Still she hasn’t uttered one word of apology, contrition, or anything else. All that’s happened is that her hair has been shaken loose and falls forward untidily, the fine, freshly-washed hair separating into two masses, one on each side of her face, which it hides completely, showing only the back of her neck.
Gazing down at the pale nape of her neck, extended before him like that of a victim, he feels the mounting pressure of violence inside him, a rabid frenzy of rage which frightens him suddenly — all at once he’s afraid of what it might make him do. Swinging round abruptly he strides away from her and out of the room.
It is evening, after dinner. The girl is sitting reading, alone under the squeaky fan. Her husband hasn’t spoken to her all day. The few remarks he made at the dinner table were for the benefit of the servants, before whom a facade of normal conduct must be maintained. She doesn’t know where he is now, or what he is doing. He may be somewhere in the house. Or he may have gone to the club. She hasn’t heard the car drive away, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he’s still here, as he sometimes walks this short distance.
He is not in the habit of telling her when he goes out. He seems to keep her in ignorance of his movements deliberately, hoping to take her by surprise, as he’s done occasionally when she’s been relaxing under the impression that she was alone in the house. It’s as though he perpetually suspects her of doing wrong, and is eagerly waiting to catch her in the act again. This is why her attitude remains tense. She keeps her eyes unwaveringly on her book, although the light is really too faint for reading. Presently she puts the book down on a table and rubs her eyes, afterwards sitting quite still, her wide open eyes looking towards the door.
The noise of the frogs fills the night, as the brain-fever birds’ cries fill the day. The two sounds are interchangeable in her head, composing one continuous, exasperating background sound, without end or beginning, that finds its way into every single second of the day and night. Not for one of all those seconds has she ever felt at home in this house. She has no clear impression of the darkened country outside; it is to her just a feeling of alien, burning brilliance, heat and confusion, and of mysterious nocturnal cries that burst unaccountably out of solid blackness.
Her gaze does not leave the door, and now, under the two flaps, in the lighted passage beyond, she sees a pair of slim brown ankles approaching, and the border of the red skirt belonging to the young woman who looks after her clothes, prepares her bath, and so on, who, unlike the Mahommedans, is a native of the country. Her appearance so late in the evening is puzzling, since she is off duty and ought to be at home.
There is a certain elegance about the red skirt, shot with gold, above which is worn an exceedingly abbreviated white jacket, a wide expanse of smooth brown flesh exposed between the two garments. The wearer’s movements are supple, graceful and self-possessed. Although her face has not got the blank look worn by most of the other servants, it is no more accessible; its expression, lively but unconcerned, seems to impose a sheet of glass between her and her mistress, who is several years younger. She looks at her amicably but remotely, keeping herself apart, unapproachable. Or perhaps it is the girl who has never made any attempt to approach her. At all events, there is no contact between them.
‘The other master has come.’ This announcement is made in a soft voice that might sound cautious, were it not for the calm, matter of fact way the speaker is adjusting the comb which controls her long coil of oiled hair, black and shiny as patent leather.
The words are so totally unexpected that the girl looks at her with a startled face, uncomprehending. A familiar voice then calls to her softly from outside the room: ‘Come out here for a second — I must speak to you!’
Immediately she jumps up and runs to the window giving access to the verandah, passing the messenger without seeing her, not giving her another thought. The latter quietly closes the shutters after she’s gone out, then leaves the room through the door she’s just entered, moving with her soft, loose gait, and swaying her hips, the soles of her light slippers (worn with the little toe outside the embroidered upper part) hitting the floor with a muffled slap that is hard to hear above the noise the frogs make.
The girl’s progress along the dark verandah can be followed by the very similar slight slap of her sandals on the wooden floor. The soft-soled mosquito boots advancing to meet her make no noise at all, even when the frog chorus is silenced momentarily by one exceptionally deep croaking boom, after which it at once starts again.
It’s pitch dark out here, without a breath of air. There is no moon. The faint ghostly sheen of starlight over the swamp doesn’t reach to the compound. Only a thin pencilling of parallel light lines marks the position of shuttered windows. The roofed verandah is like a black tunnel of airless heat, where the paleness of clothes, faces and limbs can only be guessed at, not even discernible as lighter blurs on the black.
‘What are you doing here? You must go at once,’ the girl whispers, terrified Dog Head will spring out at them like a jack in the box.
‘It’s all right — I gave that girl of yours a present to tell me when the coast was clear.’
This reference to the forgotten messenger fills the hearer with admiration for the practical attitude it indicates, far better at coping with life than her own. But then fear seizes her again, she glances round nervously, murmuring: ‘But I’m not sure that he’s out of the house… he may be around somewhere…’
‘You simply must leave him.’ Suede Boots’ muted voice might be addressed to an accomplice; or he might be anxious to avoid waking a sleeper nearby. The fellow’s quite mad. He ought to be locked up. You’re not safe with him. Promise you’ll come to my place tomorrow.’
But it is
‘Oh, so he’s threatened me, has he?’ Indignation raises the young man’s voice half a tone. But her urgent, ‘Hush!’ quietens him, and she can only just hear when he starts talking fast, as if against time: ‘Don’t forget, I’ll be waiting for you you’ve got to come. You can’t possibly stay on here. I tell you what — to remind you, I’ll fix a scarf or something on the snake’s tree. You’re bound to see it there whenever you look out. That ought to stop you sliding back into that nightmare of yours. Don’t worry. Lots of people want to help you. Only you must make the first move yourself. You must leave here soon!’ The last words are spoken more slowly and emphatically, like a teacher impressing an important lesson upon an inattentive pupil.
Their hands have met in the darkness. His touch is so comforting and reassuring to her that it absorbs the attention she ought to be giving to what he says. Now, however, her hand is relinquished. The blur of his white shirt, which she’s just able to make out while he’s standing in front of her, rapidly recedes, melting into the darkness without a trace.
She is left alone with the frogs, whose chorus is mounting to a crescendo. It’s quite impossible for her to see which way Suede Boots has gone, even though she leans far over the rail under the trailing orchids to peer into the hot black night.
20
Now it becomes almost too hot to live as the monsoon approaches. Each afternoon great menacing masses of cloud gather and roof over the world, which swelters beneath, in burning suspense and tension.
The girl is still not acclimatized, and can’t stand this terrific heat, which keeps her awake at night, so that she’s always tired. If only she could go to some cool place! But, in spite of her longing to get away, she does nothing about it, feeling vaguely that the time hasn’t come yet.
Suede Boots has hung a blue scarf on the tree to remind her that kind people exist who will help and accept her. She remembers him saying, ‘Don’t worry — all my family will love you.’ She has such a craving for love that she often dreams of staying with them, and even thinks she will really go sometime — at some dim future date. But, as the torrid days slowly pass, the idea grows more and more dreamlike, and the people seem less and less real. Every day she believes in them a little less, since he can’t come any more to talk to her and convince her of their reality.
Her husband doesn’t talk to her either. For days at a time she speaks to no one except the servants. She is always lonely, and always seems to be waiting, but isn’t sure whether she’s waiting for the monsoon, or to escape, or just for another day. All the days are the same to her now, and they are all empty of everything but discomfort. The heat is an abominable infliction that takes away all her vitality.
Tonight she’s entirely alone in the house. Dog Head is out in the car. The servants have gone, and won’t
