recital. He glanced at me: “You didn’t even mention it.”
“As if you’d have cared.”
“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Sonya quickly. “Not one bit. Sometimes it isn’t possible for people to be where they most want to be, but all the same they’re there in their feelings. Just as long as you have those, and Manton knows you do and Barbara too—they know you’ll love your little brother when he arrives, in the same way as you love each other.”
“When’s he due?” said Michael—surprising me again by his interest in such a subject.
“Any day soon.” Sonya was silent; I could see her reflecting on how to start on her next theme. To save her the trouble, I said “Manton wants you to talk to us about the money.”
Sonya blushed as if I had caught her out in something. She did look sweet, very girlish with her round face and wrinkled, pampered skin. Grandfather had always been touched by her blushes, and now Michael was too—he went up closer to her so he could put his arms around her in a protective way; and since it was I who had caused her embarrassment, he seemed to be challenging me when he said “Well why not—it’s a perfectly natural subject for a family to talk about.”
“Of course it is,” I agreed, not reminding him that it was he who had up till now imposed silence on it.
Whenever she and I were alone, Sonya spoke to me of Michael. She said she was worried about his health. I reassured her the way he had me—“It’s just the usual stomach things everyone gets.” “And what’s this on his mouth?” “Just a sore, it’s nothing.” “He’s changed, he’s not Michael.” I pretended to laugh: “Of course he’s Michael!” She shook her head: “Our Michael was—he was—” “What?” “Strong. A rock. You couldn’t change him this much, not from here to there. Like his Grandfather.” “He’s still like that,” I tried to maintain. It hurt me to have to lie—disguise my own feelings—to Sonya, but I couldn’t very well tell her that there was trouble between Michael and Crishi. Anyway, I thought, it was temporary, it would blow over when we moved away from this place and went to what was our real destination: that is, to Dhoka, to the Rawul’s kingdom, the source and fountainhead of our movement, where everything would be refreshed and restored.
I discovered that it wasn’t only his deteriorating relationship with Crishi that was making Michael unhappy. One evening there was an important function to which some big shots were invited. Bari Rani was as usual in charge. She rented a house and put up a spacious tent on its front lawn for the general meeting, and afterward there was a grand feast inside the house arranged by the leading caterer after detailed consultation with Bari Rani. Usually these parties went off very well—the Rawul would be very pleased, and the next morning he would discuss the event with Bari Rani while she helped him dress. They would talk about the important people who had been there and what effect the function had on them and consequently what the Rawul’s chances were of being nominated. Apparently each time they had a big party these were enhanced, and the Rawul and Bari Rani were satisfied. But that evening something had gone wrong, and next day Bari Rani was in a state. She called for Michael, who was having breakfast with Sonya, me, and Robi. When he had gone, Sonya said “Why is he so upset?” I said “Is he?” I hadn’t noticed; he was always pale and silent anyway. But after she had said it, I became uneasy, especially when he didn’t return; and Sonya said “Yes, why don’t you go and see.” I left her and Robi to entertain each other, which they always did very well, and went to the Rawul’s suite.
I could hear raised voices from the corridor, and when I went in, I found the Rawul and Bari Rani in the middle of an argument. I couldn’t make out at first what it was about and Michael gave me no help. He didn’t even look at me but stood there all clenched up. The Rawul was saying to Bari Rani, “You’re exaggerating, as usual,” which made her address herself to me as a new person to take her side. She said that nothing was closer to her heart than her husband’s career, and everything t
hat it was possible for a human being to do, she unstintingly did: but unfortunately she was born neither with four pairs of hands nor with eyes at the back of her head, and she did have to rely to some extent, in some little ways, on the help and vigilance of others; and if these others let her down, then all her work and efforts were in vain. As, for instance, last night—and here she turned to Michael: Surely, she told him, he was not so overburdened with duties that he could not have checked up on the dietary laws of their most important guest and provided the unpolished rice and onionless vegetables these demanded. But no, this detail was omitted, thereby giving grave offense to the most influential person there—defeating the entire purpose of her efforts and instead of promoting the Rawul’s career setting it back by months, years even—“Years and years!” she cried, working herself up, so that I couldn’t help being amused at the thought of the unpolished rice and onionless vegetables. But Michael was getting to the point where he had difficulty holding himself in. I knew this point in him so well—rarely reached, but when it was, his anger would burst through all the controls he had imposed on it. And as if afraid of this himself, he turned and went out of the room, leaving Bari Rani in indignant midsentence and the Rawul looking after him with concern.
“Well madam,” said the Rawul, “I hope you feel you’ve said enough and are fully satisfied with the result.”
“I? What have I done? Except of course as usual kill myself with work for your sake.”
I left them and followed Michael. He hadn’t gone back to Sonya’s room but to his own. I understood completely how he felt—Michael had not come all this way to get himself mixed up in local politics! I could see that everything that had exasperated him about our parents and our whole life and everyone’s expectations—everything that was “neti, neti”—was coming back on him. But I said “Michael, you have to be a little bit practical.”
“Well what do you think I’ve been doing?” he said. He lay on his bed like a knight on his tomb; his face was white, his eyes shut. “Who’s been booking everyone’s tickets and arranging every kind of practical shit—food and beds and guns and you name it, down to getting the Rawul’s clothes from the dry cleaner’s. I’m not complaining,” he said. “I don’t mind. I like to do it, so long as I know what we’re doing. Aiming at. As long as I’m sure of that.” He paused—I guess it was a natural place for me to ask “Well aren’t you?” I didn’t ask, and there was a silence; Michael opened his eyes and shifted them sideways to look at me—“What’ll you do?. . . When we’re twenty-one,” he added when he saw me hesitate.
“Same as you,” I said, looking back at him in surprise.
“Same as me,” he repeated as if he weren’t sure what that might be. Again, I didn’t want to get into it. There was nothing to discuss; it had all been settled long ago—when Grandfather was still alive and he had said three times to Michael “Are you sure?” and three times Michael had replied yes.
I was relieved when the Rawul came in—knocking timidly before entering and asking “May I? I’m not in the way?”—all tact and delicacy. Dear, good Rawul: He knew that Michael had been upset by Bari Rani and had come to make things better. “No absolutely not, my dear fellow,” he said when Michael tried to get up. He pressed him down gently, also pressed Michael’s forehead and then looked at me with an expression of concern. “He’s all right,” I said, and Michael confirmed this, but the Rawul shook his head regretfully: “It’s our climate,” he said. “Our climate and our wretched conditions. My poor squalid country,” he smiled. He wasn’t serious, and how could he be—in this air-conditioned hotel room on the latest modular plan and with a picture window framing and rendering innocuous whatever lay outside.
The Rawul had come to apologize not only for his country but for Bari Rani. He said he knew how Michael felt—goodness, smiled the Rawul, he felt the same himself; because he was like Michael—fiery, impatient. “Yes yes, my dear fellow, that’s the way we are—we want to shoot ahead, straight up to the stars, forgetting of course that human beings can’t fly, that there are certain practical steps—yes very dull, very plodding, but unfortunately very necessary to get us where we want to go. Isn’t it a bore,” said the Rawul, smiling down at Michael and squeezing his shoulder in a comradely way. Although so stout and sleek and middle-aged, the Rawul did give an impression of youth and idealism. And what he said was true—he and Michael were the same: They were the only two among us who still cared for the world movement, for Transcendental Internationalism, with a passion that the rest of us had dissipated on other, more personal ends of our own. Only those two continued to live in high, pure regions—though in different ways; for whereas the Rawul bloomed and flourished up there in that altitude, Michael was hollowed out, exhausted with effort and strain.
The person who had changed the most toward the movement was Renée. She carried on as if it didn’t exist, never attending any of the Rawul’s meetings or social entertainments. She rarely emerged from her suite but often sent for one or other of us to come to see her in there. These interviews were never easy, for she would ask a lot of questions but was too intent on something she was brooding on inside herself to listen or wait for any answers. She had violent mood swings, especially toward Robi. She might be passionately loving to start off with, crushing him in her embrace, gazing into his face in longing; and suddenly she would change utterly, pounce on him for some fault, that he hadn’t cleaned out his ears properly, or was shrinking from her embrace—which I’m afraid was true; the most he would do was endure it. She would push him away, strike at him, order him out of her sight. And how quickly he got out the door—relieved to get away but also terribly upset, as he ran down the carpeted hotel corridors sobbing out loud. When I wanted to follow him, she said “No, stay with me.” She forgot about Robi and started in on me. And with me too she was at first very sweet and loving, taking my hand in hers, turning it over and over, tracing her finger along the lines of my palm as if she were reading them; only the next moment to turn on me violently, to say I was jealous, selfish, possessive, and didn’t care if I killed her or not as long as I had what I wanted. And like Robi, I was glad to get out of her sight when she told me to and went running down the hotel corridor—not sobbing, in my case, but lighthearted the way I was most of the time now, and completely forgetting everything she had said to me and even that she existed.
Crishi too had changed, with regard to the movement and in other ways. Just as Renée left everything to Bari Rani, Crishi left it to Michael; but unlike Renée, he didn’t stay brooding in the hotel but was out and about all day long. He had so many places to go to, some of which I knew about and others not. There was the back room of the jeweler in the hotel lobby, where he sat with cronies or business partners or whatever or whoever they were; and there must have been other back rooms, all over the city, where he was familiar and known and where secret business was transacted. And there was the house of the Bhais and the bazaar hotel where the European followers lived—each entirely different from the other and only Crishi at home in both. I think he had a good time roaming around the city all day and half the night; he usually came home the other half of the night—that is, back to the hotel where I was waiting for him, though I must admit I didn’t always manage to keep awake because it was near dawn when he came in. Renée too was waiting for him; I think she was a complete insomniac nowadays. She called several times in the night to ask if he had come home; sometimes she came in to check for herself. Half-asleep, I watched her moving around the suite, her reflection ghostlike in the mirror as she leaned over Robi, who slept in the dressing room. After she returned to her own suite, she phoned again an hour later to ask if he had come in; I said no, even if he had, because he told me to. He didn’t want her disturbing us. He locked the door after he came in, and we heard her rattle it but never for long, because once the door was locked, she knew he was home. Then she returned to her own room to brood on God knows what. I might have felt sorry for her—the way I used t
o for Anna—except that there was no time to think of her. However late it was when he came in, Crishi was wide awake and ready to talk and make love, though when he went to sleep at last, he slept till midday.
During these nights—or early mornings—I could ask him about anything I liked and he would answer me. For instance, when I asked him about his first wife, he was absolutely free and open about that chapter in his life and seemed to want me to know about it. He even offered to take me to the place where she had lived with their two children. It turned out to be in a very ordinary middleclass district, with a lot of rundown two-story houses and a municipal milk booth and washermen pressing clothes on the sidewalk. The house too was ordinary, just like all the others, with the whitewash flaking off and bars on the windows. He took me right inside—there were people living there, but he asked them so nicely if we could come in; he told them some story in Hindi, which I couldn’t understand but it made them very friendly toward us and offer us tea and send out for sweets. It was the upstairs flat, two little rooms and a veranda; everything was painted pink and with fluorescent tube lighting and calendars of saints and film stars and not much furniture except for string cots and steel trunks. Several children stood around, staring at us with their fingers in their mouths. It was so domestic and ordinary—maybe that was why he had brought me here, wanting me to see how they had lived.
After that we often talked about his first marriage, and I was eager to know everything about it because I was eager to know everything about him. And he was entirely frank with me, even admitting his own fault in getting married so young and to such a young girl—she was seventeen—and both of them without any money. “But what could I do?” he appealed to me. “I was crazy about her, I had to be with her all the time—just like I have to be with you. Nothing wrong in that, is there?” I shook my head; I agreed with him all the way. Still he went on blaming himself—he said maybe he shouldn’t have left her here by herself; she was only a girl just out of school, from Romford, Essex. But his work at that time was here; and as a matter of fact he had been getting on quite well when unfortunately he had a setback and was forced to be away for some time (I guess he meant in jail). It was very tough on her, being left alone with two little children and no money and too proud to ask anyone, not even her parents. “Stupid little girl,” he smiled affectionately, and I too felt affectionate toward her, thinking of her in those little pink rooms and too proud to tell anyone she had a husband in jail. He said “When she came to see me there, she was always crying. She had been so pretty when we got married, like one of those English flowers, what are they called, but with all that crying—I told her everything would be fine and of course it was. I got out much sooner than anyone expected and started doing very well but by that time she had done that silly thing. I’ll never know why, Harriet,” he said, looking at me with honest and innocent eyes. “Except she did have a bit of a tendency toward depression and she never could take the heat, especially when she was pregnant.” “And was she—?” “Yes,” he said regretfully; “I told her it would be okay—if you can look after two, what’s three, but she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t wait.” “Where are they?” “The children? With her parents. I send money whenever I can.” “Well thank God,” I said. “What?” he asked, kissing me in some nice spot; we were back in bed; it was dawn. I said “Soon there’ll be plenty for everyone.” “Of money? Yes, thank God,” he echoed, though his voice was muffled as he was kissing me again in the same spot.
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