He bent over her and then fell into a short doze. He did not lose the sense that she was by him, that he must help her. When he was younger he had not experienced such oneness in love — a love not impelled by the cry of the body, but deeper, quieter. And then he spied the lancet he had forgotten lying on the threshold like a silver fish thrown up on the shore, but it was the threshold of another cottage, not this one. He must bring it back in the morning or children would find it and take it away.
He woke with a feeling that something terrible had happened. The light of the lamp was barely visible under the ceiling, irrelevant in the brightness of the rising day. Margit lay beside him with her eyes open, watching him as if she were ready to burst into tears. A white sky without a single cloud hung over a quiet sea. Only a flock of gulls rocking on a wave screamed with voices full of amazement.
“Have you been awake long?” he asked.
She shook her head and whispered, “Merry Christmas. I’ve spoiled your holiday.”
“Don’t talk that way.” He touched her forehead. Her temperature had not gone down. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Give me another nightgown. This one is all wet. And move away. I’m disgusting.”
“We have to call a doctor.” He kissed her dry, coarse lips.
“Don’t kiss me. I don’t know what I have, and you might get sick, too.”
“We would lie here together,” he said, trying to joke as he pulled garments smooth and transparent as water from a cabinet. He helped her change her nightgown; for an instant he saw her small breasts, naked and defenseless.
“What could a doctor tell me? I’m not in pain. There is no rash. We have to wait. The disease will have to manifest itself.”
They spoke very low. She looked through the open door toward the sea.
“Such a beautiful day! Go for a swim before breakfast.”
Her eyelids closed. She looked like a tired child; the glare of the sunny day dazzled her. She took the thermometer from the corner of her mouth and tried to shake it quickly, but he managed to read: 39.2. She tried to smile but only distorted her mouth. “Go on,” she urged tenderly. “You’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“You’re weak. I’ll help you.”
“I can get to the bathroom myself.” She lowered her narrow feet and stood up, leaning on the bed. He saw the outline of her tanned body through filmy fabric; the deep cut of her nightshirt exposed arms bronze from the sun. I must remember her this way, he thought — dependent on me, yielding, undefended. I supported her and she accepted that with relief. She let herself be led.
“Let me be,” she whispered. He kissed her temple. He wanted to encourage her, to assure her that he was there.
He undressed quickly, throwing his pants on the chair. He turned off the useless lamp. As he stepped down onto the cool sand, a tremor ran through him. Dampness, chill, and diffuse light — the luminous blur of dawn — mingled in the air. He ran, breathing deeply the smell of the sea, delighting in the dexterity of his muscles, the responsiveness of his body. He stopped before the last cottage and was astonished to see that the lancet was not lying on the step where he had left it. He saw no footprints; the morning wind had erased them. He knelt to see if it had fallen into the sand. A brown rat lurked among the pilings, polished by the flagellating wind, that supported the floor. It looked out fearlessly with yellow-ringed eyes. He ran on and splashed into water that tilted gently with an invisible wave. It parted reluctantly, sleepily. The gulls swam as if they had grown tired of the unpeopled shore and abandoned it.
Just before his eyes, on a smooth expanse of water, he saw a fine dust carried from the land — light particles of soot from the tugboats. Beside it loomed, like a globe of violet glass, the circular form of a great jellyfish that was making its fateful way to the beach. On that dark belt of sand, the sun would kill it.
His brown arms cut the water. He did not swim so much as loll in the surf, roll, fall into the trough, then beat the water and rear up to the waist like a bird rising into flight. He was filled with the joy of a new day, of the love of a woman, fulfilling desire and transcending it, drawing the soul aloft as if on wings; he felt an immeasurable tenderness and gratitude that she wanted to be with him, to share the day. In the distance, like children’s laughter, the cries of gulls were borne on a slow wave. A ship in the port bellowed in a bass key.
The doctor, wearing a painstakingly pleated turban, left his stethoscopes hanging from his neck and moved a hirsute ear over Margit’s back. He pressed it with his cheek and she bent under the weight of his head. Because her temperature had not fallen — and this was the third day — he suspected that it was a paratyphoid fever, which was usual enough on the coast. Memsab’s system would soon get the better of it. Wishing to show that he was conversant with modern medicines, he suggested penicillin, for he had just received a fresh supply. But Margit only shrugged. She was weak; her hair had lost its coppery sheen. She tried to comb it, but there was no strength in her hands. She sat as if eaten up with fever, perspiring, her eyes flashing with an unhealthy brightness.
“I’ve grown awfully ugly.” She put down her mirror. “You are truly in love if you can look at me without loathing.”
He sat in a wicker chair and read aloud an entertaining short story from a thick edition of the Illustrated Weekly of India. Within himself he felt an unfamiliar serenity and order; it seemed to him that they were an old married couple and that what connected them was embodied in their surroundings, confirmed and reinforced by experience. He stole a glance at her: she had grown ugly. But when all is said and done, he thought, I love her not only for her grace and beauty. Through her I have this gift of peace. We understand and trust each other.
“Sahib.” Daniel was standing in the door to the veranda in a white linen costume that made his face and hands seem even darker. “Sahib, the wealthy brother is here.”
“Just don’t do anything foolish,” she begged.
“I’ll talk with him on the veranda with the door open. You’ll hear everything. You can put in a word at any minute.”
In front of the house, in the sun, stood a man in European dress: a white shirt and tie. His face was olive; his eyes looked out watchfully from under thick brows. He held a light straw hat in his hand.
“I am not intruding, I hope. I will only take a moment. I have already seen my brother. He told me everything. I had to come and thank you.”
“Please sit down, sir.”
He bowed and pressed Istvan’s hand tightly. He walked lightly up the steps and seated himself with catlike grace. Daniel brought a tray with Coca-Cola, ice in a wide thermos, lemons sliced in half, and a metal squeezer rather like a nutcracker.
“Will you drink whiskey?”
“With pleasure. I beg your pardon, but who is in there?” He pointed to the bedroom door.
“My”—Istvan hesitated as if he were being deposed by investigators—“my wife. Unfortunately, she is ill.”
“Ah, I know. The lady doctor. I asked because we are speaking of intimate matters. I do not like it when there are too many ears. Fortunately we can see all around us.”
“Someone may be under us.”
“No one is there. I checked.” He smiled with satisfaction because he had already thought of that. “I wanted to ask you to leave this matter to me.”
“Have you informed the police?”
“No. Mr. Terey, one should not forget that you are from the Red embassy, while I am from the Congress Party. Here in Kerala the communists are in power for the time being — a coalition supported by the votes of ‘wild delegates,’ or, if you prefer, ‘independents.’ The communists enjoy a certain popularity because they want sensible reforms. But that would mean that someone must give up something, must lose so others can gain. And those who have are not at all eager for redistribution.