A Late Monsoon Read online

go back. I’m here for better or for worse. Talking of which, are you going to marry this girl?

  “Why should I want to marry her?”

  “You do love her?”

  “What's that got to do with it?” the young man said.

  “You see, there’s so much I don’t understand anymore. When I was your age, when a chap was in love, he did the honest thing, married his girl and got on with life. We had commitment.”

  “A lot of good, commitment and married life did you.”

  “Yes, but Agnes left me after 25 years. We both had great heaps of commitment when we first met. In fact, she still had the same commitment when she left me – it’s just that it was towards someone else, but the commitment was beyond question, have to admire that. Can’t blame the old girl for walking out on me though. Things were never the same after that misunderstanding in Malaysia. Did I tell you about Malaysia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyway, if you decide against marriage and things don’t work out for you, you might want to formally introduce me to your heiress.”

  “I was going to say you’re old enough to be her grandfather, but her grandfather’s younger than you. You're also only half as rich as the net worth of her family. Apart from those two major impediments to any encounter you might be hoping for, I can’t think of a single thing she might want that you could give her.”

  “Wisdom and experience, Edward, it’s what a girl who knows her own mind wants. You have to understand how a woman's mind works - different to a chaps. The average fellow is overly concerned with the shape of her legs, the look in her eyes, the colour of her hair; he acts like he's sizing up a new polo pony rather than looking for a woman to spend his life with. But a woman, she sees beyond the physical attributes. Don't take my word for it, look at that Marilyn girl, the Hollywood star - lovely young thing, could have her pick of men, but she married that playwright, what's his name?...Miller, Arthur Miller. Must be more than two decades her senior, not blessed in the looks department either, but she chose him all the same. You see, she was attracted by his intellect, his wisdom, his experience - things a young ram can't offer a girl."

  "Is that from a Freud study?" the young man said.

  "No, my boy, it's from my study, the study of life - takes no effort - you just have to watch, listen, grow old and you see all the behaviour patterns repeat themselves generation after generation."

  “Well, if my girlfriend and I break up, the next girl I meet will be a celibate, forty five year old intellectual with a face like a horse's backside - just to prove you wrong."

  "You can jest, but you'll probably have a greater chance of having a lasting, happy relationship with her than you do with that delectable millionairess of yours."

  George swiped the lime around the rim of his glass then sipped the gin through the citrus trace that it left. “Splendid Bugatti parked outside the hotel,” he said. “Did you notice her? Open top, midnight blue, type 55, by the looks of it. Maharaja chap I knew had one when I was first stationed in India, had it shipped out especially. Damn fool thing to do if you ask me, not a decent bloody road in the whole country to drive it on at that time. Would have liked to own one myself though. Too old for it now of course. Couldn’t get this portly frame in and out of the bugger. Didn’t know there were any still around, must be at least twenty five years old.”

  “You know very well that’s the car I drove here,” said the young man. “You saw me getting out of it last week, outside the Sentinel club. You waved to me.”

  “Did I? Oh yes, so I did, you’re right. Memory’s shot to pieces. Funny trick age plays on memory. It’s as if age starts to erase it so you don’t get depressed remembering how old you’re getting. Did you import it, like the Maharaja? Wish I could remember his name.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Girlfriend’s?”

  “Yes, and she does have a name, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, but girlfriends come and go like tropical storms in the night. I always made do with referring to them as, my dear. Overcame the problem of getting names mixed up and landing you on a sticky wicket. So why are you driving it?”

  “She can’t drive.”

  “Queer thing to do, buying a motor car, a Bugatti at that, and not being able to drive her.”

  “It was a twenty first birthday present from her father. She’s nervous about learning to drive, so I do all the driving.”

  “That’s what they call chauffeuring in my world,” said George.

  “Well that makes sense, considering you're still living in the world of the imperial oppressor. It’s not a place I’m familiar with.”

  George leaned closer to the young man, peering at him from over the top of his glasses and spoke with a slow deliberate voice, absent of any frivolity. “Don’t fall into the trap of ending up as one of life's chauffeurs, through being stubborn and holding onto some misplaced sense of pride and independence, my boy. It doesn’t pay, both figuratively and literally. It is not your destiny. This is a harsh world in which to be poor. I saw many fine young men from good families, fresh out of England come to ruin on the sub continent. They were puffed up with the hubris of their tender years, believing all they needed to succeed in the eyes of their family was their youthful vigour and the optimism of inexperience. Don’t let the heady ideals of youth deceive you. It is fair enough for a fellow who is not blessed with the support of a family of some means - he has little choice. But that is not your situation. You have a duty to exploit the advantages that you were born into. Your father is a bridge to a wealth of opportunities. They are your birthright. Don’t burn that bridge before you've even had chance to cross it. You could have everything, the whole world at your feet.”

  “You mean that world that’s gone mad, with superpowers jousting with nuclear weapons on our behalf and screaming girls chasing long haired men instead of getting married.”

  “Well that’s up to your generation. You can do whatever you wish with it. It’s no longer my concern, I’m too damn long in the tooth for the politics of it all. This is your world now. My generation and those before us had our chance. We moulded the world into an empire, an empire that has since crumbled and now lingers as a tattered remnant of its former glory, like a warning to those who might try to emulate her. Maybe we got it wrong, maybe it wasn’t the way to do it. Maybe we let pride and arrogance get in the way and corrupt something that could have benefitted everyone who was a part of it. I'm too deeply embroiled in it to see things objectively, but one day, history will look back and judge us. Anyway, it’s not my problem anymore. I’m done with trying to shape the world. The mantle passes to you and your generation now, my boy. See if you can fare any better than we did. God knows, we’ve left you a fine mess to clear up before you start.” He held up his glass to the light, tilting it to assess the volume of gin remaining, then swallowed it in one go before putting the empty glass back squarely on top of the branded coaster. “Yes, very nice watch Edward,” he motioned to the Rolex on the table. “You can tell a lot about a man by the watch he wears on his wrist. Don’t forget to pick it up when you leave. I’d hate you to forget it. You didn’t mention how you came to be its owner.”

  “No, I don’t think I did.”

  “Well, none of my damn business. A man’s wristwatch is his own affair, just like his riding boots, his dalliances and his brand of gin – damned early to be drinking gin though, Agnes would be seething.” He picked up his panama hat, inspecting the brim for dust, then manoeuvred it into perfect position on his head in one sweeping movement, a skill honed after decades of practice in the absence of a mirror. He winced at the newly formed creases that appeared on the sleeves of his linen jacket and tried to smooth them away with a cursory gesture of the palm of his hand, then picked up his cane and pushed his chair back noisily on the wooden flooring. “Well, can’t sit here all day. Some of us have a crust to earn.”

  He walked to the edge of the veranda, standing in the full glare of the s
unlight and said, “You’ve made your point, you know - stepping out on your own and all that. Your father and I go back a long way and I know he’s as stubborn as you - don’t get caught up in a prolonged stalemate – time is short now for our generation, don’t let it become too late to claim what’s rightfully yours. There are many vultures out there, circling around your father, hoping to capitalise on your rift.” He looked up and squinted into the sky. “If that bloody monsoon doesn’t come soon, we’re all going to bake alive in this country.” He ran the silver tip of his cane over the tendrils of the jasmine that trailed from the veranda’s trellis. “Never had a son and heir of my own, of course – just the two daughters, both married well and buggered off to America. I get a box of cigars at Christmas and a telegram on my birthday – not much to show for twenty odd years of raising them. But I always felt if I had a son, things would have been different. I would have cultivated him - nurtured him to develop an independent spirit, but within the strong bounds of the family. That’s where your father and I would have been at odds. I would never have stood for all this disinheriting nonsense, no matter who supposedly instigated it. Damn fool game if you ask me. Of course, can’t be too critical of him. He's never been the same since your dear mother’s death -