Who Are You?

presence and patronisingly ask her to join this or that. Now, for the first time, she has a visitor of her very own. And the incredible thing, just like magic, is that this visitor is actually the person she’s always wanted to know but been sure she never would, because her husband dislikes all young people. The thought of the sick man makes her feel slightly guilty. But why should she feel guilty? She’s not responsible in any way for this amazing meeting, which has come about quite spontaneously, without any action on her part, like a gift from the gods.

She can hardly believe it, and has to keep glancing across to make sure ‘the man in suede boots’ really is sitting there under the squeaky fan, his legs stuck out in front of him, looking quite at his ease. The famous boots are extremely elegant at close quarters, obviously made for him, in that lovely pale leather, soft and supple as velvet.

The two of them are sedate at first. They talk politely to one another. They sip their tea. They speak of the heat, of the snakes that inhabit the swamp and sometimes crawl on to the path along which the young man walks every day to his work. In serious tones they mention the power of coincidence: if he hadn’t killed that snake… if she hadn’t happened to see him from lie verandah…

In a sudden flash, she knows that here is someone she really can talk to — it’s like being released from solitary confinement at last! Her pleasure is so evident that he feels glad too. There really seems to be something rather remarkable about their meeting. The girl is a bit carried away, intoxicated almost, by the wonderful new prospect of communication. The young man has been lonely too, among all those much older chaps who order him about and make fun of his expensive mosquito boots -- it says something for his independence that he hasn’t been teased out of wearing them. He is relieved now to be with somebody near his own age for a change; somebody who obviously likes him.

He’s seen her before at the club, but she’s always been quiet — stand-offish, he has assumed, judging her by that awful husband with the notorious temper who thinks he’s God Almighty and quarrels with everyone. Now he finds that she’s really quite different: engaging and rather quaint, unlike other girls. All of a sudden, he is reminded of the young sister he’s fond of, who has the same vague, dreamy, helpless look which appeals to the masculine chivalry inculcated during his schooldays, which he hasn’t grown out of yet.

He thinks what a perfect infant she looks that husband must be a real baby-snatcher. And before he knows it he’s asking how she comes to be living out here as a married woman when she looks as if she ought to be still at school. ‘Why did you marry a man so much older, and so…’ He breaks off, not liking to say what’s in his mind about the fellow’s queer reputation, and certain rumours he’s heard…

Without any further encouragement, she starts telling him her life story. It’s been bottled up inside her so long that it comes pouring out to the first sympathetic listener. ‘I never wanted to marry him, or anyone else… I was going to the university, I had a scholarship… It was my mother who insisted that I should get married instead…’ She tells him this quite simply, like a good little girl who always obeys the grown-ups because they know best.

‘What a damn shame!’ He stares at her, a bit staggered can such things happen in these days?

But she takes it perfectly calmly, as a matter of course. ‘You see, my mother wanted to get rid of me. She never liked me — nobody ever does.’

‘Well, I do!’ he asserts promptly.

On the spot she decides he’s the nicest person she’s ever known, and looks at him gratefully, without speaking. Their eyes meet, and something happens. They both feel slightly overcome without quite knowing why, To extricate them from embarrassment she continues: ‘I don’t think my husband likes me he says it’s my fault he’s gone down with malaria.’

‘How could it possibly be your fault?’ Reacting from that curious moment just now, Suede Boots bursts out laughing. ‘Sorry — but I can’t help it! I never heard such rot!’

So it’s actually possible to laugh in this house! The breezy infectious sound quite astounds her she’s almost forgotten what laughter’s like. He seems to break some spell by laughing, for she finds herself laughing too… as long as she doesn’t remember about the rats…

Now they chatter away like old friends, their heads close together. He’s only a year or two older than she is, and, as they’re both so very young, a somewhat childish atmosphere builds up around them. The continuous buzz of the fan encloses them in a small tent of sound, a private room of their own where they’re oblivious of the passing of time.

The three windows behind them, on the shady side of the house, are wide open. They are deep in their conversation. Neither of them notices, or looks round, when, framed by the first window, a big white turban appears, surmounting a bearded face which gazes in and then vanishes, reappearing at the second window, where it stays rather longer. At the third window it does not put in an appearance, presumably having already seen all there is to see — which certainly isn’t much. Soon after this Suede Boots looks at his watch. ‘Heavens! I must be going!’ He pushes back his chair, but seems stuck to it. He doesn’t want to leave her. They start talking again. But he thinks of the husband in bed upstairs and feels slightly uneasy. Does the man know he is here? If so, he must be wondering what on earth they are talking about all this time. ‘I really must get along now.’ He stands up, suddenly determined, says goodbye to her briskly, and walks off, pushing between the panels of the door. To the girl, it’s as if he takes the light with him. She listens to his receding steps, which sound rather loud on the stone floor. For some reason this makes her think of’ the man upstairs too. But what does it matter if he hears? There’s nothing he can object to in someone coming to tea what could be more harmless? Nevertheless, she suddenly feels alarmed. She can’t let her visitor go like this, and runs after him impulsively, catching him on the verandah just as he’s about to step down to the compound.

‘Hello!’ he says, surprised to see her. He doesn’t want to delay his departure, having got to this point. Besides, this is no place for lingering over goodbyes; although the porch cuts off the full impact of the afternoon heat and glare it’s far too hot to be comfortable.

She feels his impatience, almost feeling he’s lost already. Instead of looking at him she looks down at the splintery wood under her feet as she asks, in a whisper almost: ‘Shall I see you again?’ hanging her head and hiding behind her hair.

‘Of course. Tomorrow why not?’ he replies, so positively that at first she feels better. But after a moment he seems to be tempting providence by being so certain. Her fears return, and she murmurs pathetically: ‘Everything always goes wrong with me…’ On her face is the helplessly apprehensive look of a child who knows the grown-ups will disapprove of her new friend and forbid them to meet again; and, like a child, she feels this will be the end of the world — she can’t see past such a disaster.

But as he doesn’t know what is in her mind her behaviour seems a bit odd, artificial; he thinks she’s pretending to be a sort of ‘tragedy queen’ to impress him. All the same he assures her that, where he is concerned, everything about her is quite all right.

Grateful, she gives him her attractive smile. And, because she really seems rather a sweet child, even if she does make a drama out of nothing, he recklessly tells her he’ll drop in each day, as he has to pass anyhow, until she gets tired of him and tells him not to. He smiles again, waves his hand in final farewell, jumps the three steps to the compound and hurries out of her sight.

Instead of going back to the room with the fan, where it’s cooler, she stays there, staring after him, still feeling a little disturbed without admitting the reason. A big lizard, hidden in the rafters over her head, starts tonelessly repeating, Gekko, gekko, gekko, like a clock striking. While simultaneously, giving her a fright, Mohammed Dirwaza Khan unexpectedly appears, his big bare feet soundless on the steps from the compound. With bent head he quickly slips past, no expression whatever on his averted face.

All her obscure alarms are strengthened, alarming questions come into her head, one after another. What was he doing out there in the sun, at this time, when he’s supposed to be off duty? Why did he come in this way, when he never uses the front entrance? Why didn’t he look at her?

She runs down the steps and stands at the extreme edge of the porch’s shadow, looking all round, her eyes searching the searing dazzle outside. Suede Boots has vanished already. The compound is deserted, the road and the pathway too. Nobody is to be seen anywhere. Nothing is happening.

It’s too hot to stay here, and she turns back to the house. The lizard is still calling, Gekko, as she goes in. She counts its cries mechanically. There are twelve more of them.