Willie thought, “Please don't come, Sarojini. Please don't come.”
But in due course she came, and for three or four days she turned his life upside down. She stayed in a small hotel near the college—she had arranged that herself, before she left Germany—and she came every day to Willie's college room and prepared a rough little meal. She asked for his help in nothing. She bought cheap new pots and pans and knives and spoons, found out about greengrocers, came in every day with fresh vegetables, and cooked things on the little electric heater in Willie's room. She lay the heater on its back and she set the pots on the metal guards above the glowing electric coils. They ate off paper plates and she washed up the pots in the sink at the end of the corridor. Sarojini had never been a good cook, and the food she cooked in the college room was awful. The smell stayed in the room. Willie was worried about breaking the college rules, and he was just as worried about people seeing the dark little cook—clumsily dressed, with a cardigan over her sari and socks on her feet—who was his sister. In her new assertive way, but still not knowing too much about anything, in five minutes she would have babbled away all Willie's careful little stories about their family and background.
She said, “When you get this famous degree or diploma, what will you do with it? You will get a little teaching job and hide away here for the rest of your life?”
Willie said, “I don't think you know. But I've written a book. It's coming out next year.”
“That's a lot of nonsense. Nobody here or anywhere else will want to read a book by you. I don't have to tell you that. Remember when you wanted to be a missionary?”
“What I mean is that I feel I should wait here until the book comes out.”
“And then there'll be something else to wait for, and then there'll be something after that. This is your father's life.”
For days after she left the smell of her cooking was in Willie's room. At night Willie smelt it on his pillow, his hair, his arms.
He thought, “What she says is right, though I don't like her for saying it. I don't know where I am going. I am just letting the days go by. I don't like the place that's waiting for me at home. For the past two and a half years I have lived like a free man. I can't go back to the other thing. I don't like the idea of marrying someone like Sarojini, and that's what will happen if I go home. If I go home I will have to fight the battles my mother's uncle fought. I don't want to fight those battles. It will be a waste of my precious life. There are others who would enjoy those battles. And Sarojini is right in the other way too. If I get my teaching diploma and decide to stay here and teach it will be a kind of hiding away. And it wouldn't be nice teaching in a place like Notting Hill. That's the kind of place they would send me, and I would walk with the fear of running into a crowd and being knifed like Kelso. It would be worse than being at home. And if I stay here I would always be trying to make love to my friends' girlfriends. I have discovered that that is quite an easy thing to do. But I know it to be wrong, and it would get me into trouble one day. The trouble is I don't know how to go out and get a girl on my own. No one trained me in that. I don't know how to make a pass at a stranger, when to touch a girl or hold her hand or try to kiss her. When my father told me his life story and talked about his sexual incompetence I mocked him. I was a child then. Now I discover I am like my poor father. All men should train their sons in the art of seduction. But in our culture there is no seduction. Our marriages are arranged. There is no art of sex. Some of the boys here talk to me about the Kama Sutra. Nobody talked about that at home. It was an upper-caste text, but I don't believe my poor father, brahmin though he is, ever looked at a copy. That philosophical-practical way of dealing with sex belongs to our past, and that world was ravaged and destroyed by the Muslims. Now we live like incestuous little animals in a hole. We grope all our female relations and are always full of shame. Nobody talked about sex and seduction at home, but I discover now that it is the fundamental skill all men should be trained in. Marcus and Percy Cato, and Richard, seemed to be marvellous that way. When I asked Percy how he had learned he said he started small, fingering and then raping little girls. I was shocked by that. I am not so shocked now.”
He telephoned Perdita early one morning. “Perdita, please come to the college this weekend.”
“This is foolish, Willie. And it's not fair to Roger.”
“It isn't fair. But I have a need of you. I was bad the last time. But I'll tell you. It's a cultural matter. I want to make love to you, want desperately to make love to you, but then at the actual moment old ideas take over and I become ashamed and frightened, I don't know of what, and it all goes bad. I'll be better this time. Let me try.”
“Oh, Willie. You've said that before.”
She didn't come.
He went looking for June. He hadn't seen her for some months. He wondered what had happened to the house in Notting Hill, and whether, after the riots, it would still be possible for them to go there. But June wasn't at the perfume counter in Debenhams. The other girls, with their too made-up faces, were not friendly. One or two even shrank back from him: it might have been the determined, hard-heeled way he had walked up to them. At last he met a girl who gave him news of June. June was married. She had married her childhood sweetheart, someone she had known since she was twelve. The girl telling Willie the story was still full of the romance of the whole thing, and her eyes had a genuine glitter below the false eyelashes and the mascara and the painted eyebrow lines. “They went everywhere together. They were like brother and sister. He is in a funny business, though. Undertaker. Family business. But if you grow up in it it's different, June said. He and June sometimes did funerals together. They had an old Rolls Royce for the wedding. Her family hired it for twenty-five pounds. A lot of money, but it was worth it. June saw the pretty car in the morning. The local man who rented it out was driving. Peaked cap and everything. She said to her father, ‘You haven't hired it, have you?' He said no, it was probably just going to a vintage-car rally. And then of course it was there. Like brother and sister they were. It isn't the kind of thing that happens often these days.”
The more the girl talked, the more she gave Willie pictures of the safe life in Cricklewood, the life of family and friends, the pleasures and excitements, the more Willie felt cast out, lost. If Willie had learned to drink—and had learned the style connected with drink—he might have gone to a pub. He thought instead of finding a prostitute.
He went very late that evening to Piccadilly Circus. He walked around the side streets, hardly daring to look at the aggressive, dangerous-looking streetwalkers. He walked until he was tired. At about midnight he went into a bright café. It was full of prostitutes, hard, foolish-looking, not attractive, most of them drinking tea and smoking, some of them eating soft white cheese rolls. They talked in difficult accents. One girl said to another, “I've got five left.” She was talking about French letters. She took them out of her bag and counted them. Willie went out and walked again. The streets were quieter. In a side street he saw a girl talking to a man in a friendly way. Out of interest he walked towards them. Suddenly an angry man shouted, “What the hell do you think you are doing?” and crossed the road. He wasn't shouting at Willie but at the girl. She broke away from the man she was talking to. She had a kind of glitter dust on her hair, her forehead, her eyelids. She said to the bald shouting man, “I know him. He was in the RAF when I was in the WAAF.”
Later, out of a wish not to be utterly defeated, Willie talked to a woman. He didn't consider her face. He just followed her. It was awful for him in the over-heated little room with smells of perfume and urine and perhaps worse. He didn't look at the woman. They didn't talk. He concentrated on himself, on undressing, on his powers. The woman only half undressed. She said to Willie in a rough accent, “You can keep your socks on.” Strange words, heard often before, but never with such a literal meaning. She said, “Be careful with my hair.” An erection came to Willie, an erection without sensation, and, joylessly, it didn't go. Willie was ashamed. He remembered some words from the old Pelican book about sex, words that had once rebuked him. He thought, “Perhaps I have become a sexual athlete.” At that moment the woman said to him, “Fuck like an Englishman.” A few seconds later she threw him off. He didn't want to argue. He dressed and went back to the college. He was full of shame.