To look at the books, Alu said.
Books? Is this the time for books? Zindi snapped at him. Come back here. It’s your fault. You’ve brought him here — it was you who said it first.
But he was here before I said anything, Alu said. How did he know, Zindi? How did he follow us here?
God blind me for not thinking of it, she said. It must have been the easiest thing in the world. After he saw us in Kairouan he had only to look at the road-signs to know that we would head this way. Where else could we have gone? He must have known that with our kind of passport we wouldn’t risk any but the most remote of border posts. And once you’re across the border there’s nowhere you can go but El Oued if you’re heading west. He knows all that; he’s like a bird — he hears us every time we say we’re going west.
Maybe, said Alu, he’s only going west himself.
Do you think so? Zindi said eagerly, suddenly hopeful. Do you think it’s possible?
If he really wanted to do anything to us, said Alu, he’d have done it already. He must be here somewhere.
It’s possible, she muttered, but the ripple of hope had already trickled out of her voice. It makes no difference, she said. That man carries death with him wherever he goes. He can’t help it; it’s in his eyes. Think of what happened to Jeevanbhai; think of Karthamma and all the rest. And this time he’s come with a vulture.
For a while she stared blankly at the wall. We should never have come, she said at last. We should never have left Egypt. I can smell death in this house: it’s there in writing — one of us isn’t going to leave this house alive.
She lifted Boss into her arms, very gently, and kissed him as though she were bidding him goodbye.
As long as it’s not him, she whispered. Let it be me, but not Boss. Not him, Allah …
As soon as he could, Alu slipped back into the drawing-room. It was empty and curiously still; more than ever the bareness of the walls seemed to thrust the bookcase directly at him. For a long time he stood still, staring at it across the room, wondering why his skin was tingling with recognition. Then he began to inch his way forward, biting his nails, scanning the dusty brown-paper covers of the books for a visible sign.
When he was less than halfway across the room, Mrs Verma came bustling in. He stopped guiltily and began to edge away. Ah, there you are, she said. I’ve just given your ayah some medicine for your son. He’ll be all right soon.
He nodded, looking away, and hid his hands in his pockets. Mrs Verma cleared her throat. Mr Bose, she said hesitantly, you remember I was telling you that I might need your help? Well, as your wife has probably explained, we’re going to put on a small production of Chitrangada — I’m sure you’re familiar with it — for our colleagues. We have the record, luckily, so we won’t have to sing. But instead we’re going to explain the scenes we’re doing through a translator. I’ve been trying to put together a few notes but unfortunately I’ve run into a little trouble, and that’s where I need your help. You see, I have a Hindi translation of the original done by my father, but there are a couple of places where I can’t read his handwriting. He copied the original down along with the translation, but the trouble is I can’t read Bengali. Mr Das helped, but there were some bits he couldn’t read, either. So, if you could just help a little …?
Reluctantly, Alu nodded. Mrs Verma sank on to a sofa, next to the bookcase and began to look through the shelves. She noticed Alu bending over, looking intently at the bookcase. She patted the sofa: Sit down, Mr Bose. He seated himself next to her with his hands under his thighs, but his eyes stayed riveted on the books.
She found what she was looking for and drew it out: a tattered hardbound exercise-book that had been lovingly wrapped in brown paper. She flipped through it, showing him the smudged sections, and with the help of his glosses of the Bengali text she wrote down suitable Hindi substitutes. After half an hour she snapped the exercise-book shut. I’m very grateful to you, she said. I think that’s all that needs to be done. She put the book tidily back in its place and straightened the row with the back of her hand.
And then Alu saw it.
It bore no outward clue to its identity for it was wrapped in a cover like the others. Yet, the moment he looked at it, he knew. He tried to control himself, tried to say something polite, but the words died in his throat and he fell to his knees and snatched the book from its shelf.
He didn’t even need to look at the title-page. The fading print smiled at him like an all-too-familiar face. His eyes brimmed over with tears.
It’s the Life of Pasteur, he said quietly, looking up at Mrs Verma.
She had been watching him with some alarm, but when he spoke she laughed. Yes, she said, have you read it?
He nodded dumbly.
It was one of my father’s favourite books, she said. He loved it. A close friend of his gave it to him when he was in Presidency College.
Who? What was his name? Alu was already thumbing through the stiff, crackling leaves, fumbling for the title-page. Somehow it kept slipping past his fingers. He broke into a sweat, stopped, closed the book between his palms and opened it again, gently.
He saw Balaram’s handwriting on the first page, in red ink, sprawled across the corner: To Hem Narain Mathur, Rationalist and friend, from Balaram Bose; Medical College Hospital, Calcutta, 1932. Another hand had inscribed beneath: To remember Reason.
He could not bear to look at it. He shut the book and hugged it to his chest.
Why, Mr Bose, Mrs Verma said in surprise, you seem to be very fond of that book?
Mrs Verma, Alu said, this book is the only real brother I ever had. I’d lost him and now I’ve found him again — here in the desert, of all places, and in your house.
Mrs Verma listened gravely, picking at the frayed threads on the fall of her sari. Then she said: That’s very sad.
Sad! cried Alu. How can you call it sad?
I can see that you love that book, Mr Bose, and that’s very sad, because you can love a book but a book can’t love you. That’s what I used to tell my father, but he could never understand. He would look at the world whirling around him and he would look at his books, and when they told him different stories, like a man caught between quarrelling friends, he wouldn’t know which side to take. But in the end, even though it meant shutting himself away, the books won. They ruled over him: for him that bookcase had all the order the world lacked. I used to think it was love, but I know better now. He was afraid; afraid of the power of science and those books of his; afraid that if he disowned them they would destroy him.
That can’t be true, Alu cried. What could a book like this one have done to him? You’re wrong; you must be.
She smiled: You may be right — I’m often wrong. She took the book from him and flipped through it gingerly, holding it at a distance. Do you know, she said, looking at it in wonder; it’s because of this book that I’m a microbiologist today? My father told me that microbiology was Pasteur’s heritage, and that I was to keep it alive.
She took a deep breath and held the book out to him. Take it, she said. I’ve always wanted to get rid of it. Only I’ve never dared; I’m too much my father’s daughter.
Alu hesitated: How could I take it? It was your father’s …
Take it, she insisted, almost angrily. Now that I’ve found the courage to give it away I won’t take it back. Keep it with you. Take it outside to the dunes if you like, and read it in peace there.
Yes, he said eagerly, holding out his hand. I’ll do just that. I can always bring it back.
She dropped the book into his hands. He fumbled and it slipped and fell open on the floor. A paragraph underlined heavily in red pencil stared up at them from the open pages.