But Arun, who had spied Patricia Cox and was determined to be gallant to her, walked past them with a nod. Meenakshi was saying:
‘—and of course, I understand nothing about these handicaps and so on, but I do like the names, eagles and birdies and so on. They sound so — so — it’s all right, he’s gone. Now, Billy, when should we meet?’
‘We can’t meet. Not after this!’ Billy sounded horrified. He was, moreover, transfixed by Meenakshi’s little pear-like earrings, which he found curiously disconcerting.
‘I can’t get pregnant twice,’ said Meenakshi. ‘It’s perfectly safe now.’
Billy was looking ill. He glanced quickly across the room at Shireen.
‘Really, Meenakshi!’
‘Don’t “really Meenakshi” me,’ said Meenakshi with a sharp edge to her voice. ‘We are going to continue as before, Billy, or I won’t answer for the consequences.’
‘You wouldn’t tell him—’ gasped Billy.
Meenakshi drew her elegant neck upward and smiled at Billy. She looked tired, perhaps even a little worried. She did not answer his question.
‘And the — well — the baby?’ said Billy.
‘I’ll have to think of what to do about that,’ said Meenakshi. ‘I’d go mad wondering about it otherwise. Not knowing. That’s something I might need a little help with too. So, let’s say Friday afternoon?’
Billy nodded his head helplessly.
‘Friday afternoon, then, that’s fixed,’ said Meenakshi. ‘It really is lovely to see you again. But you’re looking a little under the weather, Billy. Eat a raw egg before you come.’ And she moved away, blowing him a kiss when she was halfway across the room.
13.33
After dinner and a little dancing (‘Don’t know how long you’ll be able to do this, darling,’ said Arun to her), they returned home. Meenakshi turned on the lights, and opened the fridge for a drink of cold water. Arun looked at the thick stack of gramophone records lying on the dining table and growled:
‘This is the third time Varun’s done this. If he wants to live in this house, he must learn that a house is not a sty. Where is he anyway?’
‘He said he’d be out late, darling.’
Arun headed for the bedroom, undoing his tie as he went. He put on the light, and stopped dead.
The place had been ransacked. The long black iron trunk, usually covered with a mattress and a piece of brocade and used as a window seat, was lying open, its lock broken. The sturdy leather attaché case that lay inside the trunk was empty. Its nine-lever lock had been too hard to force, so the top of the thick hide had been slashed and hacked with a knife in a gaping, S-shaped curve. The jewellery boxes inside had been emptied of their contents and were lying scattered here and there on the floor. He looked quickly around the room. Nothing else had been touched, but everything in the attaché case had gone: everything from the jewellery given by both sides of the family to his father’s one remaining gold medal. Only the necklace that Meenakshi had worn the previous night and that she hadn’t locked away but left on the dressing table had been overlooked; and, of course, whatever she was wearing tonight. Much had been taken that was of great sentimental value. Worst of all — considering that he belonged to the insurance department at Bentsen Pryce and should perhaps have taken the coverage despite the expense of the premium — none of it was insured.
When Arun went back to the drawing room, he looked ashen.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ asked Meenakshi, moving towards the bedroom.
‘Nothing, darling,’ said Arun, barring her way. ‘Nothing. Sit down. No, in the drawing room.’ He could imagine what the scene might do to her, especially in her present state. He shook his head at the image of the hacked attaché case.
‘But something is terribly wrong, Arun,’ said Meenakshi.
Slowly, and with his arm around her, he told her what had happened.
‘Thank God Aparna’s with your parents tonight. But where are the servants?’
‘I let them off early.’
‘We must see if Hanif is asleep in the quarters at the back.’
The bearer-cum-cook was horrified. He had been asleep. He had seen and heard nothing. And he was very afraid that suspicion would fall on him. Clearly there appeared to have been inside knowledge of where the jewellery was kept. Perhaps it was the sweeper, he suggested. He was terrified of what the police would do to him under interrogation.
Arun tried to phone the police, but there was no response on the line.
After a stream of six obscenities, he came to his senses. The last thing he wanted to do was to upset his wife.
‘Darling, you wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive over to the police station and inform them.’
But Meenakshi did not want to remain alone in the house, and said that she would go along with Arun. She had begun to tremble slightly. In the car she put her hand on his shoulder while he drove.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ said Arun. ‘At least all of us are all right. Don’t worry. Try not to think of it. It isn’t good for you or the baby.’
13.34
Meenakshi was so upset by the robbery and the loss of her jewellery, which did not include the gold earrings that she had got made but did include her father-in-law’s second gold medal, that she needed to recover at her parents’ house for a week. Arun was as sympathetic as he could be, and though he knew he would miss her and Aparna, he felt that it would be good for her to be away from the house for a while. Varun returned the next morning after a night with his friends. He grew pale when he heard the news. When Arun told him that if he hadn’t been ‘drinking around town all night there would have been someone at home to prevent the robbery’, his face grew red. Arun too, after all, had been out having a good time. But instead of provoking Arun, who appeared to be at the end of his tether, Varun kept quiet and slunk into his room.
Arun wrote to Mrs Rupa Mehra, telling her about the robbery. He assured her that Meenakshi was well, but was forced to mention that the other medal too had been lost. He could imagine how badly she would take this. He too had loved his father and was upset most particularly about the loss of this medal. But there was nothing to be done except hope that the police would trace the culprit or culprits. They were already interrogating the sweeper-boy: beating him up, to be precise. Arun, when he heard of this, tried to stop them.
‘But how else can we find out what happened — how the thieves came to know where you kept the jewellery?’ asked the station house officer.
‘I don’t care. I won’t have this,’ said Arun, and made sure that they didn’t beat him up further. The worst of it was that Arun himself suspected that it was the sweeper-boy who had been in league with the criminals. It was unlikely that it was the Toothless Crone or Hanif. As for the part-time mali or the driver, they never entered the house.
Another matter about which Arun wrote to his mother was his meeting with Haresh. The loss of face he had suffered at the Khandelwals’ still made him flush whenever he thought about it. He told Mrs Rupa Mehra precisely what he thought of his prospective brother-in-law: that he was a short, pushy, crass young man with too good an opinion of himself. He had a smattering of the grimy Midlands over a background of the malodorous alleys of Neel Darvaza. Neither St Stephen’s nor the culture of London had had much effect on him. He dressed dressily; he lacked the social graces; and his English was oddly unidiomatic for one who had studied it at college and had lived two years in the country. As for mixing in Arun’s kind of company (the Calcutta Club and the Tollygunge Racecourse: the elite of Calcutta society, both Indian and European), Arun could not see how it would be possible. Khanna was a foreman — a foreman! — in that Czech shoemaking establishment. Mrs Rupa Mehra could not seriously believe that he was fit material to marry a Mehra of their class and background, or to drag her daughter down with him. Arun added that Meenakshi, by and large, agreed with him.