The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (24 page)

Later, when we went outside for a breather and something to drink, I saw Deepa huddled with Njoroge at one of the tables on the lawn, and I had to do all I could to steer Reshma clear of them. Toward the end of the program, around midnight, we went out once again, and this time I saw my sister sitting by herself at a table, fist stuck firmly to her chin in a picture of gloom.

What happened, Sis? I asked.

Some political disaster, she growled. Of all the nights it has to happen tonight.

What disaster? Reshma asked excitedly. She had had a good time and hung close to me.

Deepa gave her a look of disdain and didn’t answer. Her ire was the more bitter for the fact that Njoroge was to leave for university in a few days’ time, and I was to do the same not long after. Our reunion time was running out.

The next day’s screaming headlines reported a disturbance by former Mau Mau in the Industrial Area. Three men had been arrested after a brawl with a hotel manager; they had displayed weapons and assaulted a number of people, including police. It seemed obvious, as I read the front page over the breakfast table, that this was what had called away Njoroge so urgently the previous night. Even as I sat contemplating the drunken-eyed man with distended earlobes glaring out of the page, the phone rang. It was Njoroge.

Your men seem to have made a nuisance of themselves, I said, chuckling.

So you’ve read the papers. It’s not quite like that, though they do tend to be rough sometimes. Listen Vic, can you come to the city magistrates’ court at eleven today?

After a small pause, I said, Of course.

And could you bring with you five hundred shillings, Vic? It’s urgent. I’ll pay you back in a few days.

I’ll talk to my father, I said.

Thanks, Vic.

The anxiety in his voice gave way to perceptible, almost joyful relief. We agreed to meet outside the courthouse.

Five hundred was a sizeable sum to ask of my father; I told him I needed an advance on my college expenses and he did not demur. He did not ask me what the urgency was either.

At the magistrates’ court, an Indian judge was presiding, a veteran of the bench whose name appeared often, though briefly, in newspaper notices regarding one case or another. The charges against the three men were disorderly conduct and assault. A young African lawyer spoke briefly on their behalf, arguing that the weapon the men had supposedly brandished was only a kitchen knife, and the magistrate agreed to
release them on bail. Njoroge, not wishing to compromise his ministry, had asked me to come forward as guarantor. I did so and paid up, to the surprise of everyone present, and the fighters walked out. The drunken-eyed one who had appeared on the front page was a big man with a catchy charismatic smile and a slyly cynical manner; he called himself Major Simba and wore an army-style jacket, a fashion that had actually been declared illegal. The other two men were small and in suit jackets, each clutching a Bible and looking no more like Mau Mau than my father did. They all shook hands with me.

One more thing Vic, Njoroge said. Please.

We had come out of the courtroom into the main corridor and were walking out.

Of course, Njo. And then, having guessed the nature of his request, I asked, You want a place for them to stay?

Just for two or three days while I try and get the charges dropped or find them another place…

I hurried out ahead of him and called my father and told him Njoroge needed a flat for three days for his friends. Papa said fine, give them something in Eastleigh. Njoroge and his three charges having extracted themselves from the reporters, I drove them to a modest, out-of-the-way flat in Eastleigh that was empty. The three men gratefully shook hands with me. They had not been in contact with many Indians before, and to Njoroge they referred to me as a muthungu, a white man, which rather astonished me. Njoroge warned them to behave themselves and gave them what remained of my five hundred shillings, after which the two of us departed.

We found a place to sit downtown and he thanked me profusely. These men are here, he said, to visit this grand city, this Nairobi they have heard so much about. And they were refused a room simply for what they are—former freedom fighters.

I didn’t know what to say. He saw my unease and dropped the subject. We both became silent.

I was not judging the three men or their kind. I knew that
they were heroes of our freedom who at the very least deserved respect and consideration in our country. I also knew them as the daityas of my mother, the devils who ruled the dark hours, against whom we secured our doors in the most dreadful fear. The big one of the three, Major Simba, had reminded me of the men I had watched in terror as a boy, in the jungle outside the sawmills where my family and I had gone to visit my uncle. And Kihika, whom I had seen at the meeting in Uhuru Park, was the Kihika of my childhood horror. How could I help the associations? I didn’t have a way to cope with them.

He said finally, bringing me back from my thoughts, Let’s talk about us, Vic—you and me and Deepa. This has been the most amazing time in my life, six weeks out of a fairy tale. Life is not supposed to be like that!

Yes, it has been the most wonderful six weeks for me too, Njo—and for Deepa, as you well know. She practically changed overnight when you appeared! We somehow never thought we’d see you again. You went away, and it seemed that was that—

Vic—about me and your sister—what are your feelings about that? Please be honest with me, I would like to know.

He had caught me by surprise, though at some point he had to ask me how I felt, and this seemed the perfect moment.

It’s up to you and her, Njo, I said. You are my friend and she is my sister. You don’t have to worry about me. But you have my parents to contend with, I’m sure you know that.

He remained silent for a while. His hands were in front of him on the table, the fingers loosely intertwined at the tips. I noticed he had big, tidy nails, perfectly cut. His fingers were large and blunt. How rarely we notice these details about our close ones, and how they surprise us!

He said softly, I’m not sure what exactly Deepa thinks about me…I just thought I’d ask you first how you felt as her brother…and as a friend. I have not given the matter very deep thought—I realize it is a serious matter, not to be taken lightly.

I must warn you, I said, my parents are already looking around for an Indian husband for her.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Maybe I don’t have to worry then, he said.

I did not see him for a few days. He went to Nyeri, and when he returned he brought back the money to repay me. And then he was ready to return to his university in Kampala.

How amazing it is, this absolute absence of green, of life itself in winter. The pallid sickly green of the conifer is only a ghost of what has been. It is a new world I’m in, a silent world with quiet mornings and even quieter nights, whose heart beats somewhere deep inside the earth. It’s a time of renewal, says Seema Chatterjee, who has returned from her holiday; the old has died and the new awaits to take its place. There seems to be a meaning for me, in this adage; I fail to respond, and she adds, more mundanely, But it’s also a time to withdraw into a book or a project, to ruminate, or to sit down cosily with a friend over sherry or tea. She has brought me books—a lot of history, some crime fiction.

Back to myself and my labours again, I try to recall a tempestuous passion—not mine, Deepa’s—and relive an energetic period from our past. In contrast to the frozen black eternity outside my window, my mind is a landscape filled with sunshine, and the innocent, prancing hope of youth.

FIFTEEN.

Deepa once told me, I don’t know who has been closer to me, Njo or you, Vic…sometimes I can’t even distinguish between the two of you in my mind. I replied, somewhat disconcerted, I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t know either, she said, then immediately contradicted herself: Oh, you know what I mean, I can share my innermost secrets with you as I did with him. I took this to mean she felt comfortable confiding to me anything about herself and Njoroge—which is as well, for I was the chaperone who looked away, the ear that heard her, the shoulder she cried upon.

Now it was Sunday and she was grooming her nails in the living room, humming along with a Hindi film song on the radio, happy and contented as a child.
If only for a moment you look away, O Moon / Then I will make love to him…
You couldn’t have told that Njoroge had left for Makerere in
Kampala the previous day, but then you wouldn’t have known what I did. Papa was doing the Spot-the-Ball competition in the
Sunday Nation,
having bought three copies of the paper to increase his chances of winning.

The phone rang and Mother hurried from the kitchen to the hallway to pick it up. She soon finished, then came to stand in the living room entrance, poised like a herald with her news.

Shall I tell them the good news or will you? Mother asked Papa. That was Meena-ji and she is so excited!

Papa dropped the papers down on the carpet, and his glasses upon them: Tum hi bata do, na, you tell them. You can hardly hold in
your
excitement!

Dilip is coming from
London,
Mother announced throatily, looking from Deepa to me, her eyes sparkling with joy.

How wonderful, Deepa exclaimed. I should ask him to bring me something from there—will he? But what’s this—aren’t the summer holidays over?

Maybe his aren’t, I replied. It was apparent that Mother and Papa had received prior notice of the impending arrival and had only been awaiting confirmation—and perhaps an opportune moment to make the announcement.

We knew Dilip well, he was three years older than I and a wonderful table tennis player. When I first came to Nairobi he was a big brother to me of sorts; I looked up to him and tried to copy his ways. He was already at Duke of Gloucester when I was admitted there and knew the teachers and prefects well as a senior boy, making my life much easier. He was athletic and good looking and before he set off for England had climbed the summit of Mount Kenya, which was no small feat.

Of course, Deepa, he’ll bring for you whatever you ask, Mother said. You have to ask, only! But he’s coming for a short time, ten-twelve days. And he’ll go only when he’s got what
he
wants—it seems London doesn’t have everything!

She couldn’t contain herself. I looked up with concern at
this unsubtle, untimely gambit, hoping perhaps to check her, but she proceeded head on, in the treacly tones of a mother to a child. You know, Deepa darling, we always had Dilip in mind for you…in fact, we had made a little pact with the Sharmas when you were young! Deepa and Dilip, we said, Dilip and Deepa, if kismet allows it.

A real catch, that boy, Papa said. Handsome and smart, wah!—wealthy to boot. You’d better not waste time, my girl—there’ll be a line of mothers with daughters waiting at the airport, if I know this city at all.

Deepa had turned white. She didn’t explode, as she was liable to do, but she knew now exactly what scheme was afoot behind her back. The pact with the Sharmas had been renewed, obviously, because of the threat now posed by Njoroge.

She spoke harshly: I am not going to marry Dilip-Filip or anyone else now, Mother.

Mother’s first response was a pathetic attempt at laughter—the short, high-pitched sound she emitted when she was shocked to the core and speechless.

You’ll think about it. What’s the harm in marrying when a good boy is available? You can go on with your studies after marriage. You can go to London with him, wouldn’t you like that?

I don’t want to go to London. And I’m not going to marry Dilip.

Can you tell us why? Do you have anyone in mind?

A pause. Then: No. But I’ll marry whom I want, Mother, and I’m not going to marry Dilip.

Just like that? Is there anything wrong with the boy? Is he lame or blind, is he a drunkard or a gambler? A U.K. graduate, a handsome boy, of good caste and family—and you have the arrogance to refuse him like that? And your parents—

What do you mean you will marry anyone whom you want? Papa exploded. We are not Europeans, remember that, we are desis, Indians. Proud Indians, we have our customs,
and we marry with the permission and blessings of our parents! You will do as you are told, girl!