Authors: Anna Kavan
As if the bottom has fallen out of the sky, rain comes down with a thunderous smash. Pounding on the roof, the vast mass of water adds its continuous battering boom to the ponderous roar of great thunder-wheels rolling loose in the blackness outside.
All lesser noises are hopelessly lost in this ceaseless bludgeoning of tumultuous noise.
18
It is very early, not yet day. In the east the leaden clouds have parted, exposing a segment of slowly brightening sky. Soon the clouds will come together again in combat, crashing and thundering against one-another, flooding the world with rain as with their life blood. But first there is this moment of peace, a fugitive breath of coolness, a pause which belongs to neither night nor day.
The purple-blue of the sky slowly lightens to pure piercing turquoise, a shade only seen at this hour, and for a few seconds only, before the sunrise. Light grows imperceptibly, infiltrating the shades of night.
The servants are still asleep in their own quarters after the excitement of the monsoon's arrival, The house stands silent, as if deserted; the open shutters reveal only black holes of rooms. Last night's bath has emphasized its latent dilapidation; the neglected exterior is more noticeable, the cracks in the walls, and the splintering woodwork. What is not seen is the more serious secret damage, where termites have undermined and eroded, so that, unaccountably, objects come crashing down.
The solitary palm tree in front looks battered, bedraggled and shabby, among pools of rain water left in the hollows of the uneven ground. The swamp has changed colour overnight like a conjuring trick, covered in bright blue flowers. Almost visibly, new green shoots are everywhere piercing the newly sodden earth, from which mist slowly steams up and hangs in long trails
just above the ground. A soundless procession of yellow-robed begging priests passes, ankle deep in the white vapour, ghostly and transient as a dream.
From the sheltered recesses of the forest trees the great snake moves slowly towards the light and negligently loops its pale length, swaying gently from side to side. Those of the small parrots which have survived the storm's bombardment are waking with drowsy wing-stretchings, so many handfuls of brilliant feathers that seem barely held together by the frail thread of life.
Who-are-you? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? The brain-fever bird's harsh cry is always the first definite sound to be heard, although the birds themselves remain mysteriously invisible among the sparse foliage and involved tracery of the tamarind branches. All day long their interminable unanswered question will continue, an irritating inescapable background noise, mingling with every second, with all situations, weaving its way into the whole human fabric of talk, thought and action, until the sudden curtain of darkness falls.
Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? The same loud insistent cry is transmitted from bird to bird in a whole succession of identical but more remote cries, coming, not only from the vicinity of the house, but from much further afield: from the other side of the road, from all over the confused tract of country beyond, even from the distant jungle where thousands of the same species must congregate. Some of these ceaseless cries are louder than others, or more prolonged: but all alike share the common exasperating suggestion of a mechanical noise nobody can stop; they don't express hunger, or love, or fear, or anything else, but seem
uttered with the sole object of maddening whoever hears them.
The tops of the tamarinds suddenly burn, fiery; the sun is up, gilding the topmost point of the roof. Instantly the air fills with the shrill, continuous din of innumerable insects of every kind, which at once seems always to have been going on.
Countless birds, too, explode into screaming, whistling, whooping or chattering cries, impossible to disentangle. Darting to and fro, the small parrots trace complex emerald diagrams on the air, their thin screeching lost in the general commotion which is called silence.
From this confusion of noise, only the cries of the brain-fever birds emerge distinctly, nerve-racking and unmistakably clear, violently assaulting the ears with their loud, flat repetitions, like mechanical instruments of torture.
They implant an obscure irritant in the brain, eternally calling out the monotonous question nobody will ever answer, from all points of the compass, from far and near . . . which others of their kind infuriatingly echo . . . and others still . . . driving the crazed hearer into delirium . . . until the ultimate nightmare climax — when suddenly everything stops . . .
19
Suede Boots drops in for tea as usual, cheerful, smiling, matter of fact. At once the girl feels happier and more relaxed. She's become much more tranquil under his influence.
But she's still nervous about her husband, who has now recovered, and spends most of the time working in his office. He hasn't said a word to her about the daily visits, which strikes her as ominous, sinister. She can't believe Suede Boots is right in saying that, by keeping silent, he shows he has no objection.
Not that there's anything for him to object to. Their relationship is perfectly innocent. Anybody might listen to their conversation, even when it's personal. Their intimacy has not progressed beyond an almost childish enjoyment of being together, exchanging smiles, talking nonsense, or, alternatively, discussing life with great seriousness.
'Before I met you I used to feel as if I was in a nightmare,' she tells him, 'and that I'd never escape.' But she no longer remembers this feeling with any distinctness, and might be describing the sensations of a girl in a book.
Sometimes she has an uneasy sense of the precariousness of the present situation, and is afraid her new happiness may vanish suddenly. But she refuses to admit this or to think about it, though it shows itself in her superstitious desire to keep everything between them exactly the same as it always has been she can't bear any change to creep in.
The young man is really fond of her and concerned for her welfare. He has made up his mind that her unsuitable marriage must end; then she'll be able to go to the university as she's always wanted. Whether their relationship is supposed to become closer eventually is not very clear in his mind. But he's taken the step of writing to his family about her, so that she can stay with them, as she's got nobody to take care of her over there.
She is touched when she hears this gratitude overwhelms her. She's never known so much kindness existed in life. Carried away by his enthusiasm she eagerly discusses her future with him. They make up all sorts of different plans, each leading to a fresh favourable outcome. For the possibilities seem endless, each more glowing than the last. So that she gets quite excited about them; excitement perhaps goes to her head a little.
But as soon as her excitement dies down, the whole project begins to seem unreal. She can't believe it will ever come off. Things don't happen like that in her case — they always go wrong.
'It's just a fairy tale you've made up about me — it can't possibly come true.' Thus she demolishes all the plans they have been constructing together. It's no good inventing a happy future for her, since she's always been unlucky, and always will be.
Silence falls after this. The young man is disappointed; but he won't give up, and is now thinking how he can persuade her to take a more optimistic view. She has told him she'd like to live through their original meeting all over again, so he asks if she remembers their conversation then. 'We said that if I hadn't killed the snake on that particular day, and you hadn't happened to see me, everything would have been quite different.' He sees her looking at him with interest, and is encouraged to go on. 'I wouldn't be here with you now. This wouldn't be real something else would. You'd have been another you, instead of the one you are now. You can't be tied down to a predestined fate when you change according to your situation, and your fate must change too. Everything depends on circumstances — on which "you" you happen to be at a given time . . '
Interrupting exactly as if it wanted to join in, a brain-fever bird just outside starts shouting, Who-are-you ? so loudly that no human voice can compete with it. He can only wait for it to stop. They smile at each other, sitting helplessly, while the monotonous, everlasting question is taken up by all the brain-fever birds for miles around. The girl can't even think about what he's been saying — though it sounded reasonable, she has a vague idea there's a flaw in the argument somewhere. But she can't detect it with this row going on — she's never heard the birds make such a din_
Loud, flat and persistent, the repetitious cries come from all distances and directions, filling the room, the house, the whole afternoon with their exasperating sound, which expresses no normal bird-feeling, but seems only meant to drive people mad. Like mad machines nobody can stop, the birds go on and on. Their deafening chorus hammers upon her nerves until she's half dazed.
This no doubt explains why she's slower than her companion to hear the new mechanical noise he heard
several seconds ago — she becomes aware of it first when she sees that the smile's disappeared from his face. Now she strains her ears to follow the low continuous hum or buzz through the birds' commotion, and has barely identified it as the noise of a car when it stops abruptly.
Everything else seems to stop with it. The bird-calls abruptly break off. In the ensuing silence, footsteps are heard approaching, loud, heavy, regular as machinery. The door flaps fly open to admit Mr Dog Head, who doesn't speak but stands staring at the pair, a curious blend of indignation, contempt and triumph on his arrogant features. He's delighted to have caught his wife in the act — of what, he doesn't trouble to think, but tells himself that now he really has something to blame her for. For the moment, however, he concentrates his offensive gaze on the visitor, who gets up in confusion and holds out his hand.
Dog Head looks down his supercilious nose at him in amazed contempt, as much as to say, ‘Good God ! Surely this scum of the earth doesn't expect me to touch him' — he'd never dream of contaminating his lordly self in this way ! But aloud he says nothing, merely continuing to glare at the hand, until its owner withdraws it, muttering something incomprehensible in his indignation at the silent insolence of the man's behaviour who the hell does he think he is, standing there as if he expected people to fall down and worship him?
Restraining his anger, the guest decides that the most dignified course is to shame him by his own politeness, and says: ‘I'm glad we've met finally; I've always missed you before. Our office hours must be different.'
Not a word comes in response to this. A lengthy pause follows, and then he goes on, although the other
has shown not the slightest interest, ' We have to start early, but then we get off early too,' embarking on a rather detailed account of his work schedule, which would be more appropriate if he'd been questioned about it. Not a single inquiry is made, and no comment either. The man he's talking to simply goes on staring at him with the same contemptuous arrogance; until his personal servant brings in a fresh pot of tea, and he sits down and pours himself a cup, taking no more notice of Suede Boots than if he were a fly buzzing round the ceiling. Apparently he doesn't hear a word he is saying, not even glancing at him now, his overbearing countenance fixed in stony disdainful indifference, as if he'd been petrified with this expression.
Catching sight of his face, the young fellow suddenly interrupts himself, his own face turning scarlet. He looks like a furious little boy, but chokes back the angry words on his lips and turns to the girl instead, saying, ' Well, I'll be off now.' He smiles at her with a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, then hurries out, the smile changing to a grimace as soon as he turns his back.
Humiliated, enraged and embarrassed, he leaves the house as fast as he can. Something makes him glance back at it over his shoulder while crossing the compound, and he sees a tall, gaunt bearded figure posted outside the door like a sentry, watching him off the premises. The same grimace, openly furious now, crosses his face. Soon he is out of sight.
The squeak of the fan gets louder and louder in the room where husband and wife have been left alone. The man has turned all his anger against her now. But she's only thinking about the sudden end of her happiness, which she has always feared she seems to have
known all along that things would end like this. Despair has fallen upon her. She hardly cares what happens. Of course there's bound to be an appalling row. She waits almost indifferently for it to begin. She's disgusted by her husband's rudeness to her friend and repelled by him when she catches a glimpse accidentally of his staring blue eyes, like a pair of marbles in his tanned face. The red ring his hat has left round his forehead might be a royal symbol, judging by his high and mighty expression. She can't stand this assumption of superiority after the way he's been behaving, and instinctively picks up a book and pretends to read, so that she needn't see him.
Naturally, this enrages him even more. ‘What were you doing alone with that young whippersnapper?' he asks in a bullying tone.
‘Now it's coming,' she thinks helplessly. But she says nothing. What's the use of talking to him?
‘Answer me !' He jumps up and stands over her, his fist coming down in a nerve-shattering thump on the table, making the cups jump and rattle and slop the dregs of cold tea into their saucers.
The agonizing squeak of the fan seems to be trying in vain to drown the noise of his heavy breathing. She knows the superior look she can't stand must be on his face, so she doesn't look up or see how strangely his eyes are glittering. We were having tea.' She can hardly bring herself to answer him, and speaks the words with difficulty.
But to the hearer her low voice sounds indifferent. It certainly isn't apologetic this and the way she refuses to look at him drives him nearly frantic. ‘What sort of a bloody fool do you take me for?' he explodes. ‘Do you imagine I don't know you've been seeing him every day?'