East Into Upper East. Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

I told you, I don’t want to go down,” he said. “I want to go up—up to where that cave is.”

      She snorted loudly—a sound of impatient anger that he knew very well. “And go away now,” she said, and when he didn’t move she gave him a little push. “Go on, before anyone sees us.”

      “So what?” he said. “We’re married, aren’t we?”

      A shipment of boxes arrived from London—the men in Daks slacks had arranged it all. The boxes contained new uniforms for the handmaidens and a white robe of Italian silk for Farida, along with a string of prayer beads set by a famous Italian designer, and a new deerskin, which must have been synthetic, for it had no smell at all. Everyone had gathered around for the unpacking—everyone, that is, except for Farid, who kept himself completely aloof from the excitement. By the time he next came to visit the tree, the handmaidens had changed into their new permanent-press robes and were gliding up and down in them like ethereal airline stewardesses. Farida appeared tremendously pleased with herself in her new white robe and Italian beads. She looked at Farid as if she expected a compliment, which he refused to pay. Sunil was there, surveying the scene with the satisfaction of an impresario. He stared at Farid, and Farida said at once, “Yes, he’ll need a new outfit, too.”

      Farid shrugged contemptuously and went away. But when night came and everyone was asleep he got up and went to her again. She was awake and seemed to be expecting him. When he lay down next to her, she ran her finger over his frayed collar and said, “We’ll get you a new shirt and new shoes and ties and everything. We’ll start again.” She stroked what was left of his hair. “It’ll all be different this time,” she said. But when he groaned and said, “Oh, no,” she pulled back from him. “That’s all I’ve ever heard from you!” she shouted. “Whatever I wanted you to do, your only contribution was ‘Oh, no.’ I’m sick of it! I’m tired of it and I’m tired of you.”

      Though she spoke in anger, Farid saw the tears trickling from her eyes.

      “Who did I ever do anything for but you?” she said. “All those businesses I started—who was all that for? And even now, who is it all for?” Her voice broke. Her tears fell in perfect drops like pearls.

      “Never mind,” he said. “Don’t say any more.” He lay beside her and held her hand, and remembered the time when he had had to rescue her and flushed her cooking oil away.

      The next day, he invited Sunil to go for a walk with him. Sunil, who was in no condition to walk uphill, didn’t want to go, but Farid used his old tactics—taunting him about his ungainly figure, his breathlessness, his age—until Sunil gave in. Farid walked ahead, jaunty with his hat and stick, sometimes stopping on the steep path to look back at his friend panting behind him. When he reached his destination, which was his usual overlook, he sat comfortably on a stone and watched Sunil slowly coming up and, beyond him, the mountainside that spiraled away below.

      Sunil arrived flushed and angry. “You want to kill me, making me climb up here?” he said.

      “Calm down,” Farid said. “Take it easy. I only want to tell you something. Farida and I are leaving.”

      “Oh, my God, is that all?” Sunil said, standing above him. “I know you’re leaving. So am I. Everyone is. Is that all you have to tell me?”

      “We’re not going with you,” Farid said calmly. “We’re going up, not down. I just wanted you to know there’s been a change of plan.”

      “Oh, sure, sure. A change of plan. I make the arrangements, spend a few hundred thousand, and he changes the plan.”

      Farid remained serene. He pointed toward the mountaintop far above them, where its peak disappeared into mist. “That’s where we’re going, Farida and I,” he said.

      “Listen, Farid,” Sunil said. He took a deep breath to keep his patience. “I don’t know what’s on your mind, but please try to get this straight. We’re going to London. Everything’s booked. Everything’s arranged. There’s a whole public waiting for us out there. There’s money to be made, and we’re going to make it.”

      Farid, still seated on his stone, looked up at his friend. It was so easy. One push in the right direction and Sunil would go rolling off the path and down the steep ravine. He would not be heard from again. Farid stood up. He gave Sunil a sharp little push in the chest—he could have laughed at the expression on Sunil’s face as he lost his balance and began to tumble backward. The next moment, he didn’t feel like laughing at all but went running after him down the path. Sunil didn’t roll far. His bush shirt caught in the lower branches of a little pine tree, which stood a foot or two above a mountain ledge, and Sunil stuck there, while a few stones he had dislodged went bouncing down the path and sailed off into empty air. Farid jumped after him. He pulled and tugged at him, while Sunil awkwardly tried to heave himself back onto the path. It was not easy for either of them, for they were both overweight, out of breath, and terribly upset. When at last they managed it, Sunil slowly arose and stood there with his eyes shut in fright, while Farid felt him all over, pressing his limbs to see if anything was broken, and trembling as much as Sunil himself. Without opening his eyes, Sunil said at last, “Let me go. Take me down.”

      Farid carefully led him down, his arm around Sunil’s stout waist, stopping solicitously every few steps to see if he was all right. Then he took his hat off and put it on Sunil, to guard him from the sun.

      Later that day they presented themselves before Farida. “We’re all leaving tomorrow,” Sunil said.

      “Certainly,” Farid said. “He can go down and we’ll go up.”

      There was a pause. When Farida spoke, it was to Farid. “There’s nothing up there,” she said coldly. “Can’t you get that into your head? Absolutely nothing.” She looked at him with a face of stone.

      What could he say to convince her? What could he do? He knelt beside her on the new deerskin; seen through his tears, she swam in a halo of light. He called her name out loud—“Farida! Farida!”—as if she were far away, instead of right next to him. He seized her hands and began to talk and cry desperately. He told her how he had tried to kill Sunil, so that the two of them, Farid and Farida, could go away together and everything could be again as it was. Yes, for that he had been prepared to murder their childhood friend. He said this twice, to impress it on her, but she only extracted her cool hands from between his and said, “You’re neurotic.”

      “Neurotic!” Sunil exclaimed. “He’s completely psychotic. We have to get him to London for treatment.”

      The next day, two other air-conditioned limousines arrived, and Sunil and Farida and the handmaidens and their luggage prepared for a stately departure. Pilgrims gathered while the cars were being loaded; they joined their hands in respectful salutation and shouted “Jai Mataji!” Some of them waved little orange flags with Farida’s picture imprinted in black. Sunil and Farida were sitting in the back of the third car, waiting for Farid to join the chauffeur on the front seat. But Farid could not be found. Sunil tapped his foot and said, “We’ll miss our plane.”

      “Give him a few more minutes,” Farida said. Under her breath she muttered, “Isn’t that just like him!” A signal was given, and the two cars in front moved off. “We can’t just leave him behind!” Farida cried, as the procession began to wind downhill.

      “Please smile, Farida,” Sunil said. “Please wave.” She waved at the pilgrims by the roadside as the car slowly descended, but kept turning in her seat and craning to peer behind her. For the first time in many years she looked discontented, disappointed.

      Farid was standing above them at his overlook, at the terminal point of his daily walk. He looked