Waiting for the Monsoon (36 page)

All she said was, “I don't even know his name.”

~~~

Dear Donald,

Father is improving. He was operated on again two weeks ago. According to the surgeon, it's a miracle that he survived it all. His kidneys are still working, and that's one of the things they were very concerned about. He'll never be able to walk again, of course, but I haven't told him yet. I'm afraid that once he knows, he'll lose the will to get better. Peter used to say that a patient who believes he'll get better recovers faster. The sisters take very good care of him. I couldn't do any more for him myself. He's still on a drip, and now they've got him in a full-body cast, which doesn't make things any easier. What bothers him the most is that he has to drink from a bottle with a nipple that the sister puts in his mouth. I make sure I'm out of the room before the bottle arrives. He gets so angry and then he starts cursing and everything. I'm also writing you to let you know that I'm leaving Rampur for a while. The last few weeks have taken their toll, and now that I know Father's being well cared for, I can get away for a while. Of course, I've discussed this with the doctor, and he agrees. All my life, I've wanted to see the Himalayas. Tomorrow I'm taking the train to New Delhi, then on to Kalka, where I catch a taxi that will take me to Simla. At first Father said I should wait until he was better, because he wanted to go along. But I promised him that after he gets out of the hospital, we'll go again. I've given the staff some time off, except for the
mali
, of course, and the butler. They'll make sure that everything is kept clean and in good condition. I've taken the car to a garage, and I can leave it there as long as I like. If you suddenly decide to vacation in India, then you're welcome to stay at the house. Hema has all the keys, except the one to the safe, which I've already taken to the bank. But I assume that you're too busy with the new job. Is everything going well? I hope so. I'll write to you when I get to the mountains.

Greetings from your sister Charlotte

PETER IS SO
pleased that he is about to see the maharaja again that he takes giant steps, fairly dragging her up the stairs. Charlotte is excited. The moment he sees his old friend, the constant trembling of his hands and the sombre, withdrawn look disappear as if by magic. He strides toward the large door, where the maharaja greets him like he is a brother and they have been reunited after years of separation.

“You are more lovely each time I see you,” the maharaja says to Charlotte. She blushes and replies that in a month she will turn twenty-one. “Twenty-one,” the maharaja exclaims. “The most beautiful time of our lives! I wish I were still twenty!” He throws a friendly arm around Peter's shoulders and leads him away. Charlotte follows them to a large hall where all the women, attired in magnificent saris, await their arrival.

“Doctor sahib,” they coo and call, as they bow in greeting. Among the female voices directed mainly at Peter, she also hears “Charlotte memsahib, welcome.” She sees Chutki, the youngest daughter of the maharaja, with a little boy at her side, among the group of women attired in colourful saris. They wave to each other enthusiastically. Drinks are passed around, and dishes filled with delectable hors d'oeuvres are brought in by servants in magnificent uniforms.

“To the hunt!” the maharaja toasts.

Peter smiles and raises his glass. Charlotte, who didn't know that there was to be a hunt, turns to Peter in surprise. He admits with a smile that it's news to him as well but that he is delighted at the prospect of a day in the saddle together with the maharaja.

“And how about me?” Charlotte asks. “Can I come along?”

“No, of course not. It's only for men,” Peter whispers.

CHARLOTTE AND CHUTKI
are lying in a large double bed in the women's quarters, eating cookies, with Chutki's baby brother, who is whimpering. The girl points to Charlotte's belly.

“And?” she asks.

“Not yet,” Charlotte says. “Not yet.”

“But you're very pretty.”

“Peter is always so busy.”

“Doctor sahib better not wait too long,” Chutki giggles and covers her mouth with her hand.

“Why?” Charlotte asks.

Chutki rolls her eyes. She pats her little brother, but he continues to whimper.

Charlotte is shocked. “Oh, no. I only want Peter's baby.”

“Why is doctor sahib so busy?”

“There's so much work for him at the hospital.”

“He's going to cure my little brother.”

“Does he have the same thing as you and your father?”

Chutki nods and pulls the toddler onto her lap. “I'm going to get married and pretty soon I'll have a baby of my own.” She gives the boy something to drink and he quiets down. Then she looks at Charlotte roguishly and says in a low voice, “Is doctor sahib affectionate?”

“Yes, he's affectionate.”

“Really affectionate?” And her hand goes from the child to her breasts, which she fondles. “Is he affectionate?” she asks again.

Charlotte cannot lie, and the expression on her face speaks volumes.

“Oh!” Chutki cries. “So he's not affectionate?”

The occupant of the bed beside them, an older aunt, is listening in and echoes her cry: “Oh, oh, doctor sahib is not affectionate . . .”

Within seconds the other women have climbed onto the double bed and it is so full that Charlotte cannot even move her legs. The shocking cry is repeated: “Doctor sahib is not affectionate!” This is followed by a disapproving hiss.

“You should try this perfume,” says a woman with an armful of jangling bracelets, pressing a tiny bottle into her hand.

“Do you always make sure you've brushed your teeth?” says a woman with long earrings, as she pulls up Charlotte's lip.

The women nod in agreement.

“And he should eat a raw egg,” giggles a woman with dark circles around her eyes.

“Serve dinner early, otherwise he'll be too tired. And he should eat the eggs during the day, then they're sure to work,” stresses a woman in pyjamas.

“Wear a dress with a deep décolletage,” advises another woman, and she presses her breasts together, forming a provocative cleavage.

“Is there another woman?” The question comes from the adjacent bed.

All the women break into laughter. Charlotte is aghast: she's never considered that possibility. He always comes home late and goes straight to bed.

“Don't worry,” Chutki reassures her. “Doctor sahib loves you. But there are things he has to learn.”

The women are howling with laughter. “Doctor Sahib can operate but he can't make babies.”

The child begins to wail again, in reaction to the exuberant laughter.

“When is the doctor going to perform the operation?” sighs the woman in pyjamas. “He's always crying.”

“Isn't that the little boy I saw just after he was born?” Charlotte asks, pointing to the toddler in Chutki's arms.

Suddenly, all of the women fall silent. Some get up from the bed, looking embarrassed, and some turn away and begin new conversations. And when Charlotte turns to Chutki, expecting an explanation, the girl avoids her eyes. The little boy on her lap is only a crying baby with red-rimmed eyes and a glob of snot hanging from his nose.

“Peter's going to operate on him. He told me so himself,” Charlotte says, even though Peter has never mentioned the maharaja's son to her. “And if he should happen to forget, I'll remind him.”

“Really?” Chutki asks.

Charlotte nods.

PETER BRIEFLY PRESSES
his cheek — unshaven for days — against Charlotte's: it isn't exactly a kiss. Chutki gives her a wink. Charlotte feels like Ava Gardner in the new dress the
darzi
has made for her. With her arms she presses her breasts together and gives her husband a sultry look. “Can you smell my new perfume?” she asks in a low voice.

“We're leaving. Have you packed your things?”

“You mean right now?”

“Yes, the train leaves in an hour.”

“But . . .” Charlotte has gone to great pains to make contact with the women, and she doesn't want to leave. She's finally enjoying herself.

“You must take a look at this sweet little boy,” she says. “He has the same ailment as Chutki and the maharaja.”

Peter, who normally displays the utmost dedication to all his patients, picks up the little boy, tells him to open his mouth, and takes a quick look at his throat. Then he nods and hands him back to Chutki. “Next time I'll bring my instruments with me. Charlotte, would you pack your suitcase now? We can still make the train.”

A COOLIE AND
one of the palace chauffeurs are the only other people on the platform. They left so quickly that there was no time to organize an official farewell at the railroad station. The sombre mood that has taken possession of Peter is even more impenetrable than usual. Charlotte can smell the perfume she applied when she heard that the men were on their way back from the hunt. Now she wraps her shawl tightly around her shoulders, to hide the décolletage she had been so proud of. The makeup that one of Chutki's sisters applied now seems overdone.

“What happened?” she asks, after Peter had sat in the train compartment for an hour without moving a muscle.

“I shot an animal dead,” he whispers. “A living animal.”

“
CAN'T YOU SLOW
down a bit? When you go so fast, I feel as if I have to pee.”

Charlotte pushes her father across the parking lot behind the club. With a dexterity that makes it clear that they're not doing it for the first time, she and the chauffeur help the old man out of the wheelchair and into the car. The chauffeur then folds up the wheelchair he detests and places it in the boot. Charlotte waves to Priya Singh, who has just arrived in her shiny
1957
Ambassador, and gets into the old Vauxhall next to her father.

“When did you last wash this car?” thunders the general.

“This morning, sahib.”

“Then why doesn't it shine?”

“It's old, sahib.”

“That Ambassador is even older.”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Yes, sahib, no, sahib . . . Why can't you get this car to shine?”

“Yes, sahib.”

Charlotte gives her father a nudge.

He gives her an angry look. “Well, would you call this car clean?”

“I hear a fire engine.”

The general rolls his window down. “You're right. I must be going deaf.” He turns to the chauffeur, and says, “If he comes by, follow him!”

The chauffeur laughs.

“Father, you said you wanted to go home.”

“You don't think I'm going to miss a chance to watch a fire. A really good blaze is headier than a beautiful woman.”

The sound of the sirens is getting closer. “Don't let him get away!” he says to the chauffeur, who is all set to take off.

The bright red Ashok Leyland truck races past. The chauffeur hits the gas pedal. The general is laughing, and so is the chauffeur. But Charlotte is petrified that they're going to go off the road.

“Women don't belong in cars,” the general mutters to his chauffeur.

The heavy emission of smoke is visible from some distance. By the time they draw to a stop behind the fire engine, flames are shooting from the roof. The general throws open the door. For an instant Charlotte thinks he's forgotten that he can't walk, but he waits impatiently as the chauffeur hurries to unfold the wheelchair.

“Father, you mustn't do this. You're going to get in the way of the firefighters.”

“How could I get in anyone's way?”

Next to their car, the hoses are being unrolled. The senior fire officer, who has a row of medals on his chest, comes over to the general and they shake hands. “Everything in order, General?”

“Ah, Commandant, you wouldn't know anything about getting old. My memory is failing and the lower half isn't getting any better. But outside of that, I can't complain.”

The hoses are connected to the water tank and the pump is soon going at full power. The chauffeur helps the general into his wheelchair. The fire officer excuses himself: he has a fire to fight. Charlotte is still in the car. She feels the heat of the fire, even with the window closed. She takes no pleasure in watching a fire, and fails to understand her father's fascination. Once, when she was little, he took her to see a huge warehouse blaze, and he was angry when she kept her hands over her eyes the whole time. Not because she didn't want to watch the fire, but because he mustn't see that she was crying.

Then her heart skips a beat when a young fireman carrying an axe walks past the car. He hasn't seen her, but she recognizes him immediately. He nods in the direction of the general, goes up to the front of the burning house, and buries his axe in the door.

She wants to jump out of the car, tell him not do it, tell him that it's a dangerous situation and he mustn't go in there, that he can become disoriented by the heat and the smoke and might not be able find the exit. That he can suffocate or the smoke can be poisonous, that his lungs can burn up and his suit can catch fire, even though it's a real fireman's suit. That he doesn't have to rescue anyone, that that's the work of the senior fire officer with all the medals, who has more experience. Why did he have to become a fireman in the first place, the most dangerous job there is? Why him?

The young man doesn't hear her prayers. He hacks a hole in the door, pulls his mask over his face, and, without hesitation, steps inside. She wants to close her eyes, but instead she stares without blinking at the hole in the wrecked door. Now flames are also shooting out of the windows, and the inside of the car is becoming stiflingly hot. She implores all the gods she knows. She curses herself for her cowardice, her sneakiness. She wants to turn all the clocks back in time, especially the large grandfather clock on the landing. Why doesn't anyone else go in, why is he the only one? Someone has to help him. Maybe he's lost his way, or is unable to breathe. Can't anyone hear him shouting? He's on fire. Charlotte can't stand it any longer, and opens the car door. The heat drives her back into the car. She can barely stand on her own two feet. She is about to shout at the commandant when she sees a pair of gloved hands holding a little girl appear in the hole in the door. The fire chief grabs the child and the young man climbs out of the opening. No one is looking at him. All eyes are on the little girl.