“What was he talking about?” asked the Major as he set down their drinks and took his seat at her side.
“I think he was trying to be reassuring,” she said, laughing. “He told me not to worry if some of your friends seemed a bit stiff at first.”
“What friends?” asked the Major.
“Don’t you have any?” she asked. “Then who are all these people?”
“Blessed if I know,” he said and added: “I didn’t think you danced, or I would have asked you myself.”
“Will you ask me now?” she said. “Or are you going to have seconds on the roast beef?” Mrs. Rasool’s waiters were circling with vast platters.
“Will you please do me the honor?” He led her to the floor as the dance band struck up a slow waltz.
Dancing, the Major thought, was a strange thing. He had forgotten how this vaguely pleasant exercise and social obligation could become something electric when the right woman stepped into one’s arms. Now he could understand why the waltz had once been as frowned upon as the wild gyrations that today’s young people called dance. He felt that he existed only in the gliding circle they made, parting the other dancers like water. There was no room beyond her smiling eyes; there were no people beyond the two of them. He felt the small of her back and her smooth palm under his hands and his body felt a charge that made him stand taller and spin faster than he would have ever thought possible.
He did not see the two men who gossiped at his back as he swung past the stage and the bar but he heard, in a brief silence between cascades of melody, a man ask, “Do you really think they’ll ask him to resign from the club?” and then a second voice, speaking a little loud over the sound of the music: “Of course I wouldn’t, but the club secretary says it does seem like George Tobin all over again.”
The Major’s face burned; by the time he risked a glance at the bar, the men had turned away and he could not be sure whom they had been talking about. As the Major looked around for any other impropriety that might suggest censure, Old Mr. Percy swept by with his lady companion in his stiff arms. Her strapless dress had turned quite around so that her ample bosom threatened to burst from the top of the zipper, while on her back two boned protuberances suggested the buds of undeveloped wings. The Major sighed with relief and thought that perhaps the club would benefit from certain tighter standards.
The case of George Tobin, who had married a black actress from a popular television series, still made him uneasy, though it had been considered merely a question of privacy. They had all agreed that Tobin had gone beyond the pale in exposing the club to the possible attention of paparazzi and a celebrity-hungry public by marrying a TV star. As the Major had reassured a very upset Nancy, the membership committee had vigorously denied any suggestion that color was an issue. After all, Tobin’s family had been members for several generations and had been very well accepted despite their being both Catholic and of Irish heritage. Tobin was happy to resign quietly on the understanding that his son from his previous marriage would be allowed his own membership, so the whole thing had been handled with the utmost discretion. Nancy, however, had refused to set foot in the club again, and the Major had been left feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
As the music began to reach its crescendo, the Major shook all thoughts of the club from his mind and refocused on Mrs. Ali. She looked slightly puzzled, as if his slipping away into thought had registered in his expression. Cursing himself for wasting any moment of the dance, he gave her a big smile and spun them around until the floor threatened to come away from their feet.
A drumroll at the end of the dance and an enthusiastic flashing then dowsing of the main chandeliers announced the after-dinner entertainment. In the sudden dark, the room roiled with squeals, muttered oaths, and a small crash of glassware in a distant corner as people struggled to their seats. Old Mr. Percy continued to spin his partner around and had to be urged off the floor by one of the waiters. The Major did his best to navigate Mrs. Ali smoothly back to their table.
A crash of cymbals from the band gave way to the flat squeal of recorded music and the whistle of a train. In the darkness, a single slide projector lit up a white scrim with sepia-toned images of India flickering and cascading almost too fast to register actual scenes. The Major felt a horrible sense of familiarity build until a brief image of himself as a boy, sitting on a small painted elephant, told him that Roger had indeed raided the tin box in the attic and put the family photographs on public display.
A scatter of applause hid the muffled jingling of ankle bells; as the lights came up again a lurid green spotlight revealed the dancers, swaying in time to a train’s motion and waving about an assortment of props including baskets, boxes, and a number of stuffed chickens. Roger sat on a trunk smoking an absurdly curly pipe as he perused a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the colorful chaos around him. At one end of the ensemble, Amina made flowing gestures toward some wide and distant horizon. With the music, the train whistle, and the flickering scrim, the Major thought it looked much more effective than he would have imagined. He decided to forgive Roger for using the photographs.
“It’s not as bad as I feared,” he said to Mrs. Ali, conscious of a small, nervous pride in his voice.
“Very lifelike, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Jakes. “Just like being in India.”
“Yes, personally I never travel by train without a chicken,” said Mrs. Ali, looking with great intent at the dancers.
“It is the End of Empire, end of the line…” As Daisy Green’s shrill voice narrated the story of the young, unsuspecting British officer returning to his barracks in Lahore on the same train as the beautiful new bride of the Maharajah, Amina danced a brief solo, her flowing veils creating arcs of light and movement.
“She’s really good, isn’t she?” said Grace as a round of applause greeted the end of the solo. “Like a real ballerina.”
“Of course, only courtesans would have danced,” said Sadie Khan to the table. “A maharajah’s wife would never have so displayed herself.”
“The line is blocked! The line is blocked!” shrieked Daisy. As the dancers stamped their jingling feet and swirled their chickens and baskets with more urgent energy, Roger continued to peruse his newspaper, oblivious to the action around him. The Major began to feel impatient. He was sure his father would have been quicker to pick up on the change of mood on the train. He was tempted to cough, to attract Roger’s attention.
“A murderous mob rains terror on the innocent train,” cried Daisy. From all the doorways of the Grill room staggered the hastily recruited boyfriends, dressed in black and flailing large sticks.
“Oh, dear,” said Grace. “Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to give them the beer and sandwiches before the performance.”
“I probably would have thought twice about the cudgels,” joked the Major. He looked to Mrs. Ali, but she did not smile at his comment. Her face, fixed on the scene, was as still as alabaster.
As the images flickered ever faster on the scrim, the men set about a series of exaggerated slow-motion attacks on the writhing women. The Major frowned at the muffled shrieking and laughter from the dancers which was not entirely covered by the wailing music. Amina engaged in a frantic dance with two attackers, who did their best to lift her and throw her away whenever she grabbed their arms. Their movements were more enthusiastic than pretty to look at, though the Major thought Amina made it look passably threatening. At last she broke free and, leaping away, spun right into Roger’s lap. Roger raised his head from the newspaper and mimed suitable astonishment.
“The Maharajah’s wife throws herself upon the protection of the British officer,” said Daisy’s voice again. “He is only one man, but by God he is an Englishman.” A round of cheers broke out in the audience.
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Mrs. Jakes. “I’ve got goose bumps.”
“Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The British Empire may cause that.”
“Disguising the Maharani as his own subaltern…” continued Daisy. The Major did not want to be critical, but he could not approve of Roger’s performance. To begin with, he had assumed a stance more James Bond than British military; furthermore, he was using a pistol, having handed Amina his trench coat and rifle. The Major thought this an unforgivable tactical error.
The sound of gunshots mingled with the music and the squealing. The spotlights flashed red and the scrim went dark.
“When help arrived, the brave Colonel, down to his last bullet, still stood guard over the Princess,” said Daisy. The lights rose on a mass of inert bodies, both male and female. Only Roger still stood, pistol in hand, the Maharani fainting in his arms. Though one or two girls could be seen to be giggling—probably the fault of the young men lying across their legs—the Major felt the whole room go quiet, as if everyone were holding their breath. The momentary
