Read Online Three Continents by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala - Free Book Online Page A

to miss that, Jean: It’s an historic event. And in your house,” he said, now raising his smiling eyes to me.
    â€œWhat flag is he hoisting?” Jean asked—his warm manner drying up her tears.
    â€œWhat flag? Yours, of course. Isn’t it one of your big days today? Independence Day or some big deal like that? I’d think you’d want to do something patriotic. Both of you,” he said, glancing at me again—but then looking beyond me, and when I turned around, I saw Barbara had come out of the house and stood there, wearing a short robe. “All three of you,” he included her, exuding good cheer to us all.
    No one could look as sullen, when she wanted to, as warm, dimpled Barbara; and she wanted to now. She had a fleeting “Hi” for Jean; she disregarded Crishi completely; and she said to me, “Come in for a minute, Harriet. I want to say something.”
    â€œHey! No!” Crishi protested and became very active. He took Jean’s hand and made as if to pull her up. He also waved getting-up gestures at me and motioned his hand at Barbara to come on, let’s get going: “The Rawul’s waiting—he says where are those three daughters of the American Revolution—I can’t hoist the flag without them, it wouldn’t be proper.”
    â€œWhat flag?”
    â€œOurs,” Jean replied; she was wiping her eyes, was amused.
    Not so Barbara: “Ours? Our flag? You mean he’s actually going to fly the American flag? I can’t believe it. Who is he to fly our flag? You wouldn’t let him, would you, Harriet? The Stars and Stripes—on the Fourth—in your house? Yours and Lindsay and Michael’s house?” She was really sincerely deeply shocked. I was amazed; I had no feelings of that kind and would never have dreamed she had. Now I saw that Jean was beginning to look a bit shamefaced; she too assumed a serious expression and murmured “It’s not right.”
    â€œIt’s outrageous,” said Barbara.
    Crishi lowered his eyes; he bit his lip. “I’ve put my foot in it. I don’t know how but I’ve done it.” He looked up again, from Jean to Barbara and back, appealing to be forgiven for whatever it was he had done wrong.
    But Jean, sitting there heavy and blowsy, had begun to look grim; so did Barbara, though pink and disheveled and still wearing her baby-doll robe. Both seemed formidable matrons at that moment, upholders of virtue and tradition: making Crishi, standing between them, elegant and foreign, throw up his hands in a good-natured, giving-up gesture. He turned to me: “You’d better come. Michael wants you.” This, spoken straight, was far more personal and intimate than the wanting-to-please tone he had been using; and it put me in his camp immediately—I didn’t have to think a moment, didn’t have to choose, I simply accompanied him without a glance at Jean and Barbara.
    Two flagpoles had been erected between the barns and the lake, and all the guests had assembled there, to watch and to listen to the Rawul’s address. Now that everyone was assembled in one spot, they formed a sparse and straggly group: probably because the grounds were so large, with the lawnsand tall trees; and the old barns, almost as tall as the trees; and the lake with the sky reflected in it, making both sky and water seem twice as deep and full of light. It turned out there were two flags to be hoisted—the Stars and Stripes, and the flag of the Fourth World. Before the ceremony the Rawul gave a little address, which wasn’t in content different from what he said every evening under the tree. He seemed to be very moved—not that he wasn’t always moved when he spoke of his Fourth World, his high Idea.
    He said it was a great moment in history when the two flags were for the first time to fly together over American soil, for the first time to flutter freely here in