As soon as the Suede Boots episode ends, it seems never to have happened. It’s almost as though there has never been any such person, as he no longer passes the house, preferring to make a lengthy detour, that must waste a lot of his time.
Dog Head has satisfactorily intimidated him. It’s his wife he doesn’t seem able to master. She never even says she’s sorry — not a word of apology does she utter. He doesn’t suspect her of a serious affair, but imagines people are laughing at him, which makes him mad. It’s outrageous that she should dare to humiliate him like this. Somehow he simply must get his own back.
Officially the subject is closed. He doesn’t refer to it any more. All goes on as before. But, though outwardly he is the same as ever, underneath he seems to be changing. Always now there’s that indefinable hint about him of something queer, almost like a touch of madness. A mad frenzy of resentment against her has got into him, which increases as the days pass. The atmosphere is changing too, in the house and outside. Every day the heat grows more intolerable; a weird undercurrent of electrical tension builds up… an uncanny excitement… as in a dream that has moved imperceptibly into nightmare…
He doesn’t want to be with his wife, everything about her gets on his nerves, and yet he can’t leave her alone. If he asks her to ride or play tennis with him, she always refuses. It exasperates him beyond words to see her mooning about aimlessly, or sitting for hours with her nose stuck in a book. If she’s too lazy to take healthy exercise, he asks why she doesn’t at least talk to the other women.
She knows it’s foolish to answer such questions but, I her nerves not being immune to the general tension, is provoked into saying: ‘What can I talk about? If I mention anything that interests me, a book or a play, they think I’m affected — they don’t understand intelligent conversation.’
This brings forth: ‘Fuck you and your intelligent conversation!’ The man looks at her in blazing indignation; how dare she put on airs just because she’s supposed to be brainy? His arrogant face frightens her, the blue flame in his eyes really does seem a little mad, and she avoids him as much as she can.
Periodically his work takes him away for a day or two, which ought to be a relief. But then her absolute loneliness falls on her like a ton weight. The house is silent, full of heat, emptiness, and the hostility of the servants, who watch her with black unfriendly eyes as she eats her solitary meals. If only she could have her food on a tray somewhere! But of course that’s not to be thought of. The household routine must go on. Everything has been settled for her in advance by people who don’t wish her well. Why are they all against her? She remembers the women who used to say, ‘You’ll get to like living here in time,’ their voices showing they knew very well that she wouldn’t like it, and were gloating over the fact.
What on earth is she doing here, anyway, among all these brain-fever birds, parrots, vultures, snakes, scorpions, big bright spiders, and ants that can eat a whole bush in half an hour? It doesn’t seem to be her life at all. It’s more like a dream, that only is not a nightmare because she knows it won’t last forever this is the knowledge that keeps her going.
In the meantime, the days seem endless. Each day is like a balloon, blown up to bursting point by the heat and the tension of the approaching monsoon. Electric tension gathers beneath the great clouds that pile up always gone the next morning — while the earth swelters in airless suspense. It’s too hot to think, even. She seems to spend her time waiting — for night to come, or simply for the next minute.
She drags herself up the stairs to put some eau-de-Cologne on her neck and forehead, and afterwards wanders out on to the flat roof of the porch. Out here it seems hotter than ever, in the unnatural half-light under the clouds. She’s never seen such clouds, enormous, massive, menacing, black, with yellow underbellies, forming an iron roof over the simmering world. Their shadow brings a strange burning hush in which a gong booms out startlingly. And suddenly a single tremendous buffet of hot wind, like a blast from the devil’s furnace, almost sweeps her off her feet, showering her with dust and the small, dry, shriveled leaves of the tamarinds.
Her eyes are still full of dust, she hasn’t had time to collect herself, when the youth who wears the white turban appears behind her. Missis come in now,’ he orders disapprovingly, his attitude towards her modeled on that of his superior.
As she steps inside he immediately slams the shutters, and then goes all round the house, banging them to with a noise of protest. Padding away finally on his bare feet, he leaves her to stew in solitude under the squeaky fan, in the simmering gloom that seems like the end of the world.
It’s too dark to read, and, when she switches the light on, the heat of the bulb slaps her face. So she turns it out again, kicks off her sandals, and sits doing nothing, simply waiting for time to pass, abandoned to heat and discomfort. Presently she hears someone coming, and rouses herself from this daze; her feet instinctively find their way back into the discarded sandals.
In comes Mr Dog Head, sweat streaming down his face, but otherwise unaffected by the heat, which he won’t condescend to notice. Forgetting the nightmarish atmosphere momentarily, the girl actually finds his arrival a welcome break in the arid, interminable, eventless expanse of time. She smiles and says, ‘Hello,’ blinking in the daylight that streams into the room after him, against which he stands outlined. How can he be so impervious to the heat? — it doesn’t seem human. His tough, angular frame might be made of metal, or any substance that isn’t sensitive to the temperature.
‘Sitting in the dark?’ He neither smiles nor returns her greeting, addressing her in the same disapproving tone that the servant used not long ago. Even before she hears his censorious voice and sees him eyeing her with suspicion, she recalls despairingly the hopelessness of attempting to talk to him. And she says no more.
As he hasn’t seen her for a few days he looks at her more attentively than usual, noticing that she’s become paler and thinner than she used to be; which she seems to have done on purpose to annoy him, so that he snaps: ‘What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you well?’ She can’t see his face clearly against the light, but doesn’t need to, being only too familiar with that particular overbearing tone — surely he isn’t going to start a quarrel already? She feels she can’t stand the effort of quarrelling in this appalling heat, and says quietly that the weather makes her head ache.
‘You strain your eyes reading too much,’ he retorts. Then: ‘Why the devil can’t you get used to the climate, like everyone else?’ Her failure to make this adjustment also seems an exasperating device for making him angry. But, though she doesn’t answer, he lets it go, preoccupied with a new idea, originating in her looking unwell, which slowly takes shape in his head.
The way he’s still staring reminds her that she hasn’t tidied her hair since the wind blew it about, and she smoothes it down with her hands, so that it catches his eye. He looks at the glossy, vigorous hair, in which all her vitality seems concentrated, and which is now so long that it rests on her shoulders, as she hasn’t had the energy lately even to have it cut. All at once, he finds that his hands are twitching involuntarily — he wants to stroke it, which he hasn’t done since the period of his infatuation. His gaze becoming proprietory, possessive, he takes a sudden step forward and puts his hand on her shoulder.
She is quite unprepared for this, thinking only about her hair. It makes her jump to feel the big, hard, heavy hand descend on her shoulder, like a policeman’s, and tighten its grip there.
‘Anything happened while I’ve been away?’ he asks now, in a changed, peculiar tone, ingratiating and artificial; he doesn’t really want to know, or expect an answer, and might equally well have made any other remark. The question is in the nature of a preliminary, part of a routine, which she recognizes with horror from the bedroom, as he pulls her against him.
She feels the insufferable heat generated between their two touching bodies spring up like a flame and, acting purely on impulse, not stopping to think, wrenches herself out of his grasp. Instantly a murderous flare appears in his blue eyes, his face goes rigid, his hands clench as if to drag out by the roots handfuls of the hair they were about to caress. But he says nothing, turning his back on her, and marches out of the room.
She doesn’t see him again until they meet at dinner, when he hardly speaks a word. To pay her out, as soon as the meal is over, he gets the racquets and starts the rat game. Though he can’t compel her to play with him, he forces her to stay in the room. But she shuts her eyes tight and won’t watch, so he’s frustrated again.
He feels like bashing her with the racquet, and is only restrained by the resolve that’s come to him suddenly to make her give him a son and heir; it’s the least she can do in return for the honour of being married to him. Besides, it will take her down a peg or two, and show her which of them is the boss.
Grinning to himself over these thoughts, he goes on bashing the rats with particular gusto.