by Paul Scott
She sat and exchanged smiles with him through the window. Presently the whistle sounded again – a sustained and urgent note. She got up. When she reached the window of the door the train was moving. Bronowsky stayed motionless – his panama hat held to his breast – but gliding away from her, becoming partially obscured by groups of people who slid past as if the platform were being pulled backwards by some strange law of lateral gravity. As the view of the station expanded she saw distantly the three coaches of the Nawab’s private train, marooned under dwindling points of illumination. She thought, but could not be sure, that two figures were passing through the cordon, a man and a woman in purdah; but the glimpse was scarcely a glimpse; perhaps a brief hallucinatory image switched by her eye from one part of the platform to another.
When she had closed windows and meshes and lowered blinds, secured locks, it was twenty-four hours since she had entered her body’s grace. She made up her bed with sheet and blanket, blew up her air pillow, but then sat, tracing the red and green tartan pattern of the pillow’s cover with her right forefinger. Why red and green? Why tartan? She held the pillow to her, then lay down, letting it cushion her head.
Are you happy? he asked. I’m content. Then we’re friends? Not friends. Enemies? No, not enemies – strangers still. Shall we make love again? She turned her head into the pillow, wanting him because she knew no other man. The pain of wanting was exquisite. She opened her mouth to receive an image of his but found only the warm flesh of her own hand that was not cunning or quick enough to hold back days or rescue a single firefly from all those that rode the night emitting signals of distress; the signal lights of souls gathering like migrant birds for a long journey because the home they knew had become inhospitable.
She dozed, woke, covered herself with the blanket as an insurance against the chill that would accompany their entry into the hills, but could not summon the resolution to turn off lights and fans. She dozed again, but sleep was held back by an instinct to keep watch on the night’s dissembling progress. Ten minutes short of half past two. Going with him now, back into the danger zone. Are you sad? he asked. Just silent. Content and silent, he said, it’s a good basis to build on, you will have a good life. And already up there in the hills (these hills) Aunty Mabel had gone, and been quickly buried, as was customary. And who knew whether hers had been a good life? I waited up, Aunt Fenny said, I waited up, pet, your mother rang. It was twenty-four minutes to three. At five it would be thirty-six hours since she had stood waiting for Sister Prior, and since Susan – lying on the veranda of Rose Cottage – had watched Aunty Mabel suddenly put down her basket on the rail between two of the azaleas, and sit, and die, as quietly as she had lived.
VI
At four Ahmed was woken by one of the stewards; and at half past, wearing a new dark grey tropical suit made up by Bronowsky’s tailor, he went along the corridor and tapped at the door of his mother’s compartment. She was lying fully dressed on her bunk. On the opposite bunk her maid snored with her back turned to the single light that lit his mother’s head.
‘Is it time?’ Mrs Kasim asked, keeping her voice low.
‘Yes, Mother. Don’t get up.’
‘Have you slept at all?’
‘Yes. Is there anything I can get you?’
‘No, Ahmed, nothing.’
‘You shouldn’t have stayed awake.’
She held on to his hand. ‘It wasn’t difficult. Stay with me until the train stops. But don’t let talk. Poor Farina’s exhausted.’ He sat on the edge of the bunk. His mother nodded, closed her eyes. ‘You look very smart,’ she murmured, and gripped his hand more tightly, as if to thank him for taking trouble. Her hair was greyer than it had been even six months ago. He didn’t know – had never known – what she really thought. She had always seemed content to echo his father’s words. What have you got out of it, he wanted to ask, out of all this struggle and dedication and sacrifice? What have your compensations been? Are they so small that you notice a suit and get comfort from having me sit and say nothing?
After a while it began to worry him that perhaps the train was behind schedule, that he was committed to stay for a long time, uncomfortably perched; but there was now a change in the rhythm of the rapidly moving coach. His mother noticed it too. Deep – too deep – lines of concentration appeared on her forehead. Speed was being lost. Presently they had slowed to that tentative pace which always made Ahmed feel that a train had transformed itself from a mindless piece of careering machinery into a sentient intelligent creature, probing forward through a maze of obstacles.
His mother opened her eyes and leant up on one elbow. ‘You had better go.’
He bent for her kiss.
‘You’ve got the letter safely?’
‘Yes, Mother, I’ve got it safely.’ He patted his breast pocket.
She watched him until he pulled the door to between them. In the corridor he lit a cigarette. The dining-saloon still savoured of old festivity, too recent to have gone stale; but it seemed to belong to another time. A nodding steward jerked awake as Ahmed passed him. He found Bronowsky awake in the saloon, reading a small leather-bound book, smoking one of his pink cigarettes.
‘I have been indulging several of my most private vices,’ the Count said, ‘wakefulness while the world dreams, the poetry of Pushkin and an unfinished bottle. There is still a glass left. Or would you prefer something stronger? Yes. Steward. Bring Kasim Sahib a large scotch and soda. Or no soda? No soda.’
‘Is Captain Rowan up?’
‘I hope so. He was woken at four-fifteen. I have kept watch as well. But that’s a virtue. Has your mother slept?’
‘No. she promises to.’
The scotch was brought. Ahmed took a generous gulp.
‘Here,’ Bronowsky said, reaching into his pocket. ‘I have a present for you.’ He offered a clove of garlic. ‘Chew it before you reach the Circuit House.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Take care not to get close to Captain Rowan, though. He would be too polite to turn his head. He’s expecting an appointment in the Political Department, he tells me. We talked for a while after you went to bed. I expect Sir George Malcolm has entrusted him with this present business mainly to help him get his hand in. He should do well. He has a talent for finding out what he wants to know without appearing to encourage conversation to rise above the level of casual chat, and for feigning indifference to the information when he gets it.’
‘What did he want to know tonight?’
‘He was fascinated by Merrick and the stone and Pandit Baba Sahib. His dismissal of Merrick’s name as one that meant nothing to him was disingenuous. I’m too old a hand not to react when feigned indifference is set off by an aura of alertness. I sensed it when Miss Layton and I were talking and sensed it again when I told you in front of him about Merrick’s loss of an arm. When we were alone he worked skilfully back to the subject. He began by asking me how and where I lost the sight of an eye. But of course I helped him. We are both professionals.’
‘Are you warning me not to speak too freely to him? You know I never do that.’ Ahmed smiled, and took another mouthful of the whisky. Had he really got a taste for it yet? He wasn’t sure.
‘I am giving you, possibly, an example of the discreet way in which the English set to work to re-establish a principle of justice, for their own peace of mind, while attempting to preserve the status quo resulting from the breaking of the principle. If Rowan knew of Merrick, which I firmly believe, his pretence otherwise suggests that the files on the six unfortunate detenus in the Manners case have quite recently been on His Excellency’s desk. Which means that the detention orders are being reviewed, and possibly that poor Mr Merrick’s reputation has suffered a set-back far more serious than the one that saw him packed off to a backwater by a department anxious to keep its mistakes from reaching the ears of more powerful departments which need to ensure that the principles of impartial justice are seen to be held sacrosanct. Assuming my interp
retation is correct, do you understand Captain Rowan’s interest in the recent history of the ex-District Superintendent in Mayapore?’
‘No. It’s too early in the morning, Count Sahib. And he’ll be here in a minute.’ The train was still at a crawl, single-mindedly solving the Chinese puzzle of steel links that unfairly confronted it.
‘Sometimes, Ahmed, you are so deliberately obtuse that I could send you to bed for a week on bread and water.’ The Count paused. ‘The reason is – and you would do well to remember it – that Captain Rowan has recognized with the sure instinct of his race, that Mr Merrick’s recent history is the key to the preservation of the status quo. It has probably already been decided that the six boys are unjustly detained and must be released. That is the principle of justice re-established. But how preserve the status quo when clearly a mistake was made by Merrick and compounded by superior authority? On paper your prime scapegoat is Merrick. But how unpleasant to have a scapegoat at all. Imagine the relief with which Captain Rowan will go back to Ranpur and initiate discreet inquiries – with the Governor’s approval – into the truth of what he has heard tonight. A citation for bravery in the field and an amputated arm. What luck! It wipes the blot from the escutcheon and solves the problem of Mr Merrick’s future civil or military employment. The boys go free, the files are closed, and all is – as they say – as it was before. The one thing the English fear is scandal, I mean private scandal. If Mr Merrick had ever been asked to account for his actions the outside world would never have heard of it.’
‘You think he had actions to account for?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
The train jerked to a halt. From somewhere beneath and a few feet behind, something clanked. Ahmed went to the window, parted the curtains and saw pools of diffused light on cinders, and under one of the standards that shed the light a limousine from the palace and an army truck. He pulled the curtain to, drained his glass and looked at Bronowsky.
‘Courage, mon ami,’ Bronowsky said, ‘le diable est mort.’
Ahmed repeated the words to himself, to translate them. He smiled. ‘Is he?’ he asked.
They waited for Rowan.
*
Eventually they were beyond the town. The windows of the limousine were lowered half-way. Sheet lightning spasmodically lit the night sky and the barren landscape.
‘It’s very close,’ Rowan said. ‘With any luck it’ll be raining tomorrow.’
Ahmed agreed that with any luck it would, and mentally put up his guard. But where could a civilized exchange about the weather lead except to a mutual recognition that they had nothing to say that would destroy their all too ready-made images of each other? Rowan – the archetypal Englishman, unemphatic in speech and gesture but warmed inside no doubt by the belief that what he did would have its modest place in the margins of history; and himself, younger son of a veteran Congress Muslim, the son who failed and got packed off to kick his heels in one of the old princely states where he could embarrass no one; known to drink and to womanize, to be indifferent to politics, a potential wastrel and living proof of the continuing validity of the classic formula of misfortune that could afflict respected parents.
‘Is there any point you think we ought to discuss before we arrive?’ Rowan asked.
‘No, everything is clear.’ Clearer to him, he thought, than perhaps Rowan realized; although it would be wrong to make too firm an assumption on that score. He felt in his pocket for the clove of garlic and self-consciously carried it to his mouth. Rowan gave him a quick glance, as a guard would who had to bring a prisoner to a place of interrogation and keep alert for attempts at suicide. The car rode the unrepaired tarmac more evenly than the truck ahead in whose canvas-roofed interior two British military policemen sat stoic under the hypnosis of the twin sources of pursuing light.
Abruptly the gap between truck and limousine shortened.
‘We’re there, I think,’ Rowan said. The truck turned across a culvert that separated the road from the eroded landscape. The limousine followed. They were in a compound that had no walls. There were lights on in the Circuit House. Figures moved on the veranda. There were two other vehicles parked. Getting out of the limousine Ahmed surveyed the land beyond the compound, but the night was black and there was no view of the fort. He followed Rowan to the veranda. Rowan shook hands with an Englishman in civilian clothes and with one in the uniform of the civil police, but when he turned, wishing to make introductions, Ahmed said, ‘I’ll wait down there, if you don’t mind,’ and walked to a place where a chair and a table were set, and took up his position.
Presently Rowan joined him. ‘Don’t you wish to meet the Divisional Commissioner?’
‘Not just now, unless it’s essential.’
‘Very well,’ Rowan said, and left him.
Very well. It was one of the English phrases Ahmed had never understood. Rowan and the others would probably intepret his withdrawal and isolation as a sulky attempt to show them that after all he had a patriotic nature. They could not know that he isolated himself to preserve for as long as possible his sense of detachment from the issues of a situation not of his own devising.
And after a while there was a light, far off; gone as soon as seen; but his muscles had tensed, as though to force his body to leap up and stretch an arm to glean the light before it was extinguished. But he continued to sit still and it was a long time before the light reappeared, moving and unmistakable, a mile down the road and coming at speed.
He got up and stood by the veranda rail, then went to the head of the steps, ignoring Rowan whose shadow fell aslant the floor from the open doorway. He heard Rowan go back in and say something to the others. The approaching car slowed, turned in across the culvert. He was dazzled by the abrupt glare of the headlights and the lingering penumbra as they were doused. An officer got out of the front passenger seat and opened the near door at the back. Ahmed felt his way down the steps.
An old man emerged, grasped the young officer’s arm and slowly straightened. Light from the veranda revealed sunken eyes wide open with the shock of transition to a strange environment. With his free hand the old man shaded them.
‘Ahmed? Ahmed? Is that you?’ The voice did not belong to the old man. It was his father’s voice. The officer stood away and Ahmed felt his left arm taken in both the old man’s hands.
‘Ahmed?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Your mother, Ahmed. Your mother. What news of your mother?’
‘She’s well, you’ll see her very soon.’
‘They let the Mahatma out. Poor Kasturba was dead.’
‘I know. But there’s nothing like that.’
‘Then God is good to me.’ He clung to him. Ahmed felt him trembling. The officer turned his back.
‘Come and sit,’ Ahmed said.
Presently the old man released him and stood back, looking suspiciously towards the house. ‘Who is there?’
‘An officer on the Governor’s staff and two others I don’t know.’
‘So many people? But there is a room where I can be alone?’
‘We can talk on the veranda.’
‘No. Please ask for a room. I must be alone for a few minutes, then we must talk. After that I will see them. Not before. Ask this officer to go and tell them.’
‘I’ll go myself. Wait here.’
The room he entered was barely furnished. Rowan and the others were standing round a deal table. He spoke to Rowan, ignoring the Commissioner and the policeman.
‘My father asks for a room where he can be alone for a while.’
Rowan turned to the Commissioner. ‘Is there another room, sir?’
‘There’s one at the end, where Mr Kasim was sitting. It’s not locked.’
‘Is it for devotional use?’ Rowan asked, looking in Ahmed’s direction.
‘Apparently no one at the Fort bothered to reassure him my mother was neither ill nor dying. He’s been expecting to hear the worst. So he’s not yet ready to
talk to anyone.’
‘The Fort commander would have had the minimum instructions necessary, but I regret any worry he’s been caused.’ Again he spoke to the Commissioner. ‘I think it would be better if we made this room available to Mr Kasim and wait in the other one ourselves. Is there a way to it other than along the veranda?’
The Commissioner mumbled and led them out through a back door. Ahmed waited until the sounds they made were no longer audible, then went back to his father. He found him sitting in the car. He helped him out and up the steps. Inside the room, in the glare of the light, the physical toll exacted by nearly two years in prison was fully revealed. The long-skirted high-necked coat that had once shown up a comfortable thickness of body, hung loosely. The flesh of the thickened jowls was fallen, the fringe of hair was wholly grey. The white cap of Congress seemed too big. The hawk-like nose had a hungry questing look.
‘I’ll leave this with you, Father.’ He gave him the envelope which contained his mother’s letter. ‘It’s from Mother. She wrote it a few hours ago.’
‘Is she near by?’
‘Not far. Let me know when you want me.’
For the first time since entering the room his father looked at him.
‘No, I am all right. Stay here. We must talk. You are taller. And broader. How long has it been?’
‘Nearly three years.’
‘You have your full growth. You quite dwarf me. Quite dwarf me.’
The moment was over then. In the few seconds sitting in the car his father had recovered and put back up the barriers.
‘They told me nothing until five o’clock yesterday, and then only to pack my things and get a few hours sleep. Am I free, or on my way to another jail?’
‘You are free,’ Ahmed said; but he had hesitated.
‘On what conditions? Is there an amnesty? No – don’t answer. Let me read your mother’s letter. Sit down.’ His father sat at the table. Ahmed chose a seat near the door, which was still open. The room was very warm. The fan was not working. Unhurriedly his father brought out his spectacle case and put the spectacles on. A slight tremor of the hands was the only sign that his composure was incomplete. The letter was very short but he lingered over it with the concentration Ahmed remembered as characteristic. Briefs, minutes, resolutions, correspondence: they had all been subjected to this slow searching analysis. Why does he take so long? Ahmed had once asked. His mother replied: He reads between the lines.