The Dancer and the Raja (29 page)

“I have observed that every day there are more and more men writing poetry,” he tells them, seriously concerned. “It is a tendency that is also being observed in some English regiments at the front line; I am inclined to think it is a worrying sign of mental imbalance.”

“Mental imbalance? That may be the case with the English, but in ours it's just nostalgia,” the maharaja answers scornfully.

“Do they write poems in Urdu?” Anita asks.

“In Urdu, Punjabi, Hindustani … Look at this one …” he says, showing her a sheet of paper written in Urdu.

Anita reads:
“Death comes like a silent dragonfly, like the dew to the mountain, like the foam to the river, like the bubble to the fountain…”

These are lines that evoke the Punjab, the fields and rivers of a distant land that for them exists only in their memory. It is not so much fear of death, or the fact they are not prepared to fight in a modern war, which so fills the Indian soldiers with anguish, that they can only find refuge in poetry.

“Maharani, if you will allow me …” An old warrior with a white beard and turban, and wounded in the leg, comes up to Anita.

For the soldiers, she is their real princess, because she has come to see them and listen to them, not the ones who have stayed behind between the walls of the
zenana
. For them the links of the spirit are more important than those of blood.

“I don't want to die here,” the old man tells her. “Don't think I'm a coward—no, that's not it. I'm not afraid of the enemy and neither am I afraid of death. But I am afraid that my reincarnations may not be as good as they should be. I'm a good Sikh,
Memsahib
. All my life I have done my duty as a good Sikh … What will become of my future life if they do not burn my body when I die and scatter my ashes? I don't want to be buried,
Memsahib
. None of the Sikhs in the regiment want that.”

“I know, I know … there aren't any funeral pyres here.”

“Maharani,” another says to her. “My name is Mohamed Khan and I'm from Jalandhar. We also want to die and have our own rites, we want to be wrapped in a shroud and buried directly in the earth with our heads toward Mecca.”

Anita is moved. Those men, with whom she has perhaps crossed paths at some time during her rides in the country, assume they are going to die. But it is not death that frightens them, but eternal life.

Then Anita starts talking to them in Urdu, and the men come closer and make a circle around her. They all want to hear, even if it is only a little, the language of kings, which on Anita's lips sounds like a
ghazal
to them and makes them dream of their fields and villages framed by the distant peaks of the Himalayas.

“First I want to tell you that His Highness has made the necessary arrangements to increase the financial aid to your families in the Punjab …” A sigh of satisfaction runs through the troops. “We can also announce to you that a shipload of spices, curry, pappadums and all kinds of Punjabi condiments is on its way so you don't have to use the powder from your cartridges as flavoring …” Open laughter receives her words. “And I can promise you, in the name of His Highness and myself, that we are going to make the necessary arrangements to send you a
pandit
and a
mufti
so they can attend the dying. Don't fear for your eternal life. You have already earned it.”

A round of applause greets Anita's speech. “This war is more than a massacre,” she would write in her diary. “I would like our men to come back home.” Anita identifies with “her” men and suffers for them because she has come to know them. She has seen them live, cultivate their fields, bring up their children, celebrate the end of the monsoons and the beginning of spring. She knows how ingenuous they are, and she knows the intensity of the religious feelings that move them and the value they attach to the family. They have become her people.

Anita is dying to get to Paris to see her sister, Victoria. Neither is Paris what it was. It is still a very beautiful place, but sad and lonely. The wide avenues are half empty, except for the queues of people fighting to exchange their ration coupons for food. Her sister, Victoria, is the same as the city: exhausted, with sad eyes and a depressed look. And going through her fourth pregnancy. She looks dreadful; Anita did not expect to see her looking so worn. In spite of the small difference in age between them, Victoria looks ten years older. Anita is dressed like a great lady; Victoria is wearing a dirty skirt. Her three children run around the squalid flat while Carmen—the young Spanish maid with her hair in plaits and dressed in an apron—tries to place buckets to catch the water dripping from the leaks in the ceiling. From the sitting-dining room, which reminds Anita of the little flat in Arco de Santa Maria Street, you can see all the rooftops of Paris, but it is cold here and the house is uncomfortable.

“He gives me a hard time,” Victoria admits after going over everything that has happened since the last time they saw each other. “He doesn't come home before twelve o'clock at night and he's always drunk.”

“Has he hit you?”

“Once … He was drunk.”

“What about the children. How does he treat them?”

“Well. I've told him that if he lays a hand on any of them I'll leave home there and then. But he loves them.”

“Why don't you go back to Madrid, to our parents? You'll all be better off there. When I take the children away for a while, take advantage and come with us.”

To give her sister some relief and in view of the imminence of the birth, Anita has suggested she take the older children away to Spain, so they can be with their grandparents.

“I can't, Ana. I can't leave my husband just like that. We have to wait for this damned war to be over. They say it'll be soon. Then, if things are still the same, we'll see …”

“Why do you think they're going to change? Do think there's going to be a miracle, and from one day to the next he'll turn into the perfect husband?”

Victoria cannot hold Anita's gaze and lowers her eyes.

“It's just that …, it's just that I love him. In spite of everything, in spite of this dreadful life he's given me … I don't know how to explain it to you, but I'm convinced that one day he'll change …” Anita does not insist. As though wanting to change the subject, Victoria ends up asking her, “What about you? You look like a real princess, like the ones in the stories we used to read when we were little. You must be very happy, I suppose …”

“At times, but I'm very lonely. I'm so far away, Victoria! And now that Ajit is going to boarding school, I'll be even lonelier.”

“But you're always surrounded with people!”

“Well, yes … But one thing doesn't take away from the other.”

Anita takes a little parcel wrapped in cloth out of her bag and gives it to her sister, trying not to let the maid see.

“Keep this in case there's an emergency and you need money in a hurry,” she tells her quietly. “Hide it and don't tell anyone I've given it to you.”

Victoria takes out the necklace of diamonds, emeralds, and pearls that the nizam gave her sister.

“How beautiful!” she exclaims, looking at how it shines in the palm of her hand. “When the war's over, I'll wear it to go out with you.”

“That's right, when the war's over! Perhaps when we get back from our trip to America, it'll all be over.”

“God willing…!”

Anita says good-bye to her sister, covering her in kisses and hugging her, because deep down her heart is breaking to leave her in that state at the mercy of her husband. She hides her grief by pretending to be happy and confident, but as soon as she goes into the street, she cannot hold back her tears and starts to cry.

37

While the soldiers from Kapurthala are dying like flies on the Eastern Front, in Paris, their supreme commander, the maharaja, receives the highest distinction from the French for his contribution to the war. The ceremony takes place in the seat of government of the nation, in the Élysée Palace, which the Kapurthala palace was named after, in the center of the capital. Anita and three of the maharaja's sons attend, in gala uniform: Premjit, the military man, who is serving as a captain in the Third Lahore Division which is fighting on the Western Front; Baljit, who is working as a war correspondent for different Indian newspapers; and Kamal, who is still studying in London. The ceremony is short and sober. Georges Clémenceau himself pins the decoration on Jagatjit Singh's lapel, distinguishing him as a knight of the Legion of Honor. Anita receives a diploma for having worked with the Red Cross. It is not much, but she is happy because for the first time in her life her work has been recognized. In India, and of course in England, that would never happen.

To celebrate, the maharaja invites his group to the club of a family friend, a rich Argentinian magnate called Benigno Macías, a smart gentleman with slicked-down hair and a reputation as a Don Juan, the owner of several companies of Argentinian variety shows. If for the poorer people Paris is a harsh, sad city, for the rich it is still voluptuous and entertaining. The cabarets, restaurants, and dance halls are brimming with people who have gotten rich because of the war. Anita spends an unforgettable evening, because Macías's club specializes in the tango. As soon as the first chords ring out on the accordion, Kamal asks her to dance, after first asking the maharaja for permission, who agrees with a weary nod of his head.

“Now I know where you learned to dance the tango so well!”

“What about you? Couldn't it have been in Kapurthala?” asks Kamal, jokingly.

“Me …? It's in my blood. Don't forget I was once a dancer.”

“That's true … the Spanish dancer!” he says as a joke. “The times that's been thrown in my father's face!”

“For many people I'll die and still be a Spanish dancer, which is a bit like calling me a fallen woman.”

“For others, you're a maharani …”

“Yes, for those who go barefoot and those who are dying at the front. At this rate there won't be anyone left to call me maharani.”

“You are the maharani for me, too, because you're there where you're needed and you take care of everything. My poor mother, with all due respect, couldn't do what you do.”

Anita smiles at him, sincerely grateful for his words, which, coming from one of the raja's sons, take on special significance. She is pleased that Kamal is still behaving like he did the day they met at Ratanjit's wedding, with spontaneity and affection. He is the only one of the raja's sons who always acts the same way, both there and here. The others, and her husband, are Westerners in the West, but Indians when they go back home, as though they could not manage to integrate properly in both worlds. In their heads, East and West are like water and oil. Here, in Paris, without the weight of the prejudices of caste and religion, and without the influence of their mothers and their environment, they behave like the friends that Anita once imagined they could become. She dances with all of them, laughing and enjoying herself. For a few hours she manages to forget about Victoria, the imminent separation from Ajit, and the war. But she knows that when she sees them again back there, in Kapurthala, they will be strangers again, and will turn into enemies who will hatch plots to get her out of the palace. All of them, except Kamal. She can trust him.

In London, the maharaja receives the Grand Cross of the Indian Empire from the hands of the emperor, George V, a reward for another contribution to the cause of the war: his refusal to take the sum of money the Crown owes him and which amounts to about a million pounds. Anita is forbidden to attend the ceremony and stays in the suite at the Savoy, finalizing with Dalima the preparations to leave Ajit in school. At the last moment the maharaja has her informed that he will not be able to go with her to leave the boy there. He does not have the time: he has arranged an important meeting with English army officers. It sounds like a lie to Anita. She knows him too well to believe such an excuse. In the three days they have been in London, the maharaja has hardly been in the Savoy. Ajit does not seem to care much that his father is not going to say good-bye to him, but Anita knows she has been cheated and feels deeply wounded. At night she wakes up with a start, goes toward her husband's room, and once there, she stops in front of the door; she is afraid if she turns the doorknob, her life may also take a definitive turn. At that hour and half asleep she is not very sure where reality ends and imagination begins. She is feeling the same as before in Kapurthala: a nasty feeling that she does not have control of her own life, as if she is not walking on firm ground and that she may be going mad. When she finally plucks up courage and opens the door, she finds the room is empty. She would almost have preferred to find a woman in her husband's bed so that she could confirm her suspicions. Although the truth frightens her, not knowing is more painful.

“Dalima,” she says, waking her up, “you always know about everything. Tell me what my husband is up to at this time of night …”

“Madam, I don't know …”

“Don't pretend not to know. You servants know everything. Dalima, tell me what you know …”

“Madam, I …”

Dalima lowers her eyes. The burns have made her velvet skin rough. Her hair has grown back, although it is not like it was before, silky and lustrous. But her gaze is still tender and warm.

“Think about all I've done for you, Dalima. Don't I deserve to know the truth? I know you know something.”

Dalima mutters a few unintelligible words. Then she raises her head, as though begging for this torture to be over. She knows she owes Anita a lot, but how can she betray the maharaja? That cannot be good for her karma. But Anita, who is seeking the truth with an anxiety only comparable to her fear of finding it, does not let go.

“All right, Dalima. As soon as we get back to Kapurthala I won't be needing your services anymore. You can go back to your room now.”

Dalima puts her hands together at chest height; however, before leaving the room, she turns back to Anita. Perhaps in those few seconds she has thought about her daughter, about her inability to earn her own living in the village, about her sad condition as a deformed woman and a widow. Because karma is also cruel. If what happened to Dalima came to pass, it must be because of something she did to deserve it in one of her previous lives. That is what all her fellow believers think. Perhaps that is why she turns back to Anita, but still looks at the floor, as though ashamed of herself.

“I've heard the servants in Mussoorie say he met an English memsahib there …”

Anita needs to hear no more. She lies down on the bed with a sigh.

“Thank you, Dalima, you can go back to bed.”

Anita could never have imagined that she could suffer so much over something that seems to be the opposite of love. But it is so. Lying on her cotton sheets and consumed with jealousy, she feels as if the world is falling apart under the legs of her bed.

The next day Anita, Dalima, and Ajit travel to Harrow, the prestigious establishment on the outskirts where the raja's three oldest sons have studied. The little boy will not feel displaced because the school is full of the sons of English civil servants whose parents occupy offices in Calcutta, Delhi, or Bombay. Many of these children still live with the trauma of having had to be separated from their families at a very tender age. The change is brutal: they go from a world rich in color and emotion to another that is cold and gloomy. In India they were spoiled; in imperial England they are immersed in a process in which Englishness is inculcated in them in large doses to make them forget everything Indian. They suddenly find themselves in a society that does not tolerate children making any noise. Anita is lucky because she can travel whenever she wants, but most of the mothers see their offspring once every four years. It is not surprising that many of these children feel abandoned and react by hating their parents and India. Anita has known mature men and women who blame India for separating them from their families.

Although the separation is only for a few months, until they come back from the United States and they all go back to Kapurthala, where Ajit will spend his holidays, the moment is heart-rending. All the certainties of the past are falling one after another: the happiness of her sister and her parents, the company of her little boy, the unconditional love of her husband.

But seeing them together now, no one would know. The arrival in Madrid is triumphal. They travel with an entourage of thirty people and two hundred and thirty trunks that contain, among other things, vegetables and spices from India to flavor the maharaja's meals. A whole swarm of journalists and photographers are waiting for them at Norte Station. Among them, Anita recognizes an old acquaintance from the café meetings, the Audacious Gentleman, who interviews them for
La Esfera
. “This legendary princess is extraordinarily beautiful,” the article begins. “Her teeth are like the rich pearl necklaces that lie across the delicious mounds of her chest. Her cleavage is deep and very white. Her hands, covered in precious stones are like two ermine serpents, made to be caressed.” When the prince is asked if he is still in love with his wife, he answers, “Yes, very. She makes life a filigree of happiness. She is much loved in Kapurthala and my people understand her.”

“Tell me, Prince, does Your Highness have several wives?”

“Yes! I have many wives. But the princess is the princess.”

“Anita could not repress a gesture of bitterness,” the Audacious Gentleman went on, “and in an explosion of jealousy, she said: ‘Yes, many wives. That's the custom there … and they've been waiting eight years for him to leave me.'”

Why am I so jealous?
she asks herself that night in the suite at the Ritz, from where she can see the Prado Avenue and the statue of Neptune lit by the light of the moon. A little farther off, at the back of that mass of streets, is where it all began. What a coincidence that this moment should find them in Madrid! Not even ten years have gone by since he saw her for the first time … Now she listens to his snores, rhythmical and slow. He sleeps like an old Indian elephant, not suspecting that a pair of eyes filled with resentment are looking at him in the dark. Anita cannot get to sleep, as is usually the case when something upsets her. It is as though the ghost of the Englishwoman from Mussoorie, whose name she does not even know, were present in the room. Contradictory feelings buzz round and round in her head. Does she really have a right to be jealous? Why does she feel jealous of a stranger when she has not felt jealous of his wives or concubines? She has married a man who had already been married a number of times, and now that she knows the erotic culture of India and the cult of polygamy, why is she so surprised at Dalima's revelation? Was she not perhaps expecting it? Is she perhaps so in love that the idea that he might have a mistress feels intolerable to her? No, it is not that that has upset her so much. What has really shaken her is that she has lost her position as the favorite. She has never managed to be the official maharani of Kapurthala, but she has managed to reign supreme in the maharaja's heart. Sitting on that throne she knew she was protected from the wickedness of the other women, and she felt as strong as the British Raj, able to cope with anything without losing her smile. Without that throne … what is the sense of her continued presence at her husband's side? What sense is there in remaining in India? She feels it is only a matter of time until he relegates her to the backseat along with his other wives. Then what will become of her? Could she get used to life as a “normal” lady, one of those who goes to the café in the afternoons with her friends? She will have to give up the sandalwood cigarettes that are made specially for her in Cairo, being surrounded all the time by a cluster of servants, and being treated like a living goddess by the people in India. She will have to give up the luxury and money. But what she does not intend to give up for all the gold in the world is the custody of her son, Ajit.
Patience, you have to be patient,
she tells herself. In India, everything is based on patience and tolerance. Rebelling does no good at all.

But a hot-blooded young woman from Andalusia has no patience. It is like asking a fighting bull to be docile and calm. During the interminable train journey to Málaga, where they go to see her parents and leave Victoria's children, Anita, unable to contain herself any longer, sets aside her knitting needles and asks her husband, “Who is that Englishwoman you met in Mussoorie and has become your mistress?”

The maharaja, immersed in reading a novel that is all the rage in Europe,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, looks up over his glasses and meets Anita's fiery gaze.

“Who are you talking about?”

“You know only full well.”

He tries to weigh how a woman as impetuous as his wife will react to his infidelity; she has such a sense of dignity and such a strong character. After holding her gaze, he lowers his eyes to hide his uneasiness. He is not a man accustomed to accounting for his actions, or to confrontation. But he is cornered, convinced that the tigress his wife is will not pull her claws out of him until he has given her an explanation.

“You know that I have many women friends, but that does not mean anything. That Englishwoman is the wife of a comedian who earns his living by showing cinematographic films. I met them both and lent them some horses, nothing more.”

Anita looks out of the window. Behind them lie the harsh plains of Castille, giving way to the olive fields of Andalusia. Her land. She feels a stab in the heart. The maharaja goes on, “Just because I'm married to you, it doesn't mean I have to give up having women friends.”