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lectured an older Indian gentleman about the Spirit World and her Teacher (one
could hear the capital letters). Giving her wide berth, I settled with my cup
near a conversational cluster made up of four men and two women whom I had
seen previously but not actually met. I nodded a greeting, but did not
interrupt.
Their topic was politics. One of the men was a Moslem, who had things to say
about Jinnah s suitability as a Prime Minister, but inevitably Gandhi and his
Congress Party dominated the talk. It became increasingly heated, so much so
that I thought it was about to become out of control until one of the women
rose to her feet. She was a small woman, but she dominated the gathering with
ease.
 I shall ask that you two be tossed into the fountain if you can t keep your
heads, she said.  I propose a change of topic. You re Miss Russell, aren t
you? she asked, turning to me.  I m Faith Hopkins. This is my friend, Lyn
Fford, and these argumentative gentlemen are Harry Koehler, Trevor Wilson,
Vikram Reddy, and Taran Singh.
Hands were shaken, and my chair incorporated more fully into their group. No
less than four of the names had rung bells in my mind: those of the two women,
Wilson s, and Koehler s, although of these, only the face of Koehler the
American seemed familiar as well.
I started with Trevor Wilson, fairly sure of myself there.  The writer,
aren t you? He was a novelist, best-selling in the years immediately after
the War. Even I had read one of his books, and I read very little fiction.
 I used to be.
 But it couldn t be that long since you ve published, could it?
 Nineteen months and counting. I m the maharaja s secretary. It doesn t leave
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me much time for my own work.
Wilson sounded grim, and I began to say something vaguely encouraging,
realised that pretty much any statement I produced would sound patronising,
and turned instead to the man whose face tweaked my memory.  Mr Koehler, isn t
it? I believe we ve met somewhere, although I can t at the moment remember
when it was.
He turned rather pale and gazed into his tea cup as if it might suddenly hold
a shot of something harder.  Oh no, no, I don t think so. I d have remembered
meeting you.
I searched his features for clues, but couldn t retrieve anything more than
the vague sense of having seen him in person, across some busy and crowded
room. A train station, perhaps? It would come to me, I thought, then went back
to the first woman.  I don t believe we ve met before, I told her,  but your
name is familiar.
She laughed.  Not surprising. Lyn and I were all over the headlines a year or
so back.
 The newspapers, yes. Something about the Archbishop of Canterbury, wasn t
it?
 He eventually became involved, yes.
The other woman, Lyn, took pity on me.  Faith and I tried to marry. We
registered with our parish church, banns were posted, and it wasn t until we
showed up on the day that the priest figured out that Lyn wasn t a man.
 If you d been wearing the morning suit I got you, we d have managed it,
Faith said with a rueful shake of the head, which launched them on a story in
two voices, a narrative of ecclesiastical derring-do and upper-class humour.
It sounded like an oft-told tale, but none the less amusing for its worn
edges, and I remembered some of the details as she went along. The two were
artists, of a sort one a sculptor of huge ugly bronze masses, the other the
creator of bizarre canvases thick withobjets trouvés. I thought they had moved
to Paris, after which they had not been heard of again.
By common consent, our conversation skirted the topic of politics. Reddy, it
turned out, was a playwright who had produced two critically acclaimed plays,
the second of which had spent some months on Broadway in New York, before
being hired to come here and produce something for the maharaja. He had been
here for two years, with nothing to show for it but a lot of paper and a
fading presence on Broadway. I didn t find out who Taran Singh was, aside from [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]