The Siege of Krishnapur - J. G. Farrell [129]
The illness had aged him. He lay still for hour after hour, naked beneath a sheet because of the heat and humidity, the mosquito net cast aside for air, too exhausted even to lift an arm to drive away the mosquitoes which constantly settled on his face. Miriam or one of the older children of the garrison who could no longer play outside since the shrinking of the perimeter sat constantly at his bedside to fan him and to defend him against the mosquitoes. He said nothing. He seemed too exhausted even to speak or move his eyes.
Miriam, too, was very tired. Her body itched constantly and salt crystals from the drying of perspiration clung to the hair of her armpits and rimed her skin. Life no longer seemed real to her. As the hours fled by she was sometimes unable to remember whether it was night or day. In a dream, which was not a dream, she was called away to assist Dr McNab perform an amputation on a Sikh whose arm had been shattered by shrapnel. The man was too weak for chloroform and had to be held by two of the dispensers, yet he did not utter a groan throughout the operation. Afterwards she found herself back at the Collector’s bedside in the same churning confusion of day and night.
“What’s that noise? Is that the sepoys?”
“Frogs.” Miriam could hardly believe that he had spoken at last.
“Then it must have rained at last.”
“It’s been raining for a week.”
When at last he was able to throw aside his damp sheet and make his way to the window the panorama he had last seen on the day of the sepoy attack had been transformed. The glaring desert had turned a brilliant green. Foliage sprouted everywhere. Even the lawns had been restored, like emerald carpets unrolled before his eyes; sunblasted trees which might have been thought dead had miraculously clothed themselves with leaves. Only the new trench leading to the banqueting hall cut a brown gash through the green, but even there green mustaches were perhaps beginning to cover the lips of the parapets...the Collector hoped they were: he did not want the ramparts to be washed away.
Presently Miriam entered the room and found him, half dressed, sitting on his bed with his head resting wearily against the pillows.
“Now that I’ve recovered we must think of your reputation, Mrs Lang.”
“After all this, Mr Hopkins, do you think that reputations still matter?”
“If they don’t matter, then nothing does. We must obey the rules.”
“Like your precious hive of bees at the Exhibition? I’m glad you still believe in them.”
“It’s hard to learn new tricks,” said the Collector smiling doubtfully, “especially when you reach my age. Have you any idea where my boots are, Mrs Lang?”
“Under the bed. But I don’t think that Dr McNab would be pleased to see you getting up so soon.”
“I must.”
“Because of the bees?” And Miriam shook her head, half smiling, half concerned.
The Collector sat for a long time contemplating his boots which, because of the dampness, had become covered in green mould. His shoes, his books, his leather trunks and saddlery would similarly be covered in green mould and would remain so now until the end of the rainy season. The Collector wondered whether the garrison, too, would become covered in green mould.
He saw his reflection in the mirror as he was adjusting his collar; not only had his side-whiskers grown while he had been ill, there was also a growth of beard on his chin. He was shocked to see that this beard, unlike his hair and whiskers which were dark brown in colour,