Waiting for the Monsoon

by Threes Anna

  They knelt there are the top of the stairs. Only then did he see the colours. The gleaming rose-coloured silk that lay on top and the deep pink beneath it. The length of purple that had reminded her of funerals now had a royal air, while the yellow cotton that had resembled the murderous sun was now the colour of sunflowers. Underneath there were lengths of turquoise cotton and cobalt blue linen. Madan’s hand skimmed over a piece of yellow-green silk and then — as if it was now demanding attention after lying hidden for years — he pulled out an ethereal blue fabric embroidered with bright red roses. He was beaming.

  For the dress you should wear on the day the first flowers come into bloom.

  “But blue isn’t my colour.” she whispered.

  Blue? Of course it is.

  “I thought green was the only colour I looked good in.” He cast his eye over the pile and pulled out a piece of azure blue silk, which he held up to her face. He looked at her with a critical eye, frowning slightly.

  “You see!” she cried out, forgetting her father.

  No, it’s not the colour. There’s not enough light. I can’t see the colour of your eyes.

  Shyly, she held the candle up to her face. He thinks I’m ugly.

  You’re so beautiful! He caught the scent of jasmine and saw his own face twice reflected in her greyish-brown eyes.

  That same instant they both lowered their eyes. Charlotte began to move around nervously, rushing over to the crate with the candle stubs. She grabbed a handful, put them down on the floor, one by one, and lit them.

  Madan, who also understood that he had gone too far, again busied himself with the pile of colourful fabrics. He felt like pulling all of them over his head, but he realized that she was so close that he couldn’t hide his thoughts from her.

  They sat with their backs to one another.

  I don’t want to think, and yet I’m thinking, he thought. I’ve never been afraid of my thoughts. I’m constantly thinking, praying, hoping, dreaming, finding, fantasizing, reflecting, wandering . . .

  I’m afraid. She closed her eyes.

  So am I. He looked at her.

  I’m afraid. The thought echoed through her mind.

  He pulled a vermilion-red length of silk from the pile, walked over to her, and draped it over her shoulders.

  She kept her eyes closed, but her hand stroked its soft folds.

  It goes beautifully with your hair.

  My hair is grey.

  It’s not grey . . . there are some grey hairs.

  Charlotte opened her eyes and was startled when she saw that it was red. “Red is for girls!”

  Stand up. He ignored her reaction, and again looked at her with a professional eye.

  Cautiously she rose from the floor. The fabric slid off her shoulder. She suddenly felt naked. He snatched a length of crimson from the pile and draped it over her shoulders. You look beautiful in red.

  She smiled uncertainly.

  If I shape the neck like this. He began draping the material. Your shoulders like this. His eyes sparkled. And your back like this.

  He walked around her, and although he didn’t know how to handle the situation and she was silently begging him to stop, he went on. He didn’t touch her. He only draped the fabric over her body, but the sensation was the same. He pulled another length of fabric from the pile. This one was marigold orange.

  And this can be used for a very narrow border along the hem.

  She pulled the material from her shoulder.

  Why did you do that?

  “Red is common.”

  No it isn’t. Red is the colour of rage, the colour of danger, the colour of blood and revolution, of guilt and martyrs, of despair. Red is power and strife. Red is cherries and tomatoes. Copper and the earth are red. Fire, and the sun when it’s about to disappear. The tulip, the gerbera, the rhododendron, the amaryllis, the orchid, the rose. Your lips are red. Red is the colour of . . . love.

  Charlotte pulled the red cloth from her shoulders. She blushed and walked away from him. She could hear his thoughts, but she didn’t want to hear them. Just as she hoped he wasn’t listening to hers.

  Madan, who in his enthusiasm to design a dress for her had overturned the entire pile of fabrics, now began to straighten them.

  I’ll leave. Perhaps it’s for the best.

  Best for whom? The words shot through his mind. I’m sorry, I mustn’t think that, he excused himself.

  Best for me, Charlotte replied. I don’t know whether it’s good for you, too. But it’s better for me.

  Then I’ll go.

  Where will you go?

  Somewhere, just move on.

  Farther, in which direction?

  Farther. Down the road.

  And then?

  I’ll find work.

  And the ladies and the party . . .

  There must be another tailor.

  There isn’t.

  There’s always someone else.

  Not here.

  Here, too.

  You can’t just leave.

  Why not?

  They would blame me.

  Who?

  The ladies.

  I know women. I’ve always worked for women. They’ll understand you.

  Do you understand me, too?

  Yes.

  Why are we talking? What are we doing?

  You wanted to show me the fabrics. In his hands he held the gleaming length of red silk.

  “Do I really look good in red?” she asked softly.

  He nodded. Do you know what you don’t look good in?

  Charlotte slowly came closer.

  He drew a length of beige cotton from the pile. This. And again his hand delved into the pile, and he came up with a khaki-coloured cloth. And this.

  She snatched it from his hand, threw it over her shoulders with a flourish, and wrapped it tightly around her body, so it looked like a military greatcoat. Then suddenly the silence of the night was broken by a horrible scream. Father! She grabbed the key from the hook, opened the door, and ran over to the bed.

  The sudden scream was so deafening that Madan felt like putting his hands over his ears. Still wearing the khaki remnant wrapped around her body, she ducked under the mosquito netting, which hung like a slack tent around the iron bed.

  “It’s all right now, I’m here,” she said to her father.

  He looked at her anxiously and tried to break loose from the straps that bound him to the bed. “Go away!” he begged. His lame legs lay still, but his entire upper body fought with a vigour one wouldn’t expect from a man of ninety-four. He was sobbing, hawking, and groaning, all the while looking at his daughter with frightened eyes.

  “Calm now,” she said, trying to soothe him.

  “Not me, not me.” There was genuine panic in his voice.

  “It’s all right now, Father.”

  “Father? I don’t have any children. Go away!” he screamed.

  Madan ducked under the mosquito netting and reappeared on the other side of the bed. When Victor saw him, he stopped screaming. He was wheezing, exhausted, and his body was still quivering from the aftershocks. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. But not his eyes.

  “Shoot her dead,” he suddenly whispered.

  Charlotte started.

  Madan didn’t move a muscle.

  “Shoot,” her father roared. “They’re all over the place. We have to kill them.”

  Charlotte was about to bend over her father, to reassure him, but he immediately started screaming again.

  “Shoot! Shoot, for God’s sake!”

  Madan walked around to the other side of the bed, so he was standing next to Charlotte.

  “She’s wearing a
disguise. You can see that, can’t you?” he shouted. “She’s a spy.”

  Calmly Madan pulled the piece of khaki material from Charlotte’s shoulders and handed it to the old man.

  He shouted: “You see? Didn’t I tell you?” He drew the khaki material over himself and began to laugh.

  Charlotte was used to her father’s unpredictable onslaughts. She bent over him. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  “A dream? I’ve never dreamt. Never in my whole life.”

  “Do you want some water?”

  “Yes. I’m dying of thirst. Why do they always give me those army blankets?” He pushed the khaki material away. “Much too hot!”

  Charlotte gave him the bottle with the nipple.

  Charlotte and Madan looked at his hollow cheeks, the greedy look in his eyes. The grey hair, the wiry body, and the thin, fragile legs that had hung there like useless appendages for the past thirty years.

  With his tongue, he pushed the nipple out of his mouth. “Is she your lover?” he asked Madan.

  Charlotte blushed.

  Madan shook his head.

  “No?” he asked in surprise.

  “Father, this is Madan. He’s the tailor.”

  “Shut up. And don’t tell me lies.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “This man is no tailor.”

  “Father, have some more to drink.”

  Victor turned to Madan and gave him a long look. “Where do you come from?”

  Charlotte was about to say something, but Madan shrugged his shoulders.

  “What family do you come from?”

  Again, Madan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Are you saying that because I’m down and out, without a cent to my name?”

  The two men looked each other in the eye, for a long time and without moving. They never blinked.

  Charlotte felt uncomfortable and busied herself folding up the khaki material.

  “She’s a widow,” the general muttered. “Has she told you that? And I’ve kept her here, supposedly to protect her, but that wasn’t the reason. She had to care for me, wipe my bottom, because I didn’t want some nurse or other to do it, and cut my toenails and massage my legs with oil, and if a man came anywhere near her, I used every weapon I could find — I couldn’t bear the thought that she might leave me. She did once, went off to the Himalayas, and when she came home she did nothing but cry, and I can’t abide women who cry, it’s enough to make you sick, women in general, I’ve never understood them, but you have my blessing.”

  “Father! Stop! He’s the new tailor.”

  Her father glared at her. “I don’t know whether you ruined your eyes with all that snivelling, but this nobleman is in love with you, and if you can’t see that, you’re blind.” He closed his mouth with a snap and shut his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.

  THE KEY GRATED when she turned it. She was afraid to look at him. The candle in the holder was almost out, and she went over to the crate to get a new one. She lit it and pressed it into the soft, hot wax. The chandelier, which Hema had pulled back up to the ceiling, hung there like a forgotten crown. Do you suppose they ever burned that many candles in this hall? She looked over the balustrade, and remembered that as a little girl she used to peek down at her parents. The images of dancing soldiers in gala uniforms and ladies in floor-length gowns returned, like the scent of her mother’s perfume and the lively music. Madan, who appropriated portions of her memories, bent down and picked up a handful of candles from the box, lighted them, and placed them, one by one, along the edge of the balustrade, one in a recess in the wall, and another on a narrow shelf against the wall. Charlotte grinned and grabbed a handful of candles. Walking down the stairs, she put a burning candle on each step. Downstairs she placed more candle stubs on the ledges where statues had once stood, and on the windowsills and the marble floor. The darkness in which the house had so long been shrouded gradually disappeared. In the flickering candlelight, the bare landing and the dismantled hall regained something of their old glory. The clock sounded twelve stately strokes. Madan picked up the royal blue velvet fabric, threw it over his shoulders, and strode down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Charlotte bowed, and then ran up the stairs, pulled two brightly coloured lengths of fabric from the pile, and hung them over the balustrade. She then wrapped herself in pale green lace and, like Madan, strode regally down the stairs.

  There was music in her head, which he, too, could hear: the tones of a long-forgotten orchestra enticing everyone onto the dance floor. They stood opposite each other and slowly began to move, circling around to the music that had been forgotten when the British troops departed.

  Charlotte closed her eyes, surrendering to the tones in her head. She was floating on air. She felt his presence, how he sometimes took over the music, altered it, and then sent it back to her. The sounds of the past became the present, filling the great marble hall. Time passed without their hearing the clock: they were the music. They whirled and danced. The lace that enveloped her blew over the candles. The flames could not catch the gossamer fabric. She was young again. She was radiant.

  Madan also danced with his eyes closed. His movements were much slower, more tentative. Her music was foreign to him but enticing. He was in a large ballroom, where huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the paintings on the walls were metres high. They danced together, surrounded by men in exotic outfits and women in costly saris.

  They were one, without ever touching each other. Dong! The clock struck. She opened her eyes and looked up. Dong! The second chime sounded. Dong! And the third, after which it fell silent. She had no idea that they had been dancing for so long. She’d been in a different world. A world she’d forgotten, one that she thought existed only in dreams.

  “You haven’t chosen the material for my dress yet!” she called out, and then ran up the stairs and tossed the length of sea-green silk over the balustrade.

  It fluttered down and, just in time, Madan managed to snatch it away from the flickering candle flame.

  She laughed and threw down a piece of lavender silk, which fluttered like a butterfly, and again Madan pulled it away from the flames. One colour after the other descended. A shower of ultramarine, silver, orange, jade, ochre, violet, pink, golden yellow, russet, and sky blue. Laughing, he plucked them out of the air, like a juggler.

  When the last one had reached the ground, she ran down the stairs and stood in front of him. “Which one are you going to use?”

  He spread the lengths of silk out on the floor. Red is the colour of passion and longing.

  Charlotte could tell she was blushing.

  Orange goes with young fruit and lends vitality and sexual power. Gold, of course, is success and wealth. Just as yellow stands for science, logic, and the intellect. Pale green, a field of grass after the first rain, signifies openness and anticipation. The green of old grass is the colour of nature and mortality. Turquoise is linked to spiritual consciousness, blue to the sky and all that is insubstantial. Indigo represents pure knowledge, and violet creates power and dignity.

  “But what looks best on me?

  Red.

  The blush on her cheeks glowed. “There are so many different shades of red. Does each shade mean something different?”

  Blood red signifies drama and cadmium distance; red ochre means warmth and vermillion titillation; magenta stands for dominance, carmine for lust, and scarlet for pure love. He picked up several lengths of red cloth and laid them next to each other on the stairs.

  “It’s like a red carpet,” she giggled, trying to draw him away from the subject. “I’ll make a canopy for you.” She gathered up some blue remnants from the floor. And each time a piece of fabric fell, she heard his voice: blue-black, violet, azure, Delft blue, indigo, Prussian blue, lapis
lazuli. She tied the lengths of cloth to the banister, but her canopy was a failure. The remnants just slid away, and her creation collapsed as quickly as his red carpet had taken shape.

  Madan began to laugh, noiselessly, but Charlotte heard him in her head. For an instant she felt insulted because he was laughing at her, for his laugh tumbled through her head. But when she looked at him, at his radiant eyes, she understood the unaccustomed laugh, which was full and pure. And she began to laugh herself. First a laugh with sound, as she was used to, but when she heard her laugh reverberating shrilly in the marble hall, she searched for the noiseless laugh in her head. It was a completely different laugh than she was used to.

  They didn’t hear the personnel door being opened, quickly closed, and then set ajar. Hema’s mouth dropped when he saw memsahib and the darzi sitting on the staircase, with their mouths open in a laugh. For a split second he thought they were both suffering from stomach colic, but the hundreds of candles and the colourful remnants spread out all around them told him that there was something else going on. He wasn’t sure whether he should knock to announce his arrival or just walk in and surprise them. He did neither.

  He stole back to the kitchen, fervently wishing that he had never witnessed the scene. This was so terrible that he didn’t even dare to tell the neighbours’ butler about it. The idiocy that has taken possession of his employer would only degrade his position still further. He wouldn’t say anything to anyone, not even the second junior assistant in the barbershop at the bottom of the hill, who told him a new joke every day, or the shopkeepers who let him buy on tick, or anyone else. He wanted to forget the whole thing and persuade himself that it had been a dream. He sank down on his mat and pulled the sheet over himself. What on earth were they doing? He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost four o’clock. The sun would be up soon, and then he’d have to boil the water for the tea. He hoped that nothing of what he had just witnessed would still be there. And that everything would be back to normal. If only that darzi would leave. He was the cause of all this misery . . .