Arctic Summer (35 page)

His rational mind was prepared. He had read the Bhagavad Purana and he knew a little about the Krishna birth story. It wasn't entirely unlike the tale of Christ's birth, with the wicked king Kamsa standing in for Herod and the village of Gokul for Bethlehem. But there the similarities ended: in his playful, irreverent earthiness, Krishna left humourless Jesus behind. Morgan had always liked him for this reason, without precisely following the significance of his various incarnations, though he hoped now that something would be explained.

The festival itself was set to last eight days, but weeks before, when the preparations began, confusion had already set in. Why did the Lord of the Universe take the form of a six-inch doll with a mean little face, and why did he require eight different suits, worth thirty pounds, each embroidered with pearls? And what was the point of giving him a mosquito net? More worrying, though more prosaic, was a different question: why were such prodigious amounts of money being spent on flowers and food and decoration and music when the state coffers were so badly squeezed?

It was best, perhaps, simply to be carried by the current of events, and let understanding follow in their wake. The entire court decamped to the Old Palace for the duration, leaving shoes and meat-eating outside. Nothing was supposed to die as long as the festival lasted; not even an egg. A room was made available to Morgan upstairs, which did offer some sanctuary, though the mayhem leaked in at all hours, and there was a holy feather-bed in it which required votive candles burning on the bolster and the prayers of the Maharajah once daily. Sleep was in any case disturbed and intermittent, because of the three bands playing simultaneously in the courtyard and the terrible thudding of the steam engine which drove the temporary electricity supply.

In the daytime it was much worse. In addition to the bands, groups of singers, accompanied by cymbals and a harmonium, offered unending prayers at the altar. Sometimes an enormous horn was blown; sometimes elephants would trumpet. Between all this came the sound of shouting, or the patter of children's feet as they ran and played through the palace. But the racket was merely an accompaniment to a corresponding visual cacophony: people swarmed and rampaged everywhere, the altar was buried in petals, incense burned smokily.

In such disorder, what sense? There seemed to be no form or beauty to any of it. Morgan wore Hindu clothing, but he wasn't Hindu inside, and he struggled to find the logic that bound one thing to another. Yet there
was
logic of a kind, for those who believed. He couldn't find any of it stranger than the more demure rituals of Christmas at home. Seen from a distance, all ecstasy is odd, and this bodily abandonment wasn't worse than any other. Indeed, it was the ecstasy that intrigued him most, when sense and rational thought departed. At certain times of the day His Highness danced before the altar to make his oblations. In contrast to the singers, who were mostly quite rooted, these were vigorous outbursts, with Bapu Sahib leaping happily about, plucking at a stringed instrument around his neck, reciting poems in moments of inspiration, and once memorably flinging himself prostrate on the carpet before the god. His face showed what it meant to lose oneself: all personality had been wiped away. How Morgan envied it, this loss, which was also somehow a sort of gain, but he couldn't emulate it. From inside himself he observed, and made notes for the future, and suffered the minor injuries of envy. He would have given a lot to cavort and caper on a threadbare carpet, or hurl himself headlong before a dressed-up doll in a shrine. But his upbringing, or his Occidental scepticism, held him in. He would always be Morgan, never Krishna, not even in part.

Yet even His Highness, when his rapture ebbed, came back quickly to himself. Not ten minutes after he had jumped around like David in front of the Ark of the Covenant, he was in a side passage, complaining to Morgan about his indigestion. And he was perfectly capable of giving out mundane orders about the palace, or repairs to the motor cars, in the midst of all the other frenzy.

The most startling intrusion of normal life, however, came in another form. Upstairs in Morgan's room one evening, after he had made his daily prayer to the sacred feather-bed, the Maharajah came to sit next to Morgan where he was leaning against the wall. He looked weary and rubbed his eyes.

“Are you tired, Bapu Sahib? Would you like to lie down?”

“No, no, it isn't that. The problem is different. It is that little barber of yours again.”

“What has he done now?”

“Well, he is quite shameless, that boy. I was resting in a room here last night and I saw he was sitting in the corner. I paid him no mind. As you know, they are everywhere, these people. After some time he came over and he was massaging my feet. So I knew he wanted a favour.”

“Yes,” Morgan said, closing his eyes. He knew already what was coming.

“He asked me for employment at the palace. At first I was confused. I told him, ‘But you have employment, you are Sahib's barber.' It was the wrong reply. He said, ‘Sirkar, I want more employment. I want employment with
you
.' Then he said . . . ”

Here Bapu Sahib became bashful; he looked around, even though they were alone, then leaned over to whisper in Morgan's ear.

“Oh, no.”

“Yes, yes. That is what he said.” He chuckled ruefully.

It was sickening, but all too believable: the foolish young man, misunderstanding his position, wanting promotion, thinking he could be catamite to the king.

“What happened then?”

“Oh, I became very angry, I shouted at him. He ran away in fear and he hasn't come back. But he
will
come back, his sort always returns.”

“I shall beat him. I shall send him away.”

“You should beat him, certainly. He doesn't fear you enough. But let us not be too hasty about sending him away. It may cause suspicion and talk. We should—”

Here the door opened and two courtiers came in search of His Highness. Their talk abruptly ended, suspended in mid-air, though it continued to unspool in Morgan's mind. It took a great deal to wring rage from him; of all the emotions, it lay deepest. But he was incensed and, if Kanaya had been before him at this moment, he might have lost all restraint.

Morgan would deal with him later, but meanwhile there was the rest of Gokul Ashtami to get through. Krishna's birth was only announced on the sixth day of the festival, which involved the Maharajah thrusting his face into the mound of rose petals that concealed the little idol, and everybody throwing red powder, so that the air turned crimson. The noise reached an excruciating pitch in the same moment, with the elephants joining in the shouting, while a band played “Nights of Gladness” in the courtyard outside.

The next day was the conclusion of festivities. A massive procession was formed to walk slowly, over the space of a few hours, to the tank in front of the guest house. At its heart was a huge palanquin, bearing the image of the god, along with other holy items; before it went an elephant, followed by a military contingent with musical instruments, and then the twelve bands of singers who had been assailing their ears for days. Their energy was ferocious, because release was near, and Bapu Sahib led the last band, walking in front of the palanquin, while another elephant brought up the rear.

They set out at six. The sky was pink with sunset, and their creeping pace meant that full darkness had fallen before the palace was out of sight. Morgan walked barefoot, holding hands with two Hindu holy men, their foreheads ceremonially smeared with red and black powder, and their way lined with boys holding back the crowds. Progress was slow, with interruptions, and it was already ten o'clock by the time they reached the tank. Here the concluding ceremony was performed, in which a clay model of the village of Gokul was dissolved in the water, though what the reason was he couldn't understand. The Maharajah told him that the village represented Krishna, who couldn't be drowned—though it
was
drowned, by a half-naked man whose hereditary office consisted in this function: he steered the little village, on its supporting tray, with all its tiny clay figures of people, away from the shore, into the dark. The water lapped and ate; the people, the buildings, melted away. Other offerings followed—images of Ganesh, sacrifices of corn—before the tray was brought back and half-heartedly worshipped. Cannons were fired and elephants induced to bellow, but Morgan had had enough. His feet were sore, his back was hurting, and he was hungry and deaf. He'd had the foresight to arrange his Victoria in advance, and he hobbled over to it to be carried on the road around the edge of the tank to the guest house, where he could sleep.

 

* * *

 

“You fool. You awful little fool. How dare you?”

As he had the last time, the barber instantly collapsed. His face had been filled with anxiety, overlaid with hope, but now the hope had gone. He fell to his knees on the carpet and clutched at Morgan's feet. He began to wail theatrically, knowing that Morgan would beat him. Morgan beat him. The blows and slaps were real, but they didn't hurt him. Nor were they unexpected, for Kanaya had folded his turban into a protective pad in advance.

When he had boxed the boy's ears for a while, Morgan went to a chair and sat down. He felt coldly satisfied, though the surge of power had been exciting. He was breathing heavily, not only from exertion, as Kanaya crawled over the floor to him and began kissing his feet.

“Now shave me,” he said.

The loud sobbing ceased. The barber picked himself up and began to prepare the razor, drying his cheeks on his sleeve. Morgan watched him, as if from a great distance, though he was also watching himself. He had become, for a moment, somebody he didn't recognise. He had never struck anybody in his life before, and the sensation wasn't displeasing, despite the throbbing in his hand.

It was a few days after the end of the festival. He had been waiting for Kanaya to appear, and had observed him loitering at the edges of the palace, waiting to be beckoned. He had made no sign, knowing that he would come anyway. He had developed an instinct for these things. And so sure had he been that the reckoning would take place today that he had dressed in English clothes for the occasion.

His fury hadn't diminished since the Maharajah had told him, though it had become more intellectual while he'd brooded. The arrangement had been perfect; he had given clear instructions; all would have been well if Kanaya had simply complied. But the young man was devious and greedy, and it was futile to expect obedience from him. It was in the nature of a slave to disobey and to be beaten.

The shaving took place in silence, except for the rasping of blade on skin. There was no sensual pleasure in the ritual today. Morgan had no emotion; the little spasm of violence had purged him. The anger was gone.

But so was any fear he might have had. Kanaya couldn't even betray him properly. He had done his worst, and nothing had happened. Even now, when his white throat was nakedly exposed, Morgan knew that he was safe. The barber didn't have enough initiative to murder him; the most he could do was stretch out a hand, once the razor was stowed, to scratch enquiringly at his fly-buttons.

“No.”

The hand retreated. Soon the barber did too, carrying his little bag of tools. He'd be back, but in the meanwhile Morgan felt amplified, imperious. He went over to the mirror, ostensibly to check on the shave, but really to examine his own features. His face was pale and fanatical, and somehow rather beautiful.

They resumed their meetings in a couple of days, but everything had changed. The coldness continued from Morgan's side, and the subservience from the barber's. The wistful desire—only felt by the Englishman—for something more human and tender had gone. Instead, the imbalance of power that had always been present had now waxed to the full, pushing softer possibilities aside.

In their sex now, he was rough with Kanaya. He could see that he was hurting him sometimes, and that knowledge excited him. The moment of retribution—when he'd beaten the pleading barber in his room—had awoken something. He'd felt strong, his authority beyond question. All the force of the Empire had filled him for a second. Gentleness and kindness weren't possible in their relationship any more, not even as a longing. The young man was in his power, and he treated him accordingly.

It wasn't good for him. Seventeen years before, writing his first novel, he had created a scene of cruelty which had excited him sexually. A broken arm being twisted in its socket, the idea of force deliberately causing pain: his mind shrank from it, while his body responded. Never in his real life had he felt an impulse to match it; it had remained fictional, a literary vice—until now.

Although no serious damage was inflicted, the desire was a dark one and it made Morgan unhappy. It was as if a hand had roiled the bottom of his character, releasing clouds of mud into the water, so that he couldn't see clearly. It would be easy, he thought, to continue like this: to allow one weakness to unlock the next, so that he toppled slowly headlong into his basest elements. Moral decay, if it increased your power, had its own logic, its own rewards. Once begun, the fall might be hard to arrest.

Feeling sad and guilty, he told all of it to Mohammed in a letter. He hoped the confession might relieve him, or that his friend might absolve him, but received only a reprimand by post.
I got nothing to say except that you are so silly. I am very sad for that game. I am looking forward to see you and to blame you about your foolish deeds, foolish deeds
.

 

* * *

 

At this time, fate handed him another respite. For some weeks now there had been plans for a royal trip to Simla, to see the Viceroy, Lord Reading, whom Bapu Sahib hoped to persuade to come to Dewas to inaugurate his new constitution. This journey had been put off more than once, but it was decided that now would be a good moment to make it.