Who Are You?

a barefooted youth in a white turban, who is being trained as Mohammed’s successor, and has just silently climbed the stairs with a jug of water. The normal course of his duties does not bring him up here at this hour, so she makes a perfunctory effort to assert herself by asking what he is doing.

The jug prevents him from putting his palms together in a formal salute, so he bends his head, making the obeisance as mechanically as he performs any trick he is taught — it seems no more a sign of respect than of any other feeling, or of none. ‘Master, he has fever.’ Devoid of expression, his big black eyes appear depthless, almost like those of an animal, as he gives the information with no trace of feeling.

All the servants look at her in this blank way that hides their feelings and thoughts—if they have any. This particular boy speaks good English, but arranges his sentences oddly, and announces all news, regardless of whether it’s good or bad, in the same flat voice, as though the words have no meaning for him.

The girl precedes him now into the third room, which the sun hasn’t reached yet, so that a very faint trace of the night’s comparative coolness still lingers, combined with the stale smell of whisky. She stops just inside the door, astonished by her husband’s sick face, which nevertheless contrives to look overbearing and extremely bad tempered, as he submits to the ministrations of Mohammed Dirwaza Khan, who is too preoccupied even to notice her arrival. In response to an order in his own language the youth puts down the jug, and departs precipitately. The bearded Moslem continues to pile blankets upon the bed; which so amazes the on-looker, who’s never before witnessed an attack of malaria, that she allows some expression of incredulity, such as, ‘In this heat…?’ to escape from her unawares.

The patient hears, and, struggling up to confront her, bares his teeth in a sort of snarling grimace.

‘Idiot! Can’t you see I’m freezing to death?’ His teeth are, in fact, chattering loudly, convulsive shudders shake through him, his grimacing mouth can hardly bring out the words: ‘Are you satisfied with what you’ve done? This is all your fault…’

‘Mine?’ She stares at him, horrified, almost believing he’s really about to give up the ghost.

‘Yes, yours! Why did you have to let in all those mosquitoes? I’ve told you a million times they carry infection.’ Falling back exhausted, he mumbles: ‘You’d like to see the end of me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh, no!’ She’s suddenly shocked into feeling sorry for him — ‘didn’t mean… didn’t understand…’ But then she falters into silence, not knowing what to say.

The man is not in the least placated. He heaves himself up again, exposing his whole torso, to which the furlike hair is now damply clinging. Cursing incomprehensibly, he tries to throw off the covers, but the effort proves too great, and he collapses again, exclaiming weakly: ‘Leave me alone! You make me sick!’

The girl hesitates for a moment, torn between a desire to escape, a feeling of guilt, and a mixture of repugnance and pity for the speaker, on whose face great drops of sweat are now starting out.

‘Better misses go now.’ The servant’s voice has no trace of emotion, he doesn’t even look round, still stooping over the bed. His large blackish hand, with its paler pink palm and fingertips, grasps a clean folded handkerchief, with which he gently and efficiently wipes away the sweat on his master’s face, while the latter gasps: ‘Yes — get out… and stay out!’

A second longer she stands there unhappily, her feelings divided, listening to the monotonous voice murmuring soothingly as to a child as the big dark hands deftly smooth the blankets over the prostrate form, whose spasmodic shudders are still visible through the mass of bedclothes, accompanied by semi-delirious mutterings.

Who-are-you? Who-are-you? Who-are-you? Sudden and piercingly loud a brain-fever bird’s cry sounds startlingly close, as if it were in the room, drowning all other sounds. Numerous birds all round the house call back the same question, and a whole explosion of identical cries breaks out on all sides at once.

The eternal Who-are-you? Who-are-you? Who-are-you? repeated from the tamarinds at the back, from the palm in front, from the trees where the snake lives, from the banana trees just outside, from the marsh, from the bushes screening the servants’ quarters, and from further away, creates an exasperating din that seems as though it will really go on forever. The earsplitting, monotonous repetition continues like an infuriating machine-noise nobody knows how to stop.

All of a sudden the girl can’t stand it; her clumsily cut hair swings forward abruptly as she covers her ears with her hands. The dreamlike reality in which she lives these days seems to be trembling on the brink of nightmare as she hurries out of the room, pushing open the wooden door-flaps with such force that they go on vibrating long after she’s disappeared.

8

Mohammed Dirwaza Khan watches by day and by night. His main function is to watch over his master. His always watchful eyes and retentive memory observe and record all that takes place in the house and the compound. Fanatically jealous of the man’s reputation, he defends him to the point of bloodshed against the slightest attack. A breath of criticism or even a joking remark can start a lifelong vendetta. His loyalty is blind, absolute; to the death he would serve his master, if necessary without payment. He lies, steals, intrigues, spies, bullies, fights, and possibly even murders for him; cares for him with endless unspoken devotion in health and sickness.

What happens to him when the other man goes on leave is a mystery. But, by some secret personal magic, he discovers the date and place of his return, and is there, waiting for him, at the airport or on the quayside, ready to welcome him back with a profound salaam. After which he resumes his duties as if there had been no year-long interruption. How he has lived through the interval nobody knows or cares. The one certainty is that he has served no other master, and never will.

The marriage of the man to whom he is dedicated could not have taken place within his sphere of vigilance — he would have prevented it. The accomplished fact he can only oppose by stealth, determined it shall not last. He regards the girl as an enemy and a rival, to be disposed of as soon as possible. Yet it has been clear from the start that she is no match for him, hardly worthy to be called an adversary, so totally does she lack all qualifications for holding her own against him, not even the weapon of love at her disposal.

He despises her deeply for her inability to adjust herself to the climate or to control the servants; for letting him keep his authority unchallenged; for being timid and, to his mind, unattractive and skinny; because she is not popular with the other white people, doesn’t give elaborate parties or do anything to enhance his master’s prestige. Etc. Etc. The list is endless.

He has worked against her secretly all along, cunningly undermining her in his master’s mind; disparaging her as a housekeeper, as a hostess — even as a wife, though he only employs hints on this delicate, dangerous ground, and slyly disguises his abysmal contempt, which would seem to insult the other’s powers of selection.

9

The sun is now directly overhead, directly above the house. It is the hottest time of the day, when life seems suspended and the whole world lies gasping, waiting for relief from the scourge of heat. Heat has silenced even the brain-fever birds; even the noise of swarming insects is muted. Not a breath of air moves the tamarinds; the shadow of their thin branches and speckled leaves looks like a black net cast over walls and roof and gives no more shade. The sacred snake is coiled motionless in the recesses of the great trees. Their foliage, dense, dark, solid looking as if carved in stone, does not stir when one of the small green parrots sheltering there is struck down by the heat, falling like a tiny bright meteor to the ground, where ants will dispose of it within the hour.

There is no movement about the house. The only living being in sight is the chuprassi, stretched out on the back porch, his sash and badge of office beside him, his raised arms folded over his face, the black bush of beard jutting beneath the apex of a triangle of which the other two points are the tufts of black wire sprouting in his armpits.

In the blinding glare nothing moves, either in the house itself or in the compound, or in the untidy, village-like