dormitory at boarding school, she had tried for years to recall the long list of winds. Sheâd forgotten many of them, but she could still recite the most important ones. The soft wind and the hard wind. The warm wind and the cold wind. The morning wind and the evening wind. The quiet wind and the race wind. The summer wind and the winter wind. The northern, western, eastern, and southern winds. Her favourite was the dream wind. She looked at the figure of Ganesh, the god with the head of an elephant, which sheâd bought years ago when she was feeling so terribly lonely. She had never understood what he meant by a dream wind, until this moment. She felt the beginning of a gentle breeze, starting in her toes, which were still keeping time to the dance music. Suddenly something swirled upward past her legs, her pelvis, her spine, and then her throat. She opened her mouth and felt the wind escaping. She was momentarily confused, thinking she was exhaling imaginary smoke, but it was a different air stream, a cool, sultry breeze. She put the cigarette back in the wooden box. A second gust of dream wind escaped. Charlotte sat up. She didnât understand what was happening. Again she opened her mouth, wider this time. Holding her hands in front of her mouth, she felt the cool air passing over her skin. It gave her goosebumps. She pursed her lips and blew the cool wind toward her feet. The music on the transistor radio was interrupted by a news bulletin.
She drew the mosquito net aside and got out of bed. On the radio a man announced that tomorrow the temperature would hit forty-two degrees. She sighed, and again a stream of cool air escaped. She walked out of the room in her bare feet.
She held the lighted candle and a bunch of keys, which jangled softly. She walked past the large grandfather clock, which was ticking away, and went to the door of the nursery, where she stopped and listened. All was quiet. She walked over to the staircase on her tiptoes. The steps creaked and the creaking sound mingled with the singing of the crickets in the garden. The gigantic chandelier with holders for hundreds of candles hung in the spacious hall; it was years since it had been lit. She opened the door and went into the music room. The windows were shut. Seeing that nowadays no one ever entered the room, it was better to keep them closed. She took one of the keys from the bunch and opened a cabinet. The cool breeze that had accompanied her until she got to the stairs was gone. A cold sweat covered her skin. It did not occur to her to return to the hall and call up the dream wind again. The candlelight slid across the floor. Startled moths, black beetles, and hundreds of ants had taken possession of the cabinet. Charlotte let the insects go â the house was full of them â and continued her search.
A pile of photo albums lay on the top shelf; they were wrapped in plastic bags to discourage unwelcome guests. She ran her fingers over the spines as she tried to decipher the dates by the light of the lone candle. She pulled out an album dated 1936 â 1939 , and turned to the table. But the piece of furniture that had always stood under the window had disappeared, along with the sofa her father had ordered from London. She swept the dust from a section of the floor, put the photo album down, and knelt in front of it. She removed the plastic wrapping. The cover was worn, the purple velvet now brown and threadbare. She opened the album.
There was a photo of her mother in a floor-length dress, with a tiara in her hair, next to another woman, also wearing an evening dress. The caption under the photo read christmas at the club . She turned the page: her father with his shotgun, in uniform, one foot resting on a dead deer, behind him two young boys in longhis . The caption underneath, in the same handwriting, read our hero . Charlotte recalled the blond officer in 52 company who, after a few too many burra-pegs ,almost proposed to
She drew the mosquito net aside and got out of bed. On the radio a man announced that tomorrow the temperature would hit forty-two degrees. She sighed, and again a stream of cool air escaped. She walked out of the room in her bare feet.
She held the lighted candle and a bunch of keys, which jangled softly. She walked past the large grandfather clock, which was ticking away, and went to the door of the nursery, where she stopped and listened. All was quiet. She walked over to the staircase on her tiptoes. The steps creaked and the creaking sound mingled with the singing of the crickets in the garden. The gigantic chandelier with holders for hundreds of candles hung in the spacious hall; it was years since it had been lit. She opened the door and went into the music room. The windows were shut. Seeing that nowadays no one ever entered the room, it was better to keep them closed. She took one of the keys from the bunch and opened a cabinet. The cool breeze that had accompanied her until she got to the stairs was gone. A cold sweat covered her skin. It did not occur to her to return to the hall and call up the dream wind again. The candlelight slid across the floor. Startled moths, black beetles, and hundreds of ants had taken possession of the cabinet. Charlotte let the insects go â the house was full of them â and continued her search.
A pile of photo albums lay on the top shelf; they were wrapped in plastic bags to discourage unwelcome guests. She ran her fingers over the spines as she tried to decipher the dates by the light of the lone candle. She pulled out an album dated 1936 â 1939 , and turned to the table. But the piece of furniture that had always stood under the window had disappeared, along with the sofa her father had ordered from London. She swept the dust from a section of the floor, put the photo album down, and knelt in front of it. She removed the plastic wrapping. The cover was worn, the purple velvet now brown and threadbare. She opened the album.
There was a photo of her mother in a floor-length dress, with a tiara in her hair, next to another woman, also wearing an evening dress. The caption under the photo read christmas at the club . She turned the page: her father with his shotgun, in uniform, one foot resting on a dead deer, behind him two young boys in longhis . The caption underneath, in the same handwriting, read our hero . Charlotte recalled the blond officer in 52 company who, after a few too many burra-pegs ,almost proposed to
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