Without warning one evening, while dinner is being served, the electric light starts to fade. It doesn’t go out altogether, but gives the impression of being about to do so at any moment, meanwhile maintaining a rapid, distracting, continuous flickering that has a distorting, hallucinatory effect, and makes everything seem unstable, unreal.
The girl asks what’s gone wrong, looking anxiously at her husband. Any mishap of this sort generally starts him swearing and shouting abuse at everyone within earshot. But to her surprise he remains calm and only says, ‘It’s always like this at the end of the hot weather,’ adding something about hydraulic pressure she doesn’t take in.
The queer quick fluctuations have already made her disagreeably conscious that her head is aching; also, they produce a disturbing, impossible effect, as if the day’s shimmering heat-haze had invaded the night-time room. Which is doubtless why she doesn’t notice when, after the butler has handed the main dish, the vegetables are offered, not by his proper assistant, but by the youth in the white turban.
Nor does the man at the head of the table appear to be aware of any irregularity in the service, as he helps himself generously. He keeps his eyes on his plate, eating with his usual appetite, preparing each mouthful in advance, putting it into his mouth and repeating the process before he’s finished masticating the last, displaying a somewhat doglike conscientiousness in scrupulously cleaning up every morsel. After he’s consumed a second helping with the same thoroughness, and while the butler’s occupied with the next course, the youth slips out to the back porch. Here Mohammed Dirwaza Khan is waiting for him and mutters a brief question, which he answers by a quick affirmative nod, returning immediately to the dining-room.
His bearded superior too leaves the porch at once, silent as a shadow, entering the central corridor which divides the house and into which the stairs and all the rooms lead. He passes the flickering light in the dining-room, where only his master’s legs are visible under the door flaps, and, without attracting attention or making a sound, mounts to the floor above. He does not hurry. If he is seen, he is merely on his way to prepare his master’s room for the night, as he always does at about this time.
Instead, however, he goes straight into the girl’s room, which he’s never supposed to enter. Considering this fact, he’s remarkably well acquainted with its contents and their exact position, for, without putting on the light, guided only by the feeble wavering gleam from below, he goes straight to the cupboard where she keeps her dresses, and a row of shoes on a shelf underneath.
He makes a sign of superstitious significance, to avert whatever evil would otherwise befall him in consequence of touching these forbidden objects, then squats down on his haunches and, with evident aversion, picks up one shoe gingerly, shakes it, and puts it back, picking up the next. In the near-darkness it’s hard to see what exactly his gnarled strong fingers are doing as they busy themselves with the shoes; but his activities are certainly not legitimate, though there is nothing furtive about his movements, and only their speed indicates a desire to finish the operation before dinner is over. Picking up each shoe in turn he eventually finds what he’s looking for, extracting from the toe of one a sheet of notepaper, folded very small, which has been handled so much that it’s practically falling to pieces. This is not the first time he’s had it in his possession; but he shows considerable interest in it now, taking it into the lighter centre room, where he stands at the top of the stairs, scrutinizing it closely, turning it this way and that, as if a new angle might make it disclose its secret. He surveys it for some time upside-down before slipping it into his pocket and silently entering his master’s room, just as the scraping of chairs below marks the end of the meal.
He stays here, letting down and arranging the mosquito net, and performing several other small duties, as he does every night, until Dog Head comes in calling for his racquet. This he solemnly gets out of a cupboard, dusting the strings and undoing the nuts of the old-fashioned press; while its owner, with his hand inside his shirt, stands waiting, scratching his hairy chest. Nothing is said. No looks are exchanged. It’s quite impossible to tell whether the master knows what his servant has just been doing. He shows no surprise when the letter is produced and handed to him, but this he would be unlikely to do before an inferior, in any case.
The Mohammedan makes rather a long statement in his own language, to which he replies, fluently but concisely, and then sends him away, still as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. No doubt he is well aware, from his long experience of eastern customs and intrigue, that he’s not required to admit complicity with a subordinate, who must be prepared to shoulder the whole of the blame should this be necessary.
It’s just as well for the said subordinate that the letter is not read in his presence, for its contents obviously displease the reader, whose muttered curses seem directed against him rather than the letter’s recipient. Dog Head’s hand, backed with sparse reddish hair, clutches the fragile paper as though he were going to crumple it up; but caution or cunning makes him hesitate. Still holding it in his hand, he goes to the door.
He is tall enough to see over the centre panels by stretching his neck slightly, and looks into the next room, where the girl is sitting as usual close to the screened window, with a book in her lap. She appears to be reading, although the dim, unsteady light is so far away from her that this is not possible, unless she has trained herself to read in the dark.
Her husband watches for a few moments, frowning: then glances, undecided, from her to the flimsy piece of notepaper, wondering how to use it against her to the best advantage. Since this doesn’t seem to be the right moment, he ends by putting it away in his wallet.
He then picks up the racquet, and makes some practice strokes, powerful forehand and backhand drives, before going in to try and bully her into playing the rat game with him.