When I woke up next morning my head was throbbing and my mouth tasted of sour bile. I could hear plates rattling in the kitchen. I raised my head and saw May standing at the wash basin; she had changed into a pair of faded brown corduroy jeans and a white pullover, and her grey-streaked hair was tied in a ponytail with a rubber band. Her mattress and blankets were neatly rolled up, standing in a corner.
I was about to call out to her when an image of her, crouching on the mattress, trying to shield her naked breast, flickered before my eyes. I fell back on the pillow and shut my eyes, and slowly everything I had done and said the night before came back to me, in minute, ghastly detail.
She must have known I was awake; seen the sweat on my face. I heard her voice, low and gravelly, above me, saying: Well? Do you think you’re ready to eat something now?
When I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me, her face calm, grave.
May … I began. I could not look at her; I let my head fall.
Yes? she said coolly. I knew she was waiting.
I don’t know how … I began again. I raised my head with an effort; she was still looking at me, her gaze steady, unwavering.
I’m afraid you’ll have to think of some way of saying it, she said. That’s absolutely the very least I expect.
I’m sorry, I said. What else can I say? Is there anything I can do to show you how sorry I am?
She was still looking at me steadily, but now there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Not feeling quite such a he-man now, may we surmise? she said.
Yes.
Her lips twisted into a smile and she stretched out a hand and rapped me on the back of my head.
Go on, she said. Get out of bed and wash your face. Then I’ll see about making you some breakfast.
By the time I was out of the bathroom, a plate of fried eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice were waiting for me on her table. I was very hungry now; I remembered I had eaten nothing the night before. But May was still busy in the kitchen so I stood behind a chair and waited.
Don’t wait for me, she called out. Go on — eat. You must be hungry after all your exertions.
But what about you? I said awkwardly. Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?
I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, she said. In fact, if I were you, I would address myself to the toast and eggs before they get cold and squishy. The bread is that wholewheat stuff we’re told we ought to eat nowadays — the trouble is it transmutes itself back into dough if it’s left to itself for more than a minute.
Without another word, I sat down and began to eat. Soon, she finished putting away her plates and stood leaning on the wall, watching me eat.
Some more toast? she said.
Yes, I said. But what about you? Aren’t you going to eat anything?
She handed me another slice and shook her head.
Have you had your breakfast already then?
No.
I was puzzled now. So then? I said.
I’m not going to eat any breakfast today, she said.
Why not?
She laughed. Evidently, she said, in Calcutta they don’t know the old adage about curiosity and cats. The answer to your question is: I’m not going to eat any breakfast today because this is a Saturday.
What does that mean? I said, mystified.
I don’t eat anything on Saturdays, she said. It’s what you might call my fast day.
Your fast day? I said. Do you mean you fast every Saturday?
She nodded: That is exactly what I mean. But why? I said.
This is beginning to sound like a catechism, she said. Well, I fast because it occurred to me a few years ago that it might not be an entirely bad idea to go without something every once in a while: who knows what the future has in store for me — or you, or, for that matter, the human race? We may as well try and prepare ourselves. And since, as far as I’m concerned, most days of the week are pretty much alike, I thought it might as well be Saturday. Your toast’s going cold again; I feel I ought to warn you.
I can’t understand it, I said. I think you’re joking.
Oh please, she said. Don’t go on about it — it’s not worth the bother.
She went into the kitchenette and came back with a carton of orange juice.
I don’t know whether you have any plans for the day, she said, filling my glass. But as for myself I have to be out on streets collecting money for one of my several worthy causes. I’ve been assigned to the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street — which is the prestige beat amongst us Good Workers, I’ll have you know — one of the most lucrative. You can come with me if you like.
What are you collecting money for?
For famine relief, she said. In Africa mainly. But who knows? Even you may benefit from it some day.
All right, I said, licking honey and butter off my lips. I’ll come with you. I may not be of much use, but I’d like to.
It’ll be very crowded, she said, and not particularly pleasant. I warn you.
Oh, I’m used to crowds, I said.
Well, we’ll see, she said. You may find this particular kind of crowd a little overpowering.
As it turned out, she was right. The moment we stepped out of the underground station at the intersection of Oxford Street and Regent Street, with our posters under our arms and collection boxes in our hands, I found myself awash, floundering in the torrent of shoppers, hurrying past, laden with plastic bags and packages. Before I knew it, I was swept away, and when I looked around all I could see was the tall windows of the department stores, glittering with lights and mannequins, and the stream of shoppers, stretching all the way down the street. Then I heard May’s voice and saw her, at the corner, laughing at me, and waving. It took a while before I could get back to her; I had to work my way around the stream, keeping my back to the shop windows.
So you’re used to crowds, May said, laughing.
She showed me how to hang the posters on the railing that divided the pavement from the road. Then she tapped my collection box and said: Go on — good hunting.
I stood at the edge of the flowing crowd and held out the box, hopefully. But after a quarter of an hour nobody had yet stopped to drop anything into it, and I began to wonder whether they could even see me. I stood back against the railing, in dejection, and watched May.
It was clear at once that she was skilled at the job; her usual tentative and rather shy manner had vanished, her voice had become loud and commanding. She would pick an individual in the crowd, catch his or her eye, step up and thrust out the box. Invariably, they dropped something into it.
I went back again to try out her technique, and soon people began to drop coins into my box too. A couple of hours later, with my box half full, I worked my way back to May’s side and sat down, using the box as a seat.
Tired already? May said.
Taking a break, I told her. Can’t we go somewhere and have a coffee?
No, she said. We’ve got work to do.
Tell me, I said, you must be quite senior in the Good Works hierarchy. You ought to be deciding where the helicopters go and things like that, shouldn’t you? Surely you don’t have to do this kind of legwork any more. This must be for rank novices.
I like doing this, she said. It seems, well, somehow useful.
She looked down at me and smiled, a wry, gentle smile that softened the harsh lines of her face.
Do you know, I said, that’s exactly how you used to look when I first met you. Do you remember? I was looking up at you then, just as I am now.
You had to look up at everyone then, she said, thrusting her collection box at a woman with a purple hat.
But do you remember? I said.
Yes, of course, she said. It was at Howrah Station, wasn’t it?
She had arrived on the Frontier Mail. My father, Tridib and I had gone to meet her.