The Covenant of Water

1934 Christmas, Madras

Nungambakkam, where Claude Arnold resides, is a vision of England rendered on the canvas of southern India. Tree-lined avenues carry names like College Road, Sterling Road, and Haddows Road. The topiary outside the garden homes and bungalows is Bird-on-Pyramid, Ball-atop-Ball, and Bunny Rabbit, with little variation; Bunny Rabbit is the most popular. Digby thinks it’s the work of one itinerant maali, if for no other reason than that every Bunny Rabbit looks a little like a mongoose.

This fantasy of Belgravia in Madras must ignore the reality of the pariah dog’s corpse in the middle of College Road; it must stubbornly hold that this is indeed the eighth day of Christmas despite humidity that would dissuade eight maids a-milking from doing any such thing, and heat so relentless that the pariah dog, it turns out, isn’t dead, just felled by sunstroke. It staggers to its feet, forcing Digby to swerve around it on his bicycle.

Claude’s porcelain-white home stands out against the red clay of the circular driveway that is packed with vehicles. Oil lamps placed between the balustrades on the second-floor balcony and between the colonnades of the ground floor give it an ethereal glow as the sun approaches the horizon. “If only you brought this much attention to detail to your hospital work, Claude,” Digby mutters. He’d debated coming to the Christmas party; in the end he felt it would only worsen their fraught relationship if he stayed away.

A shiny black-and-green Rolls-Royce sits under the portico. Before Digby can lean his bicycle against the wall, a servant grabs it, assuring him by his smile that it will be swiftly hidden and no one will be the wiser.

The living room is overflowing. A Christmas tree rises above the bobbing heads; on its limbs the cotton-ball “snow” droops in the soggy air. The women are in long gowns, some backless, all sleeveless, with silk wraps draped over their shoulders.

Digby, sweating from his ride, would like nothing more than to remove the blazer he put on just before stepping inside. He passes behind three women, their backs to him, their floral perfume evoking Paris or London. He hears Claude’s voice, the words slurring just the slightest bit: “—the back seat was the only place the maharani could drink, hidden behind the curtains, while her driver circled the estate.” A woman asks a question that Digby doesn’t catch, but he hears Claude’s reply: “A Rolls never breaks down, my dear. Rarely, it may fail to proceed.”

Digby moves past a cabinet packed with sports trophies and framed pictures of two boys at various ages, lately as teenagers. A bearer proffers whisky; Digby takes a napkin instead. He slips into the dining room to discreetly mop his face and neck; he feels shabby and out of place. The heavy oak dining table, the goblets and metal plate holders evoke for him the knights of King Arthur. His back to the festivities, Digby stands before three large, framed landscapes, still sweating energetically. He’s angry at himself for being here.

Right, Digs. In two minutes ye’ll dive right back in amongst them, shake the bastard’s hand, wish him the merriest o’ merry Christmases and, since you won’t see him in hospital before the bells o’ Hogmanay, top it off with an all the best for auld lang syne an’ a guid new year tae him and his. But cool off first, Digs, mop that brow and get in behind that collar. Admire his fancy painting—pasture, is it Claude? Say “very nice” to his pathetic wee lake with its wildflowers. No, no one ever thought of that critique before. And this last painting . . . a dark forest, he says? A dark . . . midden, says I. They’re rubbish, thank you very much. Fancy, gilded frames that cry “We belong in a museum” . . . but rubbish they are, and rubbish they’ll aye be. No matter how loud anyone cries . . .

“They’re not much, are they?” a husky female voice says. He spins around, finding himself uncomfortably close to a woman; she is striking, a shade taller than he. They both step back. Her musky attar with notes of sandalwood and lost civilizations is the opposite of a Parisian scent. He feels transported to a maharani’s boudoir. “The bearer said you didn’t want whisky. I brought you some pomegranate juice. I’m Celeste,” she says, smiling.

Oh, please don’t be! Not his wife.

“I’m Claude’s wife.” She holds a cup in each hand.

Her brown hair is held back with a silver band and pinned in a chignon above her neck. She has a triangular face and a slight overbite, which makes her lips appear to pout. Head on, her features are handsome, faintly androgynous. She’s Claude’s age, early forties. Three rubies float down over her breastbone, the chain barely visible as it crosses her clavicles.

“Digby Kilgour.” He offers his hand. But her hands are occupied. He takes his cup.

“Claude says you’re quite the artist.”

How the bloody hell would he know? She waits expectantly.

“More an admirer of art,” he says, his cheeks burning. “Just trying to capture the things I see.”

Her large eyes, the color of chestnuts, are warmed by the glow of the rubies. If Claude is distant, aloof, she’s the opposite, her gaze direct and curious. But he sees a hardness around her mouth that vanishes when she smiles.

“Oils?”

“Watercolors,” he says. She waits. “I . . . uh, I like the mystery, the unpredictability of what emerges.”

“Do you do portraits?” she says, cocking her head. Does she know she is posing? She isn’t seeking to cause discomfort but to remedy it.

“Sometimes, yes. I . . . there’s so much to see in Madras. Faces on the streets, women in their saris. Banyan trees, landscapes . . . ?” He gestures at the framed paintings. He’s babbling.

She leans closer to whisper, “Digby, your honest opinion on these paintings?”

“Ah, well . . . they’re not so bad.”

“So you like them?” The chestnut eyes fix on him. He cannot lie to her.

“Ah, I wouldn’t go that far.”

She laughs happily. “They belonged to Claude’s parents. I loathe them—the paintings, you understand.”

For the first time that evening he feels at ease.

She cocks her head again. “May I show you something?” She walks away, not waiting for an answer. He follows, his eyes on the nape of her neck where fine hairs form an arbor pattern. In the parlor near the stairs hangs a simple painting on beige cloth. It’s perhaps twelve inches by sixteen, in a crude wooden frame: a seated Indian woman, her head turned in one direction, her shoulders in another. The style is childlike, simple, yet artful and colorful. It doesn’t try to be anatomically correct or realistic, yet it convinces utterly. He takes his time studying it.

“It’s extraordinary!” Digby says. “What I mean is with just that line for a nose and ovals for the eyes . . . and curves that convey the sari, the body posture”—he uses his hand to trace the outlines in the air—“and only three colors, the woman emerges! It’s uncomplicated, yet skillfully done. Did you paint this?”

That bright laugh again. The curving line of her neck echoes the painting. The impression of height she gives resides largely in that line, and in her lanky arms. Her grace borders on the awkward, which he finds quite beautiful.

“No. I didn’t paint it. But it is mine. I’ve had to fight to display it. It’s a kalighat painting, a type I saw as a young girl growing up in Calcutta. They churn these out for the pilgrims coming from great distances to the temples. Typically, they portray a character from the Mahabharata or Ramayana. If it were up to me, I’d bin those old monstrosities and put these up instead.” They laugh together. “Yes, I’d have a roomful of kalighats.” She raises her arm, the wrist angled back as she fans her fingers out, tossing kalighats over the walls. His eyes glide off the arc of her triceps, the slope of her forearm, her pronated wrist, the curve of her knuckles, and off her buffed nails and then onto the wall. In his mind’s eye he can see a room covered with these vivid and unique portraits.

He forces his eyes back to the painting. With a finger he traces the figure, trying to memorize it.

“There’s a lyricism here,” he says. “Even if the artist is churning them out. A simple but eloquent vocabulary.”

“Precisely! What I find fascinating is that a villager makes a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage, then spends hard-earned money on a souvenir that has its roots in his village! It’s a village craft, like basket weaving, but this craftsman has moved to the city to ply the pilgrim trade. So he sells his wares to his former neighbor and it hangs on a wall in the village where it all began!”

“Or it’s displayed in the parlor of a most . . . discerning Englishwoman,” Digby says. He turns red. The word “beautiful” floats silently.

“I do believe, Digby, that you’re trying to flatter me,” she says softly. She isn’t displeased. A long silence follows. “I’ve other kalighats. They’d be wasted on this lot. They’d see it as an affectation.” She waves gaily at someone, but the hardness regathers around her mouth. “So, are you liking Madras?”

“Yes! The surgical experience is tremendous. And the people are warm, kind.”

He’s thinking of Muthu, caring for him with such affection and with pride in the smallest tasks he undertakes. Muthu after some months had shyly brought over his wife and two small children to say hello. They now feel like family.

“Digby, have you been to Mahabalipuram?” she says, looking at him speculatively.

“I heard mention. Rock temples, is it?”

“Oh, it’s hard to describe . . .” She looks away moodily. “It’s my favorite place. I know you’d appreciate it. Would you trust me on that?”

“I would.”

“Picture a beautiful, long stretch of sandy beach.” Those magical hands are conjuring up images again. “And suddenly you come onto this natural rock formation. Boulders bigger than this room, and others twenty times bigger than this house. Some submerged, others strung on the beach. Ancient artisans carved temples out of them, some as small as a dollhouse and others the size of a theater, complete with seats. Hewn out of one rock, can you imagine? It’s believed to have been a place to train sculptors. Mahabalipuram is a dictionary of temple imagery. Every gesture has a meaning. And all the gods are there: dancing Shiva, Durga, and Ganesha. Lions, bulls, elephants—more animals than in a zoo.”

He’s transported to that beach, he can already see the breeze lift the hair off her neck, and behind her the ancient temples silhouetted in the dusk; he feels salt spray on his face, the scent of ocean mingled with her perfume. He breathes in.

“I see it,” he says.

“Do you?” The finger points. “Now keep your eyes glued there as the surf recedes. See that dark shape under the water? More temples, Digby! A string of them. Concealed by the sea. By time. Things have a way of coming back when we think they’re gone forever.”

A burst of raucous laughter brings them back to earth; sand gives way to hardwood floors and a packed living room where around the Christmas tree, the Raj makes merry, whisky glasses are topped by turbaned bearers, and no one can imagine that this party will ever end.

“That was a beautiful journey, Mrs. Arnold.”

“Celeste. Please. ‘Mrs. Arnold’ makes me feel more ancient than an undersea temple. We must get you there soon. This crowd would never go to Mahabalipuram.” She turns to him, searching his face. “I’m so pleased that you like it here. It’s unfashionable to say one does, I’m not sure why. For the longest time I thought our stay here was temporary. Claude was certain he’d be transferred to Calcutta, where I grew up. Or Delhi. It delayed my settling in.”

The house looks beyond settled. But he doesn’t think it suits her. He sees her in a small Chettinad palace: a central courtyard and low ornamental pool edged by stone seats on which to lounge, an indoor teak swing for two, bedrooms drawing the breeze . . .

“It’ll be twenty years soon, don’t you know?”

“I’m sure the next posting will come soon,” he stammers.

“Heaven forbid! I might have wished for that early on. But I love it here. My children call it home, even if they only come every other year. Why leave? If we do leave, Claude will still be Claude, and I’ll still . . .” She turns away, studying the painting again, as though she’s the guest being shown the host’s collection.

He memorizes her silhouette: the brow, the nose, the ramp of her upper lip with its Cupid’s bow giving way to the vermilion border of the lower lip, then gliding over her thyroid cartilage, her cricoid, to the tender hollow above her breastbone. He’d like to trace the contour with his finger.

Celeste turns in time to see his blush. Her gaze lingers on his face, her expression unreadable. Then she surveys the living room. The noise of the party swirls around them but doesn’t penetrate their cocoon. They spot Claude, his face flushed, eyelids with weights on them.

“Why am I telling you all this, young Digby Kilgour?” she says, her husky voice almost inaudible. She turns back to him, waiting, eyebrows raised.

“Because,” he says simply, “you knew I would care.”

A brisk dilatation of her pupils. The rubies on her breastbone rise. Her eyes glisten. After a long time, she says, “You won’t make my mistake, will you?” Her gaze is soft and smiling once more, her wistful expression gone.

“What mistake is that . . . Celeste?”

“The mistake, Digby, of choosing to see more in your future mate than the evidence has already suggested.”