Waiting for the Monsoon by Threes Anna Page A

room, and his eyes go to the bed. His mouth falls open and his swagger stick shoots upward. Suddenly, from nowhere, the adrenaline races through his body. He searches for words, drops of saliva appear on his lips, his nostrils flare.
    Charlotte pulls the towel around her tightly, and a cold shiver passes from her feet and up her spine, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh. The overpowering scent of their lovemaking fills the room, and vague memories of long ago fill her with dread. The light, which a moment before had come dancing into the room, shines hard and ruthlessly. The bed is a tangle of pillows and sheets. The floor is littered with garments. At her father’s feet lies the captain’s cap. She knows intuitively that he has to control himself to keep from trampling on it.
    Peter, naked and vulnerable, looks at the man standing in front of him. Even without the lieutenant colonel’s uniform he would have known instantly that the soldier with the swagger stick was her father. He pulls the sheet up to his chin. He can’t take his eyes off the man by the door. He knows for sure that he’s seen him before, but can’t remember where. Then he feels a sudden stab of pain, and beneath the sheet his whole body convulses. He gasps for air.
    The father and the daughter do not notice. They see only each other.
    Victor looks at the fine hairs on her neck, damp with perspiration, and is aware of a rutting smell combined with the intoxicating aroma of his daughter. His blood charges through his body. He hears his own breathing and feels sweat on his palms.
    ~~~
    THEY HAD GOTTEN up early, put canteens of water in their backpacks, and set off up the mountain. Seldom did they spend more than a half-hour together: the duration of the evening meal. Victor looked at his father’s back, and saw his large steps. When he asked his father if he could slow down a bit, the answer was, “We’re not a couple of old ladies.”
    They were standing close to the edge; below them was the abyss. The toes of William Bridgwater’s boots extended over the edge — an edge so sharp that it seemed to have been sliced off with a knife. They surveyed the panoramic view and the clouds above.
    â€œSon,” his father said after a while. “This is the mountain.”
    â€œWhich mountain, Father?”
    William spread his arms wide, as if he was showing his son his future land. “The mountain that was the death of your mother.”
    Victor looked around. It was an ordinary mountain, no steeper or more terrifying than other mountains.
    â€œWe loved each other, Elizabeth Charlotte Elphinstone and I. We were made for each other.” His father’s personal revelations made Victor feel uncomfortable. He wanted to walk on, but it was clear that his father expected him to listen. “Did I ever tell you that we weren’t married? That we simply did not have time to get married? And yet God knows that she was my wife, and that I have always been faithful to her.”
    Victor, who had just turned sixteen, had shaved that morning, for the very first time. He looked at his father and saw that there were tears running down his weathered face.
    â€œShe was beautiful . . . so beautiful . . . my dear Elizabeth . . .” William Bridgwater turned to his son. The tears were flowing even faster now. “Son, if you hadn’t been born prematurely, she would have lived.”
    Victor thought he must have misunderstood his father’s words. Until then he had assumed that his mother had died of cholera, malaria, or some other deadly disease. His father never talked about his mother. Victor knew only that the grandfather clock had belonged to her and that she wanted him to have it.
    His father looked up at the sky. The sun was just emerging from behind a cloud. He let out a bestial howl and jumped.
    Victor saw him take off, like an elegant swimmer diving into a river: