Wives to Burn, page 3
Ganeshi Lal was not head of the Hindu community, but he was just as influential as though he were. He was not religious at all, which made him that much more dangerous. He had been to school in America where he had picked up a lot of silly ideas about men being created free and equal. He was cynical. He was married to an avowed Communist. He was frankly hostile to the British raj, and he sneered at his father, a wise and pious Brahman, who said, “The very fact that you dare agitate against the British, my son, shows that you have confidence in them as civilized and humane administrators. Under the Great Moghuls, you would have been impaled on an iron spike. Under the Italians, you would be killed with castor oil. Under the Japanese, you would be shot. Under the Germans, you would be beheaded….”
Hajji Ahmed was dangerous because he adhered to a militant, fanatical, fatalistic religion. Ganeshi Lal was dangerous because he believed in nothing except himself and the destiny of a self-ruled India.
Hatton called them both together on his veranda and said, “I have information that there may be trouble between the members of your two communities during the present religious festivals. You have probably been misled and urged on by a despicable person named Fred Oaks, whom I intend to arrest shortly. I have brought you here to tell you that there must be no violence of any kind. If there is any bloodshed, I warn you that I will send both of you to the Andamans for life. You need not reply. There is nothing for you to say. Good evening.”
Whereupon the District Officer went off to the Alvin Brinkers’ for dinner and an evening of bridge. Brinker was the somewhat bombastic manager of the Bank of Shakkarpur who lived near Hatton with his 200-pound wife and a dog that understood both Hindustani and Tamil. Brinker had recently been promoted to an important post with a bank in Bombay and was leaving Shakkarpur as soon as his successor arrived. In Bombay he would probably be more pompous than ever. Hatton hoped that his successor in Shakkarpur would turn out to be a better bridge player….
Brinker arrived at his bungalow at the same time Hatton did. He came down the path, swinging his cane by its curved handle, and was obviously excited.
“I’ve just had the most distressing conversation with Jim Curring,” he announced as they went up the veranda steps together. “Most distressing.”
“What’s his wife done now?” Hatton asked.
“It’s not Rhoda this time. Somebody’s stolen a ton of dynamite from Curring’s estates.”
“What’s Curring doing with dynamite on an indigo plantation, anyhow?”
“It’s all very complicated,” Brinker said, mopping his brow. “As a matter of fact, I promised Curring I wouldn’t say anything to you about it, but I do feel you should know, in view of the situation here. Curring thinks Hajji Ahmed’s got hold of the dynamite, and he agrees with me that it might be used against us somehow. Says there’s enough to blow us all to Madras, if Hajji Ahmed, wanted to.”
“Hajji Ahmed wouldn’t dare,” said Hatton. “I’ve just told him there’s to be no violence.”
“You’re not asking for troops, Reggie?”
“No,” said Hatton.
“Curring seems to think this Fred Oaks had something to do with the dynamite disappearing.”
“I’m not surprised,” said the District Officer. “The time’s come to take Oaks into custody anyhow. Old Nev Chamberlain’s got his back up at last, and we’re bound to be at war before long. I can hold Oaks under the Defense of the Realm Act. Walk over to Seaside House with me after dinner, Brinker, while I arrest him.”
“Righto,” said Brinker.
The great bulk of Mrs. Brinker loomed in the doorway like a dreadnaught moving into battle formation. “Hurry and mix the chota-wallas if you’re going to give the D.O. a drink, Alvin,” she said. “Dinner is ready.”
Chapter Four
The Man Who Was Followed
Fred Oaks walked along the beach with such long, rapid strides that the man who materialized from the shadows of the Curring bungalow as Fred came down the stairs had difficulty in following him.
When he reached the curious Victorian façade of Seaside House, several hundred yards farther along the shore, he stopped, hesitated as though pondering the advisability of entering, and the man who was following almost caught up with him. But Fred, remembering the cartridges on Rhoda Curring’s bed, decided against stopping at the hotel. He turned right into the narrow, squirming, swarming streets of the bazaar, determined to intercept Rhoda. He did not know where she had gone, but he suspected it was one of four or five places. One of them was Virginia Hatton’s. He did not think there was any connection between the cartridges and Rhoda’s jealousy of Virginia. Although that seemed genuine enough at the time, the business of Rhoda’s abrupt flight put an entirely new complexion on the matter. After all, Virginia Hatton was indeed involved, however innocently, in the grim climax to his mission, which would end in a few days now. He was sure that Virginia was not aware of the fact; he was not so sure about Rhoda, after tonight. So he plodded on toward the river, toward the Temple of Shiva, and the green compound of the District Officer beyond—the bungalow of Reginald Hatton, Virginia’s brother.
The man who was following him was an elderly Hindu, whose voluminous white dhoti impeded the progress of his short, swarthy, bare legs. On his head was a faded blue turban and around one shoulder was the sacred double thread of the Twice Born. His wrinkled brown forehead was emblazoned with a scarlet lozenge and triple white lines—the caste marks of a Shiva worshiper. The beggars he passed greeted him with cringing salaams, for he was a Brahman.
As Fred elbowed his way through the congested streets of the bazaar, the Brahman shortened his handicap to a mere 20 paces. It was slow going, because the bazaar was choked with pilgrims come to Shakkarpur for the Festival of Shivarat. Under the striped awnings of open-front shops, plump brown merchants were doing a thriving business in palm-leaf fans, Hindu rosaries of carved sandalwood beads, ghi-soaked sweetmeats, wreaths of jasmine blossoms, and phallic lingams carved of soapstone. Then, as the crowds grew thicker and the traffic was complicated by an occasional sacred cow, its painted horns bedecked with flowers, Fred at last became aware that he was being followed.
He did not see the Brahman for several minutes, but he knew someone was following, partly by some sixth sense, partly by the eyes of the shopkeepers he passed—the covert glances of a Bunya money-changer or a seller of buffalo curds, glances which slipped instantly from Fred’s own face to someone behind him.
Fred slackened his pace. He could do so naturally, because he was approaching the main gate of the temple, and the surging crowd of pilgrims was packed solid, watching some minor preliminary rites to the celebration of Shivarat. The light from 50 torches sent bizarre shadows wavering up over the great, sweeping gate tower until they died in the night. The glittering howdah of a ceremonial elephant swayed above the mosaic of bobbing turbans. Suddenly Fred stopped, turned, reached back to grab the Brahman by one shoulder.
The Brahman quailed. He drew back in a movement of retreat, but his knees refused him. He recovered himself quickly.
“Salaam, Sahib,” he said. “You startled me.”
“Salaam, Shivaji Lal.” Fred retained his grip on the Brahman’s shoulder. “You’ve been following me.”
The faded blue turban wagged once to the right in a non-committal gesture. “Yes and no, Sahib,” the Brahman said. “If I have been following you, it is because our paths lead in the same direction. You were going to my house, Sahib?”
“No. I was on my way to the District Officer’s bungalow.”
“She is not there, Sahib.”
“Who’s not there?”
“Miss Hatton. She is not in her brother’s house.”
“What makes you think I want to see Miss Hatton?” Fred Oaks demanded.
The old man smiled wistfully. There was a touch of humor in his eyes, the pale brown eyes of the Deccani Brahman. His light skin, too, and his regular Aryan features told that he was not of Southern India.
“I have seen sixty-five monsoons come and go, Sahib,” he said. “As the seeing of the senses grows dim, the seeing of the mind grows sharper. Even a blind man sees more at sixty than a youth at twenty—or thirty. How old are you, Sahib?”
Fred ignored the question. He looked closely into the old man’s face. He was positive the Brahman had been following him, yet he also knew that Shivaji Lal would tell nothing he did not want to; there was no way of browbeating him. He released his grip on the Brahman’s shoulder.
“How do you know Miss Hatton is not at her brother’s house?” he asked at last.
“Because she is at my house, Sahib.”
“Why?”
“I do not know, Sahib. I saw her go in after I had left. I did not go back, because she seemed distressed. She seemed on the point of tears. A girl like Miss Hatton cries alone.”
“Then why did she come to your house?”
“The shoulder of an old man is a friendly form of solitude….”
“What’s the matter with her brother’s shoulder?”
The Brahman chuckled mirthlessly. “The shoulder of her brother the District Officer,” he said, “is designed only to bear the White Man’s Burden. A girl does not cry upon the shoulder of a man whose veins run cold with the clear water of duty, and whose compassion is poisoned by the fever of ambition, whose—”
“Where’s Mrs. Curring?” Fred interrupted.
The Brahman avoided his eyes. He hesitated a fraction of a second before he replied, “I cannot tell you, Sahib.”
“You can’t tell me—but you know where she is?”
“No, Sahib. I do not. Would you like to see Miss Hatton?”
“No.”
“Nevertheless you will come to my house?”
Again Fred was about to say No when something in the Brahman’s tone rang a warning bell in his subconscious. Virginia Hatton, the Brahman said, was on the point of tears. Perhaps she knew where Rhoda Curring had gone, after loading a revolver….
“All right, Shivaji Lal, I’ll come,” he said.
The Brahman’s house was not far from the temple, almost on the edge of the tree-studded green which contained the residences of the District Officer and several other members of the tiny European colony. In contrast to the well-groomed European bungalows beyond, the Brahman’s domicile was a hovel, which nevertheless wore an air of neatness, despite the crazy angle of the doorway, the tired slant of the walls, and the sagging bamboo ridgepole which gave the gray-tiled roof the appearance of being continually on the verge of cascading off the eaves. On the mail box was a badly-printed card which read: Pundit Shivaji Lal, B.A., Head Master, Shakkarpur High School.
At the doorway, Fred stopped, again scrutinized the Brahman’s face for some sign of guile. “You go first, Pundit-ji,” he said.
Shivaji Lal backed away a step. He said, “I just now recall that I promised to visit my son and his wife who live next door. I will join you later. Please go in and make yourself at home.”
Without waiting for a reply, he trudged down the dutsy road and turned in at the next house.
With some misgivings, Fred Oaks watched him go. He was still afraid of an ambush. A few hours ago he was certain that no one in Shakkarpur knew enough about him to want to lay a trap for him. Tonight, however, Rhoda Curring had said he was no longer safe. He drew a deep breath, crossed the threshold, went up the wooden steps. He walked quietly, so that he reached the Brahman’s more-than-modest sitting-room without being observed. The room was literally bare, except for a gaudy blue painting of Krishna on one of the mud-plastered walls, a badly-worn dari rug on the floor, and a single chair—the Brahman’s only concession to an occasional European guest—in one corner.
Virginia Hatton sat in the chair, playing with a starved-looking kitten. She had her back three-quarters turned to Fred, and the glow from the floating wick burning in a bowl of oil that stood in a wall niche wreathed her hair with deep, luminous golden browns, like sunlight shining through an old wine of Samos, Fred stood a moment, looking at the way the ends of her hair curled just above her young shoulders, remembering that it was as fine as gossamer to the touch. He remembered, too, although he could see only the merest suggestion of her profile, that her patrician forehead would be high and pale; that her long, dark lashes would be lowered over surprisingly blue eyes—the soft, wistful eyes of a dreamer who looked with gentle, continual reproach at a world which would not share her dream; that her classic nose was straight, and her lips full and a little disdainful, as though challenging her elders to call her a mere child. Sitting very straight in her chair, she was almost stately, almost as self-consciously dignified as the long line of her Empire-building forebears.
Fred Oaks silently closed the door behind him. The oil light flickered, dimmed and flared again. Virginia sprang up—and immediately her stateliness disappeared. The slim torso which a moment ago had been statuesque was now merely young and vital. Facing Fred in her simple print dress, her bare legs and low-heeled white shoes, she was even a little awkward, in an unaffected, boyish way. The whole vibrant poise of her body was eloquent with the appealing earnestness of the very young or the very sincere who have not yet seen enough mean and petty people to lose faith in human kind.
“You!” she said.
Fred came further into the room. “Who were you expecting?” he asked.
“Where’s Shivaji Lal?” Her tone was defiant.
“He’s next door visiting his unsanctified, occidentalized son. Won’t I do?”
Virginia stared at him for a moment. The kitten rubbed itself against her ankles, mewing for attention. She sat down. “Perhaps you will,” she said. “Perhaps you know as much about it as Shivaji Lal. Is it true—is there going to be trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Serious trouble—between the Hindus and Moslems.”
“There’s been trouble between the Hindus and Moslems for the last eight hundred years,” Fred declared. “Ever since the first sack of Delhi by Mohammed-ben-Sam.”
“I mean now—here in Shakkarpur—perhaps tomorrow.”
Fred sat on his haunches in front of the girl, Hindu-fashion. The kitten jumped to his knees.
“Why don’t you ask your brother, the D.O.,” he said. “If there’s going to be trouble, he’d ask for troops, wouldn’t he?”
“That’s just it. Reggie thinks it would be a reflection on his ability as an administrator to ask for troops. Ever since he settled the Untouchables’ uprising singlehanded last year, he thinks he’s infallible. You don’t know Reggie.”
“Yes, I think I do know Reggie.” Fred nodded. He was sure he knew Reginald Hatton. The D.O. was a congenital collector of kudos. He would make any sacrifice to be a hero. And it was his stiff-necked attitude that Fred was counting on for the success of his own mission of discord. Hatton would not call troops until it was too late to avoid bloodshed, and another Amritsar massacre at this time would be just the spark needed to touch off general disorders in India which would make the Palestine riots look like a cricket match. He continued, “Reggie is serving his apprenticeship to the glorious Hatton tradition before standing for Parliament or going into the Foreign Office. He’s a true son of Sir Godfrey Hatton, M.P., K.S.I., and what not, prospective Cabinet Minister, pillar of the Conservative Party, frequent visitor to Cliveden, writer of letters to The Times which are published in full even though they run to three columns and nobody reads them but sub-editors, compositors, and proofreaders….”
“Fred, I’m dreadfully worried,” Virginia interrupted.
“Worried?” Fred threw back his head and emitted a hearty deep-seated laugh.
Virginia flushed. “What’s so amusing?”
“You are.” Fred’s laugh subsided into a sympathetic grin. “You were never so solicitous about the White Man’s Burden before. On the contrary, you’ve always seemed to hold the unorthodox belief that Hindus are people. Almost everything you do is a discredit to your brother—in the eyes of the European colony. They think it’s letting the Empire down for the sister of a District Officer to have tea and crumpets with persons of an off-white color like Shivaji Lal or Hajji Ahmed. They consider you a radical because you go to Swaraj Meetings and listen to speakers who damn Britain for destroying the traditional handicrafts of India with their Manchester white goods. And you help at Dr. Forsythe’s Clinic for Untouchables, which is hardly a genteel occupation for an English lady. You—”
“Fred, you haven’t been frank with me.”
“Haven’t I? How could I be franker? I told you that. I was a blackguard, a scoundrel, and a budmash. I gave you a brief and unattractive picture of my life. I told you about most of the unpleasant places I’d been—jails, expensive drawing-rooms, sweating stokeholds. I told you I’d been in perfumed palaces of pleasure, in stinking swamps hiding out from Constabulary anxious to collect the price on my head, in hospital wards full of dying men, in—well, in trouble, let’s say, for most of my career. I’ve—”
“You didn’t tell me you were in Spain—just before you came here.”
“I see.” Fred’s smile faded, and with it his exuberant manner. He stood up, soberly expectant. “Did your brother tell you that?”
“He didn’t tell me—but he knows. You were in Spain with Franco. You were fighting for the Insurgents.”
“Fighting is hardly the word. They did give me a uniform three sizes too big—and a Mauser rifle and some German ammunition. I was shot at, off and on, for several weeks, but—”
“Fred, you’re in Shakkarpur to—to stir up trouble!”
“Am I?” No use trying to be facetious now. This is serious—deadly serious. “Is that what your brother thinks?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. The kitten tried to climb up Fred’s trouser-leg. Its sharp claws bit into his calf, but he was scarcely aware of them. He asked, “When is Mr. Hatton going to arrest me, Miss Hatton?”
