Flowers in the Blood (27 page)

A tray set out on a table by the window offered a tempting array. The most appealing were various dumplings and a bowl of sliced fruits. Lucretia held up several of my frocks for me to choose, but she frowned at the thin fabrics more suitable for the heat of the plains than the changeable hill clime. I settled on a mauve skirt and matching three-quarter-length coat with wide revers and full sleeves over a linen blouse. Lucretia struggled with the unfamiliar buttons and hooks, then clucked her tongue as she felt the stiffness of the blouse's heavily starched collar. I smiled to myself as I wondered what she would think of Aunt Bellore's solution to the perennial limp collar. Determined to maintain a crisp appearance even at the end of a Calcutta afternoon, my aunt kept her collar erect by inserting a band of metal cut from a food can between her neck and the fabric. Horrified at the idea, I had hoped I would never be required to be as fashionable. Here in the hills, even the simplicity of my tailored outfit seemed out-of-place. I was anxious to meet other women in Darjeeling and see what they wore.

The effort of dressing proved to be almost too much. I had to take another cup of tea and splash water on my forehead and wrists before I dared join Silas. What would he think of his weak wife? He had been most considerate, but surely the delay of our honeymoon must have been disappointing. I wondered what I could do to make it up to him.

Silas stood as soon as he heard the door to my room open. “Ah, how much better you look. The flush at your cheeks becomes you. Soon you will have the complexion of a mountain woman.” He led me to a chair set by the center windows. “Would you like to sit?”

I noticed that a door to the terrace was open. “Could I see outside?”

“Yes, of course.” He guided me onto the long veranda solicitously.

The porch, which extended the full length of the house, seemed suspended in space. The hill fell away in a long plunge to a valley below, where the metallic roofs of small houses glinted in the distance. Above, as far as the eye could see, enormous mountains loomed, their heads wreathed in clouds.

“Chomolungma, the Goddess Mother of the World, is shy this afternoon. Usually she greets us only at dawn. With the weather clearing to the north, she could show her face tomorrow.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“Chomolungma is what the natives call Everest. Because of her status as the mightiest of them all, one cannot help being impressed by her. To me, though, she is too benevolent, too serene. I worship the one with the double peak: the fierce Kanchenjunga.”

Once again, the odd language he used intrigued me. I could not imagine any civilized man—let alone a Jew—worshiping a mountain.

“This air is too brisk for you. Come inside.”

I turned and scrutinized the house. In the full light of day it seemed more a Buddhist temple than a home. And in a sense, it was a shrine to the mountain, for every effort had been made to blend into the hillside forest, yet make available the spectacle that pierced the sky. Silas showed me his bedroom, a match for mine down to the steeping tub in the bathroom. Instead of a table, an ornate desk filled the cove by the glass doors.

“How beautiful!” I gasped.

He puffed with pride. “It is made of rosewood inlaid with ivory and mounted with silver.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I believe it was part of Clive's haul when he defeated the Nawab of Bengal at Plassey.”

Reverently I ran my hand over the embellished surface.

“Do you really admire it?”

“If s the most exquisite piece of furniture I have ever seen.”

He clapped his hands. “Gulliver!” The bearer appeared and bowed with his hands together. “Have the Clive bureau moved to the memsahib's room at once.”

“But . . . I did not mean—”

“What belongs to me belongs to my wife.”

I was too stunned to say anything more. Silas pretended not to notice my shock and went on to show me some of his favorite paintings. “This watercolor is attributed to Baswan and is called
Anvari Entertains in a Summer House . .
. and here is a design by Tulsi the Elder,
The Construction of Fatehpur-Sikri
, the finest example in my collection of work done during the period of Akbar . . .”

“My ignorance appalls me. You will have to teach me about art.”

“Another duty I shall anticipate.”

We walked back into the arched main hall, where a table had been placed by the center windows. A snowy cloth was set with golden plates for two.

“Where is the kitchen?” I asked.

“On the lower level, along with the storerooms. There are outside steps at either end of the house, and inside stairs at the center. The servants have pleasant quarters there as well.”

I pointed to a narrow hall to the left and right of the entranceway.

“What is down those?”

“On the left, there is a large empty room I use to hold the furnishings I haven't yet been able to place. I am afraid I am quite incorrigible when I see something that catches my fancy. I hope you have a more practical bent to balance my impetuousness.”

“I've never been able to investigate that side of my nature, so you could steer me in either direction.”

“What a conundrum for a husband!”

Why did my pulse quicken when he said either “husband” or “wife”?

“What is down the other corridor?”

“A room I use for an office. Euclid spends most of his time there, though his own quarters are downstairs so he can manage the staff. Either front room could be converted to a nursery someday.”

Discomfited, I looked away.

A long-haired cat rubbed against Silas. “Which one is this?” I asked, recalling the mention of his cats in his letters to me.

“Ek. It means the number one in Nepali. The number two, Dui, is the shyer of the pair—and the male, I might add.”

I patted the cat's long chocolate tail that arched away from the creamy body. At my touch the animal bolted.

“She'll warm to you in a few days.”

“I hope so. I haven't had a pet since I was given a flying squirrel when I was seven. However, he caused many problems.”

“Why?”

“You know how most Jews are about pets and the evil eye. How glad I am to be living in a more—” I caught myself.

“Yes?”

“I was going to say a more rational place.”

He beamed and gestured to the table. “Would you care to have tiffin now?”

I followed him to the table. So we both could enjoy the view, Gulliver had set our places side by side. The billowing clouds alternately covered and revealed the bare escarpments, but resolutely hid the tips of the elusive peaks. The light shifted minute by minute. The tints of the view constantly changed.

“I could sit here the whole day,” I said as I tasted the soup.

“Often I do that myself. Do you like it? It's
faktu
, a soup with radishes, said to be an aid to recovery.”

“You have a very good cook.”

“He'll make anything you want, from your favorite Baghdadi dishes to his native specialties.”

As the rest of the meal passed with only a few congenial phrases bantered between us, I hoped he would think my reticence the result of weakness from my illness. Several times Euclid passed by carrying papers and books. I could sense the pause in his footsteps. It seemed as if he were listening in for a second before he moved away. Servants had never concerned me before. Even Gulliver, though strange in his ways, did not invade my consciousness the way Euclid did. I could see I was not alone in my discomfort. Silas also glanced in whatever direction Euclid had gone, and seemed tense until he was out of sight.

After we had tea and a spicy rice-and-raisin dessert, Silas spoke. “I have some papers to examine this afternoon.”

Now I understood the difficulty. His attentions to me had been keeping him from his work. For a moment I resented this interference, for I was beginning to enjoy his company, but the lapse was momentary. I managed to smile gracefully and said, “I wouldn't mind a rest in my room.”

Once I was alone, I wondered what I might have said to displease my husband. If he wanted to join me, he could have knocked on the door. Was there something I had done to put him off? Or was he waiting for the evening? So far we had hardly touched. What would happen when he approached me? I hoped he would not find me wanting.

That evening was the Sabbath. I lit the candles and we said prayers together. After that, there was a repeat of the afternoon, with polite chatter about the weather, some of the art objects I noticed placed around the house, and the chef's ability to make a delicious
kofta
curry, not unlike one that Grandmother Helene might have served. And then Silas suggested I might like to retire early.

I returned to my room, sat at the silver desk, and waited. Lucretia appeared and wanted to know if I would bathe. I sent her away. Surely Silas would come to me soon. I waited by the windows until I heard no other sounds in the house. Then I undid my buttons, let my clothes fall where they would, washed quickly, and crawled into bed. Perhaps Silas was biding his time until the servants retired before he crossed the long expanse between our rooms. I remained upright, the cushions tucked about me, the covers smoothed, my hair falling prettily around my shoulders. It was difficult to read in the shadowy light, but I felt more at ease with a book in my hand. I closed my eyes, imagining what would happen when he would ask to join me in the bed and a whole new phase of my life really would begin.

He never came.

P A R T  I I

 

 

The Drought

 

But to that second circle of sad hell,

   Where ‘mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw

Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
   Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,

Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form

I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

—
JOHN KEATS,
A Dream, After Reading     
Dante's Episode of Paolo and Francesca

17

 

A
knock jolted me from an unsettled slumber. The door opened. “Dinah, may I . . . ?”

“Yes, Silas.” Was this the moment? In the pellucid light I could see he was wearing a long caftan. He held out a matching one for me. “Put this on, it will keep you warm.” I obeyed. The smooth wool muffled the chill. “Come with me.” He took my hand. “The mountains are out.”

He positioned me in the center of the carpet by the parlor windows, my feet precisely in a red circle in the design. Pinks and purples slashed the sky. I had to strain my head back to see the snows. At the very top, three white peaks barely showed themselves above the mist of mountains in the foreground. In the middle the tip of Everest glistened in a ruby halo.

“I feel as if I could almost touch it.”

“A trick of light on snow. In fact, it is over a hundred miles away. This morning there are no clouds over six thousand feet—that is why we see each snowy peak with such clarity.”

“Do they have names?”

He listed them as though he were singing a hymn. “In the background there are Chomolungma, Lhotse, and Makalu. In front come Kang, Jannu, Kabru, Dome, Talung, Kanchenjunga, Pandim, Jubonu, and Narsing.”

Below, a sea of clouds alternated from white to gray to hues of blue and red as they passed over the ridge into Darjeeling like a tidal wave.

“A splendid show, isn't it?” he sighed as the whole range revealed itself like a wanton woman, but Mount Everest, which loomed behind the more proximate peaks, was coy, and after the first half-hour, disappeared.

“Is she gone?”

“For now.” He came around to face me. “Are you disappointed?”

“Yes.” Bravely I raised my eyes to meet his. He started to stammer something, but changed his mind and kissed my forehead. I held my breath as he kissed each cheek. Then, cupping my chin to tilt it upward, he kissed me on the lips with a touch so quick the only sensation was the bristle of his mustache brushing past.

He moved his hands to my waist. “I think we becoming friends. Do you agree?”

“I do, Silas.”

“Good, for I believe that love begins as a refined mutual relationship based on the sharing of the mind as well as the body. Otherwise men and women are nothing more than animals who inflict their passionate natures on each other for selfish reward. That is why I objected to the traditional rites that follow marriage. That is why I brought you here, where we can come to know each other—on all levels—at our leisure.”

The sound of padding feet caused me to turn slightly. Euclid carried a stack of books to the far end of the room, where papers already covered a long trestle table. He looked away as soon as he saw me glance at him.

Silas dropped his hands from my waist. “Shall we dress and have chota hazri together?”

“Yes.” I smiled at his intense gaze. “Do you hold services here?”

“This time of year it is impossible to gather a
minyan.
On the holy days we make the effort; otherwise we worship simply in our homes. I thought you would appreciate a quiet day, so I have gathered some books you might like.” He waved and Euclid came forward with three volumes, one of which was by Lucretia Mott.

I opened it.
“Discourse on Women,”
I read aloud in an inquisitive tone.

“An original thinker. I am interested in your opinions on her theories.”

“I'll read it today,” I said, thinking I was more curious to explore his kisses than his philosophies.

 

I spent the day at the Clive bureau, as Silas called it, reading passages from the
Discourse on Women
and starting a letter to Grandmother Flora. “It's difficult to believe that five days have passed since Silas and I were wedded,” I began, then put down my pen. Five days and still he had not come to my bed. There had been the journey and my illness, but even so, I wondered why I displeased him. When we were together he was friendly, even kind, but there had been several opportunities he had neglected. The curious thing was that he seemed more interested in my mind than my body, and though I was pleased he took me seriously, I was anxious to discover the secrets of marriage.

That evening we played three games of backgammon. Silas seemed delighted that we were evenly matched. “I shall have to teach you chess,” he announced, but did not begin my lessons. Yawning, he suggested it was time for us both to get our rest.

With a smattering of Hindustani, the cook's wife and I managed an efficient bedtime routine. That night as I again waited in vain for Silas to visit me, I wondered what she thought of a husband and wife who did “not share a bed.

In the morning, I heard Silas' knock. Expecting that he would want to show me the mountains again, I sat up as he placed a cup of Chinese tea in my hand. I took a few swallows and handed it back. He placed it on the table, bent and kissed my forehead, then kissed each of my eyelids. A tremulous wave rumbled from my breast to my toes. So, this was the beginning! His hands explored my face as though he were a blind man memorizing my bones. My fears dissolved. He had been right to wait until we were friends . . . it seemed so easy, so natural.

He spoke in a hoarse voice. “There is a book attributed to the sage Vatsyayana in the Gupta period, called the
Kama Sutra. Kama
means desire of every kind and its fulfillment, and like the English word 'desire,' it discusses passion between men and women as well as how to elevate that passion to the purest levels of attainment. For instance, it says that during the first three days of a marriage the. husband and the wife should sleep on the floor and abstain from intercourse. For the next seven days they should bathe to the sound of music, adorn themselves, dine together. Then, on the tenth day, the husband should speak gently to his wife to give her confidence, yet restrain himself until he has won her over, for women, being gentle by nature, prefer to be wooed in this way. It suggests that if a woman is forced to submit to rough treatment from a man whom she scarcely knows, she may come to detest, the act, or to revile the whole male sex, or worst of all, to discard her respect for the man she has married.”

He was quiet for a few minutes. I calculated rapidly: this was Sunday morning and if I counted the marriage day as the first, six days had passed since the ceremony. At least four more would be necessary to follow these conditions.

He kissed me again, this time alongside my ear. The place burned from his touch. I wanted him to continue, not to speak, yet he whispered, “The
Kama Sutra
speaks of sixteen types of kisses . . .”

He stood up abruptly. “Good morning, my sweet Dinah,” he said as he departed, leaving me bitterly disappointed.

 

On Monday morning my first thought was: This is the seventh day of my marriage. Then I chided myself for counting. After breakfast, Silas asked if I would like to drive down to Darjeeling with him, returning by way of the Luddy Tea Company offices. I agreed at once.

The syce brought a gaily painted tonga to the door, and Silas decided to drive it himself to save the space for packages from town.' We pulled away at an aggressive trot. At the end of the drive I noticed a sign that read Xanadu Lodge and remembered Euclid's words of welcome.

“Why is it called Xanadu?”

“From
Kubla Khan
, the poem by Coleridge. Don't you know it?”

Once again I felt ignorant.

He tightened the reins as the tonga turned a sharp bend. On the straightaway he began to recite:

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.”

Along the hills, workers were heading out to the tea gardens, which formed a verdant quilt up and down the sharp flanks of the mountain. He made a turn at a sign for the Auckland Road and continued:

“That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!”

A bullock-cart crossed the road in front of us, causing Silas to pull up sharply at such a timely moment in his oration that we both laughed and laughed. “Now, where was I?” he asked as he regained control.

“Beware! Beware!”

“Right,” he continued, finishing with:

“And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.”

“What is the 'milk of Paradise'?” I asked.

“You should know,” he teased.

Again I must have appeared obtuse to him. “Wine or spirits or ambrosia or . . .” I offered in a rush.

He grinned pleasantly. “Some would suggest the milky sap of the poppy.”

I swallowed hard. “I see.”

“If you had read Coleridge, or knew more about him . . . Well, no matter, I'll have Euclid bring you some books this evening.”

As we approached Darjeeling, a file of women porters plodded uphill past us, carrying burdens on their backs supported by straps wound around their foreheads. Silas began speaking rapidly. He wanted me to absorb as much as possible, including the history of the town, which was started as a sanatorium for heat-prostrated soldiers of the East India Company: “And they were not unaware there was strategic value in having a hill station at a key pass into Nepal and Tibet.” He explained the differences between the Himalayan people: “. . . and he's a Buddhist from the monastery at Ghoom, she's from Bhutan, he's from the Teesta Valley, they are Sikkimese . . .” He pointed out the sights: “. . . St. Andrew's Church . . . Lawn Tennis Courts and the Shrubbery, the grounds of Government House, where the business of Bengal is conducted in summer . . . Eden Sanatorium . . . and here we are at the Chaurasta, the center of Darjeeling.”

A short while after the bandstand, we turned down the Lebong Road and pulled up at a whitewashed building with a red tile roof that housed the Luddy Tea Company. Silas' brothers-in-law, Harold Ezekiel and Israel Cohen, greeted me curtly. Then Silas led me to a tidy office and had a servant bring tea and cakes.

“I'll have to go over the accounts and sign some documents,” he said.

“Don't worry about me,” I replied.

“I apologize for taking so long,” he said about an hour later as several leather cases were loaded into the tonga.

“I didn't mind,” I answered sincerely, for I had enjoyed the change of scene. “I was sorry not to see your father today.”

“He prefers to stay at the plantation house.”

“Does Euclid work in Darjeeling?”

“Mostly at the house. Tonight he will assist me with these.” He thumped one of the cases.

“Is Euclid a Buddhist?”

“No, he's a Christian. Why?”

“His robes. I thought he looked like a monk.”

“He's far from a monk.” Silas laughed congenially. “He thinks the color suits him.” He chuckled for a few moments, then stopped the cart. “Would you like to return home or see something more of the town?”

The air was turning colder, but I was not ready to end the day. “I'd like to go on.”

Silas tucked the blanket over my knees. “I have just the spot.” He headed into the village of Bhutia Basti and up to a gaudily painted temple with huge prayer wheels on both sides of the doorway. The lama, a friend of Silas', was very pleased to show me the hundred-volume Buddhist canon and three gilded wooden Buddhas in a glass case that formed an altar.

The one in the middle looked familiar to me. At first I could not place the flattened face with the chubby cheeks, until I noticed a resemblance to Euclid.

“What wonderful painted eyes! They seem to follow you wherever you stand,” Silas said. I saw what he meant, and again thinking of Euclid, shuddered.