in order to wound him. This was the first that he had heard of her friendship with Verrall. He could not keep the dead, flat tone of envy out of his voice as he said:
‘Do you go out riding much with Verrall?’
‘Almost every evening. He’s such a wonderful horseman! And he has absolute strings of polo ponies!’
‘Ah. And of course I have no polo ponies.’
It was the first thing he had said that even approached seriousness, and it did no more than offend her. However, she answered him with the same gay easy air as before, and then showed him out. Mrs Lackersteen came back to the drawing-room, sniffed the air, and immediately ordered the servants to take the reeking leopard-skin outside and burn it.
Flory lounged at his garden gate, pretending to feed the pigeons. He could not deny himself the pain of seeing Elizabeth and Verrall start out on their ride. How vulgarly, how cruelly she had behaved to him! It is dreadful when people will not even have the decency to quarrel. Presently Verrall rode up to the Lackersteens’ house on the white pony, with a syce riding the chestnut, then there was a pause, then they emerged together, Verrall on the chestnut pony, Elizabeth on the white, and trotted quickly up the hill. They were chattering and laughing, her silk-shirted shoulder very close to his. Neither looked towards Flory.
When they had disappeared into the jungle, Flory still loafed in the garden. The glare was waning to yellow. The mali was at work grubbing up the English flowers, most of which had died, slain by too much sunshine, and planting balsams, cockscombs, and more zinnias. An hour passed, and a melancholy, earth-coloured Indian loitered up the drive, dressed in a loincloth and a salmon-pink pagri on which a washing-basket was balanced. He laid down his basket and salaamed to Flory.
‘Who are you?’
‘Book-wallah, sahib.’
The book-wallah was an itinerant pedlar of books who wandered from station to station throughout Upper Burma. His system of exchange was that for any book in his bundle you gave him four annas, and any other book. Not quite any book, however, for the book-wallah, though analphabetic, had learned to recognise and refuse a Bible.
‘No, sahib,’ he would say plaintively, ‘no. This book’ (he would turn it over disapprovingly in his flat brown hands) ‘this book with a black cover and gold letters—this one I cannot take. I know not how it is, but all sahibs are offering me this book, and none are taking it. What can it be that is in this black book? Some evil, undoubtedly.’
‘Turn out your trash,’ Flory said.
He hunted among them for a good thriller—Edgar Wallace or Agatha Christie or something; anything to still the deadly restlessness that was at his heart. As he bent over the books he saw that both Indians were exclaiming and pointing towards the edge of the jungle.
‘Dekho!’ said the mali in his plum-in-the-mouth voice.
The two ponies were emerging from the jungle. But they were riderless. They came trotting down the hill with the silly guilty air of a horse that has escaped from its master, with the stirrups swinging and clashing under their bellies.
Flory remained unconsciously clasping one of the books against his chest. Verrall and Elizabeth had dismounted. It was not an accident; by no effort of the mind could one imagine Verrall falling off his horse. They had dismounted, and the ponies had escaped.
They had dismounted—for what? Ah, but he knew for what! It was not a question of suspecting; he knew. He could see the whole thing happening, in one of those hallucinations that are so perfect in detail, so vilely obscene, that they are past bearing. He threw the book violently down and made for the house, leaving the book-wallah disappointed. The servants heard him moving about indoors, and presently he called for a bottle of whisky. He had a drink and it did him no good. Then he filled a tumbler two-thirds full, added enough water to make it drinkable, and swallowed it. The filthy, nauseous dose was no sooner down his throat than he repeated it. He had done the same thing in camp once, years ago, when he was tortured by toothache and three hundred miles from a dentist. At seven Ko S’la came in as usual to say that the bathwater was hot. Flory was lying in one of the long chairs, with his coat off and his shirt torn open at the throat.
‘Your bath, thakin,’ said Ko S’la.
Flory did not answer, and Ko S’la touched his arm, thinking him asleep. Flory was much too drunk to move. The empty bottle had rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of whisky-drops behind it. Ko S’la called for Ba Pe and picked up the bottle, clicking his tongue.
‘Just look at this! He has drunk more than three-quarters of a bottle!’
‘What, again? I thought he had given up drinking?’
‘It is that accursed woman, I suppose. Now we must carry him carefully. You take his heels, I’ll take his head. That’s right. Hoist him up!’
They carried Flory into the other room and laid him gently on the bed.
‘Is he really going to marry this “Ingaleikma”?’ said Ba Pe.
‘Heaven knows. She is the mistress of the young police officer at present, so I was told. Their ways are not our ways. I think I know what he will be wanting tonight,’ he added as he undid Flory’s braces—for Ko S’la had the art, so necessary in a bachelor’s servant, of undressing his master without waking him.
The servants were rather more pleased than not to see this return to bachelor habits. Flory woke about midnight, naked in a pool of sweat. His head felt as though some large, sharp-cornered metal object were bumping about inside it. The mosquito net was up, and a young woman was sitting beside the bed fanning him with a wicker fan. She had an agreeable negroid face, bronze-gold in the candlelight. She explained that she was a prostitute, and that Ko S’la had engaged her on his own responsibility for a fee of ten rupees.
Flory’s head was splitting. ‘For God’s sake get me something to drink,’ he said feebly to the woman. She brought him some soda-water which Ko S’la had cooled in readiness, and soaked a towel and put a wet compress round his forehead. She was a fat, good-tempered creature. She told him that her name was Ma Sein Galay, and that besides plying her other trade she sold paddy baskets in the bazaar near Li Yeik’s shop. Flory’s head felt better presently, and he asked for a cigarette; whereupon Ma Sein Galay, having fetched the cigarette, said naïvely, ‘Shall I take my clothes off now, thakin?’
Why not? he thought dimly. He made room for her in the bed. But when he smelled the familiar scent of garlic and coco-nut oil, something painful happened within him, and with his head pillowed on Ma Sein Galay’s fat shoulder he actually wept, a thing he had not done since he was fifteen years old.
XX
Next morning there was great excitement in Kyauktada, for the long-rumoured rebellion had at last broken out. Flory heard only a vague report of it at the time. He had gone back to camp as soon as he felt fit to march after the drunken night, and it was not until several days later that he learned the true history of the rebellion, in a long, indignant letter from Dr Veraswami.
The doctor’s epistolary style was queer. His syntax was shaky and he was as free with capital letters as a seventeenth-century divine, while in the use of italics he rivalled Queen Victoria. There were eight pages of his small but sprawling handwriting.
MY DEAR FRIEND (the letter ran),—You will much regret to hear that the wiles of the crocodile have matured. The rebellion—the so-called rebellion—is all over and finished. And it has been, alas! a more Bloody affair than I had hoped should have been the case.
All has fallen out as I have prophesied to you it would be. On the day when you came back to Kyauktada U Po Kyin’s spies have informed him that the poor unfortunate men whom he have Deluded are assembling in the jungle near Thongwa. The same night he sets out secretly with U Lugale, the Police Inspector, who is as