Baumgartner, not at all unaware of how his eyes watched her knees, her thighs. ‘All those nice dresses fitted me then.
Ja
, Hugo, I had a green silk one, and that yellow print – and my hair was still blonde then – I really must have looked a
memsahib
in the taxi going to the station, going to meet his train. Then he told me not to because sometimes he might travel with his relations, or with other businessmen from Calcutta, and he did not want them to see me.’ Her face was still maroon but her eyes and lips had begun to lose their animation and droop so that her voice slurred. ‘So after that I stayed in the flat and waited. Not the same thing. Made me sloppy, like this –’ she tugged at the frayed strap of her slip. ‘But I had the beer cold, the soda and ice ready, and when he came I could give him a little party. He loved it, that old Kanti. Made me sing all my old songs, and tell jokes – he just laughed and laughed. I suppose no one ever sang or laughed in his home, no one made him laugh there. He had daughters, made them take singing lessons like all the daughters in Calcutta take, but he really couldn’t stand their singing. “Graveyard music”, he called those songs they all sing in Bengal. He liked mine – with a bit of leg, hee hee. Told me that. Old men like it, don’t they, Hugo?’ She gave him a wink, but with some difficulty; she could not quite control her eyelids. ‘Then he became too sick to laugh. It hurt him to laugh. He wanted to go straight to bed and have his drink there. That was all right, I could understand, but he wouldn’t get out. Whole weekend spent lying in bed. That was not fun, after all it was what I did all week. Raju would bring a whisky and soda to the bedroom. Always made a face as if he smelt something. Rude boy. Made me so angry, I wanted to kick him, but Kanti would stop me, say I must not shout at Raju, he was looking after me.
He
, looking after me?
Who
looked after me?
Nobody
. Except Kanti.’
Baumgartner watched her slosh more drink, more ice into her glass, tried to remember the nondescript figure of the Marwari businessman from Calcutta. Dry as a twist of tobacco, shrivelled inside the elaborate folds of his white dhoti and coloured turban, the smell of snuff buried inside them, while from his mouth, full of discoloured teeth, the scent of the silver-coated betel nuts he liked to chew made one reel back – it was like a perfumery – how had Lotte stood it? Even then, when they were both young – when they were all young – he had wondered how Lotte stood it.
She extended her arm to him in a royal, languid gesture, her movements slowed by the gin. ‘See, each bangle here is from Kanti. Solid gold, twenty-two carats like Indian women wear – no European would believe, heh?’ She jingled them on her wrist in a melancholy way, like bells in the wind. ‘Now I’m afraid these thieves will murder me for it – like that drunkard Ramu downstairs, or those – those –’ she jabbed with her finger at the ceiling, not able to bring herself to speak the unspeakable name of the neighbours in that region – ‘but I can’t take them off and put them in the bank. It is like taking off your wedding-ring. Hindu women do it when they become widows but I won’t – they are
not
a wedding-ring, after all, only presents. Presents from Kanti.’ She turned the bangles round and round on her wrist, making that jangling sound that jarred Baumgartner. This Hindu widow act, couldn’t she stop it?
‘That ulcer,’ she was brooding aloud, ‘I told him don’t drink, Kanti – just have the soda, no whisky, but he would lie in my bed, his teeth in a glass on the table – and he would say, “What did I come to Bombay for then? You, and a drink, that is my life, that is what I live for. Give me more whisky,” and I knew how he felt, I also would feel the same, would you not, Hugo?’ She glared at him sharply till he nodded in assent, not at all agreeing. ‘So
Ja
, Hugo, I had a green silk one, and that yellow print – and my hair was still blonde then – I really must have looked a
memsahib
in the taxi going to the station, going to meet his train. Then he told me not to because sometimes he might travel with his relations, or with other businessmen from Calcutta, and he did not want them to see me.’ Her face was still maroon but her eyes and lips had begun to lose their animation and droop so that her voice slurred. ‘So after that I stayed in the flat and waited. Not the same thing. Made me sloppy, like this –’ she tugged at the frayed strap of her slip. ‘But I had the beer cold, the soda and ice ready, and when he came I could give him a little party. He loved it, that old Kanti. Made me sing all my old songs, and tell jokes – he just laughed and laughed. I suppose no one ever sang or laughed in his home, no one made him laugh there. He had daughters, made them take singing lessons like all the daughters in Calcutta take, but he really couldn’t stand their singing. “Graveyard music”, he called those songs they all sing in Bengal. He liked mine – with a bit of leg, hee hee. Told me that. Old men like it, don’t they, Hugo?’ She gave him a wink, but with some difficulty; she could not quite control her eyelids. ‘Then he became too sick to laugh. It hurt him to laugh. He wanted to go straight to bed and have his drink there. That was all right, I could understand, but he wouldn’t get out. Whole weekend spent lying in bed. That was not fun, after all it was what I did all week. Raju would bring a whisky and soda to the bedroom. Always made a face as if he smelt something. Rude boy. Made me so angry, I wanted to kick him, but Kanti would stop me, say I must not shout at Raju, he was looking after me.
He
, looking after me?
Who
looked after me?
Nobody
. Except Kanti.’
Baumgartner watched her slosh more drink, more ice into her glass, tried to remember the nondescript figure of the Marwari businessman from Calcutta. Dry as a twist of tobacco, shrivelled inside the elaborate folds of his white dhoti and coloured turban, the smell of snuff buried inside them, while from his mouth, full of discoloured teeth, the scent of the silver-coated betel nuts he liked to chew made one reel back – it was like a perfumery – how had Lotte stood it? Even then, when they were both young – when they were all young – he had wondered how Lotte stood it.
She extended her arm to him in a royal, languid gesture, her movements slowed by the gin. ‘See, each bangle here is from Kanti. Solid gold, twenty-two carats like Indian women wear – no European would believe, heh?’ She jingled them on her wrist in a melancholy way, like bells in the wind. ‘Now I’m afraid these thieves will murder me for it – like that drunkard Ramu downstairs, or those – those –’ she jabbed with her finger at the ceiling, not able to bring herself to speak the unspeakable name of the neighbours in that region – ‘but I can’t take them off and put them in the bank. It is like taking off your wedding-ring. Hindu women do it when they become widows but I won’t – they are
not
a wedding-ring, after all, only presents. Presents from Kanti.’ She turned the bangles round and round on her wrist, making that jangling sound that jarred Baumgartner. This Hindu widow act, couldn’t she stop it?
‘That ulcer,’ she was brooding aloud, ‘I told him don’t drink, Kanti – just have the soda, no whisky, but he would lie in my bed, his teeth in a glass on the table – and he would say, “What did I come to Bombay for then? You, and a drink, that is my life, that is what I live for. Give me more whisky,” and I knew how he felt, I also would feel the same, would you not, Hugo?’ She glared at him sharply till he nodded in assent, not at all agreeing. ‘So
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