Waiting for the Monsoon Read online

  The secretary then turned to the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who ran the town’s biggest hotel as well as two cinemas. “Your husband just called. He told me that your daughter went to the workplace with a piece of brocade and that just as she was about to hand it to him, his eyes began to roll and he slowly collapsed, without making a sound.”

  “With the brocade in his hand?” shrilled the wife of Ajay Karapiet.

  “I have no idea,” said the secretary. “Your husband didn’t say anything about that.”

  “I brought him a length of material, too,” said the woman who was married to a coconut oil manufacturer.

  They were all talking at once. In the previous weeks each of them had delivered a length of cloth to Sanat the darzi, one more costly than the other. Only Charlotte and the wife of Adeeb Tata, the local landowner and a distant relative of the immensely wealthy Ratan Tata, had not given the tailor their material — the wife of Adeeb Tata because she had already bought a dress in Paris, and Charlotte because she didn’t have any fabric yet.

  “He said I could pick up my dress the day after tomorrow. It still has to be embroidered.”

  “Does anyone know if he has a successor?”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  Many of these women wore a dress or a salwar kameez, in contrast to the ladies of the Wednesday-morning group, who wore saris. The garments, all made by Sanat, were indistinguishable from one another. This was not surprising, since they were all based on the same pattern. The only difference was that some had long sleeves, others short, and the neck was either square or round. That is why the embroidery, the buttons, and the lace were so important: together with the material itself, it was the details that made all the difference. The bicentennial of the club was coming up soon and it was going to be celebrated in style. Small wonder that the ladies had gone to such pains to find an exceptional piece of fabric. Charlotte had heard that some of them went all the way to New Delhi or Bombay to ensure exclusivity. It was obvious that this group of middle-aged women would like nothing better than to set off en masse to the workplace of the recently deceased tailor in order to check on the safety of their fabric. However, that would not be appropriate. They would have to wait until after the cremation and the subsequent farewell rituals. Their concern that the costly fabrics were in danger of mysteriously disappearing or shrinking in size was not entirely unfounded. The wife of Nikhil Nair suggested they post a guard at the door, but the other women felt that the family of the tailor might interpret that as a motion of non-confidence. The wife of the goldsmith knew the wife of the tailor’s cousin, and she could ask him to keep an eye on things, but the wife of the builder who had submitted the proposal to renovate the club reported that in his youth the tailor’s assistant had been involved with the police. The wife of the police commissioner knew nothing about that but promised she would ask her husband to look into it. The widow Singh had dropped off again, and was snoring softly.

  The nail specialist was still standing in front of the group holding a plastic hand on which each finger displayed a different nail problem. But he was already surreptitiously sliding the carrying case closer with his foot. The fan turning rapidly above his head no longer provided cool air, and he wanted to go home. He surveyed the flushed faces of the women. They couldn’t get enough of the discussion about the deceased tailor and the problem of what they would wear to the party. Although he had hundreds of tips for festive nails, he could not get his audience to listen. His gaze came to rest on the only European woman in the group, and he wondered how she had become a member of a club for Indian ladies. There were almost no British citizens left in his country, which had shaken off the yoke of the Raj several decades ago. Her dress was just as unappealing as those of the other women, except that hers bore a Scottish tartan pattern while all the others had opted for a floral or botanical design. Clearly the late tailor was no great talent when it came to the design and fabrication of women’s clothing.

  “I know a very good tailor,” he said suddenly.

  It was a while before the message got through to the women, but then they began bombarding him with questions. Where did the man live? Was he expensive? Had he ever worked with Chinese silk before? Did he have more than one pattern? What was his family background? Did he have his own sewing machine? When could he start? etc.

  “I’ve never met him myself,” the nail specialist stammered.

  There was a collective sigh of disappointment.

  “But my first cousin on my father’s side says he’s an absolute master.” The man looked at the group of women in their tent dresses. “He has several different patterns and apparently he’s not expensive. But . . .” Here he hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” the women wanted to know.

  “He’ll only come if he really wants to.”

  “If he wants to,” sneered the wife of Nikhil Nair.

  “He’s . . . well . . . different from other darzis.”

  “Like the fashion designers in Paris,” cooed the wife of Adeeb Tata, who liked to remind the other ladies that she’d seen more of the world than they had.

  “Yes, perhaps something like that,” the nail man said as he put the artificial hand back in its case.

  PANTING AND DAMP with perspiration, Charlotte parked the bicycle in the shed. The piercing rays of the sun streamed through the holes in the roof. She resolved to move the Lloyds and her bicycle into the music room as soon as the monsoon began. She seldom went in there now that the piano was gone. She shuffled off to the house, where the heat that had plagued her the entire morning was even more intense, and saw to her relief that Hema had closed the upper windows in the nursery. In the distance, the siren began to wail. And again her heart skipped a beat. She looked around to see if there was smoke anywhere, but the sky was clear and cloudless.

  Inside, the heat had not been tempered by the closed shutters, curtains, windows, and doors. Charlotte turned on a lamp, set the fan on “high,” and lay down on the sofa positioned beneath it. Her legs throbbed and her feet were swollen. She wished that Hema was there: he would have brought her a bucket of cold water. But the butler had gone to the town centre to shop, since she could no longer buy on credit in the neighbourhood stores. She looked at the sideboard filled with the Wedgwood china service, which had been a wedding present. A month ago, there had been a dealer prepared to buy it, but the price he quoted was ridiculously low. In the end he left with only the silver soup spoon, one of her parents’ wedding gifts.

  Charlotte rose from the sofa, trudged up the stairs to the bathroom, and filled the tub with a layer of water. She began to relax when her feet reached the cool water. She looked at her veined feet in the old cast iron tub. They bore clear traces of wear and tear. Her big toe toyed with the black string attached to the plug. She remembered that when Donald was little he insisted on pulling it out because he thought the string was some kind of animal. He was afraid of snakes and spiders and insects as well. It had been a long time since she’d heard from him. Her last letter, written at Christmastime, had elicited only a beautiful card with New Year’s greetings, but no news. Was he still having problems with his back? And did his wife still suffer from kidney stones? The photo of his daughter, taken years ago on a trip to Disney World, was downstairs on the mantelpiece. Charlotte seldom looked at it. Old photographs made her feel sad.

  The front doorbell sounded. She withdrew her feet from the water and without drying them walked into the hallway, down the stairs. When she opened the door, she was momentarily blinded by the glare of the sun, and it was a while before she could see the man standing in front of her.

  “Mrs. Bridgwater?” he asked in a nasal voice.

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Will you sign here?”

  Absently, Charlotte signed her name, and the man left without saying another word. He gunned the engine as he drov
e off, scattering pebbles in all directions.

  She tore open the envelope, even though she was already aware of the contents. The only thing she didn’t know was the exact amount. She put on her glasses, glanced at the figure under the line, and with a sigh placed the letter in the dresser drawer with the other bills. She closed the drawer, but then opened it again, fishing around until she found the business card. She walked over to the telephone next to the dresser and dialled a number. Someone answered immediately. Charlotte’s first impulse was to hang up, but instead she said in a low voice, “This is Mrs. Bridgwater.”

  On the other end of the line someone began to talk very fast.

  “Yes, the big house on the hill,” Charlotte said. “Come by when you have time.”

  1936 On board the King of Scotland ~~~

  ON THE QUAY Mathilda waves to her daughter, Charlotte, who is standing at the railing far above her. The little girl does not wave back.

  “I’ll write to you every week!” her mother calls.

  Charlotte keeps her lips pressed tightly together.

  “And don’t open your birthday present until the day itself, promise?”

  The box, which her mother handed to her just before she boarded, is on the bed in her cabin. She threw the doll — which has real hair and a white dress — into the corner so hard that the head broke off. The ship’s horn sounds and a thick cloud of black smoke rises from the smokestack.

  Charlotte feels the ship start to move. She clutches the railing with both hands and looks at her mother, who is waving vigorously. She can’t hear her voice because of the horn blaring out its farewell.

  “Oh, there you are!” An older lady with a shawl in her hand comes over to her. “Where were you? I couldn’t find you anywhere. I don’t want you to leave the cabin without my permission.” The lady puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder. She is still staring at her mother in the distance, still silent. “Go ahead and cry if you want to. Everyone cries the first time. I’ve seen children try to climb over the railing, but the captain stopped them by shutting them up in a cabin at the bottom of the ship. He didn’t let them go until Bombay was out of sight.” The woman starts to wave her shawl. Charlotte sees her mother take out a handkerchief and start to wave even more vigorously. “You can call me Auntie Ilse. Come on now, wave to your mother. You see? She’s waving, too. When you say goodbye, you’re supposed to wave. Come on now, wave!”

  Charlotte grasps the railing even more tightly; the horn is bawling its farewells and the ship is starting to move. The passengers around her call out, “See you soon,” “Goodbye,” and “Until next year.”

  The woman she’s supposed to call Auntie Ilse drops her arm. “Well, if you’re not going to wave, then neither am I. I don’t even know your mother. Come along, we’re going to get something to eat.” She walks in the direction of the dining room, but Charlotte remains at the railing. “If you’re going to act this way the whole time, I’ll have to ask the captain to lock you up somewhere in the bottom of the ship.” Charlotte lets go of the railing and follows Auntie Ilse.

  Down on the quay, Mathilda is crying.

  ~~~

  IT’S DARK OUTSIDE. Charlotte opens the door and looks into the corridor. There’s no one there. Quickly she slips out of the cabin. She’s holding a bundle in her hand. She runs up the stairs and pushes open the heavy door. It’s quiet on the promenade deck. Everyone’s in the huge auditorium, where they’re showing a movie that Auntie Ilse doesn’t want her to see. She walks along the railing in the direction of the stern, where she sees the English flag waving. Today is her birthday. At breakfast the people at her table sang “Happy Birthday.” The chef brought out a cake with six candles on it, and she had to blow them out all at once, which she did, and then Auntie Ilse gave her a scarf she had in her suitcase and after dinner she was allowed to see the wheelhouse but she didn’t enjoy that because the captain was there too and she was afraid he’d lock her up in the bottom of the ship if she did anything wrong. She walks toward the stern, clutching the bundle to her chest. Two sailors are standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, smoking a cigarette, but they don’t notice her. There’s no one on the afterdeck. She walks over to the railing and looks down. Far beneath her, the sea is foaming. The water is white, and by the light of the moon she can make out the trail they leave behind.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  She gives a start and turns around. There’s a man standing behind her, his black hair waving in the wind.

  “Or did you think the film was scary, too?”

  Charlotte shakes her head.

  “What’s your name? I’m Ganesh, named after the god with the head of an elephant. I’m lucky I didn’t get such a long nose.” He laughs.

  “My name is Charlotte Elizabeth, just like my grandmother who’s dead.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad! Do you miss her?”

  “No. I never met her.”

  Ganesh squats down and looks out to sea with her. A gull dives into the water and comes up with something in its beak.

  “She walked over a mountain with my grandfather and our big clock, then she got an infection on her foot because it was so cold that they couldn’t stop to rest. They had to keep walking and her whole foot went black and had to be cut off, otherwise she’d die. But then she died anyway, but my father didn’t cry.”

  “You come from an adventurous family. Too bad I can’t say the same about mine. For centuries they’ve lived in the same little town at the foot of the Himalayas. I’m the first person in my family to travel.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a scholarship to study in England, so I can become an engineer.”

  “I have to go to school, too. A boarding school, because I’m six.”

  “Are you really that old?”

  Charlotte nods her head fiercely. “I’m travelling alone,” she says firmly. “And I didn’t cry.”

  “That’s brave of you. I did.”

  “Did your father let you cry?”

  “No, but I did it in secret.”

  “All alone?”

  Ganesh nods.

  “I sometimes cry when I’m alone, but nobody knows,” Charlotte says softly.

  “I won’t tell anybody,” Ganesh whispers and locks his lips with an imaginary key.

  Charlotte smiles.

  “Why are you up this late?”

  The smile disappears from her face. Again she presses the bundle to her body and looks out to sea.

  Ganesh waits.

  “I have to bury her.”

  “Who?”

  Charlotte opens up the cloth that holds the doll with the broken neck.

  “Are you going to throw her into the ocean?”

  Charlotte nods. “Auntie Ilse says that if I die at sea, they’ll put me on a plank and throw me into the sea, because otherwise I’ll start to smell and the other people will get sick.”

  “She could be repaired.”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to try?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Charlotte shakes her head but gives the doll to Ganesh, who gingerly takes it from her.

  “What a lovely doll.”

  “It’s a stupid doll.”

  “She has real hair.”

  “She’s stupid.”

  Ganesh examines the broken doll. “Shall I try to fix her?”

  Charlotte doesn’t reply.

  “If it doesn’t work, then tomorrow we can drop her into the sea, together, with a real wooden plank. But if we manage to fix her, then you can give her a name. A really pretty name.”

  “What’s a pretty name?”

  “Maybe something like Khushi. That means ‘happiness.’”

  1901 K
hyber Pass ~~~

  HE IS FRIGHTENED Very, very frightened. William Bridgwater, a young and ambitious road builder who comes from a family of teachers in Ipswich, has made the mistake of his life. He has fallen in love with Elizabeth Charlotte Elphinstone, daughter of the wealthy director of the New Indian Railway, and she with him. They are not just in love, they are head-over-heels in love. For more than six months they have taken advantage of each and every opportunity to meet in secret. The garden of her house is walled, but among the bushes at the back there is a small opening, which William has enlarged. Elizabeth is not allowed to leave the house on her own, since her father is afraid of assaults by members of the Afridi tribe, who continue to oppose British plans to build a railroad through the mountains. Last night, as the first snow of the season was falling on the tents of the railway workers, Elizabeth Elphinstone stood in front of the opening in the wall, showed him her belly, and announced that she was pregnant.

  William doesn’t get a wink of sleep. The tent that he shares with another engineer stands on the edge of their encampment. After breakfast he writes a letter to his parents telling them that he is going on a long journey. After pushing the letter through the opening in the red box that serves as a mail pickup, he makes it known that he will be away on business for several days. He then leaves the camp, carrying a suitcase. Once outside, he makes his way through the bushes to the path leading to the garden behind Elizabeth Elphinstone’s house. He doesn’t want to be seen with a suitcase.

  Near the opening in the wall he sees a boy with a standing clock. William gives a start. All those months he had managed to avoid her overprotective father and today, of all days, he’s been discovered. The boy sees William and raises his hand. Only then does he see that it’s Elizabeth.“Are you ready?”

  She nods.

  “Are you sure you’re not going to regret this?”

  She shakes her head; a wayward curl escapes from under her heavy cap.