The Sleeping Dictionary (48 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, I worked in the library, my mind filled with thoughts of the previous night’s conversation with Mr. Lewes. I’d started spying because I’d been shocked by the nature of my employer’s work, but war had turned the situation on its head. War could never be glorious—even though it was better for Netaji to be involved in the freedom struggle than away from it. Yet I suspected that if the Japanese did prevail, they would not really leave India to Netaji.

My feelings about Mr. Lewes were just as mixed. A few months ago, it had been easy to hate him; now, not so easy. He had used the word
discrimination
as if he thought it was wrong, and he missed reading the papers with me. I wished I could tell him that I’d enjoyed that time, too—before understanding I was being used for informational
purposes. I told myself now that his suggestion of a radio hour was just another way for him to do some work.

The encounter made me nervous about the prospect of spending more time alone with Mr. Lewes in the library. This was the place where he’d almost kissed me. How dismayed Pankaj would be about what had almost happened.

I had no mind for cataloging, so I set to dusting, going methodically book by book. As I worked, anger rose in me at myself, for thinking of Mr. Lewes’s attraction to me when I knew the selfish nature of Englishmen through my hard years at Rose Villa. I had a daughter to support, so I couldn’t ever lose my job. Nor should I halt the important spying work I was doing for Pankaj’s organization. I had to keep everything the way that it was; but this would be as difficult as my own feelings for both men.

I was dusting violently, to match my turbulent feelings. When I reached the maps section, I was dusting so hard that some of the feathers from my duster broke off. While I was chasing after these feathers, Mr. Lewes poked his head in the door after work.

“A good time for a break,” he said, as I hastily put the duster behind my back. “The rain’s stopped. Won’t you come to the garden with me? There is something we must discuss.”

Discussing in the garden meant that he didn’t want the house staff overhearing. But what did he have to say that was secret? Would he address me about the violent dusting I’d given his treasures—or was it my rash speech the night before?

Trying to appear calm, I followed him outdoors and sat down next to him in one of the teak chairs. Then I rang the bell for Jatin. When the boy came, I asked him for cauliflower phuluri and two gin-limes. Mr. Lewes raised his eyebrows at my finally taking an alcoholic drink for myself, but I looked back at him with a falsely confident smile. I would brazen my way through whatever happened; I could not appear frightened.

When the drinks had been brought and we were once again in
private, Mr. Lewes said, “You may have heard that the government has begun reassigning houses and larger flats to incoming refugees from the other Asian colonies. Because of the refugees, bachelor ICS officers with good houses are being asked to bunk with other men in chummeries. That’s all well and good for the young fellows, but I’ve got my library, and . . .”

Suddenly, I understood that I wasn’t being reprimanded; he was trying to apologize to me about losing the flat. No longer would I have a roof over my head. And without the library work, there would be no money to send Kabita. Pankaj would not see me, either, if I couldn’t spy for him. These desperate thoughts flooded me as I stared at my employer, who looked as downcast as I felt.

Fumbling for words, I said, “I shall vacate my room whenever you need it. After that, I will still arrive each day to pack up the library, because surely that room will be needed—”

“No! I have a scheme that can keep our whole household together. I’ll volunteer the spare bedroom to a refugee. I think that if I offer straightaway, I have a lesser chance of being thrown out later.”

I took a sip of the gin-lime cocktail: bitter and sweet, as it should be. “But there is my bedroom as well. Surely the Housing Office knows that your flat has three bedrooms.”

Mr. Lewes waved a dismissive hand. “That’s really just a hidey-hole. No one could fit there but a small child.”

I had fit there quite neatly. I adored my room, which I’d decorated with a few pictures and the calendar the Sens gave me each year. I even had acquired a small slipper chair and matching footstool that Mr. Chun gave me as thanks for providing so much business. I wondered if I could take this furniture with me; but to where? Sounding braver than I felt, I said, “I will find someplace.”

Mr. Lewes put down his drink with an exasperated-sounding clink. “Kamala, do you wish to leave this household?”

“Goodness, no!” My answer came fast, for it was true. But so many times before, I’d lost my home; I did not dare to hope.

“Let me speak to the Housing Office, then. And don’t think twice about our conversation last night. It was—refreshing. Good for me to hear.” Mr. Lewes was looking at me with a smile in his eyes, so intently that I had to drop my gaze. He didn’t understand that if someone joined us, it would no longer be acceptable for me to dine at the table or read the newspapers first. And I would have to be much more cautious about intelligence gathering. But if I could stay—I’d be safe. At least for a little while longer.

WITHIN A FEW days, the Housing Office decided to give the spare room to a senior inspector of the Malaya police and his wife. Then, when Housing learned there were two accompanying daughters, they were reassigned to a large bungalow. A week passed, and then the Housing people matched the spare room with Rev. John McRae, a Scottish clergyman who had escaped Burma and was recuperating at Presidency Hospital.

Mr. Lewes thought that an elderly cohabitant would likely be quiet and spend time sleeping, that he would not be much work for me. But I knew how stern religious men usually were; that was what worried me.

On the next Sunday evening, I felt my heart sink as I looked out the window and saw a wizened old man in a black suit hobble to the front door with a bamboo cane. Behind him was a liveried driver who was unloading one small suitcase from the church’s car. I would hide my anxiety from the clergyman, I pledged to myself. When I got close enough to see the old minister’s face, though, that resolution flew out of mind.

Reverend McRae was not white. He might have been once, but his skin had been so darkened by years in Burma that he did not look like any type of European. In the end, only the brightness of his blue eyes and his strong Scots accent gave away his origin.

“Miss Mukherjee.” He bowed as he took my hand gracefully between his long, gnarled fingers. “I am very grateful for your hospitality and will try not to be an imposition.”

Stunned by his courtesy, I managed to reply, “It’s no imposition. I manage the household and library, and there are others to help with your every need.”

The reverend’s eyes widened. “I have not been inside a library for more than fifty years. I cannot imagine how many good books must have been written in this time! Perhaps you will take me through your library someday.”

“I will be glad to,” I said, charmed by his enthusiasm. “Now, please come inside. I’m very sorry about the stairs.”

He let me take his arm as he slowly mounted the grand stairway, telling me all the while it was nothing like the mountain hiking he had done while leaving Burma. Inside the flat, I introduced him to everyone. As I’d expected, their eyes widened at the sight of the dark Ingrej. “
Kala-saheb!”
they murmured to one another, grinning. Black saheb.

Shaking my head, I corrected them. “No. You must not call him nicknames. He will be Reverend McRae or Reverend-saheb.”

I did not know why I felt so protective toward Reverend McRae. All I understood in those first few minutes was that I did not want him to experience even a moment of secret disrespect. He had been through so much suffering; this was his time to heal.

After Mr. Lewes came in, we sat down to squash bisque, tiny potatoes steamed with peas, and a thin dal. There were parathas stuffed with fenugreek, a sweet mango chutney, and a mountain of rice. Reverend McRae sampled everything in very small portions, saying our food was much fancier than what he’d been eating in his Burmese village even during the best harvests. I didn’t mention that I’d ordered an especially mild and simple menu; that would have shocked him.

Mr. Lewes sat at the table’s head, with me on his left as usual, and the reverend on his right. It felt natural to be together this way, and the conversation became personal. The reverend explained he had
spent the last forty-two years in Burma and had not initially evacuated with the other British. That was why he was arriving months after everyone else.

“I had thought that to stay with my people would keep them safer: that perhaps I could negotiate for them with the Japanese officers.”

“Will you tell us about it?” Mr. Lewes leaned forward, showing his interest.

“Each day, I went to the commanding Japanese Army officer, trying to encourage him to tell the soldiers to lay down their weapons. But they would not; and then I found out that some of the village’s young women had been taken away. I rushed to the hut where they were kept. I must have put my hands on a soldier.” The reverend shut his bright eyes for a moment. “I don’t remember being stabbed. Apparently some old friends rescued me from the pile of dead where the Japanese soldiers threw me. The village’s healer secretly treated me with herbs in a jungle hideaway. When I was recovered enough to walk, I traveled the jungle and eventually came to the Black Road and continued until I crossed the border.”

“Not the main road?” Mr. Lewes inquired.

“That road was designated for the English only.” The minister’s voice rolled with disgust. “I chose to walk with the Burmese.”

“Reverend, we are honored to have someone of your character stay with us. Please understand that you are welcome to remain as long as you like.” As Mr. Lewes spoke, I could see from his expression that he was moved.

“I hope to return to Burma, but I know that with my age, and what happened, it is not likely the Church will send me out again.” The Reverend McRae gave me a half smile. “But now I am in India, where there is need. I hope to learn some languages so I can take up work here.”

“
Some
languages? How ambitious!” Mr. Lewes chuckled. “I’ve been here for years and have very few words of Hindustani and Bengali, as Kamala can tell you.”

I quickly turned to the reverend, hoping that Mr. Lewes’s use of my first name had not shocked him. I said, “I will gladly help you study, Reverend. I could teach you Bengali, Hindustani, and Urdu; I also have a smattering of Oriya language.”

The minister bowed to me and said, “Thank you, Miss Mukherjee. I shall make some explorations in the faith community, and then I will perhaps learn which language is the most useful for my mission work.”

Our lives took on a pleasing new pattern. Each morning as I worked on my usual library chores, Reverend McRae went out to pay his respects at a variety of places and told us enjoyable stories about it over tea. He might breakfast with Quakers on Monday, drink tea with Methodists on Tuesday, and spend Wednesday with Hindus discussing the works of Swami Vivekananda. Thursday might be a Catholic relief services meeting, Friday evening a Jewish Shabbat, and on Saturday afternoon, a Parsi gathering. His denominational home was Saint Andrew’s Kirk near Dalhousie Square, but he was usually only there for a short time on Sundays.

After a light lunch, the reverend napped. In late afternoon, he revived for tea and his hour-long Bengali lesson. So it was through a mix of English and Bengali that I learned more of his escape through the jungle. He was even helped by a Japanese soldier who had given him water and told him which landmarks to watch for on the way to the evacuation route.

“God’s light shines within each person,” he said to me. “Remember this! It is never an entire people who is cruel; it is merely individuals who exert their will on others.”

I’d grown up thinking every Britisher was a blue-eyed devil; and certainly the nurses at the Railway Hospital where I had tried to give birth, Miss Jamison, and Mr. Weatherington fit that horrific model. Miss Richmond, though, had given me literacy and the opportunity to stay inside her classroom. Now I understood that she’d been as interested in helping me as she had Bidushi, but had been tied by Miss Jamison’s
rules. The reverend had offered true friendship and new ways of looking at the world. And while the outline of Mr. Lewes appeared to be a lock-stock government man, I knew by now that his core was not.

But if there really was a light in every person, I wondered, why were there armies—and why did the world appear so dark?

CHAPTER

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