Three Continents. Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
out glasses and inviting everyone to come and dip into the bowl. The Rani, flushed, panting, laughing, still in her seed bag, put back her head and drained her goblet like a warrior queen, before looking around to see who was playing with her. Both Manton and Lindsay stood ready to go, and I saw that Jean and Barbara had joined the crowd. Only the Rawul sat apart, a benevolent spectator, while everyone else scrambled around and fell over and laughed and drank more punch. Evening was falling, a pink light shone in one area of sky, the moon was already faintly in another; the reflection of the opposite shore was etched into the lake, an underwater forest gleaming brighter than the land around it. Crishi decided it was time to change games—he wanted a three-legged race, and Manton knew where there were a whole lot of old neckties, up in the attic, we could use for it. Crishi chose me as his partner and bound my leg to his with a frayed fraternity necktie that had probably belonged to Lindsay’s father. The Rani, though protesting that she was just getting expert in hopping, climbed out of her seed bag and looked around for a partner. Manton and Lindsay came forward, but she chose someone from the town; and now everyone was running around finding partners and race after race was run. But it always happened that Crishi and I came in first—we were unbeatable, an irresistible team.
I was getting tired—not physically but in the sense of bored; besides, I couldn’t see Michael, who took no part in the fun. I asked Crishi, “Where’s Michael?” but he didn’t hear me, not even when I said it the second and third time. He didn’t look at me either, not once, although we were tied and running so closely together that we might as well have been one person. All his attention was fixed on the game; he seemed to be enjoying it. I began to say “Let me go,” and “Let me go please, Crishi,” but he still didn’t hear me; and when I looked into his face, I saw that his eyes, which refused to meet mine, were hard and cold, and so was the smile of enjoyment fixed on his face. Although desperate to get away, I found that, whenever it was our turn to run, I naturally followed Crishi as if my body obeyed him more than it did me; and how easily we won each time, our limbs in perfect accord—we could not help winning, we were just naturally swifter, fleeter than anyone else. But while physically I was doing so well, otherwise I was getting more and more upset—in fact, I was getting almost hysterical, shouting “Let me go!” as we ran, which made Crishi run faster, with me forced to follow him. Until finally, when we won again, he looked around at the others coming up behind us and taunted them—“What’s all this huffing and puffing” (he and I weren’t even out of breath) “I think it’s the smoking and drinking and all the other stuff. . . . Oh you want to go?” he said to me, as if he had only just heard me. By this time I was yelling in his ear and hitting his arm with my fist, and to make it look like part of the fun we were having, he laughed out loud and bent down to untie my leg from his; and the moment he did that, I sprang away from him and fled—past the Rawul, who applauded me in the same way he had done Mrs. Pickles, softly clapping his hands held high in the air and calling out a smiling “Bravo.” I didn’t stop running till I was in the house and was, I felt, safe.
Safe from what and safe from whom? I didn’t ask till I was inside, where it was cool, silent, with lamps lit in the hall and on the upper landings. Only then did it strike me how stupid it was to be feeling and to be fleeing that way; and only then did I notice that there were tears coming out of my eyes. I hate tears—my own, that is—I truly hate and despise them, and so does Michael; I dashed them away impatiently with the back of my hand before going into his room. There he was lying on his bed, reading a book, and I was so over-whelmed with gladness to see him, and to be with him, that I could say nothing but stood with my back to the door, still holding the handle, and looking at him. He lowered his book—some ancient Oriental text, as usual—and said “It all seems to be going on fine.”
“Why aren’t you down there?”
“Oh you know.”
Of course I knew. Michael never joined in anything—he was a natural loner; whenever something was going on, pleasant or unpleasant, he disappeared and was to be found reading in his room. We had never managed to get through an entire family meal without someone saying “Harriet, go and find Michael,” and usually more than once, between soup and meat course, and then again before dessert.
So it was only natural that he should now ask “Have you been sent for me?”
“Oh no,” I said. “You can stay here; that’s all right.”
“Are you sure? No one wants me? Crishi’s not saying, ‘Now where the hell is that Michael?’” He tried unsuccessfully to imitate Crishi’s very distinctive accent, and smiled tenderly, as though he could hear Crishi talking.
“No. He’s not asking for you.”
“Maybe I should go down. I mean, with everyone working so hard.”
It was the first time I had heard Michael have any qualms about not joining in. He even laid aside his book and got up to look out the window at what was going on. I joined him there, standing very close behind him as if for protection. But they had stopped playing games. It had turned almost dark outside—deep dusk—and from up here we could make out small shadowy figures moving around on the lower lawn; a dull silver light gleamed from the water and the sky, as from twin mirrors. Someone had taken the boat out on the lake and it floated there as a black speck on the silvered surface. And the two flags hoisted that day hung from the top of their poles, limp in the still air. Michael appeared to be looking at these flags and I at the figures below; usually we felt the same but not now, it seemed.
“Aren’t you glad we’ve got this house?” he said.
“But you’re giving it away.”
“That’s what I mean: glad to have it to give.” His face was raised toward the sky; he gave first a sigh—of satisfaction—next a laugh, also of satisfaction.
I saw that some of the figures were beginning to straggle toward the house. I wished they wouldn’t; I wanted to stay alone with Michael. I put my hand on his shoulder; this was as far as we ever got touching one another, but it was very intimate between us. Michael didn’t like anyone touching him, unless it was lovers, I presume.
“Where are you going this summer, Michael?”
“What? What are you talking about?” He half-turned his head toward me. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
“I just thought if you were, if you’d take me with you.”
“What’s got into you?” He very slightly moved his shoulder—no more than a twitch, but I took my hand away. I thought he was annoyed because I had asked to be taken with him. Although he did sometimes take me, he certainly didn’t want to be asked; that would have meant being tied down, someone making a demand on him. But now it seemed what had irritated him was my suggestion that he was going away somewhere: “You know perfectly well I can’t, with everything going on.”
I said “What’s going on?” His exclamation made me retrieve that a bit: “You mean, the Fourth World and all of that—”
“What else would I mean. You’re not being serious, Harriet. And you have to be because it’s very serious and important for us. For everyone.”
“You mean the whole world?”
“Yes of course I mean the whole world—what do you think it’s all about?”
There was silence between us, irritated on his part, sad on mine. The figures were drawing closer—by the dull silver light from the sky I could make out Jean with Lindsay, and at some distance Manton with Barbara. But most of the guests remained on the lower lawn; still no one wanted to go home. There were faint sounds of laughter coming from there, something was going on; I could make out some sort of animal noises—was it hens? cows? I guessed Mr. McKimberley was doing his animal imitations, which were always popular at local gatherings, though it took a few drinks before he could be induced to perform them. The guests had by now dipped freely into the punch bowl and were ready to be taken out of themselves. The night was peaceful, the trees asleep, but the balmy air seemed shot through with expectation and excitement. Or was this only emanating to me from Michael as he leaned against