Under the Jeweled Sky (32 page)

Rich clouds of cigar smoke billowed from the open clubhouse windows, curling upward in great streams out into the chilly night, floating high to the strains of Glenn Miller's “String of Pearls.” Dancing toward midnight, everyone wore silly party hats, colorful paper streamers littering the floor, half-finished drinks discarded on messy surfaces, some with cigarette ends tossed in. Waiters scurried around, rushed off their feet, clearing up spillages, carrying away trays laden with spent glasses, cleaning and replacing overflowing ashtrays.

Tessa appeared at Sophie's side, loosened by several cocktails, toying with her straw. “I smell trouble,” she said. She nodded briefly toward the Hinchbrooks, Tony's face high with color, Melanie's set with barely concealed sufferance behind a tight smile as she picked someone out in the crowd to wave to before walking off. Tony Hinchbrook threw back the rest of his drink and marched away in the opposite direction, knocking into a bearer, sending his tray crashing to the floor. “What say you?” Tessa said. “Looks to me like somebody's in for an interesting night. Where's that man of yours?”

“In the billiard room,” Sophie said. “They've lifted the limit to fifty guineas for the night. I just have to hope he doesn't lose his shirt and end up in a foul mood later.”

“Aw, now.” Tessa pulled a sad face and linked her arm through Sophie's. “Let's go and see if we can't find ourselves somebody to torment for a while, shall we? I'm just in the mood for making a little mischief. That's the thing I love about New Year's Eve. Tomorrow is a fresh start for everybody, isn't it? But tonight,” she gave Sophie's arm a little tug, “tonight we play.”

They wandered toward the billiard room, Tessa fiddling coquettishly with her necklace, eyes roaming the crowd, offering counterfeit smiles here and there. A sudden roar went up from behind the wall in appreciation of a well-taken shot. In that instant, Lucien appeared with the American, Gresham, both men still deep in conversation before Lucien noticed Tessa and Sophie loitering in the doorway.

“Well, well,” he said. “What have we here?” He ran his eyes over Sophie. “Look out, Gresham. My wife is spying on us.”

“We were just wondering where all the interesting men had gone to,” Tessa said. She slipped her hand into the crook of the American's arm. “Care to dance?”

“I sure do,” said Gresham, leading her onto the crowded floor.

“Shall we?” Sophie offered her hand to Lucien. He looked at it and took a sip of his drink.

“I have a game to play,” he said, turning away from her, heading back to the billiard room.

• • •

The night blackness began to lift, fading out as the first suggestions of dawn crept over the cold, mist-bound rooftops. Veneet stood beside the brazier, lifting the tail of his shirt, catching the heat. “What are you looking so serious about?” he asked. He had hardly had a word out of the newcomer all night. He wouldn't even take a drink with him from the flask he had brought along to celebrate the new year. They had gone out to watch the fireworks at midnight, flying up into the sky in the distance, and he had pulled the flask from his pocket and offered it, but Jagaan had said no and had looked at him disapprovingly. “Suit yourself,” Veneet had said, putting the flask to his lips and tipping his head back. He dropped himself into the chair, put his feet up on the table, and belched.

Jagaan ignored him and looked out of the window. She had come home alone hours ago, brought back in the car from number seven, where the lady had gone in while the husband escorted Sophie to her door and saw her safely inside before returning to his own house. The light had gone on briefly in her bedroom, then the house had fallen into darkness. Her husband had not come home yet, and soon it would be getting light.

Jagaan had walked the perimeter twice in the last hour, while Veneet put his feet up on the table and refused to budge. Then he had walked it a third time, when he thought he had seen something out of the corner of his eye. He had heard it too, sensed it almost, and had taken extra care as he paced the enclave slowly, aiming the beam of his flashlight into the gardens, across the sides of the houses. A cat had dashed out from the bushes at number three, its eyes shining a bright reflection as it ran across the road, slipping under a gate and disappearing into the garden of number eight.

Jagaan felt deeply unsettled tonight. Never in his life had he knowingly allowed fear to hold him back like this, and he was angry with himself for his apprehension. He must show himself to her, and then he would know. He would know the instant she saw him whether her love remained, for there could be no secrets between them. Not then, and not now. It would be easy for him to come into her path. He could step out from the guardhouse and open the gate for her car, or pass her house as she was emerging, or, and he had thought of this often, he could walk right up to her door, just as he had done that day two months ago in Ooty, expecting to find Dr. Schofield, instead discovering that she was here, in India, his whole world turning upside down.

How he wished he could know what was in her heart, but he was confounded, troubled by the sight of her unhappiness, unsure of the ground beneath his feet. This could not be the life she wanted, this existence he had witnessed with his own eyes. They had talked of it so many times when they were young, of futures filled with happiness and laughter, and children. Whatever he might have gone through over the years, the doubts and uncertainties and guilt of it all, he had not known the extent of the price Sophie had paid until he saw her. She was lost. He could see it in her as clearly as night followed day. He had found her sadness unbearable, and he had held back and watched her suffering, knowing one thing with complete certainty: she needed her son. Just one look at him and she would surely never feel heartache again. She would find bliss, and every emptiness she had ever felt would disappear. He must show himself, but the thought of it filled him with angst. What if he was wrong? She might look right through him, pretend not to know him, and if that happened he would have to bear it, even if it killed him.

Jagaan got out of his seat. He would walk the perimeter again, he decided, just to make sure.

“I'm going back out,” he said.

“More fool you.” Veneet settled himself in his chair and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. “I'm going to take a nap. And don't bother waking me when you get back.”

Jagaan put down his cup, wound his scarf around his neck, and went outside. He had not gone more than five steps when the car appeared, driver yawning widely, the husband half asleep in the back. The car stopped outside her house, the driver jumping out and opening the passenger door, her husband getting out, brushing the driver off as he tried to assist him toward the path, pushing him rudely away. He stood there, swaying, watching as the car moved off, sliding quietly to the back of the house before the engine stopped and the headlights died. Lucien fumbled ineptly in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and put it to his lips, the flame of his lighter moving unsteadily as he crouched into it.

He was drunk, Jagaan thought with disgust. So drunk that he could barely stand up. He watched as Lucien staggered forward, steadying himself on the gatepost for a moment before dropping his cigarette then looking down for it, bending and scanning the ground as he swayed to and fro.

Jagaan heaved an angry sigh and shoved his flashlight into his belt before crossing the road toward the staggering man. He would have to help him, before he fell into the gutter and cracked his head open. Perhaps he would land a blow on him while he had the opportunity, just one, big enough to give him a blackened eye and a bloodied nose, before depositing him on her doorstep. Nobody would see. Veneet would be snoring beside the brazier and the lights were out across the enclave. He could hand out a short, sharp punishment to this man who did not deserve her, the man who had stolen what was his. It was still dark enough, that brief place between night and dawn. If ever he needed an opportunity to give the man a little of what he deserved, this was it. He walked toward the drunkard, thinking about how it would feel to have his fist come into bloody contact with the foul mouth he had heard shouting at her so often.

All at once, Jagaan heard a sound from somewhere behind him. He stopped, twisting toward the noise, and saw something moving, a flash of brightness in the undergrowth. A raw-throated groan, like that of an animal, filled the street. Jagaan pulled the night stick from his belt, moving carefully, peering into the dimness. Suddenly a figure lurched from the shadows, an old man, white-haired and red-faced, heavily disheveled, dress shirt open down to the waist, steam spilling dense whorls from his twisted mouth, his face shining with thick sweat as he raised a loaded hand and shouted…

“
Grainger!
”

Jagaan looked to the man, then to her husband, and broke into a run.

• • •

In the thick mist of that early dawn, a single shot rang out across the enclave. Birds screeched, flying out of the trees, and the acrid smell of gun smoke bittered the cold, damp air.

The force of Jagaan's body hit Lucien like a truck, his full weight upon him. Lucien staggered back, hands grabbing out instinctively to steady the man who had slammed into him, staring in horror at the open mouth, gasping for air, the wide, disbelieving eyes.

Jagaan clutched at Lucien's jacket, dragging him into him while Lucien fought to pull away.

“Please.” Jagaan tried to speak, his right hand pulling at his breast pocket until it tore from its seam, his fingers staining red as a peony of blood bloomed darkly through his shirt. “Give it to her.” His hand came free, a pale blue silk sheath crushed into it. He began to choke, blood and spittle on his lips. “Tell her…” He pressed his hand into Lucien's chest. Lucien tried to hold the man up as he took it, but the weight was too much for him.

“Who?” Lucien said, his stomach rising. “Tell me who?”

Jagaan closed his eyes and whispered her name.

“Sophie.”

• • •

They say that at the moment of death, a man's whole life flashes before his eyes. He sees the moment of his birth, the faces of all the people he has known and loved. He feels the might of the oceans and the infinity of the stars. He sees the miracle of his children and his children's children. He relives every moment that has made his life what it is, every breath of it, each piece falling perfectly into place as he reaches his single moment of clarity, the very end of his time on this earthly plain. They say that this is what happens at the moment of death, but this is not so. Jagaan Ramakrishnan felt nothing as he fell to the ground.

Sophie woke with a start. She had heard something. Something so violent that it had penetrated the two sleeping pills she had swallowed. A loud crack, like the earth splitting open. Outside, a terrible commotion. Her hand reached out, the space beside her empty and cold, the clock on the bedside table ticking five a.m. Quickly she got up and threw on her dressing gown, stepping into her satin slippers before switching on the light and heading downstairs, where the house staff were already roused.

“What's going on?” she called out, her head groggy. “John?”

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Dilip rushed past her, barefooted. He opened the front door and ran outside, Sophie close behind him. John was already crossing the garden, his legs thin and bare beneath his long white sleeping salwar.

“What's happening?” Sophie tied her belt tightly around herself as she took the steps at a pace and rushed toward the people gathering in the middle of the road. Doors began to open everywhere, people coming out in varying states of undress, lights going on although the night had started to lift away, the soft dawn revealing the scene laid out before her. Tony Hinchbrook, slumped in the road, shirt filthy and open to the waist, head lolling in his hands as he wailed and sobbed. Some staff from the nearby households, all shouting and talking at once, three of them crouched to the ground, cradling a limp figure, one of the night guards, Sophie saw, collapsed in the street, the other guard standing over them, yelling hysterically at the people attending him, something in his hand. Was that a
gun?
And Lucien. Sitting on the pavement by the gate, leaning against it, shirt soaked in blood, a pool of vomit on the ground beside him. Sophie flew to his side, grazing her skin as she dropped to her knees on the roadside.

“Lucien?” She put a hand to his face. “Somebody call for an ambulance!”

“I will fetch brandy,” said Dilip, his face ashen.

“No! Not brandy. Bring some water. And get some blankets. Lucien?” She tore his shirt open, looking for his wound. “Lucien!” she shouted. “Where are you hurt?”

He stared at her, a thin sneer rising on his lips.

“For God's sake!” she shouted over her shoulder. “Tell them to hurry! Lucien?” She pulled off her dressing gown, oblivious to the cold, and laid it across him. “Darling? Are you all right?”

He smiled at her, lifting an unsteady finger, and beckoned her toward his lips. She leaned into him, her arms around him.

“Lucien, darling. What happened?”

He pulled her closer and whispered in her ear.

“You
whore
.”

• • •

Sophie sat on the edge of the settee, arms clutched about herself, rocking with sickness, staring blankly at the wall. He was shouting. Screaming at her. She could hear his voice, see him careering around the room. A full whisky bottle hurled into the fireplace, exploding with a loud, dull pop, sending shards of glass splintering through the air. Crossing the room like a tornado, standing right in front of her, towering over her, spitting venom, kicking the table over.

“Deny it! Go on! Deny it if you dare! With that bloody
wog!
” He began to laugh, a terrifying high-pitched gurgling sound spewing from his mouth. “Pushed it right in my face and said,
Here! Give it to her! Tell
her!
” A chair smashed against the wall. “You fucking whore! Right under my nose! I'll fucking tell her all right. I'll fucking give it to her!”

Sophie's heart stood still.

I
didn't even see him. They took him away before I could see him. I didn't know you were there.

She pulled her arms more tightly around herself.

Oh, dear God, I didn't know you were there! How long were you out there watching? Why didn't you tell me? What did you think I would have done? Did you think for a moment that I wouldn't have taken your hand and run a thousand miles to the ends of the earth with you?

She clutched at her chest, at the terrible pain searing through her, the scrap of paper, torn and bloodied, balled in her hand. Lucien ripped pictures from walls, wrenched lamps from their sockets, splitting the plasterwork, shouting and hurling abuse at the staff, landing punches as he threw them out. The scrape of heavy furniture. Lucien jamming the door closed with the walnut secretaire desk, John running outside and calling for help, Dilip banging on the door, pleading with him.

Oh
my
love. They took you away before I could see you. Where have they taken you? I have to see you. I have to lay my eyes upon your dead body or I won't believe it. You couldn't die. You wouldn't leave me like this.

The blow came so hard that it knocked her to the floor. She heard her head hit the upturned table, her face bouncing away and spattering against the marble floor. She tasted blood, coppery on her lips, inside her nose. She saw the side of his brogue as it came into her cheek, feeling nothing, numb from the inside out, numb and cold and dead like the corpse of the uniformed man she had seen being carried away and loaded into a car. She caught a glimpse of the standard lamp, lifted high above Lucien's head.

I
didn't know it was you. I didn't know it was you.

A howl rose from her belly, spilling with the blood from her open mouth, a groan so loud that it shook the walls, and then she began to scream.