On this occasion, it’s doubtful whether the meaning of his expressionless words penetrates to his hearer, who merely tells him to send his superior. And, as he has now managed to collect all the broken glass on the tray he at once goes out with it.
The wind brings no coolness; there is no respite from the heat. The night is a black asphyxiating tank, bubbling and steaming. On to the protection of the porch, out of the boiling dark, emerge now, first the long skinny legs, then the rest of the Mohammedan, whose thin grey beard the wind has twisted grotesquely around his neck — his first action is to comb it into place with his fingers.
The youth climbs up after him out of the darkness. And in this order they enter and pass through the house, the leader’s lean shanks opening and shutting like giant scissors against the dim light. Without hesitation he goes straight into his master’s room and stops in front of him, the youth stopping when he does, just inside the door, where he remains, arms dangling at his sides, a silent, passive appendage of the older man, who has brought him along in case his evidence or corroboration should be required.
‘Boy say missis gone out.’ His English is less accurate than his junior’s, but he speaks louder and with more assurance, looking the white man full in the face. The youth, on the other hand, looks up at the ceiling, where several small lizards are darting about in confusion, frightened by the thunder, taking short aimless runs which they interrupt suddenly to dash off at a tangent, their tails undulating behind them.
‘Boy say he see missis go out.’ Getting no answer, Mohammed repeats his sentence in a slightly different form, and with a perceptible note of impatience, which Dog Head is too drunk to notice.
The latter displays no interest or concern, and might not have heard him. He fills the glass to the brim, lifts it, and tips the contents down his throat as if he didn’t need to swallow but poured the whisky straight into his stomach. He then puts the glass down empty and speaks a few casual words, ending in English: ‘Go after her and bring her to me.’ Simultaneously he lifts his hand in a gesture of dismissal, and a fluctuation of the feeble light catches the reddish gleam of the hairs on the back, so that he appears to be wearing a fur-backed glove.
The servant immediately turns round and leaves the room, the youth following, and descends the stairs, his long, thin legs moving as rapidly and silently as a spider’s in his scissoring gait.
He says nothing to his subordinate until they are again on the back porch, confronting the turbulent darkness, where the faint glimmerings from their homes are intermittently visible through the tremendous tumult of straining, writhing and streaming branches.
The emotions of both are deeply stirred by the coming of the monsoon the climax, each year, of their lives. Both resent being distracted from it. For once Mohammed Dirwaza Khan doesn’t mean to obey his master. He hasn’t the slightest intention of chasing off after the silly, worthless girl who is his rival — if she’s really gone, so much the better; it will spare him the trouble of getting rid of her. This is clearly understood between them; as is the fact that the youth won’t go after her either, as he now orders him to do in his place.
The bearded man steps down quickly into the dark stormy turmoil, and is blown along like a scarecrow before the wind, his white garments wildly flapping around him. He doesn’t look back to see whether the youth is pretending to obey him, but keeps straight on, rapidly disappearing. The other follows him into the darkness at once, striking out in the direction of his own abode.
If there should be any further disturbance during the night neither of them will hear. The thunder conveniently drowns all lesser noises.
17
The loudest thunderclap there has been so far jars the decaying timbers of the house, and one of the lizards drops its tail suddenly, just missing Dog Head’s drink. Although it hasn’t fallen into the glass, the sight of the tail wriggling madly all round it, before jerking itself off the table and on to the floor, irritates him; he wants to chastise the presumptuous lizard, whose tail he is grinding under his naked heel; but he can’t even make out which lizard it belongs to. He feels frustrated, insulted. And now that he’s interrupted his heavy drinking, he is in need of an outlet for the violence drink always builds up in him.
He takes the tennis racquet into the next room, where the rats, as disturbed by the storm as the lizards, are immediately in evidence. Constant flashes of lightning increase the distortion caused by the feebly fluttering light, so that the game is extremely chancy. The additional hazard is all on the side of the rats. All the same, it gives the man a fresh thrill, although he has difficulty in following their swift moves, his own movements less coordinated than usual owing to the amount of whisky he has consumed, which also seems to affect his judgment. Over- estimating the reach of the racquet, he misses the first rat completely, and has to suffer the humiliation of watching it escape into the rafters. But he makes up for this failure by dispatching the next candidate with one driving blow.
Hardly has he kicked the corpse under the wardrobe and out of sight than a new rat appears, so enormous that he can scarcely believe his eyes. It disappears in the shadows, and he supposes the distorting properties of the inadequate light must have magnified it to such vast proportions. But no, there it is again; now he sees it quite clearly — a monstrous great brute, with a lion’s mane of coarse hair and a tail like a sjambok. Never in all his days has he seen such a colossal rat; it must be the father of all the rats in creation.
He half recalls the ‘rat-king’ legend, and that the monster is said to appear to evil-doers when the monsoon breaks; but he at once forgets the story in his excitement, and starts stalking the creature. It won’t come into the open, gliding from one piece of furniture to the next, difficult to distinguish from the tremulous shadows. Before long, however, he drives it into a corner, where it crouches under a table, and he knows he’s bound to get it when it emerges. ‘Come out of there!’ he shouts, furiously banging his fist on the jail-made table, that looks the colour of blood. The rat defies him by refusing to budge, remaining motionless and invisible, except when the occasional gleam of its reddish eyes betrays its presence.
‘I’ll soon settle you!’ he yells fiercely. The wild excitement by which he’s possessed has given him unnatural strength; he swings the table bodily into the air with one hand, while the other twirls the racquet high over his head and brings it down with tremendous force, administering the
He’s rather disappointed by this easy victory. The brute ought to have put up a better fight. Is it dead? As it’s still in deep shadow and practically hidden he can’t be certain, merely assuming it is, as it doesn’t move. He steps forward to make sure and to examine the monstrosity.
But before he’s had time to look, something moves behind him turning, he sees a rat of ordinary size calmly crossing the floor, in full view, as if it owned the place. Such unheard of impudence immediately makes him forget the other; he goes in pursuit of this newcomer, hoping to hit it first time, before it takes cover. But again he’s misled, either by the flickering light or his own faulty judgement, and the beast eludes him. Now of course it’s very much on the alert, and turns out to be almost fiendishly cunning. It persistently keeps out of reach, and when it does emerge from one hiding place to dart to another it’s always too quick for him. Exactly as if
At first he curses it with all the swear words in his vocabulary; but gradually he falls silent, conserving his breath. He is panting; sweat pours off him in streams; the contest already seems to have lasted for hours. Again and again he’s on the point of dealing the fatal blow, but each time something puts him off his stroke — and there’s the devilish rat, still waiting for him as large as life.
His excitement wears off by degrees. His blows get wilder and fall wide of the mark. He stumbles once or twice, no longer quite steady on his feet. Though he won’t admit it, he’s tired, he’s had more than enough of the bloody rat, and wishes it would take itself off to hell. Deliberately giving it a chance, he pauses to mop his face. But instead of flying up the wall to the security of the rafters the diabolical creature continues to lead him on, darting here, there, and everywhere, always evading him. Not once has he even managed to touch the brute.
All at once it vanishes under the table, swallowed up by the shadows. But its eyes give it away, glinting malevolently as they reflect the light’s fluctuations. He waits for it to move, breathing in hoarse gasps, but with a triumphant face. At last the rat’s made the same mistake as its predecessor, and will meet the same end as soon as it comes out. He does nothing to hasten the fate of this one, glad of the respite in which to collect what remains of his strength for the final effort.
