Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

The best thing to do, she decided, was to stay close to the road: perhaps she’d be able to flag down some help in the morning. She took the car a short distance down the track and then turned into the trees, pulling up at a spot that was sheltered by a bush. She turned the engine off and opened her door.

‘We’ll stay here for a while, Baba,’ she said. ‘We can go on when the light’s better.’ She prised the bonnet open again and came back to the driver’s seat. ‘Go to sleep, Baba,’ she said. ‘There’s no point staying awake. There’s nothing we can do right now.’

She climbed out and walked around the car. With the headlights turned off, it was very dark: she could see no lights and no sign of habitation. She went back to the driver’s seat and sat down again. Saya John was sitting up, looking intently at his hand. His fingers were spread out in front of him, as though he were counting something.

‘Tell me, Alison,’ he said. ‘Today is Saturday — isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ She tried to think what day it was but she’d lost track. ‘I don’t know. Why do you ask?’

‘I think it’s Sunday tomorrow. I hope Ilongo remembers that I have to go to church.’ She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, Baba,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to miss church tomorrow.’

He glanced at her like a disappointed child and she was suddenly contrite for having snapped at him. She reached for his hand. ‘Just this once, Baba. We’ll go to Mass in Singapore, next week.’

He gave her a smile and leaned back, resting his head against his seat. She looked at her watch. It was four in the morning. It would be dawn soon. Once it was light she’d go back to the highway and see if she could flag down a truck or a car: something was sure to come along. She let her head fall back against the seat: she was tired — not afraid, just tired. She could hear her grandfather, drifting off to sleep, breathing slowly and deeply. She shut her eyes.

She was woken by a shaft of sunlight, shining through the feathery canopy above. She stirred and her hand fell on the seat beside her. It was empty. She sat up, startled, rubbing her eyes. When she looked at the seat she saw that her grandfather was gone.

She opened the door and stepped out. ‘Baba?’ He’d probably gone into the trees to relieve himself. She raised her voice. ‘Baba — are you there?’ Shading her eyes, she turned all the way around, peering into the dim tunnels of rubber around her. He was nowhere to be seen.

Stepping around the car, she stumbled on his brown leather suitcase. It was lying open on the ground, with clothes spilling out, scattered among the leaves. He’d been looking for something — but what? Glancing around, she spotted some clothes, lying on the ground, a few feet away. She went to investigate and found a pair of trousers and a shirt, the clothes her grandfather had been wearing the night before.

A thought struck her. She darted back to his suitcase and rummaged quickly through the rest of his clothes, looking for the dark suit that he liked to wear to church. It wasn’t there: she was sure that he’d had it with him when they set out. It wasn’t like him to go anywhere without it. That was what he’d changed in to; she was sure of it. He’d probably wandered off, along the highway, thinking that it would lead him to his church. She would have to hurry if she was to find him before he got into trouble.

She reached into the car and snatched her handbag off the seat. It occurred to her that she could try and follow in the car but she decided against it. There was no telling how much time she’d waste trying to start it. It would probably be quicker on foot. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she began to run towards the highway.

She could tell, even when she was a good distance away, that there was no traffic. The highway was very quiet. But when she was some twenty yards from the road she heard some distant voices. She stopped to look, glancing sidewise along a corridor of tree trunks. She spotted a group of bicyclists, in the distance: there were some half-dozen of them and they were cycling in her direction.

Her first reaction was relief; she knew that if she ran hard, she’d be able to reach the road just as the cyclists were going past. Maybe they’d be able to help. She took a couple of steps and then she stopped and looked again, sheltering behind the trunk of a tree. She realised now that the bicyclists were all wearing caps and that their clothes were all of exactly the same colour. Grateful for the shelter of the plantation, she slipped a little closer to the road, being careful to stay out of view.

When the cyclists were some twenty yards away, she saw that they were Japanese soldiers. They were unshaven and their grey uniforms were spattered with dust and mud, their tunics drenched in sweat. Some had caps with long neckcloths while others wore helmets, covered with nets. They were wearing tightly bound puttees and canvas shoes. The man who was in the lead had a sword attached to his belt: the scabbard was clattering rhythmically against his bicycle’s mudguard. The others were carrying rifles, fitted with bayonets. Their bicycles creaked and squealed as they went past. She could hear them panting as they pedalled.

A short distance ahead, there was a corner where the highway described a sharp turn. The cyclists were still in view as they went around the bend: she heard one of them shout, raising his hand to point down the road. Suddenly she was seized by a sharp sense of misgiving. She’d thought that she’d find her grandfather heading back, in the direction of Sungei Pattani: but what if, instead, he’d headed in the other direction?

She glanced in both directions and saw that the highway was empty. Sprinting across the road, she slipped into the stands of rubber on the far side. Heading diagonally through the trees, she caught sight of the highway again: she saw the backs of the cyclists, pedalling along, pointing at a diminutive figure a long way ahead. It was a man, wearing a hat and a suit, ambling along by the side of the road. Alison knew that it was her grandfather. The soldiers were closing on him, pedalling hard.

She began to run, fast, dodging between the trees. She was still several hundred yards away when the soldiers caught up with Saya John. She saw them dismounting, letting their bicycles drop on the grass. They surrounded him and the sound of a voice came floating back to her: one of the soldiers was shouting, saying something she couldn’t follow. She began to mumble to herself as she ran, ‘Please, please. .’

She could tell that her grandfather hadn’t understood what the soldiers were saying. He touched his hat and turned away, trying to push past them. One of the soldiers put out a hand to stop him and he waved it aside. All the soldiers were shouting at him now, but he seemed not to hear anything. He was flicking his hand at them, as though trying to brush off street-corner loiterers. Then one of the soldiers struck him, slapping him hard across his face, knocking him off his feet. He fell heavily to the ground.

Alison came to a stop, panting, leaning her weight against a tree trunk, holding it with both hands. If only he would keep still, they would go away, she was sure of that. She began to mumble to herself, praying that he’d been knocked unconscious. They wouldn’t bother with him: surely they’d see that he was just a confused old man; that he meant no harm.

But then her grandfather’s prone body began to move again. He stirred and sat up with his legs spread out in front of him, like a child waking in the morning. He reached for his hat, put it on his head and pushed himself to his feet again. He looked at the soldiers with a bewildered frown, rubbing his face. And then he turned his back on them and began to walk away.