The Shadow Lines

by Amitav Ghosh

  Two days later, when Tridib came to Brick Lane with Mayadebi and Mrs Price to collect Tresawsen’s things, he found a picture of the four of them together, stuck on the kitchen wall: it had been taken in a park, and all of them were laughing, Dan standing a little apart, and Mike with his arms around Tresawsen and Francesca.

  How sad, said Ila. They must have been wonderfully happy in that house.

  How do you know? I said, surprised by the note of certainty in her voice.

  Because we live like that too, she said. In Stockwell.

  I thought she was joking, at first. But when I looked at her I knew she had meant it exactly as it had sounded. I began to marvel at the easy arrogance with which she believed that her experience could encompass other moments simply because it had come later; that times and places are the same because they happen to look alike, like airport lounges.

  Do you think anybody could really be ‘wonderfully happy’ at a time like that? I snapped at her. Don’t you think it possible that they quarrelled a lot – for example, over the Nazi-Soviet Pact?

  Ila was unshaken, serene. Of course they quarrelled, she laughed. It’s part of the fun of living like that – you’re too earnest. And in any case, you’ve never lived like that – you can’t know.

  What do you know of how I’ve lived? I said.

  Well, she said quietly, I know, for example, that you’ve spent your whole life living safely in middle-class suburbs in Delhi and Calcutta. You can’t know what this kind of happiness means: there’s a joy merely in knowing that you’re a part of history. We may not achieve much in our little house in Stockwell, but we know that in the future political people everywhere will look to us – in Nigeria, India, Malaysia, wherever. It must have been the same for Tresawsen and his crowd. At least they knew they were a part of the most important events of their time – the war, and fascism, all the things you read about today in history books. That’s why there’s a kind of heroism even in their pointless deaths; that’s why they’re remembered and that’s why you’ve led us here. You wouldn’t understand the exhilaration of events like that – nothing really important ever happens where you are.

  Nothing really important? I said incredulously.

  Well of course there are famines and riots and disasters, she said. But those are local things, after all – not like revolutions or antifascist wars, nothing that sets a political example to the world, nothing that’s really remembered.

  She seemed immeasurably distant then, in her serene confidence in the centrality and eloquence of her experience, in her quiet pity for the pettiness of lives like mine, lived out in the silence of voiceless events in a backward world.

  I began to shout at her, saying that she made me laugh, she and her pathetic little welfare-pink friends, that she knew nothing at all about courage and politics, that I could understand people like Tresawsen better than she could, because I could conceive of a time when politics was serious.

  Serious? she said, her voice growing sharp. God, you’re so naïve: everybody knows what those thirties lefties were doing in those bars in Berlin. They probably spent all their time fighting over each other’s beds – not the Nazi-Soviet Pact. But you wouldn’t guess because you know nothing about England.

  I gave up then, for of course she was right: I knew nothing at all about England except as an invention. But still I had known people of my own age who had survived the Great Terror in the Calcutta of the sixties and seventies, and I thought I had at least a spectator’s knowledge of their courage, something that Ila, with her fine clothes and manicured hands, would never understand.

  And yet that was not the truth either, for I had been with Ila once when she had come out of her hairdresser’s shop, her hair all new and curled, and marched straight off to Brixton with her little crew of friends, to confront a gang of jack-booted racists armed with bicycle chains.

  As for me, I knew I would not have dared.

  Nick was bored by our pointless argument.

  Come on, he said. Let’s go and have a look at that house.

  He led us across the road and pushed open the greasy glass doors of the Taj Travel Agency. The door opened into a very large, dank room, so large that it was evident at once that they had torn down a wall and joined two rooms. A long Formica-topped table ran down one side of the room, behind which sat a row of girls, some in churidars and some in skirts. A little bell pealed tinnily as soon as Nick pushed the door open. One of the girls frowned at us as we walked in and gestured at the chairs in front of her desk. But before we could sit down a middle-aged man in a brown suit called out in Bengali from the other end of the room: Send them here, Zeenat, I’ll deal with them.

  He examined us as we walked up to his desk, and when we had sat down he said expressionlessly, in a glottal London voice: Wha’ can I do for you?

  Ila, instinctively adopting the manner of the Indian grande dame, said: We’d like a little information please.

  The man behind the desk was not impressed. He looked her over, and said: How many of you travelling? We only do groups.

  We’re going to Calcutta, I said to him in Bengali, smiling my most ingratiating smile. Could you give us some idea …?

  All business in English here, he snapped at me. And I can’t tell you anything until you let me know how many of you are travelling.

  You’re not being very friendly, Nick said. Are you now?

  Not my job to be friendly, he said.

  Tell me, I said quietly. Was there ever a staircase in here? What? the man exploded.

  Just wanted to know whether there was ever a staircase in here that was blown up by a bomb.

  Get out, he said. You’ve wasted enough of my time.

  Now look here, Nick began.

  If you don’t look sharp, he said, I’m going to throw you out.

  I don’t like this place, Ila said loftily. I’m going anyway.

  We got up together and walked to the door while the man glared at our backs.

  Bet he’s running a sweat-shop upstairs, Nick whispered loudly as we were going out.

  I heard that, the man bellowed, but before he could say anything else we were outside. When we had crossed the road, I turned back to take a last look at the house, trying to see it with a great hole gouged out of its side, as Tridib had.

  Nick stopped too, and looking back at the Taj Travel Agency he said: You’ve got to hand it to people like that though: they come over with next to nothing, and before you know it they’ve built up thriving little businesses. Now if I could get my hands on a little capital, I’d go into the futures market. Friends of mine have made killings there – it’s all a question of knowing what to buy when.

  For once I allowed myself to show my irritation.

  Shouldn’t you think of getting a job first? I said. Before you start making a fortune on the futures market?

  He took my question seriously, or at least he pretended to. The trouble is, he said, there’s not enough money in jobs here. It’s stupid really. Chartered accountants have to start at fifteen thousand pounds or something. In America or Kuwait they‘d get two or three times as much.

  So, then, why did you give up your job in Kuwait? I asked.

  Got sick of it, he said, wrinkling his nose. It wasn’t really a properly professional outfit. Outdated management practices. I thought of setting up something on my own there, but the trouble is, you have to have an Arab business partner, and they always interfere.

  So you mean you just chucked up your job one fine morning and came away? I said. I must have sounded sceptical, for he turned to give me a long, cool look.

  Yes, he said. That’s what I did.

  Really? I said. Well if I were you, I’d think of getting a job before I thought of the futures market.

  Abruptly, Ila thrust a hand through Nick’s arm. I stole a quick glance at her: her lips were white; she was very angry.

  Nick and I have to go now, she said. I think you’re old enough to do your own shopping.

&
nbsp; She turned on her heel and led him away, leaving me standing where I was, speechless. After they’d gone a hundred yards or so, she left him and came running back towards me.

  I don’t like you being rude to my friends, she said, when we were face to face. You’d better telephone before you come to Stockwell again. I may not be in.

  A fortnight passed before I saw Ila again.

  We met on Christmas Eve at 44 Lymington Road; Mrs Price had invited us to join her and Nick and May at a small family dinner.

  Ila came very late. She burst in upon us when Mrs Price and May were about to serve dinner. She was smiling, radiant, dressed in knee-length leather boots and a short skirt. She said a quick word of apology to everyone in turn, and to my relief, when she came to me, she was smiling.

  Where have you been all these days? she whispered. Why haven’t you come to see me?

  Then she turned away to admire the table. It had been beautifully laid: the silver and glass sparkled in the candlelight and a huge bowl of fruit glowed gently in the centre of the table. After we had sat down and May had served us our soup and Nick had poured us wine, Ila, looking as though she would burst, clapped her hands together and cried: I’ve got good news. You’ll never believe it.

  My heart went cold as I watched her turn her glowing face towards Nick.

  I’ve got a job, she cried.

  Wonderful! said May. With whom?

  With the Save the Children Fund, said Ila. It won’t pay much, but it’s something.

  Breathless with relief, I said: But I thought you hated children.

  Well I don’t actually have to see the little creatures, she said. I only have to save them, and that’s not too hard if all it means is filling in ledgers and pushing files.

  We laughed, Nick proposed a toast and we all drained our glasses. Then Mrs Price raised her glass shakily, her small, lined face wrinkling into a smile, and said: Since we’re more or less evenly matched here, if you don’t count an old biddy like me, I think we ought to drink a toast to Mr Justice Chandrashekhar Datta-Chaudhuri, and my father, Lionel Tresawsen, for we wouldn’t be here together now if it weren’t for them.

  We raised our glasses again, but solemnly this time. Nick drained his glass again, and then, twirling it between his fingers, slurring his words slightly, he said: Now Grandpa Tresawsen had a good time. How wonderful it must have been to go around the world like that: like some great Dickensian show on a stage. There’s never been anything like it before and there’ll never be anything like it again.

  He turned to me and shrugged, making a rueful face.

  And what did I get? he said. Bloody old Kuwait. That’s what comes of being born too late.

  Well, May said lightly, reaching for our plates; I think you might allow for the possibility that grandfather Tresawsen would have made a little more of Kuwait than you did.

  Kuwait! Nick snorted. You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it’s like out there. It’s a bubble that’s going to burst any day now. That’s why I got out while there was still something to get out of.

  May banged the plates down on the table and looked at him for what seemed like a very long time. Then she leant towards him and said: Nick, isn’t it time you stopped lying about this Kuwait business? I was willing to go along with it when it was just a lie meant for other people. But you’ve begun to believe it yourself, and you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. You ought to be able to stand up and tell the truth; you were brought up to tell the truth, just as I was. You should be able to look people in the eye and tell them what you told us: you ought to be able to say that your boss didn’t like you, that he concocted charges of embezzlement against you. If he did concoct them, that is.

  Nick stood up, swaying on his feet. He threw his napkin on the table and hissed at May.

  You’re a liar and a bitch, he said. It doesn’t surprise me that you never got married. Who’d want to put up with that fake honesty and those staring eyes every day at breakfast?

  Then he turned to Mrs Price and said that he was going up to his room; that he didn’t want any dinner. But Mrs Price was fast asleep, with her chin buried in her neck. He marched out of the room without another word, and a moment later Ila ran out after him.

  May did not seem to notice; she was staring blankly into the flame of a candle. Oh God, she whispered. What have I done?

  Nick and Ila came back together, a quarter of an hour later. We woke Mrs Price and May brought in the turkey and carved it. Mrs Price talked to me for a while about Calcutta, but nobody else said a single word. When we had finished our turkey, May blew out the candles as though she were sleep-walking through a ritual, and brought in the Christmas pudding and lit it. But only I applauded when the brandy flared up into a clean blue flame.

  After we had eaten our portions and cleared the plates away, Mrs Price led us back to her drawing room and poured out glasses of brandy for all of us. I emptied my glass as quickly as I could and got up to go.

  Thank you very much, I said to Mrs Price, trying not to sound awkward. It’s been a wonderful evening. A real English Christmas – nothing could have been better. It was lovely. But I’d better go now, or I’ll miss the last tube home.

  She smiled, squinting at me short-sightedly, and stretched out her hand. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, she said. You must come again.

  While I was fetching my scarves and overcoat, May went to the window and looked out at the garden.

  I don’t think you’ll be able to go just yet, she said. Have you seen what it’s like outside? There’s a blizzard blowing out there. You’ll freeze.

  I went to stand beside her, wrapped up in my scarves and overcoat. I could not see very far: there where whirlpools of snow blowing against the window.

  You’d better stay, said May. I think we’ll all have to stay. I can’t face going back to Islington in a storm.

  She looked at me, pleading, as though to tell me that she wouldn’t dare stay if I went.

  All right, I said. I’ll stay.

  But where will I put all of you? said Mrs Price. There won’t be room for two people in your old room, May. Nor will there in Nick’s.

  I know! May said brightly. The two of them can sleep in the cellar – on the old camp beds. There’s that old heater down there, too, so they won’t be cold, and Nick and I can give them our sleeping bags. They ought to be quite comfortable.

  That’s fine by me, said Ila, giving me a tight conspiratorial little smile. I nodded my assent, my heart bursting with hope.

  Well then, you arrange it, said Mrs Price. As for me. I’m eighty years old, and I’m going to bed.

  May hurried out of the room and we followed. She threw open a door that was tucked away behind the suitcase and switched on a light. It smelt slightly damp, but not musty: it was much cleaner than I had expected. There were stacks of paperbacks in one corner of the cellar, and suitcases and trunks were piled up high in another. May showed us the camp beds, tucked away behind the suitcases, and Nick and I dragged them out. It took us a while before we got the knack of opening them. But once they had been laid out properly they looked quite comfortable. Nick and Ila went upstairs and fetched sleeping bags, towels and nightclothes and soon the cellar began to look warm and inviting. Then May and Nick said goodnight and left.

  Ila turned to look at me after they were gone.

  So here we are, she said, smiling. We’re back under our old table, playing houses.

  I nodded and threw myself down on the edge of one of the beds. My knees were shaking and the palms of my hands were wet. Ila turned her back on me and pulled off her jacket and sweater, talking in a low voice all the while, about May and how she had ruined the evening.

  She was in a thin blouse now; I could see the outline of her breasts and even the shadow of the mole above her nipple.

  It’s hot in here actually, she said, undoing the buttons of her blouse. I don’t think I’m going to need any nightclothes.

  She turned to reach for a towel and
her eyes fell on me, crouched on the edge of the camp bed.

  Why, you’re staring, she laughed in surprise. I’ll have to turn my back on you again.

  She turned away and shrugged off her blouse. I could smell her now: she smelt of soap and fresh sweat. I could see the soft skin of her waist curving gently into her belt.

  She wrapped the towel around herself and kicked off her skirt. I could see the slanted grain of the down running down her legs. At that moment, draped in a towel, from her armpits to her thighs, her weight resting on one leg, her skin shimmering like soft, dark silk, she seemed to belong to a wholly different species of being from the women my friends and I had visited – more perfect than any human form could possibly be.

  I could not sit still any more. I stole up behind her and put my hand on her bare shoulder.

  Take your hand away, she giggled. It’s cold.

  She spun around, and I don’t know what she saw on my face but the laughter died on her lips.

  Oh, what’s happened? she cried. Why are you looking at me like that?

  She stepped back to look at me and then she ran into my arms and hugged me.

  You poor man, she said.

  Her voice was full of pity.

  You poor, poor man.

  She reached up and ran a hand over my face. It was only then that I felt the tears running down my cheeks.

  I didn’t know, she said. You were always the brother I never had. I’m sorry. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have behaved like this. Really, believe me.

  It doesn’t matter, I said.

  She came and sat beside me and ran a finger over my neck and back. I’m sorry, she said. I’m really, truly sorry.

  You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, I said. It’s no one’s fault but mine.

  We heard the sound of a door shutting somewhere upstairs. Ila leapt to her feet.