Magic Seeds Part 8

Roger said, "I would like to say that it's the same for all of us. But my life these last thirty years hasn't been like that. I have always felt myself in the real world. That may be because I have always felt that life had dealt me a good hand. It sounds smug, but there have been no surprises."

Willie said, "My life has been a series of surprises. Unlike you, I had no control over things. I thought I had. My father and all the people around him thought they had. But what looked like decisions were not decisions really. For me it was a form of drift, because I didn't see what else there was for me to do. I thought I wanted to go to Africa. I thought that something would happen and I would be shown the true way, the way meant for me alone. But as soon as I got on the ship I was frightened. And you-did you marry Perdita?"

"I couldn't tell you why. I suppose my s.e.xual energy is low. There were six or seven people I might have married, and it would have always ended as it did with Perdita. It was a piece of good fortune for me that quite soon after our marriage she fell into a good and solid relationship with a friend of mine. This friend had a very big London house. It was something he had inherited, but that big London house excited Perdita. I was actually disappointed in her-her delight in the man's big house. But most people in this country have a streak of commonness. The aristocrats love their t.i.tles. The rich count their money all the time, and are always calculating whether the other man has less or more. The romantic middle-cla.s.s idea in the old days was that the true aristocrats, and not the jumped-up middle cla.s.s, never truly knew who they were. Not so. The aristocrats I have got to know always know who they are. They can be awfully common, those aristocrats. One man I know loves appearing among his dinner guests in a bathrobe, dishing out the drinks-and then going off to dress, after having humiliated all of us who were invited to his grand house. 'What dressing up, my dear,' he said to somebody afterwards, retailing the incident. 'How grand we all were!' The 'we,' of course, was ironical. He meant 'they,' the guests he had made to come all dressed up. I was one of the guests, and I was the somebody he told the story to later. So I suppose Perdita's commonness is not so extraordinary. But I expected better of someone who had married me."

Willie was recognising London names from the direction boards. But they were driving along a new highway.

Roger said, "All this used to be part of your beat. Until they drove this road through it. I suppose that the common people are the only ones who are not common in the way I mean. Shallow and self-regarding and acting up to some idea of who they are. Anyway, there was Perdita having this relationship with this bounder with the big London house, everything satisfactory to all parties, the bounder having somebody's wife as his mistress, Perdita intimate with a big London house and feeling quite adult. Then Perdita became pregnant. It was quite late for her, perhaps too late. The lover was alarmed. His love didn't extend that far-looking after a child forever and ever. So Perdita turned to me for support. I didn't like seeing her so wretched. I have a soft spot for her, you see. But I didn't understand the situation. I misread Perdita's pa.s.sion, and said more or less that I was willing to surrender all rights, so to speak. Willing to let her go. I thought it was what she wanted to hear. But it made her hysterical, that two men should care so little for her. We had many a tearful session. For two or three weeks I dreaded going home. And then I said that the child was possibly mine and I was happy that a child was on the way. None of this was true, of course.

"I dreaded the arrival of the child. For some time I lived with the idea that I would leave Perdita, find some studio flat somewhere. In my imagination that studio flat became cosier and cosier and more and more removed from everything. It was immensely comforting. And then something happened. Perdita had a miscarriage. That was a mess. Just as I had been going into a sh.e.l.l, dreaming of my cosy little studio flat, so now she retreated into herself. She had a good long wallow. It was worse than before. There were days when I actually thought of not going home but of going to some hotel. She banned the lover, the bounder, my old legal friend. I began to think after some time that she was enjoying her situation, and I lived with her during this time as I would have lived with someone with a broken leg or arm, something dramatic to behold but not life-threatening.

"One day her scoundrelly lover sent her-would you believe it?-a poem. I knew about it because it had been left out for me to see, on the sideboard in the dining room. It was a long poem. It wasn't a poem he had copied out, something he was quoting. It was a poem he said he had written for her. She knew that I looked down on the man with the big house as a kind of buffoon, and I suppose this was one in the eye for me. And, sure enough, the love-making of the two resumed, the afternoons in the big house or perhaps in my house, the excitement of the two. Though perhaps it wasn't excitement at this stage, perhaps just a resumed habit.

"I knew, of course, that the poem wasn't original. But just as sometimes we can be haunted by the ghost of earlier things in certain popular pieces of music, so I was haunted by this poem to Perdita. In a desultory way I began to look, and one day I found it. In a volume of W. E. Henley, a Victorian-Edwardian poet, a friend of Kipling's. Never underestimate the power of bad art, Willie. I should have done nothing, should have let the lovers go on in their way, but I was irritated by the silliness or the self-satisfaction of Perdita-laying out the poem for me to see. I said to her one day, 'Here is a nice book of poems for you, Perdita.' And I gave her the Henley volume. It was wrong of me, but it gave me pleasure to think of the little scenes Perdita and her poet-lover were going to have. Of course they broke up for a while. But now I believe they've started up again."

Now they had stopped outside Roger's house. It was a big house, semi-detached, but tall and big.

Roger said, "And that's the private drama of this house. I suppose there is such a drama in every house here."

Willie said, "And yet you say your life has had no surprises."

"I meant that. Whatever I had done, whoever I had married or lived with, we would have arrived at a situation like the one I've been telling you about."

In the quiet lamplit street, full of trees and shadows, the house was impressive.

Roger said, "The little Marble Arch house was the seedcorn. I've been climbing up that property beanstalk all the time, and it's got me here. It is true of at least half the people on the street, though we might pretend otherwise."

The house was big, but the room they went up to, two floors up, was small. Willie thought he could see Perdita's hand in it. He was moved. The stiff curtains were drawn. Opening them a little, he looked down at the trees and lamplight and the shadows and the parked cars. After a while he went down to the main room. Half of it was a sitting room, half a kitchendining room. He exclaimed at the wallpaper, the white paint, the cooker in the middle of the kitchen part of the room, the hood of the extractor. He said, "Lovely, lovely." The hobs on the cooker were ceramic hobs, flat with the surface. Willie exclaimed at that too. Roger said, "You're overdoing it, Willie. There's no need. It's not so nice." But then Roger, looking at Willie's face, understood that Willie was not exaggerating or mocking, that Willie was half-transported.

And, in fact, in Roger's house that first evening, Willie found himself full of every kind of sensual excitement. It was dark, but not yet absolute night. Through the uncurtained window at the back of the sitting room Willie could see the young black-trunked trees and the dark green gloom of the small garden at the back of the house. He thought he had never seen anything like it, nothing so benign. He couldn't take his eyes off it. He said to Roger, "I've been in jail. We had an orchard to look after, but it was nothing like this. As guerrillas we walked through the forest, but that was hot forest, in stinging sun. Often on those walks I used to think I needed a narcotic. I liked the word. I would like to drink something now. In the forest we drank nothing. In Africa for eighteen years we drank Portuguese and South African wine."

From far off, it seemed, Roger said, "Would you like a gla.s.s of white wine?"

"I would like whisky, champagne."

Roger poured him a large whisky. He drank it in a single draught. Roger said, "It's not wine, Willie." But he drank another gla.s.s in the same swift way. He said, "It's wonderfully sweet, Roger. Sweet and deep. I have tasted nothing like it. No one told me that about whisky."

Roger said, "It's the effect of release. We got a man out from Argentina in 1977 or 1978. He had been horribly tortured. One of the first things he wanted to do when he came here was to go to the shops. One of the shops he went to was Lillywhites. It's bang on Piccadilly Circus. A sports shop. He stole a set of golf clubs there. He wasn't a golf player. It's just that he spotted the chance to steal. Some old guerrilla or criminal or outlaw instinct. He didn't know why he had done it. He dragged those clubs to the bus stop, and then he dragged them all the way from Maida Vale to the house, and displayed them. Like a cat bringing back a mouse."

Willie said, "In the movement we had to be austere. People boasted of their austerity, of how little they were making do with. In the jail the other prisoners had their drugs. But we politicals never did. We remained clean. It was part of our strength, oddly enough. But during the drive into London, while you were talking, I felt something strange happening to me. I began to understand that I was no longer in the jail, and some other person, not absolutely myself, began to crawl out, as it were, from hiding. I don't know whether I will be able to live with this new person. I am not sure I can get rid of him. I feel he will always be there, waiting for me."

Then he found himself awakening from a heady heavy sleep. He thought after a while, "I suppose I am in Roger's nice house, with the nice main room and the green garden with the small trees. I suppose Roger brought me up here." Then a new thought, issuing from the new person who had possessed him, a.s.sailed him: "I have never slept in a room of my own. Never at home in India, when I was a boy. Never here in London. Never in Africa. I lived in somebody else's house always, and slept in somebody else's bed. In the forest of course there were no rooms, and then the jail was the jail. Will I ever sleep in a room of my own?" And he marvelled that he had never had a thought like that before.

At some stage someone knocked on the door. Perdita. He wouldn't have spotted her in the street. But her voice was her own. He remembered her story and was stirred to see her. He said, "Do you remember me?" She said, "Of course I remember you. Roger's slender-waisted Indian boy. At least that was what was thought." He didn't know what to make of that and left it unanswered. He put on the bathrobe in the bathroom of his room and went down to the main room with the centrally placed cooker below the hood. The night before its beauty had overwhelmed him. She gave him coffee from a complicated-looking contraption.

And then without warning she said, very simply, "Who did you marry?" Just like that, as though life was an old-fashioned story and marriage neatened everything, neatened and gave a point even to the fumblings of Willie nearly thirty years before. As though, in this matter of marriage, Willie had had a wealth of choice. Or perhaps none at all. As though in this view from the other side Willie, as a man, had a privilege she had never had.

Willie said, "I met somebody from Africa and I went there and lived with her."

"How wonderful. Was it nice? I often think it would have been nice in Africa in the old days."

"When I was sitting in the jail in India we used sometimes to read items in the newspapers about the war in the place where I had been. We used to discuss it among ourselves. It was part of our political education, discussing these African liberation movements. Sometimes I would read an item about the actual region where I had been. Apparently the whole place had been destroyed. Every concrete building had been burnt. You can't burn concrete, but you can burn the windows and the roof rafters and everything inside. I often tried to imagine that. Every concrete building roofless and marked by smoke below the roofs and around the window openings. In the jail I used to make in imagination all the journeys I used to make, and I would imagine someone or some people making those journeys and setting all the concrete buildings alight. I used to try to imagine what it would have been like when nothing came from the outside world. No metal, no tools, no clothes, no thread. Nothing. The Africans had quite good skills in metal and cloth when they lived alone. But they hadn't lived alone for a long time, and they had forgotten those skills. It would have been interesting to see what would have happened when they were absolutely alone again."

Perdita said, "What happened to the person you went to Africa with?"

Willie said, "I don't know. I suppose she went away. I don't imagine she would have stayed. But I don't know."

"Oh, dear. Did you hate her so much?"

"I didn't hate her. I often thought of finding out. It was possible. I could have sent messages, from the forest or the jail. But I didn't want to get bad news. And then I didn't want to get news at all. I wanted to forget. I wanted to live my new life. But what about you, Perdita? How did things work out for you?"

"Do they work out for anybody?"

He considered her biggish belly-so ugly on a woman, so much uglier than on a man. Her skin was bad, coa.r.s.e, caking. He thought, "I never thought her pretty. But then I wished to make love to her, to see her undressed. So hard to imagine now. Was it age, my deprivation, my hormones, as they say? Or was it something else? Was it the idea of England that was still so strong at that time, and which cast a glow on its women?"

Perdita said, "I don't imagine Roger had a chance last night to show you this." She took a small paperback off the sideboard. Willie recognised his name and the name of the book he had written twenty-eight years before. She said, "It was Roger's idea. It helped to get you released. It showed that you were a real writer, and not political."

Willie didn't know the name of the paperback publisher. The printed pages were like those he remembered. The book would have been photographed from the original. The jacket copy was new: Willie read that his book was a pioneer of Indian post-colonial writing.

He took the book up to his little room in the big house. Nervously, fearful of encountering his old self, he began to read. And then very quickly he was drawn in; he shed his nerves. He ceased to be aware of the room and city in which he read; he ceased to be aware of reading. He felt himself transported, as if by some kind of time-travelling magic, into the time, twenty-eight years before, when he was writing. He felt he could reenter even the sequence of the days, see again the streets and weather and newspapers, and become again like a man who didn't know how the future would unfold. He re-entered that time of innocence or ignorance, of not having a true grasp even of the map of the world. It was extraordinary then to come to himself from time to time and then go back to his book and re-enter that other life, living again the sequence of weeks and months, anxiety always below everything, before Ana and Africa.

He would have said, if he had been asked, that he had always been the same person. But it was another person who looked as from a great distance at his older self. And gradually, playing all that morning with the time capsule or time machine of the book, moving in and out of that earlier personality, as a child or someone new to air-conditioning might on a very hot day play with entering and then leaving cooler rooms, gradually there came to Willie an idea of the man he had become, an idea of what Africa and then the guerrilla life in the forest and then the prison and then simple age had made of him. He felt immensely strong; he had never felt like this before. It was as though he had managed to pull a switch in his head and seen everything in a dark room.

Perdita called him for lunch. She said, "Normally I have a sandwich or something like that. But there is something special for you. Corn bread. I baked it yesterday. You don't have to eat it. I don't do these things very well, but I thought I should."

It was oily and heavy. But the thought of Perdita baking this bad bread was oddly attractive to Willie.

He said, "All the time I've been away I've had pictures of you in my head. I remember seeing you for the first time in the French restaurant in Wardour Street. I thought you were very stylish. I thought it was the stylishness of London. I hadn't met anybody like you. You wore striped gloves, whether of fabric or leather I couldn't say."

She said, "There was a fashion."

He could see her thinking back, and he thought, "The thirty years that have pa.s.sed have been the true years of her life. She has no life now. No possibility. We have changed positions." He said, "And then I saw you at that party you and Roger gave at the Marble Arch house for the editor. The fat man. Somebody was talking. I looked across at you and found you looking at me. I held your gaze for a while and longed to make love to you. I tried some time later. I did it badly. But it took a lot of courage to try. I wonder if you knew that. Those two pictures of you have always been with me. In Africa in dark times, and everywhere else I've gone. I never thought it was going to be granted to me to be with you again."

He got up and stood behind her chair and put his hands on her shoulders.

She said, "Get back to your chair."

She had said something like that twenty-eight years before, and he had been cowed. It had taken away all his s.e.xual courage. But now he pressed on her more firmly. Trusting to instinct-for he had never made such an attempt on a woman before-he kept his palms firmly on her and pushed down through some flimsy material to her small, slack b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He couldn't see her face (and he could see only a part of her body). This made him bolder. He left his palms on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. For a while he stayed like that, not seeing her face, considering only her grainy greying hair. He said, "Let's go up to my room." He released his hold on her and she pushed her chair back and stood up. She then allowed herself to be led up to the little room. She disengaged herself from him and began to take her clothes off carefully. This is how she is with her afternoon lover, Willie thought, the man with the big house; she has only adopted me into the routine of her afternoon.

He, undressing as methodically as she, said, "I will make love to you in the Balinese way." It was half a joke, but only half, a way of re-presenting himself to her after the failure of all those years ago. The Balinese way was something he had picked up a long time before in Africa from a handbook of s.e.x, serious perhaps, perhaps salacious-he no longer remembered. He said, "The Balinese don't like pressing bodies together. In Bali the man sits on the woman. In this way a young man will not find it hard to make love to a very old woman." His words had run away with him. But she appeared not to hear. And after all his abstemious years in the Indian woods and then in the Indian jail, the Balinese posture did come back to him; his knees and hips did not fail him. She was cooperative but withdrawn, as indifferent to his relief at managing the posture as she had been to his earlier words. She was very far from being a ruin. There were still areas of smoothness on her skin.

He considered the setting, the room she had decorated. The furniture-bed, table, chair-had been seemingly washed almost clean of its covering of paint or varnish or French polish, and the wood showed naked and old, with patches of white, perhaps a stubborn priming coat; or perhaps it was part of the bleaching style. The curtains were stiff and frilly, ivory or off-white with a small flower design in pale blue at wide intervals. The frilliness and stiffness suggested the curtains were about to billow inwards. This, together with the bleached furniture, suggested that the sea and healthy salt breezes were just outside. The previous day, in the flurry of arrival and later in his whisky stupor, Willie had seen all of this without truly noticing it. Now he saw how carefully it had been put together. The curtain material was repeated in the loose cover of the chair and in a kind of half frill around the top of the bleached table. The fluted wooden lamp-stand was bleached, with the usual flecks of white. The lampshade was royal blue. A tightly woven little basket of plaited straw held beautifully sharpened pencils of a cigar-box colour. Next to this was a dull globe of solid gla.s.s with pink-tipped matches in a little well in the middle. Willie had been puzzled by this the night before, and in the morning he had examined it. The gla.s.s globe was unexpectedly heavy. The dullness of the surface came from regular horizontal grooves that ringed it all the way down. Diagonal markings across the grooves led Willie to believe that to get a light you struck the pink-tipped match against the grooves. He had done so; the match had blazed; and then he had put the spent matchstick back in the well with the unused pink ones. It was still there. He thought that bit of style had come to Perdita from her own past, or was something she had wished as a girl to have one day in her own house. And he became full of pity for Perdita, always withdrawn, always cooperative, her head on its side.

He thought, "There's more of her soul in the decoration of this room than anywhere else, more even"-considering her from his sitting position-"than in her used-up body." And then, unexpectedly, with no great convulsion, she was satisfied, and her satisfaction led slowly to his own, which seemed to come from far away. He thought, "I must never forget the Perditas. London would be full of them. I must never neglect the neglected. If I am to stay here it may be the way ahead."

Carefully she picked up her clothes from the covered chair and went down to her own bathroom, leaving him to his. He thought, "This is how it is with her when she is with her lover. This is the greater part of her life." He wasn't expecting her to come back up, but she did. She was dressed again. He was back in the bed. She said, "I don't know whether Roger has told you. He's involved with this awful banker and it's a mess."

Willie said, "I believe he told me about the banker. The man in a bathrobe."

She went down again, and he returned to his own book, moving in and out of the past, in and out of his old self, immensely excited now by the room, the house, the great city outside. He stayed there, waiting-like a child, like a wife-for Roger to come back to the house. He fell asleep. When he woke up the light outside, beyond the ivory curtains, was going. He heard Roger come in. He heard him talking later on the telephone. There was no sound of Perdita. Willie wasn't sure whether he should dress and go down. He decided to stay where he was; and, like a child hiding, he was as quiet as he could be. After a while Roger came up and knocked. When he saw Willie in bed Roger said, "Lucky man."

Willie hid his book and said, "The first time I came to England I came by ship. One day, just before we got to the Suez Ca.n.a.l, the steward said the captain was coming to make his inspection. Just like the jail, really. The steward was agitated, the way the jailer and the others used to be agitated when the superintendent was making his round. I thought it didn't apply to me-the captain coming. So when he came in with his officers they found me half dressed on my bunk. The captain looked at me with hatred and contempt and never said a word. I've never forgotten that look."

Roger said, "Do you feel strong enough to come down for a drink?"

"Let me put on my clothes."

"Put on your dressing gown."

"I don't have one."

"I am sure Perdita has put out a bathrobe for you."

"I'll be like your banker."

He went down in the bathrobe to the sitting room with the glorious green view, miraculous now in the fading light. There was no sight or sound of Perdita.

Roger said, "I hope you'd want to stay here for a bit. Until you've found your feet."

Willie didn't know what to say. He sipped the whisky. He said, "Last night it was thick and sweet and deep. All the way through. Today only the first sip was sweet, and the very beginning of that sip. Now it's back to the whisky I remember. It seems to bind the taste buds on my tongue. I wasn't really a drinking man."

Roger said, "Today is one of the days I feel I didn't want to come home."

Willie remembered something his wife Ana had said to him in Africa when things were beginning to go bad between them. She had said, "When I met you I thought you were a man from another world." The words, spoken simply, without anger, had struck at his heart: he had never known that was how he had appeared to her, a man in his own right, something he had longed to be. And the words had made him wish, hopelessly, with a quarter or less of himself, that he could have continued being that for her. He felt now that that was what he had become for Roger: a safe person, someone from another world.

The next afternoon, when he took Perdita up to the little room with the bleached furniture, he asked her, "Where were you yesterday when Roger came home?" She said, "I went out." And Willie wondered, but didn't dare ask-feeling already a little of the humiliation that even a used-up woman could inflict on a man-Willie wondered whether she had gone to see her friend, the man who had copied out the poem by Henley and offered it as his own. He thought, as he sat on her, "Should I send her away now?" It was tempting, but then he thought of all the complications that would ensue: he might even have to leave the house; Roger might reject him. So he stayed in the Balinese position. He thought, "The fact that I can think as I am thinking shows that she cannot humiliate me."

It might have been hard for Roger to come back to his house. But it wasn't like that for Willie. The house was in St. John's Wood. It was a pleasure for him after his excursions in London to take the bus up the Edgware Road, get off at Maida Vale and walk away from the traffic and the noise to the trees and silence of St. John's Wood. It was such a new world for him. Thirty years before, when he was packing up his few things to go to Africa, emptying his small college room, easily removing his presence, it had seemed to him that he was dismantling a life that couldn't be put together again. That life had been mean. He had always known that; he had tried all kinds of things to persuade himself that it was less so; he had devised timetables to give himself the idea that his life was full and ordered. He was amazed now at the tricks he had used to fool himself.

He went to the places he had known. He thought in the beginning he would play the game he had played in India when he went back to join the guerrillas. He liked then seeing versions of his Indian world shrink, obliterating old memories, doing away with old pain. But his London world was not the world of his childhood; it was only the world of thirty years before. It didn't shrink. It stood out more sharply. He saw it all, all the separate buildings, as things made by men, made by many men at different times. It wasn't something simply there; and that change in his way of looking was like a little miracle. Now he understood that in the old days, in these places, there had always been, together with the darkness and incompleteness of his vision, a darkness in his head and a pain, a kind of yearning for something he didn't know, in his heart.

Now that darkness and weight were not with him. He stood unburdened before the buildings many different men had built. He went from place to place-the pretentious little college with its mock-Gothic arches, the fearful Notting Hill squares, the street with the little club north of Oxford Street, the small side street near Marble Arch where Roger had his house-everywhere seeing the little miracle happen, feeling the oppression lift, and feeling himself made anew. He had never had an idea-never, since childhood-what he might be. Now he felt he was being given some idea, elusive, impossible to grasp, yet real. What his essence was he still didn't know, though he had lived so long in the world. All that he knew at the moment was that he was a free man-in every way-and had a new strength. It was so unlikely, so unlike the person he had felt himself to be, at home, in London, and during the eighteen years of his marriage in Africa. How can I serve this person? he asked himself, as he walked about the London streets he had known. He could find no answer. He allowed the matter to go to the back of his mind.

The streets of the centre were very crowded, so crowded that sometimes it was not easy to walk. There were black people everywhere, and j.a.panese, and people who looked like Arabs. He thought, "There has been a great churning in the world. This is not the London I lived in thirty years ago." He felt a great relief. He thought, "The world is now being shaken by forces much bigger than I could have imagined. Ten years ago in Berlin my sister Sarojini made me almost ill with stories of poverty and injustice at home. She sent me to join the guerrillas. Now I don't have to join anybody. Now I can only celebrate what I am, or what I have become."

From these walks he returned to the big house in St. John's Wood, to Roger, and, often in the afternoons, to Perdita.

NINE.

The Giant at the Top

AFTER TWO WEEKS his mood of exaltation abated and he began to be bored by the routine he had fallen into. Perdita herself became a burden, her body too familiar. Time lay heavily on his hands, and there was little he found he wanted to do. He had seen enough of London. His new way of looking no longer offered surprises. It no longer excited him to see the London of his past. To see it too often was to strip it of memories, and in this way to lose precious pieces of himself. The famous sights were like pictures now, taken in at a glance, hardly offering more than their postcard images-though sometimes he could still be startled by the river: the wide view, the light, the clouds, the unexpected colour. He didn't know enough of history and architecture to look for more; and the traffic and the fumes and the tourist crowds were exhausting; and in the big city he began to wonder, as he had wondered in the forest and in the jail, how he was going to make the time pa.s.s. his mood of exaltation abated and he began to be bored by the routine he had fallen into. Perdita herself became a burden, her body too familiar. Time lay heavily on his hands, and there was little he found he wanted to do. He had seen enough of London. His new way of looking no longer offered surprises. It no longer excited him to see the London of his past. To see it too often was to strip it of memories, and in this way to lose precious pieces of himself. The famous sights were like pictures now, taken in at a glance, hardly offering more than their postcard images-though sometimes he could still be startled by the river: the wide view, the light, the clouds, the unexpected colour. He didn't know enough of history and architecture to look for more; and the traffic and the fumes and the tourist crowds were exhausting; and in the big city he began to wonder, as he had wondered in the forest and in the jail, how he was going to make the time pa.s.s.

Roger went away one weekend. He didn't come back on the Sunday or the Monday. The house was dead without him. Perdita, strangely, seemed to feel it too.

She said, "He's probably with his tart. Don't look so shocked. Hasn't he told you?"

Willie remembered what Roger had said at the airport about age showing in people as a kind of moral infirmity. He had said it almost as soon as they had met: it would have been uppermost in his mind just then, his way of preparing Willie for something like this moment.

The news came to him like a great sadness. He thought, "I must leave this dead house. I cannot live in the middle of these two people."

It was habit alone-not need, not excitement-that made him take Perdita up to his little room with its suggestions of sea and wind. Every occasion strengthened his determination to leave.

Roger came back during the course of the week. Willie went down one evening to have a drink with him.

He said, "I have been waiting and waiting to taste whisky the way I tasted it that first evening here. Thick and sweet and deep. A child's drink, almost."

Roger said, "If you want to have that experience again you must spend many years in the bush and then go to jail for a while. If you break an ankle or a leg and you are in plaster for some weeks, you have a wonderful sensation the day they take the plaster off and you try to stand. It's an absence of sensation, and for the first few moments it's quite delicious. It quickly goes. The muscle starts building almost at once. If you want to have that sensation again you have to break your leg or ankle again."

Willie said, "I have been thinking. You and Perdita have been marvellous. But I think now that I should leave."

"Do you know where you'll go?"

"No. But I was hoping you would help me find somewhere."

"I will certainly do that when the time comes. But it isn't only a matter of finding somewhere. You will need money. You will need a job. Have you ever done a job?"

"I was thinking about that in the past few days. I've never done a job. My father never did a job. My sister has never done a proper job. We spent all our time thinking about the bad hand that had been dealt to us and not really preparing ourselves for anything. I suppose that's part of our situation. We can only think of revolt, and now when you ask me about what I think I can do, I can only say nothing. If my father had a proper skill, or my mother's uncle, then I suppose I would have had a skill too. In all my time in Africa I never thought of acquiring a skill or profession."

"You are not the only one, Willie. There are hundreds of thousands like that here. The society here gives them a kind of disguise. About twenty years ago I got to know an American black man. He was interested in Degas, quite seriously interested, and I thought he should follow this up professionally. But he said no, the civil rights movement was more important. When that battle had been won he could think about Degas. I told him that any good work he might do on Degas would in the end be serving his cause just as well as any political action. But he didn't see it."

Willie said, "It's changed now in India. If someone like my father was growing up now he would automatically be thinking of a profession, and I, coming after him, would automatically be thinking of a profession as well. It's the kind of change that's profounder than any guerrilla action."

"But you mustn't be too romantic about work. Work is actually a terrible thing. What you must do tomorrow is to take a number sixteen bus to Victoria. Sit on the upper deck and look at the offices you pa.s.s, especially near Marble Arch and Grosvenor Gardens, and imagine yourself being there. The Greek philosophers never had to deal with the problem of work. They had slaves. Today we are all our own slaves."

Idly, the next day Willie took a number sixteen bus and did as Roger suggested. He saw low, fluorescent-lit offices in Maida Vale and Park Lane and Grosvenor Lane and Grosvenor Gardens. It was another way of seeing the beautiful names of important streets in the great city, and his heart contracted.

He thought, "There is work and work. Work as a vocation, one man's quest for self-fulfilment, can be n.o.ble. But what I am seeing is awful."

When he saw Roger he said, "If you will have me here for a while longer I will be grateful. I have to think out the whole thing. You were right. Thank you for saving me from myself."

When Perdita came to his room the next morning she said, "Has he told you about his tart?"

"We talked about other things."

"I wonder whether he ever will. Roger's very sly."

ROGER SAID TO Willie one day, "I have an invitation for you from my banker. For the weekend." Willie one day, "I have an invitation for you from my banker. For the weekend."

"The bathrobe man?"