Climbing out of the turmoil of wind and thunder, a slight figure appears on the back porch like a castaway sailor. Sheltered there from the violence of the gale, Mohammed Dirwaza Khan’s successor pauses to get his breath, and to adjust his white coat and turban, before going into the house. He doesn’t seem quite as impassive as usual as he goes upstairs, carrying in both hands a small brass tray with one tumbler on it. His movements are jerky, and from time to time his eyes roll, so that the white shows all round the black pupil. Moreover, he has omitted to fasten his collar. These manifestations of discomposure are perhaps the result of having been torn away from his private absorbing pursuits and hurriedly dispatched on this unexpected errand; or they may come from a superstitious fear of the storm.
Having set down the glass near his master, who is wearing only a pair of shorts, he starts fumbling with his collar buttons. But the man doesn’t even glance at him, ordering him to pick up the shattered remains of the glass he knocked off the table just now.
The youth stoops obediently, his dark hands shaking. One of them, with its paler palm and delicate tapering fingertips, gropes for the broken pieces and puts them on the tray the other hand is still holding. The fragments are scattered all over the floor, and not easily seen in the weak wavering light; it takes him some time, with his imprecise movements, to find them all.
While still engaged in this task, he says, without looking up: ‘Missis has gone out.’
In precisely the same tone he might have said, ‘Dinner is ready,’ or anything else at all. He invariably speaks in the same flat, level voice, so that all his sentences sound alike, whatever their content. Besides, no native servant ever attempts to understand anything about the white people he serves.
On this occasion, it’s doubtful whether the meaning of his expressionless words penetrates to his hearer, who merely tells him to send his superior. And, as he has now managed to collect all the broken glass on the tray he at once goes out with it.
The wind brings no coolness; there is no respite from the heat. The night is a black asphyxiating tank, bubbling and steaming. On to the protection of the porch, out of the boiling dark, emerge now, first the long skinny legs, then the rest of the Mohammedan, whose thin grey beard the wind has twisted grotesquely around his neck — his first action is to comb it into place with his fingers.
The youth climbs up after him out of the darkness. And in this order they enter and pass through the house, the leader’s lean shanks opening and shutting like giant scissors against the dim light. Without hesitation he goes straight into his master’s room and stops in front of him, the youth stopping when he does, just inside the door, where he remains, arms dangling at his sides, a silent, passive appendage of the older man, who has brought him along in case his evidence or corroboration should be required.
‘Boy say missis gone out.’ His English is less accurate than his junior’s, but he speaks louder and with more assurance, looking the white man full in the face. The youth, on the other hand, looks up at the ceiling, where several small lizards are darting about in confusion, frightened by the thunder, taking short aimless runs which they interrupt suddenly to dash off at a tangent, their tails undulating behind them.
‘Boy say he see missis go out.’ Getting no answer, Mohammed repeats his sentence in a slightly different form, and with a perceptible note of impatience, which Dog Head is too drunk to notice.
The latter displays no interest or concern, and might not have heard him. He fills the glass to the brim, lifts it, and tips the contents down his throat as if he didn’t need to swallow but poured the whisky straight into his stomach. He then puts the glass down empty and speaks a few casual words, ending in English: ‘Go after her and bring her to me.’ Simultaneously he lifts his hand in a gesture of dismissal, and a fluctuation of the feeble light catches the reddish gleam of the hairs on the back, so that he appears to be wearing a fur-backed glove.
The servant immediately turns round and leaves the room, the youth following, and descends the stairs, his long, thin legs moving as rapidly and silently as a spider’s in his scissoring gait.
He says nothing to his subordinate until they are again on the back porch, confronting the turbulent darkness, where the faint glimmerings from their homes are intermittently visible through the tremendous tumult of straining, writhing and streaming branches.
The emotions of both are deeply stirred by the coming of the monsoon the climax, each year, of their lives. Both resent being distracted from it. For once Mohammed Dirwaza Khan doesn’t mean to obey his master. He hasn’t the slightest intention of chasing off after the silly, worthless girl who is his rival — if she’s really gone, so much the better; it will spare him the trouble of getting rid of her. This is clearly understood between them; as is the fact that the youth won’t go after her either, as he now orders him to do in his place.
The bearded man steps down quickly into the dark stormy turmoil, and is blown along like a scarecrow before the wind, his white garments wildly flapping around him. He doesn’t look back to see whether the youth is pretending to obey him, but keeps straight on, rapidly disappearing. The other follows him into the darkness at once, striking out in the direction of his own abode.
If there should be any further disturbance during the night neither of them will hear. The thunder conveniently drowns all lesser noises.