Sea of Poppies (66 page)

A marriage proposal being a sensitive affair, Deeti had to be careful in picking a time and place where she could discuss the matter with Heeru without being overheard. No opportunity arose until early the next morning, when the two women happened to find themselves alone on the main deck. Seizing the moment, Deeti took Heeru's elbow and led her to the jamna devis.

What is it, Bhauji?

It wasn't often that anyone paid Heeru much attention, and she began to stammer in apprehension, thinking she'd done something wrong and was in for a scolding:
Ká horahelba?
Is something wrong?

Under the cover of her ghungta, Deeti smiled: There's nothing wrong, Heeru – to tell the truth, I am happy today –
áj bara khusbáni
. I have some news for you.

News? What news?
Ká khabarbá?
Heeru dug her knuckles into her cheeks and whimpered: Is it good or bad?

That's for you to decide. Listen . . .

No sooner had Deeti started to explain than she began to wish she'd chosen some other venue for this talk, some place where they could have dropped their ghungtas: with their faces covered, it was impossible to know what Heeru was thinking. But it was too late now, she would have to go through with it.

When the news of the proposal had been conveyed in full, she said:
Ká ré
, Heeru? What do you think: tell me?

Ká kahatbá bhauji?
What can I say?

From the sound of her voice, Deeti knew she was crying, so she put an arm around her, pulling her into a huddle: Heeru, don't be afraid; you can say what you like.

Several minutes passed before Heeru could speak, and even then it was in a sobbing, disjointed rush: Bhauji . . . I hadn't thought, didn't expect . . . are you sure? Bhauji, they say in Mareech, a woman on her own will be torn apart . . . devoured . . . so many men and so few women . . . can you think what it would be like, Bhauji, to be alone there . . . Oh Bhauji . . . I never thought . . .

Deeti could not figure out where exactly this was heading.
Ágé ke bát kal hoilé
, she said sharply. You can talk about the future tomorrow. What's your answer for now?

What else, Bhauji? Yes, I'm ready . . .

Deeti laughed. Arre Heeru! You're a bold one!

Why do you say that, Bhauji? said Heeru anxiously. Do you think it's a mistake?

No, said Deeti firmly. Now that you've decided, I can tell you: I don't think it's a mistake. I think he's a good man. Besides, he has all those followers and relatives – they'll look after you. You'll be the envy of everyone, Heeru – a real queen!

It was not unusual for Paulette, when going through her washing, to come upon a shirt, banyan, or pair of trowsers that she recognized as Zachary's. Almost unconsciously, she would slip these garments to the bottom of her pile, saving them for the last. When she came to them, depending on her mood, she would sometimes subject them to an angry scrubbing, even beating them upon the deck-planks, with all the vigour of a washerwoman at a dhobi-ghat. But there were times also when she would linger over their collars and cuffs and seams, going to great lengths to scrub them clean. It was in this fashion that she was cleaning a shirt of his one day when Baboo Nob Kissin Pander appeared at her side. Goggling at the garment in her hands, he said, in a furtive whisper: ‘I do not wish to trespass into your preserves, Miss, but kindly may I inquire if that shirt belongs to Mr Reid?'

Paulette answered with a nod, whereupon he said, even more furtively: ‘Just for one minute can I feel?'

‘The shirt?' she asked in astonishment, and without another word, the gomusta snatched the damp twist of cloth from her and pulled it this way and that before handing it back. ‘Seems he has been wearing from times-immemorial,' he said with a puzzled frown. ‘Cloth feels extremely aged. Strange, no?'

Although Paulette was by now well-accustomed to the gomusta's oddities, she was puzzled by this cryptic statement. ‘But why is it strange that Mr Reid should have old clothes?'

‘Tch!' The gomusta clicked his tongue, as if mildly irritated by her ignorance. ‘If avatar is new, how clothes can be old? Height, weight, privates, all must be changing, no, when there is alteration in externalities? Myself, I have had to buy many new clothings. Heavy financial outlay was required.'

‘I don't understand, Nob Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette. ‘Why was that necessary?'

‘You cannot see?' The gomusta's eyes grew even rounder and more protuberant. ‘You are blind or what? Bosoms are burgeoning, hair is lengthening. New modalities are definitely coming to the fore. How old clothes will accommodate?'

Paulette smiled to herself and lowered her head. ‘But Baboo Nob Kissin,' she said, ‘Mr Reid has not undergone such a change; his old clothes will surely suffice for a while yet?'

To Paulette's astonishment, the gomusta responded with startling vehemence: his face seemed to swell in outrage, and when he spoke again, it was as if he were defending some deeply cherished belief. ‘How you can make such sweeping-statements? At once I will clear this point.' Thrusting a hand through the neckline of his flowing tunic, he pulled out an amulet and unrolled a yellowing piece of paper. ‘Come here and see.'

Rising to her feet, Paulette took the list from him and began to examine it under the glowing, sunlit penumbra of her ghungta.

‘It is crew-list for
Ibis
from two years ago. Look at Mr Reid's good-name and you will see. Cent-per-cent change is there.'

As if mesmerized, Paulette's eyes ran back and forth along the line until they came to the word ‘Black' scribbled beside Zachary's name. Suddenly so much that had seemed odd, or inexplicable, made perfect sense – his apparently intuitive sympathy for her
circumstances, his unquestioning acceptance of her sisterly relationship with Jodu . . .

‘It is a miracle, no? Nobody can deny.'

‘Indeed, Baboo Nob Kissin. You are right.'

She saw now how miraculously wrong she had been in some of her judgements of him: if there was anyone on the
Ibis
who could match her in the multiplicity of her selves, then it was none other than Zachary. It was as if some divine authority had sent a messenger to let her know that her soul was twinned with his.

There was nothing now to stop her from revealing herself to him – and yet the mere thought of it made her cringe in fear. What if he assumed that she had chased him on to the
Ibis
? What else indeed
could
he assume? What would she do if he laughed at her for humiliating herself? She could not bear to think of it.

She lifted her head to look at the sea, rushing by, and a glimmer of memory flashed through her head: she remembered a day, several years ago, when Jodu had found her crying over a novel. Taking the book out of her hands, he had flipped through it in puzzlement, even shaking it by the spine, almost as if he were expecting to dislodge a needle or a thorn – some sharp object that might account for her tears. Finding nothing, he said at last – it's the story, is it, that's turned on the flow? – and on this being confirmed, he had demanded a full recounting of the tale. So she'd told him the story of Paul and Virginie, growing up in exile on an island, where an innocent childhood attachment had grown into an abiding passion, but only to be sundered when Virginie was sent back to France. The last part of the book was Paulette's favourite, and she'd described at length the novel's tragic conclusion, in which Virginie is killed in a shipwreck, just as she is about to be reunited with her beloved. To her outrage, Jodu had greeted the melancholy tale with guffaws of laughter, telling her that only a fool would cry over this skein of weepy nonsense. She had shouted at him, telling him that it was he who was the fool, and a weakling too, because he would never have the courage to follow the dictates of his heart.

How was it that no one had ever told her that it was not love itself, but its treacherous gatekeepers which made the greatest
demands on your courage: the panic of acknowledging it; the terror of declaring it; the fear of being rebuffed? Why had no one told her that love's twin was not hate but cowardice? If she had learnt this earlier she would have known the truth of why she had gone to such lengths to stay hidden from Zachary. And yet, even knowing this, she could not summon the courage to do what she knew she must – at least not yet.

It was late in the night, shortly after the fifth bell of the midnight watch, that Zachary spotted Serang Ali on the fo'c'sle-deck: he was alone and he seemed to be deep in thought, looking eastwards, at the moonlit horizon. All through the day, Zachary had had the feeling that the serang was avoiding him, so he lost no time now in stepping up to stand beside him at the rail.

Serang Ali was clearly startled to see him: ‘Malum Zikri!'

‘Can you spare a moment, Serang Ali?'

‘Can, can. Malum, what-thing wanchi?'

Zachary took out the watch Serang Ali had given him and held it in his palm. ‘Listen, Serang Ali, it's time you told me the truth about this timmyknocky here.'

Serang Ali gave the ends of his drooping moustache a puzzled tug. ‘What Malum Zikri mean? No sabbi.'

Zachary opened the watch's cover. ‘Time's come to cut playing the fool, Serang Ali. I know you been putting me on about Adam Danby. I know who he was.'

Serang Ali's eyes went from the watch to Zachary's face and he gave a shrug, as if to indicate that he was weary of pretence and dissimulation. ‘How? Who tell?'

‘That don matter none: what counts is I know. What I
don't
know is what you had in mind for me. Were you planning on teaching me Danby's tricks?'

Serang Ali shook his head and spat a mouthful of betel-juice over the deck rail. ‘No true, Malum Zikri,' he said in a low, insistent voice. ‘You cannot believe all what the buggers say. Malum Aadam, he blongi like son for Serang Ali – he my daughter husband. Now he hab makee die. Also daughter and all they chilo. Serang Ali 'lone now. When I look-see Malum Zikri, my eyes hab done see
Malum Aadam. Both two same-same for me. Zikri Malum like son also.'

‘Son?' said Zachary. ‘Is that what you'd do for your son? Turn him to crime? Piracy?'

‘Crime, Malum Zikri?' Serang Ali's eyes flashed. ‘Smuggling opium not blongi crime? Running slave-ship blongi better'n pi-ra-cy?'

‘So you admit it then?' said Zachary. ‘That's what you had in mind for me – to do a Danby for you?'

‘No!' said Serang Ali, slapping the deck rail. ‘Want only Zikri Malum do good for he-self. 'Come officer. Maybe Cap'ting. All thing Malum Aadam can not 'come.'

The Serang's body seemed to wilt as he was speaking, so that he looked suddenly older, and somehow strangely forlorn. Despite himself, Zachary's voice softened. ‘Lookit, Serang Ali,' he said. ‘You been plenty freehanded with me, can't deny it. Last thing I want is to turn you in. So let's just settle this between us. Let's agree that when we put into Port Louis, you'll light out. That way we can just forget any of this happened.'

Serang Ali's shoulders sagged as he answered. ‘Can do – Serang Ali so can do.'

Zachary took a last look at the watch before handing it over. ‘Here – this belongs in your poke, not mine. You better keep it.'

Serang Ali sketched a salam as he knotted the watch into the waist of his lungi.

Zachary stepped away but only to come back again. ‘Look, Serang Ali,' he said. ‘Believe me, I'm cut down 'bout it ending like this between us. Sometimes I just wish you'd'a left me alone and never come anigh. Maybe things would'a been different then. But it was you as showed me that what I do counts for more than where I was born. And if I'm to care bout my work, then I need to live by its rules. Else it wouldn't be worth doing. You see the sense of that?'

‘See.' Serang Ali nodded. ‘Can see.'

Zachary was about to step away again when Serang Ali stopped him. ‘Malum Zikri – one thing.'