Harry was angry with himself for even entertaining thoughts of victory. He smiled the stiff smile of a good sportsman. There was a smattering of applause as the men left the field, ladies winging their pale hands together, the clapping of the dead. Simultaneously, a gathering of crows clattered off the ground and settled into the tree where the children had been and now were not. The sun was larger in the sky, whiter than yellow, and Harry’s shadow was pooled around the soles of his boots.
Harry’s pony had an ugly cut on her right forefoot, but on closer inspection, the cut was bloody rather than deep. He was covered in dust and some muscle in his right hand was twitching painfully, a result of the grip on his mallet. He was ready for a drink.
“Lieutenant Gillen, do you want my syce to have a look at that?” It was Major Berystede, who still looked remarkably clean.
“Sir?” said Harry.
“That cut. It might not look like much, but an open wound like that in this climate. . You wouldn’t want it to get infected.”
“I’d appreciate that very much.” Harry smiled and slapped the horse’s shoulder.
“Where’s your second horse?”
“Borrowed,” said Harry, “from the magistrate.”
“That’s a fine mount, there.”
“Not so fine, but she gets the job done, and for that she has my respect.”
“Yes,” said the major, “good is as good does. Performance is the key. I think, perhaps, we British put too much stock in breeding.”
Harry controlled his smile. The major had just put his foot in his mouth. Harry ran his hand down the horse’s leg and squeezed the fetlock, pretending to inspect the hoof.
“Breeding horses, that is. And horses are what we’re talking about. Horses. Yes. And we breed dogs.”
“Sir,” said Harry, looking up. The major’s face was a brilliant red. “I appreciate your offer. I feel I’m delaying you. I’d be delighted to continue the conversation at the mess after we’ve both had a chance to bathe.”
“Absolutely. I’m buying the first round.”
Harry had the first round in the shower. The water thundered over his head and that, accompanied by the slow, even burn of whisky down his throat, was hard to equal.
After his shower, Harry dressed quickly. Harry’s grandfather had said that Harry could ride all the way to colonel on the back of a polo pony. Maybe he was right. Rather than entering the dining room through the long corridor, Harry slipped out the back, letting the screen close silently behind him. He needed a private smoke before he faced the major. He needed time to remember who he was in the army — Lieutenant Gillen, reserved, elegant, somewhat mysterious as many Anglo-Indians were — rather than the conflicted, cynical man that the last few months of drinking and horse sport had created. Harry reminded himself that he was lucky to be in the army, better than the ICS with its excruciating exam and cramped offices. What else would he do other than soldier? India for Anglo-Indians was the ICS and the army. Except for the Indian railways. And who wanted to work on a train?
Harry tossed his cigarette to the ground. Behind the mess was an impressive mango tree, whose branches stretched over the whole compound. In the right season, the tree blushed red when the green fruit ripened. Monkeys clattered through the branches, waving their bony, lax fingers at each other in angry bargaining. Birds sang in low, then shrill, keys and the leaves shivered with life when a breeze crossed the cantonment.
A respectful distance from the mess back door, a boot-wallah in his yellowed headcloth and coarse robe was abusing a boot to a brilliant sheen with a camel-hair brush. A few bursts of conversation and an occasional gruff laugh came from the dining room. Harry took out another cigarette. He was about to light it when he caught the boot-wallah surreptitiously watching him. He returned the cigarette to the case. Major Berystede was waiting for him and despite the beautiful stillness of the early afternoon, Harry had a duty to perform, even if it was in the form of a few drinks and some idle conversation.
The major was a moderate drinker, which was a nuisance because Harry was not. He had to pace himself while watching the slow erosion of Berystede’s ice cubes, the sorry dilution of fine whisky.
“You’re a local boy, aren’t you, Harry?”
“Not far from here. Serampore.”
“It must be nice to be near home.”
“I spent most of my childhood at boarding school. I know more about Jubbulpore than about my home town.”
“You went to Christ Church?”
“Yes, sir.”
“None of that sir, sir in the mess, Harry. Call me Edgar.”
“Edgar.” Harry skidded his chair a few inches closer, not to be intimate, but to place himself directly under the electric fan, which was churning the smoky air with a desperate chug-chug. He glanced quickly at the bar, where Tunsdale waggled his eyebrows at him and raised a tumbler.
“And what business is your father in?”
Harry took out his cigarette case. “Unfortunately, my father is dead. But my grandfather is quite alive.” He tapped a cigarette on the case. “We’re in jute.”
“Yes. Fine stuff, that.”
“My grandfather says that he owes much to war and that having me in the military is somehow settling his debt.”
“How’s that?”
“Jute is fine stuff, true, but it became profitable during the Great War when it was needed to make sandbags.”
Berystede responded with a gruff “Haw, haw.”
At the bar, Tunsdale was balancing a cigarette on his forehead. No doubt, someone now owed him a drink. Harry looked back to the major. The major was studying Harry’s face, the aquiline nose, the deepset hazel eyes, the anomalies that made Harry untouchable and handsome.
“Gillen. . Is that Scottish?” asked Berystede.
“My grandfather is from Aberdeen.”
“And your mother?”
“From Goa, a Christian. She met my father while vacationing in Simla.”
“And I’m all English,” said Berystede, leaning in. “Although I think there’s a lot to be said for cross-breeding, hybrid vigor and the like.” The major signaled a waiter for another round and Harry realized that the reason he drank so lightly was that liquor went straight to his head. “Take you, for example,” he said. “The finest horseman in the area.” Berystede leaned back into the cushion of his chair. His pale blue eyes narrowed. Harry knew the conversation had taken a direction. “Harry,” said the major, “have you ever thought of joining the club?”
“The club?” Harry composed his features and his head moved to one side. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, why not?”
“With all due respect, although I am often termed a European I am undeniably Indian.”
“The club takes Indians. We voted on it six months ago.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. However, how many Indians are members?”
“You’d be the first one.”
Harry rattled his ice cubes. “I am intrigued.”
“You are polite. You’re wondering why I’m so determined to make you a member.”
“I’ll ask you civilly,” said Harry and smiled. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Honestly? You owe this honor to polo. We lack the numbers and you’re the best player at camp.”
Harry nodded a couple of times. Berystede’s earnest, vulnerable face was gratifying and for a moment Harry toyed with the idea of telling the major that he wasn’t interested, not at all, in joining the estimable club.
Harry waited in line for water with an Australian named Smalls. Three years in Changi had transformed Smalls from an already wiry man into a knot of leather and bile. Smalls was Harry’s closest friend. Harry found little to like about him, but Smalls took survival for granted, and in that he was singular. He also maintained a healthy anger and could find a responsible party for any indignity or pain, which made prison life seem less of a series of divine slights. For example, the tinea that had first ravaged Harry’s feet, then buckled his nails until they dropped off. The fungus had lodged in his testicles where it burned and itched, making him sleep only in fits. There was fungus on his scalp and under the foreskin of his penis. The itch was so constant and uniform that Harry began to hear it buzzing in his ears. This buzzing itch had quickened his heartbeat and was unseating his brain.