Flood of Fire (22 page)

Infidelity and unfaithfulness were unknown countries to Shireen. When she listened to relatives talking about the trespasses of others – for example a distant cousin who had been found in compromising circumstances with her sister's husband – she was often more puzzled than shocked. How did such situations come about? What were the words with which these liaisons were proposed? How were they concealed from the khidmatgars and maids and all the other naukar-log?

She was at a loss to understand why anybody would choose to involve themselves in such complicated manoeuvres. Wasn't it easier to go about things in a normal way? And more pleasant besides?

It astounded her now to think that her own husband had been leading another existence for some thirty years, a life of which she had not had the faintest suspicion. To think of a man who could successfully juggle these two utterly different realities was to conjure up a complete stranger. The most disturbing part of it was the way in which Bahram had reached out from his grave to pull her into this spirit-world, this strange dimension of existence where everything was deceit and trickery. What made it worse still was that she had been drawn into it of her own volition, by arranging to meet Zadig Bey again, alone – and not just to apologize, but mainly because she wanted to learn more about Bahram's son. What good would come of it she didn't know – but now that this window had opened she was powerless to turn away from it. To expunge her husband's child from her mind was no more possible than it would have been to forget her own daughters.

As the trip to Bassein approached she obsessed about all the little things that might go wrong. She knew that the coachmen who drove her to the docks that morning would be under orders to escort her aboard, to make sure that she was comfortably settled in. She knew that when they returned they would be questioned. What would they report to her brothers and their wives? What if they caught sight of Zadig Bey and concluded that the meeting had been pre-arranged?

On the way to the docks her apprehensions grew so acute that she broke a fingernail by nibbling on it too hard. But on arriving she realized that she need not have worried: Vico was nothing if not discreet; he knew exactly what to do and had anticipated every eventuality.

The boat was a fine, two-masted batelo, with a crew of six and a curtained cabin in the middle – an eminently respectable vessel. Zadig Bey was nowhere in sight and there was a chaperone present, notably genteel-looking. Her name was Rosa and her clothing, like her deportment, was reminiscent of a nun: she was wearing a severely cut black dress, with long sleeves and a high neck. Her only adornment was a gold cross.

Vico explained that Rosa was a cousin of his, the daughter of an aunt who had married a Goan; Rosa's husband had died the year before, leaving her a widow at the age of thirty.

Widowhood created an instantaneous bond between the two women. They linked arms with each other as Rosa talked about her childhood in Goa, and how she had married a master-cannoneer and moved with him to Macau, where he had died. Alone and childless, she had returned to India to return some of his effects to his family.

Zadig Bey did not make an appearance until the batelo had hoisted sail and pulled out into the bay. Nor was there anything awkward about the manner of his entry. Vico gave Shireen ample warning and she had plenty of time to cover her face with her sari.

Then the four of them sat together, drinking tea and nibbling on khakras. Zadig began to talk about watch-making and the atmosphere was so comfortable that Shireen began to feel silly for being in purdah – especially since Rosa, who was so much younger, was sitting beside her without a veil. She allowed her sari to slip off her face and thought no more of it.

Only when Shireen was completely at her ease did Vico and Rosa slip away, on a pretext, leaving her alone with Zadig. To Shireen's great relief Zadig carried on talking about timepieces so there were no difficult moments of silence. His tact and delicacy went straight to her heart and gave her the courage to say the words that she had prepared.

‘Zadig Bey – I owe you an apology.'

‘For what?'

‘For what I said that day, at the church. I am very, very sorry that I did not believe you.'

‘Please, Bibiji, think nothing of it. To tell you the truth, I was moved by your loyalty to your husband.'

‘Even though he did not deserve it?'

‘Bibiji, this I can tell you – he loved you and his daughters very much. Everything he did was for you.'

Shireen could feel her eyes welling up now, and she didn't want to waste any time on tears. ‘Tell me about the boy, Zadig Bey. What is he like?'

‘Freddie? What can I tell you? Things have never been easy for Freddie. Bahram did what he could for him – but he could not give him the thing he most wanted.'

‘What was that?'

Zadig smiled. ‘You, Bibiji. Freddie wanted to meet you; he wanted to know you; he wanted to be accepted by you, to be taken into the family. You must understand that Freddie grew up in Canton's floating city, among the “boat-people”, who are like outcastes in the eyes of many Chinese – and he wasn't even fully one of them. Yet he knew that his father was rich and had married into a prominent family. He desperately wanted to claim some part of this birthright. He begged Bahram-bhai to take him away from Canton and bring him to Bombay – but Bahram-bhai knew that Freddie would not be accepted, by your family, or by the Parsi community. He knew that it would only make things worse for him.'

There was a catch in Shireen's throat now, and she paused to clear it.

‘I can't deny what you say, Zadig Bey: my husband was probably right. There would have been a terrible scandal and my brothers would not have allowed the boy to set foot in the house. Perhaps I too would have refused to meet him. But now that my husband is gone everything has changed. Now that I know about this boy, I will have no rest until I see him. Do you think he might still want to meet me?'

Zadig nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, Bibiji. Bahram-bhai's death has left him orphaned and adrift. He has no one in the world now, except a half-sister. He needs you now, more than ever.'

‘But how is it to be arranged, Zadig Bey?'

Zadig steepled his fingertips: ‘Bibiji, I have received the news that Freddie is now in Singapore. If you were to travel to China you would have to stop there. To arrange a meeting would not be difficult.'

‘You think you will be able to find him?'

‘Yes, Bibiji. I am certain that I'll be able to trace him. If you make the journey you will surely meet him. It all depends on you.'

In preparation for his night-time appointment with Mrs Burnham, Zachary spent many hours walking around the Bethel compound,
scouting the grounds and plotting his route. There were several stands of trees between the budgerow and the far corner of the house so he knew that he would not lack for cover. The only foreseeable hazard was the gravel border that ran around the mansion: he would have to tread softly when he crossed it, in case the sound gave him away.

But in the event, these calculations were rendered superfluous by the weather: shortly before it came time for Zachary to leave the budgerow a storm broke over the city.

Zachary found a piece of tarpaulin and wrapped the
Treatise
in it. A few minutes before eleven he tucked the parcel under his arm, stuck a cap on his head and threw an old oilskin over his shoulders. Then he went gingerly down the gangplank, which was slippery with rain, and sprinted across the grounds. With the help of a few flashes of lightning he quickly found his way to a tree that faced Mrs Burnham's boudoir.

The house was in total darkness now, but he was able to detect a trickle of candlelight, spilling out from under Mrs Burnham's curtains. He looked around to make sure there was no one about, and then darted over to the house, crossing the gravel border with a flying leap. The servants' door flew open at the first try and he slipped quickly inside, sliding the bolt into place behind him.

A candle was waiting, as promised, on the first rung of the narrow staircase that lay ahead. His shoes were caked with mud, so he kicked them off, depositing them at the bottom of the stairs, along with his dripping cap and oilskin. Then he grabbed the candle and ran up the steps, to the landing above. A faint glow was visible in the distance, through a pair of interconnecting doors. He began to walk towards it, stepping carefully around the commodes, basins and racks of the goozle-connuh.

Ahead lay the boudoir, a large, comfortably furnished room illuminated by lamps that flickered gently in the draughts that were whipping through the house. At the centre of the room was a huge four-poster bed, swathed in a gauzy mosquito-net. On the far side of the bed were two armchairs: Mrs Burnham was seated in one of these and when Zachary appeared in the doorway she rose to her feet, holding her tall, Junoesque figure stiffly upright.

Until then, Zachary had allowed himself to imagine that the unusually intimate circumstances of their meeting might lead to a slight relaxation in Mrs Burnham's unbending demeanour. This hope was quickly dispelled: the avatar of the Beebee of Bethel that stood before him now was even more forbidding than her other incarnations – in her hands, which were clasped against her chest, she was holding a gleaming, blunt-nosed pistol. Her clothing too was of a warlike aspect: on her head was a velvet turban, and her body was fully encased, from the base of her throat to the tip of her toes, in a garment that shimmered like armour. Only at second glance did Zachary realize that it was a silken robe – a voluminous and heavily embroidered ‘banyan' gown, held together, at the waist, by a tasselled cord.

Mrs Burnham wasted no time on pleasantries: she greeted Zachary by wagging her pistol, to signal to him to step inside. But when she saw that his eyes were locked apprehensively upon her weapon, she permitted herself a slight smile.

‘I trust my little tamancha will not incommode you, Mr Reid,' she said in a tone of mild amusement. ‘The hour of night being what it is I thought it prudent to make sure that it was you and not some unwanted intruder who had gained entry to my boudoir. Now that I am satisfied on that score I will disarm myself.'

Turning aside, she placed the pistol on a nearby teapoy – but although the weapon was indeed out of her hands, it did not escape Zachary's attention that it was still within easy reach; nor did he disregard the note of warning in her voice when she added, offhandedly: ‘I am an excellent shot I might add – my father was a brigadier-general in the Bengal Native Infantry you know, and he liked to say that a memsahib's honour is only as good as her marksmanship.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Zachary was glad now that he had taken the precaution of wrapping the
Treatise
in tarpaulin: he did not like to think of the reproof he might have earned had it been damaged or drenched. He stepped forward, extending the package towards her. ‘Here is the book, madam – untouched by rain, I'm glad to say.'

‘Thank you.'

She received the book with a nod and pointed to the armchair
that faced her own, across a low table. ‘Please, Mr Reid, do take that cursy.'

‘Thank you.' Zachary was glad to see that there was a tray on the table, with a decanter and two glasses.

Following his gaze, Mrs Burnham said: ‘I thought it might be advisable to have some brandy at hand, on a stormy night like this. Please pour some for yourself, Mr Reid – and for me too.'

Zachary filled a glass and was handing it to her when he noticed that she had now armed herself with a notebook and pencil.

‘We are pressed for time,' she said by way of explanation, ‘and in order to make good use of it I have taken the precaution of listing a few of the questions that I will need to ask. Shall we proceed?'

Zachary made a half-hearted effort to procrastinate: ‘Well I don't know …'

‘Of course you don't,' said Mrs Burnham tartly. ‘How could you, since I have yet to put any questions to you? It is important for you to understand, Mr Reid, that the malignancy of your malady varies greatly with the time of its onset and other early experiences. It is thus of the utmost importance to ascertain the precise history of your experience of this illness. So we must start by determining when you fell prey to the disease. Do you remember how old you were when the symptoms first manifested themselves?'

Zachary flushed and dropped his eyes: ‘You want to know when I … it … started?'

‘Exactly. And it is important also to establish how you contracted the infection. Did the symptoms present themselves spontaneously? Or were they, so to speak, transmitted by contact with another victim?'

At this, a cry of indignation burst from Zachary's lips. ‘Good God, madam! Surely you do not expect me to tell you that?'

Mrs Burnham's face hardened. ‘Yes, I most certainly do, Mr Reid.'

‘Well then you must prepare for a disappointment, madam,' Zachary retorted. ‘It is none of your business and I'll be damned if I answer.'

Mrs Burnham was unmoved by this show of defiance. ‘May I remind you, Mr Reid,' she said, in an implacably steely voice, ‘that
the question – and such answers as it may elicit – are likely to be far more distasteful to me than to you? Nor should you forget that it is through no fault of my own that I find myself in the unfortunate situation of having to make these inquiries. Indeed I cannot understand why you are now affecting these airs of modesty, considering that it was you who presented your … your symptoms … unbidden before my eyes. Not once but twice.'

‘Those were accidents, madam,' said Zachary, ‘and they do not give you the right to subject me to such an inquisition.'

‘I assure you, Mr Reid,' said Mrs Burnham, the menace in her voice growing ever more pointed, ‘that what I have asked of you is by no means as intimate as the disclosures that will be required of you by Dr Allgood should he learn of your condition.'