Flowers in the Blood (13 page)

“How much quieter the house is than the last time I was here,” Aunt Bellore said to Grandmother Helene. “It must be a relief to have your relations in the hills.”

Grandmother Helene was not ruffled. “The children find it dull, but I am certain it is best for Mozelle.” Her eyes gleamed. “And whatever is best for my Mazal-Tob is best for Benu's baby.”

Aunt Bellore grimaced. Uncle Saul coughed as he reached for a letter in his coat pocket. “We've had word from my brother.”

Grandmother Helene's dark eyes seemed to fill her round face. She staggered backward, as if in anticipation of a blow. An alert bearer rushed forward and took her arm.

“Didn't mean to alarm you,” Uncle Saul sputtered. He helped her to a seat and handed her the sheaf of papers. “There are letters for you and Mozelle. Unfortunately, he doubts he will be home before September.”

“Just as I said,” I announced unwisely. My aunt glared at me.

“Would you like to see Mozelle?” Grandmother Helene asked Bellore.

“I suppose, if she wouldn't be disturbed.”

“Of course not. Why don't you take her letter up yourself?” When Aunt Bellore had left, Helene offered Uncle Saul refreshment. A few minutes later she had settled him on the terrace and poured his tea.

She fluttered her eyes, gave a little sigh, and said, “Now, tell me, Saul, what exactly does Benu do in China that keeps him away so long?”

“It's rather complicated,” he replied dismissingly.

“Then you will have to tell me the whole story.”

Surprised by the intent gleam in her eye, he looked from her to me. Seeing I was just as curious, the eldest Sassoon brother, and head of the company, considered the matter for a moment and then shrugged. “Perhaps we should start with my Grandfather David, some forty years ago.” He proceeded to tell us that as soon as the East India Company had opened the business to independent investors, David had begun to buy the raw opium grown in Rajputana in northwest India. His job was to transport it by clipper as far as Lintin Island at the mouth of the Pearl River, the pipeline to Canton, the only port the Chinese would open to Westerners. From there, smugglers with armed small craft called “scrambling dragons” and “fast crabs” would move the merchandise through a network of pirates, corrupt officials, and dealers to the masses who eagerly devoured the drug. Though he did a steady business, he became frustrated because he was almost always undersold by competitors, especially the Jardine, Matheson network. Still, who wouldn't be content with a profit that, although modest in this lucrative trade, was kingly in any other?

“Wouldn't the Chinese have made out better if they permitted the opium to be imported?” I asked.

My uncle ruffled my hair. “How can she follow this?”

Grandmother Helene beamed at me. “Well, Saul, if you don't give her an answer, she will pester you all afternoon.”

“You're right,” he chuckled. Warming to his role as family chronicler, he related that the prices of opium had remained inflated because the Chinese rulers refused to legalize it. “Then, in the 1830's, an official in the Forbidden City dared to suggest the laws against the drug did nothing more than benefit worthless scoundrels, and proposed legalization for everyone except state administrators, soldiers, and scholars. Not only that, he wanted to place a high tariff on every chest and forbid payment to the 'foreign devils' in any tender except barter merchandise. When my father, Moses, heard the news, he exploded, saying, 'If these regulations are strictly enforced, our opium will rot in our holds.' “

“Why?” I asked. “Wouldn't he sell more of it?”

“Well, it is more involved than that. He required silver, not trade items, to pay for the crop at the auctions.”

“What happened?” Grandmother Helene prodded.

“My father was young and enterprising. He didn't think the restrictions would last. In the meantime, he suggested the Sassoons set up shop in Calcutta, a port a subcontinent closer to China than Bombay.”

“That was wise,” she said, nodding.

“Yes. Within a few months he heard they need be despondent no longer. A new crackdown was under way.”

I was perplexed. “Then it was good that the Chinese said it was bad?”

“In a way, but the emperor was mistaken.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He believed opium was an evil that wasted and killed his subjects.”

“Doesn't it?” I thought of Mama and the hookah.

“Not always,” he said, brushing aside my query with a wave of his hand. “Nevertheless, the emperor thought it did, so he appointed a
kinchae
—one of four so named in three hundred years—with the power to organize armies, to sentence to death, to take any extreme measure necessary to halt once and for all time the spread of the foreign devils' flower.”

“That’s the poppy, right?” I asked to check if I was following the complex tale.

My uncle nodded perfunctorily and went on to tell us that Lin Tse-hsu, the kinchae, barricaded the foreigners in their homes, holding them hostage for their entire inventory of opium—over half of India's crop that year. James and Alexander Matheson and one of my uncles were among the captives. When word of the Canton quarantine reached England, most patriots—those who realized the balance of trade for tea, silk, and spices could not be maintained without the lucrative opium trade—screamed for war.

Grandmother Helene poured more tea. “Some spoke against it, didn't they?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“A few moralists dared to differ. They believed that ordinary wars of conquest were somehow less wicked. But why? Most wars are fought out of greed—for land or goods or power.” Uncle Saul's tone suggested he didn't wholly believe his own argument.

“Did they go to war?” I asked.

“Yes. Kinchae Lin confiscated and destroyed more than twenty thousand chests by crushing the balls one by one and dumping them into a creek that ran into the Pearl River.”

“Was any of that Sassoon opium?” Grandmother Helene wondered. “No. 'Fortune smiles,' my father wrote to his father. 'We have no partners in Canton, no stock in that foul harbor. The loss to Jardine is our gain.' He sat back and waited until the value of opium in his warehouses doubled. Then, avoiding Lintin Island entirely, he organized a small fleet to make deliveries into Macao, where daring captains were more than willing to sail into smaller ports for the premium paid for the scarce commodity.” Uncle Saul took a long sip from the teacup. “Kinchae Lin could not hold back the flood of entrepreneurs that followed. His fury mounted further when British sailors in Macao were said to have killed a Chinese citizen. He put a price on the capture of English officers, soldiers, and Indian sepoys. The British reacted to this final affront by announcing that opium would continue to flow into China—this time in warships.”

“That was the First Opium War,” Grandmother Helene said to me.

Uncle Saul nodded. “Yes. After Admiral Eliot and his India fleet blockaded access to Canton, they made for Shanghai, leaving port cities along the way running with blood.” His voice rose with enthusiasm. “Within a year a settlement, the Treaty of Nanking, was negotiated, forcing the emperor to compensate us merchants for the opium Kinchae Lin had destroyed and for the expenses of war as well. The most significant provision was that Hong Kong became a crown colony and the ports of Canton, Foochow, Ningpo, Amoy, and Shanghai were opened to trade. Opium was not legalized as such, but the treaty put blinders on the Chinese, who were forbidden to search British ships. By the middle of the 1840's, China was millions of pounds sterling in debt as the pressed cakes made from India's flowers flowed freely to satisfy the insatiable population of smokers.” He leaned back and smiled smugly at Grandmother Helene. She returned his smile with a gracious nod of her head.

I stood up. “But it was wrong!”

“On the contrary, Dinah, it was not fair of the Chinese officials to deprive their people of a product that, once they were accustomed to, they could not relinquish without danger to their health. Don't listen to people who claim we addicted their citizens to opium. Every man makes that choice voluntarily. The Chinese complained we were draining them of silver, but had they not been draining us of silver for more than one hundred years?”

“But—”

“Hush, Dinah!” Grandmother Helene said with unusual severity.

Curious as to the change of tone in the room, Aunt Bellore had come to the door.

“Well, that's enough for now,” Saul said, relieved not to have to respond to me any further.

But Bellore had her piece to add. She grinned as she boasted, “Of course, a ship owned by our family started the Second Opium War.”

“Really?” Grandmother Helene asked with wide eyes.

“Yes. That was some ten years later,” my uncle asserted. “The
Arrow
, a lorcha leased by the Sassoons, was attacked in the South China Sea. Her cargo was dumped and one of my cousins was kidnapped. The British took up arms, and soon the French joined the fray. After the two navies sailed into Shanghai and marched into Peking, the emperor was forced to negotiate, settling this time for twenty million pounds sterling—more than enough to balance the trade deficit. With the sweep of his pen, he legitimated our family trade.”

“Tell me, what is Benu's part in this?” Grandmother Helene wondered.

“Benu has the aptitude for dealing with the Chinese. He learned the trading dialects and was able to balance the entire equation of the business so adroitly he could squeeze a positive position from almost any transaction.” Saul caught his sister's eye. “For the last several years the Sassoons have been able to control almost three-fourths of the opium in India.”

“That is very impressive. But what is Benu doing that keeps him away from his home—and his wife—for so long?” Grandmother Helene sniffed.

“Right now the Chinese are trying to grow their own flowers,” my uncle continued in a level tone. “Benu must travel from port to port, trying to establish the higher-grade, more expensive imported poppy as the standard in the Chinese marketplace.”

“Why can't you hire others for that task?” Grandmother Helene prodded.

Aunt Bellore bounded toward her. “How dare you interfere?”

Uncle Saul hissed a warning to his sister. “The child ...”

Everyone stared at me.

“Go see if Mozelle needs anything,” Grandmother Helene coaxed.

One look at the set of Aunt Bellore's tight mouth prevented me from objecting.

 9 

 

I
slept beside Mozelle on the afternoon that was to be the beginning of a beginning and the beginning of an end. Two punkah-wallahs fanned us, and from time to time Mozelle's ayah came in to bathe her face, arms, and legs with cool water kept in an earthenware jug. Sleepily I watched the ablutions. The humidity was so dense, the water did not evaporate. Rivulets formed on Mozelle's blistered skin. In the pastel light of the late afternoon she looked like a melon that had begun to spoil. She groaned as she tried to sit up. Her ayah assisted, to no avail, and I came around to the other side to help.

Mozelle stopped us both from lifting her, and fell back. “Ai, Mama!” she cried. She clenched her eyes and bit her lip. She did not seem to recover from the spasm.

“Mozelle!” I shook her. “Get the burra memsahib. Hurry!” I ordered her ayah.

Another tremor racked Mozelle, and her eyes flew open. She stared past me as though something horrifying had attracted her attention. I looked around. Nothing was there. I turned back too late to avoid the arc of vomit that covered one side of my body.

“S-s-sorry . . .” she stammered.

Yali bathed me in rosewater while Mozelle's sobs carried down the hall to the bathroom. When I was clean and dry, Yali had me drink a cup of tea in the nursery.

Grandmother Helene rushed in, her hands tugging at the folds in her dress. “Mozelle is so distressed.”

I shrugged. “I suppose she couldn't stop herself.”

“What a lovely, big girl you are. I will need your help with the boys tonight. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course. May we have dinner on the terrace downstairs?”

“Dinah, tonight you are in charge of the household.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and you may have your dinner wherever you like.”

Such expansiveness was worrisome. People were rarely magnanimous with children unless they wanted to mollify them.

“Will Mozelle be all right?”

“Certainly. Having a baby is a perfectly normal—if temporarily unpleasant—state of affairs.”

As I jumped up, the cup and saucer in my hand made an awful clatter. “Oh! I thought she had a summer tummy.”

Grandmother Helene's laugh was a hearty rumble. “Well, it is certainly the biggest summer tummy I've ever seen.”

“How long will it take?”

“The baby should arrive by morning, or tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

I could think of a dozen more questions, but she brushed me off with a brisk wave.

Elated by the news, I decided to organize a party on the terrace. To me the most enchanting Indian festival of the year was the Hindu celebration of Diwali, which commemorates the return of Rama from exile. Our pantry contained boxes of
divas
, small oil lamps the servants used to light up the garden on that special night. We were six months from Diwali, but since Grandmother Helene said I might do anything I wanted, I asked the servants to set out the divas. By dusk the gardens twinkled with hundreds of fairy lights, just the right atmosphere to make a baby want to appear, I decided.

When everything was set up to my satisfaction, I went to visit Mozelle, who seemed much recovered from the afternoon. She was sitting in a high wooden chair that had been lined with pillows, sipping lemonade. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks more highly colored than in many a month.

I pointed to the window. “Can you see outside from there?”

Mozelle stretched her short, thick neck. “Just a bit. So many stars . . .”

“Not stars, diva lamps.”

She didn't seem to hear me. “Again,” she mumbled as her eyes crossed queerly and her hands clenched.

A lady with nutmeg-tinted skin emerged from the shadows. Long, slender fingers reached out from a white sari and skittered across Mozelle's abdomen. Nothing was said for more than a minute; then she spoke in a singsong. “It passes, it passes, it's gone.” The lady retreated to where she had been sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mozelle's eyes fluttered open. She seemed to be coming out of a trance.

“I want to . . .” She gestured toward the open window.

Her mother and the other woman rushed to her side. Lifting her under the arms, they glided her across the floor until she could see the quivering lights outside. Jonah and Asher were singing an Indian nursery song they had learned from Selima:

Tali, tali bajao baba, Achcha roti haat banata.

Thora mummy-ko do.

Thora daddy-ko do.

Jo baki hai.

Burya ayah-ko do.

Clap, clap hands, baby,

They make good bread in the market.

Give a little to mummy.

Give a little to daddy.

What is left over,

Give to the old ayah.

“How wonderful! Diwali is such a beautiful holiday. We always go down to the ghats to watch the lights floating on the river. Next time . . .” Her voice caught. I thought the sickness had clasped her again, but she recovered and said in a whispery voice, “Next time Benu will be with me and somebody else will see it with us for the first time.” She patted her belly and gave a lopsided grin as she was helped back to her chair.

“Very nice, Dinah. A lovely thing to have done . . .” Grandmother Helene's voice trailed off as Mozelle started in again. The lady in white resumed her position, her movements, her words, mirroring the earlier ones.

“Who is she?”

“A midwife, a person who knows how to bring a baby into the world.”

“What's wrong with Mozelle? Why does she act so strange every so often?”

“A baby comes in small steps, like an incoming tide. Each wave gives her a pain for a minute or so; each pain brings the baby closer. Better for you to leave now, Dinah. Come in again before you go to bed.”

When I went in to say good night to Mozelle, she lay on her side, groaning like someone who had overeaten. I tiptoed over and touched her cheek. “Have them wake me as soon as the baby comes. I've never seen one that's brand-new.”

As Mozelle stared past me, abstracted, her mother stepped forward. “Talk to Dinah, don't frighten her.”

These words forced Mozelle to focus on me. She licked her lips.

“Yes, Dinah. I want you to be one of the very first.” Her voice took on a command I had never before heard. “After all, you will be eldest sister of the family.” A tremor seized her, but this time she fought through it. “If s not so bad, truly it isn't, and when it passes, it stays away for quite a long while. I can close my eyes and sometimes even sleep. How I wish I could wake up and find the baby in my arms!”

“I'm glad it isn't terrible. It looks so—”

Grandmother Helene steered me away. “You must get some sleep. Tomorrow will be an eventful day.” Mozelle wailed, then moaned, sounding more like an injured cow than a person. I twitched in response. “Now, now, she'll be fine . . .” she said as I was ushered from the room.

The flickering elation at the spectacle of the diva lamps was obliterated by the quaking screams that punctuated the night. In spite of the heat, Yali closed the door to my room. Even so, it could not drown out the loudest wails, then—sometime after midnight—the gasps and screeches.

“Will she die?” I pressed against Yali's chest.

“No, no, she makes a fuss. If her mother would not pamper her so . . .” Yali sighed.

The intensity and frequency of Mozelle's complaints increased. Piercing shrieks and calls for help from God woke the boys, requiring both ayahs' attention to settle them back to sleep.

“Soon, soon,” comforted Yali when she could get back to me. “They all cry out when the baby is about to come.” An hour later Yali herself had run out of consoling words. Her mouth was pinched. Her eyes were glazed.

“Can't they get someone to help her? Why don't they call Nana or Dr. Hyam?”

Yali perked up. “I
could not suggest this, but you could speak to the burra memsahib.”

I ran down the hallway. A sickly perfume emanated from the darkened room. A husky breathing, frightening in its animalistic intensity, bellowed out into the hall. I located Grandmother Helene in the din without having to look upon Mozelle. She slumped over in the chair where her daughter had sat so regally that afternoon. “Mazal-Tob, Mazal-Tob,” she muttered. Great, sagging pouches drooped below her eyes. Her silvery hair looked as though nesting birds had deranged it. One limp hand flopped over a pillow. “My poor Mazal-Tob . . .”

I touched her hand. “Is it time?” she muttered.

“A doctor,” I whispered. “Call Dr. Hyam. My father would want Mozelle to have a doctor.” When Grandmother Helene shook her head, I thought she was annoyed with me. “My grandfather is the best in Calcutta. Ask anybody.”

“Hush, that's not the point,” she said. A rising fury strained her voice as she went on, and the next words were cracked and halting. “This is your father's house, and he makes the rules.”

“What rules?”

She seemed reluctant to speak, then sputtered, “Your grandparents are not to set foot here again.”

I felt as though I had been slapped. Mozelle's cacophony floated in the background while I tried to make sense of this prohibition. Swirling visions of my mother's clothing and furniture on fire, of the final minutes in the courtroom, of my grandparents' sad eyes when they left the house for the last time, blurred before me. Mozelle's wind returned and her next scream seemed to split my spine. “What's wrong with Dr. Hyam? He is not a relative, only a friend.”

“Your father would never approve . . .”

“Then somebody else,” I sputtered. “Another doctor, please!”

“Yes, yes, we've sent for Dr. Basak at the hospital. He will be here shortly.”

“Dinah!” Mozelle called pitifully.

I turned for Grandmother Helene's approval. She nodded so sadly I looked down. A few puddles of purple light illuminated the floor at my feet. I made my way to Mozelle's bedside, walking across them as gingerly as if I had been stepping on stones in a pond. When I reached the bed, I said, “Hello,” without looking up.

Mozelle gripped my hand. “You are so cool.”

The midwife lifted my chin and smiled at me, revealing a gold front tooth. “Talk to her, tell her a story, any distraction—”

I couldn't imagine what might be appropriate. Then a funny image came to me: Mozelle, hugely pregnant, riding an elephant. “Have you ever been on an elephant?” I asked.

Mozelle was so startled, she grinned. “No, have you?”

“Oh, yes, in Patna with my father. Shall I tell you about it?”

“Yes—” She broke off as her body jackknifed into a spasm. When it passed, I went on, embellishing the tale to make it more exciting and longer than it was.

The doctor, a very short Indian who seemed to be not much older than the patient herself, came into the room. Without taking notice of me, he began an examination, grunting as he reached between Mozelle's legs. I shuddered as most of his arm disappeared from view. When he finished, he spoke to Grandmother Helene. “All's well, the baby is quite satisfactory. She is young and small—inside, if not outside— and these cases take more time than most. There is no cause for alarm.”

“Did you see the pads?” Grandmother Helene asked.

“Yes, no consequence there. A loss of blood is normal. There may be a few tears here and there. Nothing we can't stitch up later.”

“But—” Grandmother Helene stopped. “Will you stay, then?”

“I regret I cannot. So many ladies wait for me.” Nodding toward the midwife, he said, “You are in excellent hands.” He washed up in the basin that Mozelle's ayah held for him, dried his hands perfunctorily, picked up his bag, and started to leave.

“Doctor!” Grandmother Helene's tone was pleading. “Isn't there something you could do for her?”

“There is laudanum, of course, but I was given to understand the husband did not wish her to have any.”

“Yes, but that was before—”

“Do you think the gentleman could be persuaded to change his mind?”

“Yes, if he were here. Unfortunately, he is in China.”

The doctor looked over at Mozelle. “Unfortunately for her, I can do nothing without the husband's agreement . . . unless someone else would accept the responsibility for him.”

Grandmother Helene blanched. “She is
my
daughter.”

The doctor shook his head sadly. “I require a gentleman, perhaps a close male relative—a father or a brother—before I could go against the expressed desires of the head of this household.”

Grandmother Helene ran her fingers through her hair excitedly. “There is no father, and the brothers would never alter his instructions.”

“A sad story. I know the husband thinks his first wife was given far too much opium during her childbirths, and this may have contributed to her . . . to her downfall.”

“Do you think it did?”

The doctor shook his head. “That's doubtful.”

I could see Grandmother Helene deliberating. “How would he ever know?” she asked, pleading.

Dr. Basak merely stared at me in reply. Grandmother Helene's shoulders sagged. The doctor bowed and backed out of the room.

After he left, Mozelle seemed calmer. Her shouts had changed to occasional whimpers. I know it was heartless of me, but the silence came as such a relief that I could not help feeling that she had been exaggerating her discomfort, as she had during her entire confinement. Also, the business of birthing the baby had gone on so long I was somewhat inured to her complaints.

When she closed her eyes and dozed off, Yali took my hand. “Come away now, Dinah-baba,” Yali insisted. “You must take your chota hazri downstairs.”

She served me on a lounge chair, and when I fell asleep after drinking my milk, she allowed me to stay there until the sun was quite high. When I woke in a sweat, she was ready beside me with a cool cloth and a bowl of sliced fruit. She tried to dress me in a lime-green frock with a frayed lace collar. “I don't like this one.”