— Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot — good heavens! What a funny place to rest. You look as if you were lying in a coffin. No don’t move, I’m sure you’ve earned your break. I forgot this bathroom was being done, you see. Oh, yes, you’ve done a lot already. Are you alone?
— Erm, yes … yes, ma’am.
— I say, are you all right? You look terribly white.
— I am white.
— Now, now, no inverted snobbery, you know what I meant. Aren’t you … yes, you are, aren’t you … Lilly’s husband?
— Yes, ma’am.
— No, don’t get up. I say, you do look ill. Anything wrong?
— I — erm — I think I must have fainted. The last thing I remember, I was on top of that ladder. Then I was in here. And my head –
— Give me your hand, you’d better sit up. There. Can you try and get to your feet and sit on the edge of the bath? That’s better. I want you to put your head down between your knees. There. No? You feel sick. Yes of course. Look, I’ll sit down here with my feet in the bath and you lie down alongside it with your head on my lap. Stretch your legs out, that’s right. Or raise your knees perhaps, it might be more comfortable on this hard floor. You poor old thing. Just relax. Don’t keep turning your head.
— Mr. Swaminathan –
— Oh don’t worry about him, he’s gone up country to the Farming Estate.
— He has? How long?
— Did you say how long for?
— How long has he been gone?
— I’ve no idea, a week, ten days. How are you feeling?
— Oh, better, much better. If I could, if you don’t mind, just a moment longer –
— Close your eyes then, and relax.
Under the red networks of the eyelids in the sunlight, the dark curves of chin and lips and nose seen from below the breasts that are ensilked in orange fill up the eyespace shimmering with black and yellow and pink. Nevertheless it bears a close resemblance to the real thing, as a mere lifting of the lids can prove and does. The face looks down. The left nostril wears a blue-green stone set in gold. The eyes strike deep, a rich, chromatic chord. The ceiling is pink and veined in white, and a long way away. The wall ahead is pink above and around a glossy and pale orange door. To the immediate right –
— How are you feeling?
The thick lips are unsmiling. The expression is one of concern.
— All right, I think. I’m very sorry. You’ve been so kind. So very kind. Woops. Oh, thank you. It is Mrs. Mgulu, isn’t it?
— The same.
— I don’t know how to thank you. You shouldn’t have — really.
— That’s enough of that. If a person can’t help a fellow-creature in distress, well, where would we all be? But tell me, why did it happen? Was it the sun? It is hot in here I must say. Facing South and under the roof. Why don’t you leave the door open to create a draught?
— Well, the noise, ma’am, and the dust.
— Or are you … ill?
— Oh, no, no, not at all, I assure you. I love my work. I’m so grateful to you. Nineteen months, you see, it’s demoralising. I once took a degree in Creative Thought.
The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord. The stone in the left nostril is an alexandrite perhaps, blue-green by day, with purple shafts. The wide lips are edged with mauve, they purse in mock reproach that bears a strong resemblance to the real thing. It hurts, down the back of the neck, then forwards, spreading throatwise through the chest.
— You don’t have to impress me, you know, I love people as they are. And I’m glad I’ve been of help, not just for Lilly’s sake but for your own. Now, are you going to be all right? I don’t think you should be working up here all alone, that wasn’t the idea at all. And in a pink bathroom too, right at the top of the house.
— It’s nice, this pink marble.
— Oh, do you like it? It’s very old-fashioned, it must have been put in when the house was built I shouldn’t wonder. It’s all going to be changed into a hairdressing salon for my guests. Right through into the next room.
— What colour?
— I haven’t thought yet. Black probably. Though that’s not very original. Or purple. I’m very fond of purple. But I really can’t think what Mr. Swaminathan was doing, putting you up here, all alone in a pink bathroom. I must speak to him.
— No, no, please don’t, he’ll think –
— He won’t think anything, he’s my servant. One has to speak to them, you know.
— But I thought –
— Well don’t. A pink bathroom at the top of the house, really. No wonder you fainted. Sheer introversion. And I had him trained in human relations, mind you, he should have known better.
— Mrs. Mgulu –
— Yes?
— I beg you not to speak to him. I like it up here. And I like Mr. Swaminathan.
— I see. But work is a social function. You must learn to relate, you know. I’ve taken a special interest in you for Lilly’s sake, and for your own, and from now on you’ll do as I say.
— Yes ma’am.
— I’m going to keep my eyes open.
— Yes ma’am.
The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord, that echoes in the blood long after it has come and gone.
Whereas no amount of positive evidence can ever conclusively prove a hypothesis, no evidence at all is needed for a certainty acquired by revelation. Why him? That’s a very good question. Why now? That is an ignorant remark. In an age of international and interracial enlightenment such as ours revelation is open to all, regardless of age, sex, race or creed. It is not, however, compulsory. It’s entirely up to you. Just fill up this form and queue here.
Mrs. Ned’s arms throw her laughter about, it rebounds against the kitchen walls and she catches it. The goitre moves slowly up and down as she relishes the idea. It is possible, after all, to act out these things. With a little concentration, she can be made to give the correct reply. The evening breeze moves the bead curtain imperceptibly, so that through it the slanted glow from the setting sun can be seen reflected in the verandah glass of Monsieur Jules’s bungalow. The red stone floor is dark and still.
— You provoked it you know, your unconscious did, I mean, the fainting, and her coming in just in time to find you.
— Lilly, you shouldn’t have said that. Why didn’t you let Mrs. Ned say it? She was going to.
— No, I wasn’t. I was going to say that it’s an external circumstance. That’s what they call it. So you be careful.
— Of course you’re under-nourished as well. That’s what Mrs. Mgulu said when she told me. Lilly, she said, he’s undernourished. She gave me these pep pills for you, they’re rather hard to come by, they’re better than the national ones, she said.
— Isn’t the whole world?
— Oh Mrs. Ned, don’t be morbid. I think I’ll open that tin of pineapple after all.
— I’m not morbid. It always helps me no end to think of those six point two people to the square metre in Sino-America. I don’t know how they stand up to it, I really don’t. Afro-Eurasia’s being much cleverer. I mean, it helps me to think how fortunate we are. I didn’t mean –
— No, of course not.
— Yes I will open that tin of pineapple, to celebrate.
Mr. Swaminathan has returned from the Mgulu Farming Estate up-country. He has not nodded and will not nod ever at any time, but the pain, though unallayed, is less acute. He continues to indwell, swaying slightly from side to side, sharing the observation of phenomena. Other people, however, also say the necessary things, from time to time, and no evidence is needed to prove that these things have been said by just these people. With a little concentration from within it is possible after all, to divide oneself and remain whole. At least for a time. There is a record which can be beaten.