He looked down at her again and this time there could be no doubt that she was soundly asleep. For a long minute he looked into her dark, pitted face and then with the languor of a sleepwalker he raised a finger and touched her on the lips. The sensation went through him like a shock. He snatched his hand back, leapt to his feet and wandered confusedly back to the tarpaulin shelter near the stern.
When they awoke next morning an oil-tanker lay before them. It was so vast it seemed to straddle half the horizon. Mariamma passed so close to it they could see clearly the cross-hatching of pipes and turrets on its deck. It seemed to take an age before they had sailed its length. Its wake was like a gorge swinging through the sea, and when it struck Mariamma the boat almost stood on its stern. They saw a couple of other tankers that day and a few smaller ships, too, mainly freighters and ancient tramps wheezing columns of smoke. In the evening Chunni, sitting with Professor Samuel in the stern, saw birds and pointed them out. When the Professor told Hajji Musa about them the Hajji nodded. Yes, he said, it’s the ninth day. We’ll be in al-Ghazira soon. To celebrate they cooked the one fish that had somehow entangled its gills in Alu’s line.
Late that night Karthamma’s groans started again. By sunrise the cabin was shivering to her screams. The men sat on the steps and stared at the curtain; they could only guess at what was happening inside. They heard a fist pounding on the cabin wall, and Zindi shouting curses. At times the oil-drums rang out as though someone had been thrown against them; at others, eerily, the noise stopped and torrents of words came pouring out of the cabin. In those pauses the Professor would lean forward and listen intently. Once he nodded at the others and said: It’s those forms again. She wants them right now, God help her.
At that Rakesh, who was combing his hair distractedly, rose and fetched a bucket of water. We have to do something, he said helplessly.
A moment later Zindi’s huge bulk stumbled backwards through the curtains and collapsed on to the steps. She sat huddled forward, bent almost double, trying to catch her breath. She saw the others watching her and threw up her hands. What can I do? she said, her voice cracking with exhaustion. The mad bitch is going to kill it and herself, too. It’s all we can do to keep her hands from her womb, and how long can we go on?
She looked hopelessly at the Professor: Can’t you do something?
Professor Samuel took off his spectacles and polished them on his vest, lips pursed. Then, squinting thoughtfully at the cabin, he said: Yes, I think there is something we can do.
She jumped to her feet: What? What will you do?
Wait, he said, fitting his spectacles on again. You’ll see. He turned to Alu: Have you got any paper? Printed paper — paper with fine, close print on it?
Alu nodded. The Professor slapped him on the back. Come on, then. They hurried back to the stern, and Professor Samuel threw aside the tarpaulin sheet that covered their bundles and pulled out his tin suitcase. With deft, controlled haste he unlocked his tin suitcase and took out a pair of trousers, a tie and a black cotton jacket. Dropping his lungi he stepped into his trousers, pulled the jacket on over his vest and wound the tie quickly around his neck. Alu, he shouted, get me the paper, quick.
Untying his bundle of clothes Alu took out the copy of the Life of Pasteur that Gopal had given him and very carefully tore off a page. Despite its age the paper was stiff and crisp. The Professor snatched it from him and, taking a pen out of his jacket, drew a straight line at the bottom of the page. Beside it he wrote in English: ‘Signed.’
You think it’ll work? Alu asked. Oh, yes, said the Professor, she’s in no state to tell the difference between a form given to her by a government babu and a sheet of paper held under her nose by a suited-booted stranger …
He broke off in dismay, looking down at his bare feet. No shoes, he muttered. No shoes.
She won’t look at your feet, Alu said.
Let us hope so, the Professor said, and straightening his jacket he hurried forward to the cabin. At the curtain he stopped and looked back at Alu and Rakesh. Alu waved him on. Looking studiedly downwards, Professor Samuel stepped into the cabin.
They heard him talking rapidly to Zindi. Then his voice changed, rose into a high official monotone and they couldn’t understand him any longer. They heard gasps and a long rattling sigh and after that silence, and then a scream, but of a kind very different from that to which they had grown accustomed: the full, disbelieving cry of a woman in labour.
The Professor stumbled out of the cabin and sat on the steps looking blankly at his feet. Alu prised the sheet of paper out of his fingers. Three shaky Malayalam characters were sprawled across the paper. He rolled the page into a ball and tossed it over the side.
Later, after the bustle and the cries in the cabin had ceased, Zindi came smiling up to the deck. She had a baby cradled in her arms. They all crowded around her to look. It was a boy, very small and wrinkled, dark like his mother and still slimy with her blood. His umbilical cord lay curled on his stomach.
Karthamma still hasn’t seen him, Zindi said. She’s fast asleep. Her face creased into a smile as she looked at Professor Samueclass="underline" Maybe she’ll beat you up once she knows what you did.
Kulfi-didi brought warm water and they washed the child and laughed at his shrill, resentful screams. Zindi swaddled it in her tarha and hugged the bundle to her breast and kissed it. My eyes, she said, he will be like my own two eyes to me.
Hajji Musa, standing beside her, tickled the child’s chin and said: It’s a fine boy and where could it grow up better than in the house of Zindi the Apple?
Then it was Rakesh’s turn. He raised his hand to tickle it but his courage ebbed away at the last moment and he dropped his hand and stood staring, shaking his head. Boss, he said in wonder, boss …
And so the child was given his name.
That night, while the others were crowding into the bows in their eagerness to get their first glimpse of al-Ghazira, Alu was sitting alone in the stern, trailing his line, savouring the silence, when he saw Zindi weaving her way down the passage towards him. With a long sigh she settled herself beside him. I’m tired, she said. God give me strength. She had changed into a fresh black fustan and tied a new scarf around her head.
She sighed again and patted his hand. Do you know now? she asked. Are you going to come to my house in al-Ghazira?
I can’t tell yet. Alu’s reply was barely audible. I’ll have to wait and see.
Bring the others if you like — Rakesh and Samuel. They’re all right, and it so happens that for once I have room now.
She peered closely at him: Well?
Alu shrugged: I don’t know …
Zindi sat absolutely still for a moment looking at his lumpy, swollen potato face. Then she hammered her fist on the deck. Idon’knowyet Idon’knowyet, she mimicked him. What do you know? Do you know anything at all?
Alu rose quickly to his feet but she shot out a hand and pulled him down again. He jerked his leg back but her fist had closed on it like a clamp. Pulling himself up again he braced himself against the rails and tried to kick his leg free.
Zindi smiled at him, immense and immovable. Why so shy? she said. Where can you run to?
Then in one quick movement she pulled him down and planted a hand in his crotch. She laughed, and he could feel her breath hot on his cheek. Now, she said, let’s see if you know about anything at all.
She tore open the knot in his pajamas and pushed them down to his knees. Good, she whispered in his ear, so there is something you know. With a flick of her wrists she flung her skirts back over her waist, baring a dark, surging pile of a belly and trunk-like thighs. She took hold of the small of his back and with one powerful heave of her shoulders, pulled him astride her.