The moment the beast starts to slide out of the corner he lunges at it with all his force, savagely shouting, ‘Got you!’
But he never knows whether he really has killed, or even hit it, for at the same time he staggers wildly, losing his balance, his arms flailing. Unable to save himself he falls headlong, sprawling full length on the floor, face downwards, on top of the object that’s tripped him up. He must be slightly stunned, in his drunken state, by the heaviness of the fall, for he doesn’t get up immediately, doesn’t know what he’s fallen over. An inexplicable, indescribable movement rouses him: hairs coarse as wire are scratching his chest, neck and chin. With sudden horror, he realizes that he must have tripped over and be lying on top of the monster rat, which he’d completely forgotten until this moment. And the beast’s moving… it’s come to life… Its cold sharp claws scrabble at his chest, becoming entangled in its furlike growth, as he struggles desperately to get hold of it somehow, he’s unable to throw it off; there’s no power in his hands, which can’t get a grip on its body…
Precisely as in a nightmare, he feels its teeth sinking into his throat. He can’t see it properly, though its heavy limp inert shape dangles in front of him, hanging on by its teeth and claws… while he beats at it ineffectually, his blue eyes frantically glaring about the room — he shouts for help, but nobody answers…
He must get up in order to get a firmer grip. But his strength is going, and though he makes a terrific effort he only succeeds in dragging himself to his knees. Blood is streaming over his chest, mingling with the river of sweat.
After a final flicker, the light goes out. Seeing only some huge black object looming above him, he clutches it to pull himself up. The wardrobe starts to wobble and sway before he gets to his feet; his fingers, sticky with blood, adhere to the tacky surface, pulling it down on him. Like a giant coffin, it falls with a crash, imprisoning him in stifling darkness beneath in the dustbin to which he consigns his victims.
As if the bottom has fallen out of the sky, rain comes down with a thunderous smash. Pounding on the roof, the vast mass of water adds its continuous battering boom to the ponderous roar of great thunder-wheels rolling loose in the blackness outside.
All lesser noises are hopelessly lost in this ceaseless bludgeoning of tumultuous noise.
18
It is very early, not yet day. In the east the leaden clouds have parted, exposing a segment of slowly brightening sky. Soon the clouds will come together again in combat, crashing and thundering against one-another, flooding the world with rain as with their life blood. But first there is this moment of peace, a fugitive breath of coolness, a pause which belongs to neither night nor day.
The purple-blue of the sky slowly lightens to pure piercing turquoise, a shade only seen at this hour, and for a few seconds only, before the sunrise. Light grows imperceptibly, infiltrating the shades of night.
The servants are still asleep in their own quarters after the excitement of the monsoon’s arrival, The house stands silent, as if deserted; the open shutters reveal only black holes of rooms. Last night’s bath has emphasized its latent dilapidation; the neglected exterior is more noticeable, the cracks in the walls, and the splintering woodwork. What is not seen is the more serious secret damage, where termites have undermined and eroded, so that, unaccountably, objects come crashing down.
The solitary palm tree in front looks battered, bedraggled and shabby, among pools of rain water left in the hollows of the uneven ground. The swamp has changed colour overnight like a conjuring trick, covered in bright blue flowers. Almost visibly, new green shoots are everywhere piercing the newly sodden earth, from which mist slowly steams up and hangs in long trails just above the ground. A soundless procession of yellow-robed begging priests passes, ankle deep in the white vapour, ghostly and transient as a dream.
From the sheltered recesses of the forest trees the great snake moves slowly towards the light and negligently loops its pale length, swaying gently from side to side. Those of the small parrots which have survived the storm’s bombardment are waking with drowsy wing-stretchings, so many handfuls of brilliant feathers that seem barely held together by the frail thread of life.
Who-are-you? Who-are-you? Who-are-you? The brain-fever bird’s harsh cry is always the first definite sound to be heard, although the birds themselves remain mysteriously invisible among the sparse foliage and involved tracery of the tamarind branches. All day long their interminable unanswered question will continue, an irritating inescapable background noise, mingling with every second, with all situations, weaving its way into the whole human fabric of talk, thought and action, until the sudden curtain of darkness falls.
Who-are-you? Who-are-you? Who-are-you? The same loud insistent cry is transmitted from bird to bird in a whole succession of identical but more remote cries, coming, not only from the vicinity of the house, but from much further afield: from the other side of the road, from all over the confused tract of country beyond, even from the distant jungle where thousands of the same species must congregate. Some of these ceaseless cries are louder than others, or more prolonged: but all alike share the common exasperating suggestion of a mechanical noise nobody can stop; they don’t express hunger, or love, or fear, or anything else, but seem uttered with the sole object of maddening whoever hears them.
The tops of the tamarinds suddenly burn, fiery; the sun is up, gilding the topmost point of the roof. Instantly the air fills with the shrill, continuous din of innumerable insects of every kind, which at once seems always to have been going on.
Countless birds, too, explode into screaming, whistling, whooping or chattering cries, impossible to disentangle. Darting to and fro, the small parrots trace complex emerald diagrams on the air, their thin screeching lost in the general commotion which is called silence.
From this confusion of noise, only the cries of the brain-fever birds emerge distinctly, nerve-racking and unmistakably clear, violently assaulting the ears with their loud, flat repetitions, like mechanical instruments of torture.
They implant an obscure irritant in the brain, eternally calling out the monotonous question nobody will ever answer, from all points of the compass, from far and near… which others of their kind infuriatingly echo… and others still… driving the crazed hearer into delirium… until the ultimate nightmare climax — when suddenly everything stops…
19
Suede Boots drops in for tea as usual, cheerful, smiling, matter of fact. At once the girl feels happier and more relaxed. She’s become much more tranquil under his influence.
But she’s still nervous about her husband, who has now recovered, and spends most of the time working in his office. He hasn’t said a word to her about the daily visits, which strikes her as ominous, sinister. She can’t believe Suede Boots is right in saying that, by keeping silent, he shows he has no objection.
Not that there’s anything for him to object to. Their relationship is perfectly innocent. Anybody might listen to their conversation, even when it’s personal. Their intimacy has not progressed beyond an almost childish enjoyment of being together, exchanging smiles, talking nonsense, or, alternatively, discussing life with great seriousness.
‘Before I met you I used to feel as if I was in a nightmare,’ she tells him, ‘and that I’d never escape.’ But she no longer remembers this feeling with any distinctness, and might be describing the sensations of a girl in a book.
Sometimes she has an uneasy sense of the precariousness of the present situation, and is afraid her new happiness may vanish suddenly. But she refuses to admit this or to think about it, though it shows itself in her superstitious desire to keep everything between them exactly the same as it always has been she can’t bear any change to creep in.
The young man is really fond of her and concerned for her welfare. He has made up his mind that her unsuitable marriage must end; then she’ll be able to go to the university as she’s always wanted. Whether their relationship is supposed to become closer eventually is not very clear in his mind. But he’s taken the step of writing
