It’s just as well for the said subordinate that the letter is not read in his presence, for its contents obviously displease the reader, whose muttered curses seem directed against him rather than the letter’s recipient. Dog Head’s hand, backed with sparse reddish hair, clutches the fragile paper as though he were going to crumple it up; but caution or cunning makes him hesitate. Still holding it in his hand, he goes to the door.
He is tall enough to see over the centre panels by stretching his neck slightly, and looks into the next room, where the girl is sitting as usual close to the screened window, with a book in her lap. She appears to be reading, although the dim, unsteady light is so far away from her that this is not possible, unless she has trained herself to read in the dark.
Her husband watches for a few moments, frowning: then glances, undecided, from her to the flimsy piece of notepaper, wondering how to use it against her to the best advantage. Since this doesn’t seem to be the right moment, he ends by putting it away in his wallet.
He then picks up the racquet, and makes some practice strokes, powerful forehand and backhand drives, before going in to try and bully her into playing the rat game with him.
15
It has now become almost too hot to live. One would think the fiery core of the earth had come to the surface, so that the shallowest excavation would reveal raging flames. The world is assuming a uniform coppery tinge with shades of orange, like a Martian landscape. Each afternoon the giant clouds gather and slowly roof in the world, excitement and tension accumulating beneath. Each morning the sun leaps triumphantly, unchallenged, into an empty sky; but always, by midday, the clouds are back, pitch black and sulphur yellow, inexorably piling up overhead; while the red-hot earth seethes like an immense cauldron in the eerie thunderlight of an eclipse, electric tremors vibrating in the breathless air.
The excitement of the approaching monsoon emanates from the servants, who appear with strange additions to their usual attire — flowers, medallions, and silk headscarves they twist into points like rabbit’s ears. They might be zombies, working in absence, their whole attention concentrated elsewhere, in secret, intense, febrile preoccupation. The girl feels they may vanish at any moment, to go about their own compulsive mysterious affairs.
Gongs boom at all hours of the day and night. More bullock carts than usual pass on the road, in clouds of dust, fluttering flowers and pennants; and sudden weird falsetto singing bursts out, or the unexpected squeal of a pipe. Everybody is waiting, tense. A peculiar coppery film hangs in the upper air, as though electricity were made visible.
‘When will the rains come?’ she keeps asking wearily: always receiving the same noncommittal reply from her husband: ‘Soon.’ He always seems to be watching her these days, out of those eyes that look to her like bits of blue glass but which now have a new glint of cunning, a disturbing secretiveness. She gets the uneasy feeling that he’s planning something against her in secret, though she can’t conceive what it is.
The strain of trying to read by the flickering dim light has given her a permanent headache. But one good thing about the unsteadiness of the light is that it interferes with the rat game. This evening the player gives up after a few unsuccessful slashes, and hurls his racquet into a corner, swearing loudly. A few moments later, she hears the car start and drive away.
Now she’s alone in the house. The servants have all gone to their own quarters, and might be on another planet. Night has brought no relief from the heat. Looking out of her window, she’s surprised to see the great clouds racing across the sky, though down here the air is as still as death — the effect is rather uncanny.
She fancies she can still make out the queer metallic film under the hurrying clouds, except when the moon escapes them for a second, showing a sick livid face which is engulfed again almost immediately.
She slips off the sandals she’s been wearing for days — it’s far too hot to wear shoes, she hasn’t even looked at her shoes lately. Why should she notice, in any case, if they are disarranged? The servants are often careless about putting things in their right places; she’s told them dozens of times not to put books upside down in the shelves, and shown them how to tell top from bottom, but still they go on making the same mistake.
Taking off her clothes, she goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower; it reluctantly yields a thin trickle of scalding water, which gradually cools to tepid — supplies are getting low. The water refuses to run cold, and this luke-warm spray only makes her hotter than ever. After it, she can’t bear to put on even the thinnest nightdress, but drapes the flimsy garment round her shoulders, and sits on the edge of the bed, too hot to lie down.
The fan in here has also developed a squeak that disturbs her and finds its way into her dreams. She always means to see about getting the fans put right, but hasn’t the energy when it comes to the point. She wouldn’t be able to sleep in this heat, anyway. Already, directly after her shower, her whole body is burning hot; a rivulet of sweat runs between her shoulder blades, the nightgown sticks uncomfortably to her shoulders. Shrugging it off, she lets the fan play on her naked flesh. The heat is stifling, volcanic, as if masses of lava were pressing against the walls. Her eyes are dry and hot in her aching head; she can’t make the effort to read a book, and knows she won’t sleep… so what can she do? Shutting her eyes, she presses her fingers against the eyeballs, and sits limply under the fan. Without actually thinking about her husband, she’s vaguely relieved because he is not in the house.
Perhaps she dozes for a few moments — anyhow, there he is suddenly, in the room, right in front of her. Startled, she snatches the nightdress and covers herself; how can she not have heard the car?
‘Why so modest?’ he sneers with a vicious leer. And she knows he’s been drinking as usual. There is a dangerous look about him, he looks a bully, a touch of hysteria in his slightly unbalanced air.
The white trousers he put on for dinner are now crumpled, his shirt is undone to the waist, displaying his hairy chest, which he scratches, raking his fingernails through the reddish fur, as he comes towards her, moving his big, muscular, bony body like a machine which can’t be stopped or avoided. He is so close to her now that she can smell his male sweat, mixed with the stale smells of smoke and whisky.
‘What about this?’ he demands suddenly, and, to her utter astonishment, flourishes a sheet of writing paper in front of her face, which she recognizes at once by the heading, exclaiming: ‘My letter!’ indignantly reaching out for it.
‘Oh, no!’ jeers the man, snatching it back and stowing it away for future use. ‘So you’re planning to rat on me, are you, behind my back?’ His voice has become venomous; he stands over her menacingly, his lips tightly compressed, a muscle twitching above the jawline, his blue domineering eyes madly bright.
‘I’m not planning anything,’ she mutters, overcome by shuddering repulsion at the word rat, and shrinking away from him.
‘You’d better not!’ Suddenly violent, he seizes the flimsy nightdress and, with one savage tug, rips it in half, tossing the pieces over his shoulder. Come here!’ he shouts, determined to get her down finally, contorting his face in a fierce grimace as he grasps her arms. She struggles desperately to push him back, protesting breathlessly: ‘Oh, no! It’s too hot — go away!’
‘Why should I go away? You’re my wife…’ Roused by her resistance, his repressed rage and resentment suddenly mount to frenzy, his eyes flashing blue murder. His expression now is an extraordinary blend of arrogance, lust and fury, with which is mingled something dangerous and demented, reminiscent of a mad dog. ‘You’ll do as I want!’ he snarls, swinging her off her feet, rabid.