The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [97]
“No, that’s not the order at all,” the judge heard himself saying in tight-wound offended tones like an adolescent. “It was Trinity then Clare.”
“No, no, what are you saying. King’s, Corpus Christi, Clare, then St. John. Memory going, old chap….”
“I think your memory may be failing you!”
Bose was drinking peg after peg, desperate to wrangle something—a common memory, an establishment of truth that had, at least, a commitment from two people—
“No, no. King’s! Trinity!” he pounded his glass on the table. “Jesus! Clare! Gonville! And then on to tea at Granchester!”
The judge could no longer bear it, he raised his hand into the air, counted fingers:
1. St. John’s!
2. Trinity!
3. Clare!
4. King’s!
Bose fell silent. He seemed relieved by the challenge.
“Should we order some dinner?” asked the judge.
______
But Bose swung rapidly to another position—satisfaction either way—but depth, resolution. Still a question for Bose: should he damn the past or find some sense in it? Drunk, eyes aswim with tears, “Bastards!” he said with such bitterness. “What bastards they were!” raising his voice as if attempting to grant himself conviction. “Goras—get away with everything don’t they? Bloody white people. They’re responsible for all the crimes of the century!”
Silence.
“Well,” he said then, to the disapproving silence, trying to reconcile with it, “one thing we’re lucky for, baap re, is that they didn’t stay, thank God. At least they left….”
Still nothing from the judge.
“Not like in Africa—still making trouble over there….”
Silence.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much—now they can just do their dirty work from far away….”
Jaw clenched unclenched hands clenched unclenched clenched.
“Oh, they weren’t all bad, I suppose…. Not all….”
Jaw clenched unclenched hands clenched unclenched clenched unclenched—
______
Then the judge burst out, despite himself:
“YES! YES! YES! They were bad. They were part of it. And we were part of the problem, Bose, exactly as much as you could argue that we were part of the solution.”
And:
“Waiter!
“Waiter!
“Waiter?
“Waiter!!
“WAITER!!!” shouted the judge, in utter desperation. “Probably gone chasing the hen,” said Bose weakly. “I don’t think they were expecting anyone.”
______
The judge walked into the kitchen and found two green chilis looking ridiculous in a tin cup on a wooden stand that read “Best Potato Exhibit 1933.”
Nothing else.
He went to the front desk. “Nobody in the kitchen.”
The man at the reception was half asleep. “It is very late, sir. Go next door to Glenary’s. They have a full restaurant and bar.”
“We have come here for dinner. Should I report you to the management?” Resentfully the man went around to the back, and eventually a reluctant waiter arrived at their table; dried lentil scabs on his blue jacket made yellow dabs. He had been having a snooze in an empty room—ubiquitous old-fashioned waiter that he was, functioning like a communist employee, existing comfortably away from horrible capitalist ideas of serving monied people politely.
“Roast mutton with mint sauce. Is the mutton tender?” asked the judge imperiously.
The waiter remained unintimidated: “Who can get tender mutton?” he said scornfully.
“Tomato soup?”
He considered this option but lacked the conviction to break free of the considering. After several undecided minutes had passed, Bose broke the spell by asking, “Rissoles?” That might salvage the evening.
“Oh no,” the waiter said, shaking his head and smiling insolently. “No, that you cannot get.”
“Well, what do you have then?”
“Muttoncurrymuttonpulaovegetablecurryvegetablepulao….”
“But you said the mutton wasn’t tender.”
“Yes, I already told you, didn’t I?”
______
The food arrived. Bose made a valiant effort to retract and start over: “Just found a new cook myself,” he said. “That Sheru kicked the bucket after thirty years of service. The new one is untrained, but he came cheap because of that. I got out the recipe books and read them