The Impressionist [antikvár]

One afternoon, three years after the beginning of the new century, red dust which was once rich mountain soil quivers in the air. It falls on a rider who is making slow progress through the ravines which score the plains south of the mountains, drying his throat, filming his clothes, clogging the pores of his pink perspiring English face. His name is Ronald Forrester, and dust is his speciality. Or rather, his speciality is fighting dust. In the European club at Simla they never tire of the joke: Forrester the forester. Once or twice, he tried to explain it to his Indian subordinates in the department, but they failed to see the humour. They assumed the name came with the job. Forester Sahib. Like Engineer Sahib, or Mr Judge. Forrester Sahib fights the dust with trees. He has spent seven years up in the mountains, riding around eroded hillsides, planting sheltering belts of saplings, educating his peasants about soil conservation and enforcing ordinances banning logging and unlicensed grazing. Thus he is the first to appreciate the irony of his current situation. Even now, on leave, his work is following him around. He takes a gulp from a flask of brackish water and strains in the saddle as his horse slips and rights itself, sending stones bouncing down a steep, dry slope. It is late afternoon, so at least the heat is easing off. Above him the sky is smudged by blue-black clouds, pregnant with the monsoon which will break any day. He wills it to come soon. Forrester came down to this country precisely because it has