observed, and the feeling made her cold.
She urged Agatha to silence and led her slowly up the stairs. In the landing’s patchy gloom, she closed her eyes and conjured
up a look she’d caught on Mr. Jeevanjee’s thin face. The tremor—the thought
I have been seen
—dissipated in the half-light, and she shook herself a bit, felt alone and clear. Her final steps were brighter. She pulled
Agatha along, and in a moment she was laughing; yes, she was excited about what she and he had done. Or,
après tout
, what Mr. Jeevanjee had done. Hadn’t the sweet man (“Majid Ghulam,” she whispered) without any preamble at all pressed himself
upon her, and she, willingly, succumbed? She thought,
He conquered me
, sent Agatha to wash, and lay down on the bed.
When Gilbert came back home from drinks at the Victorian Palm, Sarie, who had stepped out of the bedroom at the
whoosh-whoosh
of his tread, saw him as though through a colored haze. She felt rather kind, protective. Her pink Gilbert,
Mon petit mari rose
, damp with beads of dew. How sweet an unsuspecting husband, protected from a shock by a thoughtful, able mate, could look!
That evening, everything in Sarie’s tilting world looked clean and good to her: her dear, silly legal man, Agatha’s soiled
hands, the cracked and dirty tiles.
At the sticky table, Sarie fed Gilbert plain rice boiled in water, and when he as usual suggested that she might have spiced
it up or tried to be inventive, she only smiled at him and did not even sigh. In the hanging bulb’s dim light, Gilbert appeared
fragile, delicate, and rare. She noticed, noncommittally, the purplish age spots on his pate.
The skin spots make my husband’s head resemble eggs found in the nests of little forest birds. C’est précieux, après tout
. He was, she thought,the only man to whom she’d ever been and would ever be deceitful; as such, as the husband of the woman who had not long ago
embraced Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee so daringly and hotly in Kudra House’s hall, wasn’t Gilbert Turner finally, if modestly, historic?
Sarie felt important, too.
Yes
, she thought. She beamed.
Though often unperceptive, Gilbert was susceptible to gentleness. And it
was
gentleness he sensed, though it confused him, seeping like a halo from the contours of his wife. Belatedly inspired by the
sayings of His Holiness (who felt, or at least maintained in public, that all peoples in one place were best conjoined in
mutual assistance), he thought to repay Sarie for that unexpected smile by washing up the dishes. Sarie, not surprised to
see that things were moving in her favor, said, “Oh, yes. Please. Of course.”
Later, in Agatha’s small bedroom—no more than a closet—Sarie read aloud from a book that they had borrowed at the British
Council Library. It was
The Adventures of Aziz
, in which Taj al Maluk, Prince of the Green City, falls heels over head for charitable Dunya, a comely, charming girl with
an aptitude for making things from silk. While Agatha curled fists into her only pillow, tricky, energetic Dunya swore she’d
kill off any husband foisted on her with the strength in her own hands. Agatha sleepily approved, and Sarie, satisfied, put
her child to bed.
Gilbert, who had been reading by himself in the next room, came in once Agatha had dimmed. He could, it’s true, only kiss
his daughter when she could not respond. With Sarie looking on, Gilbert pecked the sleeper chastely, then turned lightly on
his heel. He fell asleep soon after, with (having taken a brief rest from the
Tour
) a book about the merchant sailors of the littoral on the table near the bed.
Sarie felt her limbs and skin still mightily aglow. Too awake to make a show of lying down, she stood before the mirror. With
aplastic yellow comb once designed to look like marble, she smoothed down her wild hair and thought that she looked fine, perhaps
not as far into her middle age as she now was, perhaps closer to forty.
She urged Agatha to silence and led her slowly up the stairs. In the landing’s patchy gloom, she closed her eyes and conjured
up a look she’d caught on Mr. Jeevanjee’s thin face. The tremor—the thought
I have been seen
—dissipated in the half-light, and she shook herself a bit, felt alone and clear. Her final steps were brighter. She pulled
Agatha along, and in a moment she was laughing; yes, she was excited about what she and he had done. Or,
après tout
, what Mr. Jeevanjee had done. Hadn’t the sweet man (“Majid Ghulam,” she whispered) without any preamble at all pressed himself
upon her, and she, willingly, succumbed? She thought,
He conquered me
, sent Agatha to wash, and lay down on the bed.
When Gilbert came back home from drinks at the Victorian Palm, Sarie, who had stepped out of the bedroom at the
whoosh-whoosh
of his tread, saw him as though through a colored haze. She felt rather kind, protective. Her pink Gilbert,
Mon petit mari rose
, damp with beads of dew. How sweet an unsuspecting husband, protected from a shock by a thoughtful, able mate, could look!
That evening, everything in Sarie’s tilting world looked clean and good to her: her dear, silly legal man, Agatha’s soiled
hands, the cracked and dirty tiles.
At the sticky table, Sarie fed Gilbert plain rice boiled in water, and when he as usual suggested that she might have spiced
it up or tried to be inventive, she only smiled at him and did not even sigh. In the hanging bulb’s dim light, Gilbert appeared
fragile, delicate, and rare. She noticed, noncommittally, the purplish age spots on his pate.
The skin spots make my husband’s head resemble eggs found in the nests of little forest birds. C’est précieux, après tout
. He was, she thought,the only man to whom she’d ever been and would ever be deceitful; as such, as the husband of the woman who had not long ago
embraced Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee so daringly and hotly in Kudra House’s hall, wasn’t Gilbert Turner finally, if modestly, historic?
Sarie felt important, too.
Yes
, she thought. She beamed.
Though often unperceptive, Gilbert was susceptible to gentleness. And it
was
gentleness he sensed, though it confused him, seeping like a halo from the contours of his wife. Belatedly inspired by the
sayings of His Holiness (who felt, or at least maintained in public, that all peoples in one place were best conjoined in
mutual assistance), he thought to repay Sarie for that unexpected smile by washing up the dishes. Sarie, not surprised to
see that things were moving in her favor, said, “Oh, yes. Please. Of course.”
Later, in Agatha’s small bedroom—no more than a closet—Sarie read aloud from a book that they had borrowed at the British
Council Library. It was
The Adventures of Aziz
, in which Taj al Maluk, Prince of the Green City, falls heels over head for charitable Dunya, a comely, charming girl with
an aptitude for making things from silk. While Agatha curled fists into her only pillow, tricky, energetic Dunya swore she’d
kill off any husband foisted on her with the strength in her own hands. Agatha sleepily approved, and Sarie, satisfied, put
her child to bed.
Gilbert, who had been reading by himself in the next room, came in once Agatha had dimmed. He could, it’s true, only kiss
his daughter when she could not respond. With Sarie looking on, Gilbert pecked the sleeper chastely, then turned lightly on
his heel. He fell asleep soon after, with (having taken a brief rest from the
Tour
) a book about the merchant sailors of the littoral on the table near the bed.
Sarie felt her limbs and skin still mightily aglow. Too awake to make a show of lying down, she stood before the mirror. With
aplastic yellow comb once designed to look like marble, she smoothed down her wild hair and thought that she looked fine, perhaps
not as far into her middle age as she now was, perhaps closer to forty.
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