Monday, November 26, 2012
cried Seguin
"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, you know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect hell upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended that the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn't healthy. Well, then a second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the child. And now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile creature who will prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's too exasperating, I won't have it."
Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't you have? There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have a nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But I won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it's simple enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it."
Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, who had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, full of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they remained there, and saw and heard everything.
"The carriage is waiting," resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to render calm. "Let us make haste, let us go."
Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable," said she. "How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust her?"
"The carriage is waiting for us," he repeated, quivering; "let us go at once."
And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which impelled him to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd jealousy which had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing child, he would have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of everything, and indeed it was she who was now the obstacle to that excursion he had planned, that pleasure trip which he had promised himself, and which now seemed to him of such supreme importance. And 'twas so much the better if friends were there to hear him. So in the vilest language he began to upbraid his wife, not only reproaching her for the birth of that child, but even denying that the child was his. "You will only be content when you have driven me from the house!" he finished in a fury. "You won't come? Well then, I'll go by myself!"
And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to Santerre, who had remained silent, and without even remembering that Mathieu still stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in consternation at hearing all these things, had not dared to withdraw lest by doing so he should seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he turned his head aside, looked at little Andree who was still crying, and at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with fright, pressed one against the other behind the armchair in which their sister was wailing.
‘Poor Pemberton
‘Poor Pemberton,’ she repeated furiously.
‘Who’s Pemberton?’
‘A little puppy of twenty-five. All spots and bounce. He was assistant D.C. at Bamba, but when Butterworth went sick, they left him in charge. Anybody could have told them there’d be trouble. And when trouble comes it’s Henry, of course, who has to drive all night...’
‘I’d better leave now, hadn’t I?’ Wilson said. ‘You’ll want to change.’
‘Oh yes, you’d better go - before everybody knows he’s gone and that we’ve been alone five minutes in a house with a bed in it. Alone, of course, except for the small boy and the cook and their relations and friends.’
‘I wish I could be of some use.’
‘You could be,’ she said. ‘Would you go upstairs and see whether there’s a rat in the bedroom? I don’t want the small boy to know I’m nervous. And shut the window. They come in that way.’
‘It will be very hot for you,’
‘I don’t mind.’
He stood just inside the door and clapped his hands softly, but no rat moved. Then quickly, surreptitiously, as though he had no right to be there, he crossed to the window and closed it. There was a faint smell of face-powder in the room - it seemed to him the most memorable scent he had ever known. He stood again by the door taking the whole room in - the child’s photograph, the pots of cream, the dress laid out by Ali for the evening. He had been instructed at home how to memorize, pick out the important detail, collect the right evidence, but his employers had never taught him that he would find himself in a country so strange to him as this.
Part 1 Chapter 5
THE police van took its place in the long line of army lorries waiting for the ferry. Their headlamps were like a little village in the night. The trees came down on either side smelling of heat and rain, and somewhere at the end of the column a driver sang - the wailing, toneless voice rose and fell like a wind through a keyhole. Scobie slept and woke, slept and woke. When he woke he thought of Pemberton and wondered how he would feel if he were his father - that elderly, retired bank manager whose wife had died in giving birth to Pemberton - but when he slept he went smoothly back into a dream of perfect happiness and freedom. He was walking through a wide cool meadow with Ali at his heels: there was nobody else anywhere in his dream, and Ali never spoke. Birds went by far overhead, and once when he sat down the grass was parted by a small green snake which passed on to his hand and up his arm without fear, and before it slid down into the grass again touched his cheek with a cold, friendly, remote tongue.
Once when he opened his eyes Ali was standing beside him waiting for him to awake. ‘Massa like bed,’ he stated gently, firmly, pointing to the camp-bed he had made up at the edge of the path with the mosquito-net tied from the branches overhead. ‘Two three hours,’ Ali said. ‘Plenty lorries.’ Scobie obeyed and lay down and was immediately back in that peaceful meadow where nothing ever happened. The next time he woke Ali was still there, this time with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘One hour,’ Ali said.
‘Who’s Pemberton?’
‘A little puppy of twenty-five. All spots and bounce. He was assistant D.C. at Bamba, but when Butterworth went sick, they left him in charge. Anybody could have told them there’d be trouble. And when trouble comes it’s Henry, of course, who has to drive all night...’
‘I’d better leave now, hadn’t I?’ Wilson said. ‘You’ll want to change.’
‘Oh yes, you’d better go - before everybody knows he’s gone and that we’ve been alone five minutes in a house with a bed in it. Alone, of course, except for the small boy and the cook and their relations and friends.’
‘I wish I could be of some use.’
‘You could be,’ she said. ‘Would you go upstairs and see whether there’s a rat in the bedroom? I don’t want the small boy to know I’m nervous. And shut the window. They come in that way.’
‘It will be very hot for you,’
‘I don’t mind.’
He stood just inside the door and clapped his hands softly, but no rat moved. Then quickly, surreptitiously, as though he had no right to be there, he crossed to the window and closed it. There was a faint smell of face-powder in the room - it seemed to him the most memorable scent he had ever known. He stood again by the door taking the whole room in - the child’s photograph, the pots of cream, the dress laid out by Ali for the evening. He had been instructed at home how to memorize, pick out the important detail, collect the right evidence, but his employers had never taught him that he would find himself in a country so strange to him as this.
Part 1 Chapter 5
THE police van took its place in the long line of army lorries waiting for the ferry. Their headlamps were like a little village in the night. The trees came down on either side smelling of heat and rain, and somewhere at the end of the column a driver sang - the wailing, toneless voice rose and fell like a wind through a keyhole. Scobie slept and woke, slept and woke. When he woke he thought of Pemberton and wondered how he would feel if he were his father - that elderly, retired bank manager whose wife had died in giving birth to Pemberton - but when he slept he went smoothly back into a dream of perfect happiness and freedom. He was walking through a wide cool meadow with Ali at his heels: there was nobody else anywhere in his dream, and Ali never spoke. Birds went by far overhead, and once when he sat down the grass was parted by a small green snake which passed on to his hand and up his arm without fear, and before it slid down into the grass again touched his cheek with a cold, friendly, remote tongue.
Once when he opened his eyes Ali was standing beside him waiting for him to awake. ‘Massa like bed,’ he stated gently, firmly, pointing to the camp-bed he had made up at the edge of the path with the mosquito-net tied from the branches overhead. ‘Two three hours,’ Ali said. ‘Plenty lorries.’ Scobie obeyed and lay down and was immediately back in that peaceful meadow where nothing ever happened. The next time he woke Ali was still there, this time with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘One hour,’ Ali said.
In five minutes she forgot what she was eating
In five minutes she forgot what she was eating, so interested wasshe in the chat that went on. It amused her very much to hear AuntPlenty call her forty-year-old nephew "my dear boy"; and UncleAlec was so full of lively gossip about all creation in general, andthe Aunt-hill in particular, that the detested porridge vanishedwithout a murmur.
"You will go to church with us, I hope, Alec, if you are not tootired," said the old lady, when breakfast was over.
"I came all the way from Calcutta for that express purpose, ma'am.
Only I must send the sisters word of my arrival, for they don'texpect me till to-morrow, you know, and there will be a row inchurch if those boys see me without warning.""I'll send Ben up the hill, and you can step over to Myra's yourself;it will please her, and you will have plenty of time."Dr. Alec was off at once, and they saw no more of him till the oldbarouche was at the door, and Aunt Plenty just rustling downstairsin her Sunday best, with Rose like a little black shadow behindher.
Away they drove in state, and all the way Uncle Alec's hat wasmore off his head than on, for everyone they met smiled andbowed, and gave him as blithe a greeting as the day permitted.
It was evident that the warning had been a wise one, for, in spite oftime and place, the lads were in such a ferment that their elders satin momentary dread of an unseemly outbreak somewhere. It wassimply impossible to keep those fourteen eyes off Uncle Alec, andthe dreadful things that were done during sermon-time will hardlybe believed.
Rose dared not look up after a while, for these bad boys ventedtheir emotions upon her till she was ready to laugh and cry withmingled amusement and vexation. Charlie winked rapturously ather behind his mother's fan; Mac openly pointed to the tall figurebeside her; Jamie stared fixedly over the back of his pew, till Rosethought his round eyes would drop out of his head; George fellover a stool and dropped three books in his excitement; Will drewsailors and Chinamen on his clean cuffs, and displayed them, toRose's great tribulation; Steve nearly upset the whole party byburning his nose with salts, as he pretended to be overcome by hisjoy; even dignified Archie disgraced himself by writing in hishymn book, "Isn't he blue and brown?" and passing it politely toRose.
Her only salvation was trying to fix her attention upon Uncle Maca portly, placid gentleman, who seemed entirely unconscious ofthe iniquities of the Clan, and dozed peacefully in his pew corner.
This was the only uncle Rose had met for years, for Uncle Jem andUncle Steve, the husbands of Aunt Jessie and Aunt Clara, were atsea, and Aunt Myra was a widow. Uncle Mac was a merchant, veryrich and busy, and as quiet as a mouse at home, for he was in sucha minority among the women folk he dared not open his lips, andlet his wife rule undisturbed.
Rose liked the big, kindly, silent man who came to her when papadied, was always sending her splendid boxes of goodies at school,and often invited her into his great warehouse, full of teas andspices, wines and all sorts of foreign fruits, there to eat and carryaway whatever she liked. She had secretly regretted that he wasnot to be her guardian; but since she had seen Uncle Alec she feltbetter about it, for she did not particularly admire Aunt Jane.
"You will go to church with us, I hope, Alec, if you are not tootired," said the old lady, when breakfast was over.
"I came all the way from Calcutta for that express purpose, ma'am.
Only I must send the sisters word of my arrival, for they don'texpect me till to-morrow, you know, and there will be a row inchurch if those boys see me without warning.""I'll send Ben up the hill, and you can step over to Myra's yourself;it will please her, and you will have plenty of time."Dr. Alec was off at once, and they saw no more of him till the oldbarouche was at the door, and Aunt Plenty just rustling downstairsin her Sunday best, with Rose like a little black shadow behindher.
Away they drove in state, and all the way Uncle Alec's hat wasmore off his head than on, for everyone they met smiled andbowed, and gave him as blithe a greeting as the day permitted.
It was evident that the warning had been a wise one, for, in spite oftime and place, the lads were in such a ferment that their elders satin momentary dread of an unseemly outbreak somewhere. It wassimply impossible to keep those fourteen eyes off Uncle Alec, andthe dreadful things that were done during sermon-time will hardlybe believed.
Rose dared not look up after a while, for these bad boys ventedtheir emotions upon her till she was ready to laugh and cry withmingled amusement and vexation. Charlie winked rapturously ather behind his mother's fan; Mac openly pointed to the tall figurebeside her; Jamie stared fixedly over the back of his pew, till Rosethought his round eyes would drop out of his head; George fellover a stool and dropped three books in his excitement; Will drewsailors and Chinamen on his clean cuffs, and displayed them, toRose's great tribulation; Steve nearly upset the whole party byburning his nose with salts, as he pretended to be overcome by hisjoy; even dignified Archie disgraced himself by writing in hishymn book, "Isn't he blue and brown?" and passing it politely toRose.
Her only salvation was trying to fix her attention upon Uncle Maca portly, placid gentleman, who seemed entirely unconscious ofthe iniquities of the Clan, and dozed peacefully in his pew corner.
This was the only uncle Rose had met for years, for Uncle Jem andUncle Steve, the husbands of Aunt Jessie and Aunt Clara, were atsea, and Aunt Myra was a widow. Uncle Mac was a merchant, veryrich and busy, and as quiet as a mouse at home, for he was in sucha minority among the women folk he dared not open his lips, andlet his wife rule undisturbed.
Rose liked the big, kindly, silent man who came to her when papadied, was always sending her splendid boxes of goodies at school,and often invited her into his great warehouse, full of teas andspices, wines and all sorts of foreign fruits, there to eat and carryaway whatever she liked. She had secretly regretted that he wasnot to be her guardian; but since she had seen Uncle Alec she feltbetter about it, for she did not particularly admire Aunt Jane.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer
Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer. When he at last reappeared he was white as wax, distressed,knockoff handbags, anxious, but still resolute. He could do nothing more, but he repeated to his son the terrible word--"Never!" It was God alone who had the right to relieve him from his promise; and God, although implored, gave him no sign of change. It was necessary to suffer.
Some days had passed. Felicien constantly wandered round the little house, wild with grief, eager for news. Each time that he saw anyone come out he almost fainted from fear. Thus it happened that on the morning when Hubertine ran to the church to ask for the sacred oils, he learned that Angelique could not live through the day,replica louis vuitton handbags. The Abbe Cornille was not at the Sacristy, and he rushed about the town to find him, still having a last hope that through the intervention of the good man some Divine aid might come. Then, as he brought back with him the sought-for clergyman, his hope left him, and he had a frightful attack of doubt and anger. What should he do? In what way could he force Heaven to come to his assistance? He went away, hastened to the Bishop's palace, the doors of which he again forced open, and before his incoherent words his father was for a moment frightened. At last he understood. Angelique was dying! She awaited the Extreme Unction, and now God alone could save her. The young man had only come to cry out all his agony, to break all relations with this cruel, unnatural father, and to accuse him to his face of willingly allowing this death. But Monseigneur listened to him without anger: upright and very serious, his eyes suddenly brightened with a strange clearness, as if an inner voice had spoken to him. Motioning to his son to lead the way, he followed him, simply saying at last:
"If God wishes it, I also wish it."
Felicien trembled so that he could scarcely move. His father consented, freed from his personal vow, to submit himself to the goodwill of the hoped-for miracle. Henceforth they, as individuals, counted for nothing. God must act for himself. Tears blinded him. Whilst in the Sacristy Monseigneur took the sacred oils from the hands of the Abbe Cornille,nike shox torch ii. He accompanied them, almost staggering; he did not dare to enter into the chamber, but fell upon his knees at the threshold of the door, which was open wide.
The voice of the Bishop was firm, as he said:
"_Pax huic domui_."
"_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_," the priest replied.
Monseigneur had just placed on the white table, between the two wax-candles, the sacred oils, making in the air the sign of the cross, with the silver vase. Then he took from the hands of the Abbe the crucifix, and approached the sufferer that he might make her kiss it. But Angelique was still unconscious: her eyes were closed, her mouth shut, her hands rigid, and looking like the little stiff figures of stone placed upon tombs. He examined her for a moment, and, seeing by the slight movement of her chest that she was not dead, he placed upon her lips the crucifix. He waited. His face preserved the majesty of a minister of penitence, and no signs of emotion were visible when he realised that not even a quivering had passed over the exquisite profile of the young girl, nor in her beautiful hair,replica gucci wallets. She still lived, however, and that was sufficient for the redemption of her sins.
His aunt
His aunt, Mme. de Marcillac, had been presented at court, and had moved among the brightest heights of that lofty region. Suddenly the young man's ambition discerned in those recollections of hers, which had been like nursery fairy tales to her nephews and nieces, the elements of a social success at least as important as the success which he had achieved at the Ecole de Droit. He began to ask his aunt about those relations; some of the old ties might still hold good. After much shaking of the branches of the family tree, the old lady came to the conclusion that of all persons who could be useful to her nephew among the selfish genus of rich relations, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was the least likely to refuse. To this lady, therefore, she wrote in the old-fashioned style, recommending Eugene to her; pointing out to her nephew that if he succeeded in pleasing Mme. de Beauseant, the Vicomtesse would introduce him to other relations. A few days after his return to Paris, therefore, Rastignac sent his aunt's letter to Mme. de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse replied by an invitation to a ball for the following evening. This was the position of affairs at the Maison Vauquer at the end of November 1819.
A few days later, after Mme. de Beauseant's ball,knockoff handbags, Eugene came in at two o'clock in the morning. The persevering student meant to make up for the lost time by working until daylight. It was the first time that he had attempted to spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. The spell of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the pomp and splendor of the world. He had not dined at the Maison Vauquer; the boarders probably would think that he would walk home at daybreak from the dance, as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at the Prado, or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby,replica gucci handbags, and ruining his pumps.
It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street before drawing the bolts of the door; and Rastignac,fake uggs for sale, coming in at that moment, could go up to his room without making any noise,mont blanc pens, followed by Christophe, who made a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for a shabby overcoat and slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent fuel, and prepared for his night's work in such a sort that the faint sounds he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the stairs.
Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging into his law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house was thought to be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not only so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one of the most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to the aunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter of introduction, the poor student had been kindly received in that house before he knew the extent of the favor thus shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility to be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the most exclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugene had been dazzled at first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcely exchanged a few words with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to single out a goddess among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those women who are sure to attract a young man's fancy.
A few days later, after Mme. de Beauseant's ball,knockoff handbags, Eugene came in at two o'clock in the morning. The persevering student meant to make up for the lost time by working until daylight. It was the first time that he had attempted to spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. The spell of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the pomp and splendor of the world. He had not dined at the Maison Vauquer; the boarders probably would think that he would walk home at daybreak from the dance, as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at the Prado, or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby,replica gucci handbags, and ruining his pumps.
It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street before drawing the bolts of the door; and Rastignac,fake uggs for sale, coming in at that moment, could go up to his room without making any noise,mont blanc pens, followed by Christophe, who made a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for a shabby overcoat and slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent fuel, and prepared for his night's work in such a sort that the faint sounds he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the stairs.
Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging into his law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house was thought to be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not only so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one of the most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to the aunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter of introduction, the poor student had been kindly received in that house before he knew the extent of the favor thus shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility to be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the most exclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugene had been dazzled at first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcely exchanged a few words with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to single out a goddess among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those women who are sure to attract a young man's fancy.
Friday, November 23, 2012
She needs
She needs,' he nodded at the three musclebound women, 'protectors.'
Aziz was still looking at the perforated sheet. Ghani said, 'All right, come on, you will examine my Naseem right now. Pronto.'
My grandfather peered around the room. 'But where is she, Ghani Sahib?' he blurted out finally. The lady wrestlers adopted supercilious expressions and, it seemed to him, tightened their musculatures, just in case he intended to try something fancy.
'Ah, I see your confusion,' Ghani said, his poisonous smile broadening, 'You Europe-returned chappies forget certain things. Doctor Sahib, my daughter is a decent girl, it goes without saying. She does not flaunt her body under the noses of strange men. You will understand that you cannot be permitted to see her, no, not in any circumstances; accordingly I have required her to be positioned behind that sheet. She stands there, like a good girl.'
A frantic note had crept into Doctor Aziz's voice. 'Ghani Sahib, tell me how I am to examine her without looking at her?' Ghani smiled on.
'You will kindly specify which portion of my daughter it is necessary to inspect. I will then issue her with my instructions to place the required segment against that hole which you see there. And so, in this fashion the thing may be achieved.'
'But what, in any event, does the lady complain of?' - my grandfather, despairingly. To which Mr Ghani, his eyes rising upwards in their sockets, his smile twisting into a grimace of grief, replied: 'The poor child! She has a terrible, a too dreadful stomachache.'
'In that case,' Doctor Aziz said with some restraint, 'will she show me her stomach, please.'
Chapter 2 Mercurochrome
Padma - our plump Padma - is sulking magnificently. (She can't read and, like all fish-lovers, dislikes other people knowing anything she doesn't. Padma: strong, jolly, a consolation for my last days. But definitely a bitch-in-the-manger.) She attempts to cajole me from my desk: 'Eat, na, food is spoiling.' I remain stubbornly hunched over paper. 'But what is so precious,'
Padma demands, her right hand slicing the air updownup in exasperation, 'to need all this writing-shiting?' I reply: now that I've let out the details of my birth, now that the perforated sheet stands between doctor and patient, there's no going back. Padma snorts. Wrist smacks against forehead. 'Okay, starve starve, who cares two pice?' Another louder, conclusive snort... but I take no exception to her attitude. She stirs a bubbling vat all day for a living; something hot and vinegary has steamed her up tonight. Thick of waist, somewhat hairy of forearm, she flounces, gesticulates, exits. Poor Padma. Things are always getting her goat. Perhaps even her name: understandably enough, since her mother told her, when she was only small, that she had been named after the lotus goddess, whose most common appellation amongst village folk is 'The One Who Possesses Dung'.
In the renewed silence, I return to sheets of paper which smell just a little of turmeric, ready and willing to put out of its misery a narrative which I left yesterday hanging in mid-air - just as Scheherazade, depending for her very survival on leaving Prince Shahryar eaten up by curiosity, used to do night after night! I'll begin at once: by revealing that my grandfather's premonitions in the corridor were not without foundation. In the succeeding months and years, he fell under what I can only describe as the sorcerer's spell of that enormous - and as yet unstained - perforated cloth.
Aziz was still looking at the perforated sheet. Ghani said, 'All right, come on, you will examine my Naseem right now. Pronto.'
My grandfather peered around the room. 'But where is she, Ghani Sahib?' he blurted out finally. The lady wrestlers adopted supercilious expressions and, it seemed to him, tightened their musculatures, just in case he intended to try something fancy.
'Ah, I see your confusion,' Ghani said, his poisonous smile broadening, 'You Europe-returned chappies forget certain things. Doctor Sahib, my daughter is a decent girl, it goes without saying. She does not flaunt her body under the noses of strange men. You will understand that you cannot be permitted to see her, no, not in any circumstances; accordingly I have required her to be positioned behind that sheet. She stands there, like a good girl.'
A frantic note had crept into Doctor Aziz's voice. 'Ghani Sahib, tell me how I am to examine her without looking at her?' Ghani smiled on.
'You will kindly specify which portion of my daughter it is necessary to inspect. I will then issue her with my instructions to place the required segment against that hole which you see there. And so, in this fashion the thing may be achieved.'
'But what, in any event, does the lady complain of?' - my grandfather, despairingly. To which Mr Ghani, his eyes rising upwards in their sockets, his smile twisting into a grimace of grief, replied: 'The poor child! She has a terrible, a too dreadful stomachache.'
'In that case,' Doctor Aziz said with some restraint, 'will she show me her stomach, please.'
Chapter 2 Mercurochrome
Padma - our plump Padma - is sulking magnificently. (She can't read and, like all fish-lovers, dislikes other people knowing anything she doesn't. Padma: strong, jolly, a consolation for my last days. But definitely a bitch-in-the-manger.) She attempts to cajole me from my desk: 'Eat, na, food is spoiling.' I remain stubbornly hunched over paper. 'But what is so precious,'
Padma demands, her right hand slicing the air updownup in exasperation, 'to need all this writing-shiting?' I reply: now that I've let out the details of my birth, now that the perforated sheet stands between doctor and patient, there's no going back. Padma snorts. Wrist smacks against forehead. 'Okay, starve starve, who cares two pice?' Another louder, conclusive snort... but I take no exception to her attitude. She stirs a bubbling vat all day for a living; something hot and vinegary has steamed her up tonight. Thick of waist, somewhat hairy of forearm, she flounces, gesticulates, exits. Poor Padma. Things are always getting her goat. Perhaps even her name: understandably enough, since her mother told her, when she was only small, that she had been named after the lotus goddess, whose most common appellation amongst village folk is 'The One Who Possesses Dung'.
In the renewed silence, I return to sheets of paper which smell just a little of turmeric, ready and willing to put out of its misery a narrative which I left yesterday hanging in mid-air - just as Scheherazade, depending for her very survival on leaving Prince Shahryar eaten up by curiosity, used to do night after night! I'll begin at once: by revealing that my grandfather's premonitions in the corridor were not without foundation. In the succeeding months and years, he fell under what I can only describe as the sorcerer's spell of that enormous - and as yet unstained - perforated cloth.
‘Very good of you
‘Very good of you,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Appreciate your attitude.’
‘Another glass of port, gentlemen?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Nothing like this on shore you know. You, Scobie?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I hope you won’t find it necessary to keep us here tonight, major?’
Scobie said, ‘I don’t think there’s any possibility of your get-ting away before midday tomorrow.’
‘Will do our best, of course,’ the lieutenant said
‘On my honour, gentlemen, my hand upon my heart, you will find no bad hats among my passengers. And the crew - I know them all.’
Druce said, ‘It’s a formality, captain, which we have to go through.’
‘Have a cigar,’ the captain said. ‘Throw away that cigar-ette. Here is a very special box.’
Druce lit the cigar, which began to spark and crackle. The captain giggled. ‘Only my joke, gentlemen. Quite harmless. I keep the box for my friends. The English have a wonderful sense of humour. I know you will not be angry. A German yes, an Englishman no. It is quite cricket, eh?’
‘Very funny,’ Druce said sourly, laying the cigar down on the ash-tray the captain held out to him. The ash-tray, pre-sumably set off by the captain’s finger, began to play a little tinkly tune. Druce jerked again: he was overdue for leave and his nerves were unsteady. The captain smiled and sweated. ‘Swiss,’ he said. ‘A wonderful people. Neutral too.’
One of the Field Security men came in and gave Druce a note. He passed it to Scobie to read. Steward, who is under notice of dismissal, says the captain has letters concealed in his bathroom.
Druce said, ‘I think I’d better go and make them hustle down below. Coming, Evans? Many thanks for the port, cap-tain.’
Scobie was left alone with the captain. This was the part of the job he always hated. These men were not criminals: they were merely breaking regulations enforced on the shipping companies by the navicert system. You never knew in a search what you would find. A man’s bedroom was his private life. Prying in drawers you came on humiliations; little petty vices were tucked out of sight like a soiled handkerchief. Under a pile of linen you might come on a grief he was trying to forget. Scobie said gently, ‘I’m afraid, captain, I’ll have to look around. You know it’s a formality.’
‘You must do your duty, major,’ the Portuguese said.
Scobie went quickly and neatly through the cabin: he never moved a thing without replacing it exactly: he was like a care-ful housewife. The captain stood with his back to Scobie look-ing out on to the bridge; it was as if he preferred not to em-barrass his guest in the odious task. Scobie came to an end, closing the box of French letters and putting them carefully back in the top drawer of the locker with the handkerchiefs, the gaudy ties and the little bundle of dirty handkerchiefs. ‘All finished?’ the captain asked politely, turning his head.
‘That door,’ Scobie said, ‘what would be through there?’
‘That is only the bathroom, the w.c.’
‘I think I’d better take a look.’
‘Another glass of port, gentlemen?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Nothing like this on shore you know. You, Scobie?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I hope you won’t find it necessary to keep us here tonight, major?’
Scobie said, ‘I don’t think there’s any possibility of your get-ting away before midday tomorrow.’
‘Will do our best, of course,’ the lieutenant said
‘On my honour, gentlemen, my hand upon my heart, you will find no bad hats among my passengers. And the crew - I know them all.’
Druce said, ‘It’s a formality, captain, which we have to go through.’
‘Have a cigar,’ the captain said. ‘Throw away that cigar-ette. Here is a very special box.’
Druce lit the cigar, which began to spark and crackle. The captain giggled. ‘Only my joke, gentlemen. Quite harmless. I keep the box for my friends. The English have a wonderful sense of humour. I know you will not be angry. A German yes, an Englishman no. It is quite cricket, eh?’
‘Very funny,’ Druce said sourly, laying the cigar down on the ash-tray the captain held out to him. The ash-tray, pre-sumably set off by the captain’s finger, began to play a little tinkly tune. Druce jerked again: he was overdue for leave and his nerves were unsteady. The captain smiled and sweated. ‘Swiss,’ he said. ‘A wonderful people. Neutral too.’
One of the Field Security men came in and gave Druce a note. He passed it to Scobie to read. Steward, who is under notice of dismissal, says the captain has letters concealed in his bathroom.
Druce said, ‘I think I’d better go and make them hustle down below. Coming, Evans? Many thanks for the port, cap-tain.’
Scobie was left alone with the captain. This was the part of the job he always hated. These men were not criminals: they were merely breaking regulations enforced on the shipping companies by the navicert system. You never knew in a search what you would find. A man’s bedroom was his private life. Prying in drawers you came on humiliations; little petty vices were tucked out of sight like a soiled handkerchief. Under a pile of linen you might come on a grief he was trying to forget. Scobie said gently, ‘I’m afraid, captain, I’ll have to look around. You know it’s a formality.’
‘You must do your duty, major,’ the Portuguese said.
Scobie went quickly and neatly through the cabin: he never moved a thing without replacing it exactly: he was like a care-ful housewife. The captain stood with his back to Scobie look-ing out on to the bridge; it was as if he preferred not to em-barrass his guest in the odious task. Scobie came to an end, closing the box of French letters and putting them carefully back in the top drawer of the locker with the handkerchiefs, the gaudy ties and the little bundle of dirty handkerchiefs. ‘All finished?’ the captain asked politely, turning his head.
‘That door,’ Scobie said, ‘what would be through there?’
‘That is only the bathroom, the w.c.’
‘I think I’d better take a look.’
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