Sea of Poppies (22 page)

The spell was broken by the sound of someone coming down the hatch: Jodu focused his eyes on the ladder, expecting to see Serang Ali – or perhaps the curly-haired man who'd thrown him the rope. But he saw, instead, the figure of a woman, dressed in a long, dark gown and a close-fitting bonnet that kept her face hidden. The thought of being discovered, almost naked, by this unknown memsahib prompted him to slip quickly into another pen. He tried to hide himself, by flattening his body against the bulwark, but his foot struck a chain, sending a rattle of iron through the cavern of the hold. Jodu froze as the memsahib's shoes came tapping towards him. Suddenly he heard his own name spoken: Jodu? The whisper echoed through the hold as the bonneted face stepped around a beam and came closer: Jodu? The woman paused to remove the bonnet and he found himself looking into a familiar face.

It's just me, Putli. Paulette smiled into his wide-eyed, disbelieving face: Aren't you going to say anything?

In his cabin, up on the quarter-deck, Zachary was upending a dittybag on his bunk, looking for some clothes to give to Jodu, when along with a heap of banyans, shirts and trowsers, something he had long given up for lost came tumbling out – his old penny-whistle. Zachary grinned as he reached for it: this was beyond praise, it seemed like a sign, a portent of good things to come. Forgetting all about the errand that had brought him to his cabin he put the whistle to his lips and began to play ‘Heave Away Cheerily', one of his favourite sea-shanties.

It was this tune, as much as the sound of the instrument, that arrested Baboo Nob Kissin's hand just as it was about to knock on the cabin door. He froze, listening intently, and soon every inch of his upraised arm was prickling with gooseflesh.

For more than a year now, ever since the untimely death of the woman who had been his spiritual preceptor and Guru-ma, Baboo Nob Kissin's heart had been filled with premonitory foreboding: Ma Taramony, as she was known to her disciples, had promised him that his awakening was at hand and had told him to watch carefully for its signs, which were sure to be manifested in the unlikeliest places and in the most improbable forms. He had promised her that he would do his best to keep his mind open, and his senses watchful, so that the signs would not elude him when they were revealed – yet, now, despite his best efforts, he could not believe the evidence of his own ears. Was it really a flute, Lord Krishna's own instrument, that had started to play, just as he, Nob Kissin Pander, stepped up to the door of this cabin and raised his hand? It seemed impossible, but there could be no denying it – just as there was no denying that the tune, although unfamiliar in itself, was set to Gurjari, one of the most favoured ragas for the singing of the Dark Lord's songs. So long, and so anxiously, had Baboo Nob Kissin awaited the sign that now, as the tune breathed itself to an end and a hand made itself heard on the doorknob inside, he fell to his knees and covered his eyes, trembling in fear of what was imminently to be revealed.

This was why Zachary all but tripped over the gomusta's kneeling body as he made to leave his cabin with a banyan and a pair of trowsers tucked under his arm. ‘Hey!' he said, gaping in surprise at the stout, dhoti-clad man who was crouching in the gangway with his hands over his eyes. ‘What the hell you doin down there?'

Like the leaves of some shrinking, touch-averse plant, the gomusta's fingers prised themselves apart, to allow a full view of the figure that had appeared in front of him. His first response was one of intense disappointment: he had heeded well his preceptor's warning, that the message of awakening might be delivered by the unlikeliest of messengers, but he still could not bring himself to believe that Krishna – whose very name meant ‘black' and whose
darkness had been celebrated in thousands of songs, poems and names – would choose as his emissary someone of so pale a cast of countenance, one who showed no trace of the monsoonal tint of Ghanshyam, the Cloud-Dark Lord. And yet, even as he was yielding to his disappointment, Baboo Nob Kissin could not help but notice that the face was comely, not unbecoming of an emissary of the Slayer of Milkmaids' Hearts, and the eyes were dark and quick, so that it was not too great a stretch to imagine them as night-birds drinking from the moonlit pool of a maiden's lovethirsty lips. And surely it was, if not quite a sign, then at least a minor indication that his shirt was yellowish, of the same colour as the clothes in which the Joyful Lord was known to disport himself with the lovelorn girls of Brindavan? And it was true too that the shirt was stained with sweat, as Careless Krishna's was said to be after the fatigue of a tumultuous love-making. Could it be, then, that this ivory-tinted Rupa was exactly what Ma Taramony had warned him of: a Guise, wrapped in veils of illusion by the Divine Prankster, so as to test the quality of his devotee's faith? But even then, surely there would be some additional sign, some other mark . . . ?

The gomusta's protuberant eyes started further forward in his head as a pale hand came winding down to help him to his feet. Could this be a limb blessed by the Butter-Thieving Lord himself? Snatching at the proffered limb, Baboo Nob Kissin turned it over, examining the palm, the lines, the knuckles – but nowhere was a trace of darkness to be seen except beneath the nails.

The intensity of this scrutiny, and the eye-rolling that accompanied it, caused Zachary no little alarm. ‘Hey, quit that!' he said. ‘What're you lookin at?'

Choking back his disappointment, the gomusta released the hand. No matter: if the Guise was who he thought him to be, then a sign was sure to be concealed somewhere else on his person – it was just a question of guessing where it was. A thought occurred to him: could it be that to compound the deception, the Master of Mischief had chosen to give his emissary an attribute that belonged properly to the Blue-Throated Lord – Shiva Neel-Kunth?

In the urgency of the moment, this seemed self-evident to Nob Kissin Baboo: heaving himself tremulously to his feet, the gomusta made a grab at the fastened collar of Zachary's shirt.

Startled as he was by the gomusta's lunge, Zachary was quick enough to slap his hand away. ‘What you gettin up to?' he cried in disgust. ‘You crazy or somethin?'

Chastened, the gomusta dropped his hands. ‘Nothing, sir,' he said, ‘just only searching to see if kunth is blue.'

‘If what is
what
?' Raising his fists, Zachary squared his shoulders. ‘You cussin me now?'

The gomusta shrank back in dread, amazed at the dexterity with which the Guise had assumed the Warrior's stance. ‘Please sir – no offence. Myself only Burnham-sahib's accountant. Good-name is Baboo Nob Kissin Pander.'

‘And what're you doin here, on the quarter-deck?'

‘Burra sahib has sent to get ship's papers from your kind self. Logs, crew manifests, all-type papers are required for insurance purposes.'

‘Wait here,' said Zachary gruffly, slipping back into his cuddy. He had prepared the papers already, so it took no more than a moment to fetch them. ‘Here they are.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Zachary was disconcerted to note that the gomusta was still examining his throat with all the intensity of a professional strangler. ‘You'd best be on your way, Pander,' he said curtly. ‘I've got other business to take care of now.'

In the gloom of the dabusa, Jodu and Paulette were holding each other tight, as they so often had in their childhood, except that they had never then had to reach around the stiff, crackling barrier of a dress like the one she was now wearing.

He scratched the rim of her bonnet with a fingernail: You look so different . . .

He had half-expected that she wouldn't understand, that she had lost her Bengali since he'd seen her last. But when she answered it was in the same language: You think I look different? she said. But it's you who's changed. Where were you all this while?

I was in the village, he said. With Ma. She was very sick.

She gave a start of surprise: Oh? And how is Tantima now?

He buried his face in her shoulder and she felt a tremor running up the sinews of his back. Suddenly alarmed, she pulled his nearly naked body still closer, trying to warm him with her arms. His loincloth was still wet and she could feel the dampness seeping through the folds of her dress. Jodu! she said. What's happened? Is Tantima all right? Tell me.

She died, said Jodu through his clenched teeth. Two nights ago . . .

She died! Now Paulette lowered her head too, so that they each had their noses buried in the other's neck. I can't believe it, she whispered, wiping her eyes on his skin.

She was thinking of you to the last, said Jodu, sniffing. You were always . . .

He was cut short by a cough and the clearing of a throat.

Paulette felt Jodu stiffen even before the sound of the intrusion reached her ears. Pulling free of his arms, she spun around and found herself face-to-face with a sharp-eyed, curly-haired young man in a faded yellow shirt.

Zachary too was taken utterly by surprise, but he was the first to recover. ‘Hullo there, Miss,' he said, sticking out a hand. ‘I'm Zachary Reid, the second mate.'

‘I'm Paulette Lambert,' she managed to say, as she was shaking his hand. Then in a rush of confusion, she added: ‘I witnessed the mishap from the rivage, and I came to see what had happened to the unfortunate victim. I was much concerned about his fate . . .'

‘So I see,' said Zachary drily.

Now, looking into Zachary's eyes, Paulette's mind brimmed over with wild imaginings of what he must think of her, and of what Mr Burnham would do when he learnt that his memsahib-in-the-making had been discovered in an embrace with a native boatman. A stream of exonerating lies tumbled through her head: that she had fainted because of the stench of the 'tween-deck, that she had stumbled in the darkness: but none of these would be as convincing, she knew, as to say that Jodu had assaulted her and taken her unawares – and that she could never do.

But oddly, Zachary did not seem to be disposed to make much of what he had seen: far from giving vent to an explosion of sahibish outrage, he was going quietly about the errand that had brought him to the 'tween-deck, which was to hand Jodu a set of clothes – a shirt and a pair of canvas trowsers.

After Jodu had stepped away to change, it was Zachary who broke the awkward silence: ‘I take it you're acquainted with this gawpus of a boatman?'

Faced with this, Paulette could not bring herself to mouth any of the fictions that were bubbling in her head. ‘Mr Reid,' she said, ‘you were no doubt shocked to find me in an embracement of such intimacy with a native. But I assure you there is nothing compromising. I am able to explicate all.'

‘Not necessary,' said Zachary.

‘But yes indeed, I must explain,' she said. ‘If for no other reason, then only to show you the depth of my gratitude for your saving of him. You see, Jodu, who you rescued, is the son of the woman who brought me up. Our growing was together; he is like my brother. It was as a sister that I was holding him, for he has suffered a great loss. He is the only family I have in this world. All this will seem strange to you no doubt . . .'

‘Not at all,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Miss Lambert, I know very well how such a connection might arise.'

She noticed that there was a tremor in his voice, as if to indicate that her story had touched a chord in him. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘But please,' she said guiltily, ‘you must not speak of it to others. There are some, you know, who might look askance upon the chouteries of a memsahib and a boatman.'

‘I'm good with secrets, Miss Lambert,' he said. ‘I won't blow the gaff on you. You can be sure of that.'

Paulette heard a footfall behind her and turned away to find Jodu standing there, dressed in a blue sailor's banyan and a pair of old canvas trowsers. This was the first time Paulette had ever seen him in anything but lungis and gamchhas, vests and chadars – and because she was looking at him anew she saw also how much he had changed since she had seen him last: he had grown leaner, taller, stronger, and she could see in his face the shadow of what he
had almost become, a man, and thus necessarily a stranger: this was deeply unsettling, for she could not imagine that she would ever know anyone as well as she had known Jodu. In other circumstances, she would have started at once to tease him, with the peculiar savagery they had always reserved for each other, when either of them had shown signs of taking too long a step outside the boundaries of their intimate universe: what a setting-to they would have had, a fierce bout of baiting and mockery that would have ended in slaps and scratches – but here, constrained by Zachary's presence, all she could do was give him a smile and a nod.