The Sleeping Dictionary (25 page)

I TURNED SEVENTEEN in June 1937, when it was very hot and we were all waiting for rain. The ceiling fans whirled at top speed, blowing out the candles on the cake that was served to me at tea. After we ate, I opened the many small gifts the Roses had given: useful things like cosmetics, stockings, French letters, and skin cream. I was genuinely touched; I’d never had such gifts. For a moment, my thoughts turned to my first days at Rose Villa, when I had been so excited and thrilled by the friendship and luxuries offered unsparingly.

That afternoon, Lucky and Bonnie treated me to a matinee showing of a musical comedy with Deanna Durbin called
Three Smart Girls
that made me laugh very hard and forget my worries about Pankaj for a few hours. But as I came out, I thought about how I’d once thought myself very clever, but really had been more foolish than anyone I’d ever met. At Rose Villa, we separated to bathe and dress and then came down for the evening’s work. The girls drifted away from the main parlor, leaving me as the sole choice for a handsome young first-time customer, an army sergeant transferring between regions with a layover in Kharagpur. I knew my friends had meant this to be a favor, but when the man disrobed and I had a good look, I recognized the weeping rash from Dr. DeCruz’s photographs. I was so sickened that I did not have to feign the nausea that made me run from the suite.

Mummy was annoyed by my abrupt dismissal of a new client, suspecting it was due to the lazy sleepiness that stemmed from two champagne cocktails I’d had during my birthday tea. She ultimately sent in Sakina, who was too fogged from opium to complain about anything. Sakina had used her mouth over a French letter but still
developed such ugly blisters that she was put on leave for a month. Feeling guilty, I asked Sakina if she was angry with me, but she said that I had not made her do it; Mummy had.

The experience with the sergeant confirmed my belief that the younger, better-looking men posed the highest risk to our health. Bonnie and Natty and Doris could not understand my pessimism, for all three of them harbored dreams that handsome army men would enter Rose Villa, fall madly in love, and whisk them away to become mistresses of their very own households. Bonnie’s own mother had been set up with her own small garden house and two servants to tend to her. But the soldier had shifted back to England; and with the money gone, the household had dissolved. Still, Bonnie held to her dream of a European knight walking into Rose Villa, falling in love with her, and leaving with her by his side. This was why she sang so much in the evenings beside the piano, as if she were really just a film star playing the role of a singing and dancing girl until she found her husband.

I also dreamed of leaving Rose Villa, but I knew nobody would ever take me away but myself. If only Mummy didn’t charge me so much for food and shelter. I’d calculated that it would be another few months before I had enough money saved to buy passage to Calcutta and cover school fees, housing, and food. But where would I stay—and which school would accept me? I had no inkling. Still, I set a goal that by the time that Pankaj was out of prison, I would be free from my own shackles.

ON A STEAMY afternoon in late August, I went to the bazar to exchange some books for new ones. The rains were intermittent that day, making walking only a slightly dampening experience, and I noticed small papers littering the path that ran along the doorstep. I knew these papers were usually political-party messages, but this one had extra large lettering that caught my eye. A public meeting was
being called to discuss the situation of the Andamans prisoners. It would be held at 4 p.m. in two days’ time at a local school.

A slow, pleasant warmth spread through me as I read the notice more carefully. At this meeting, I could learn more about the prison conditions and any movement toward the prisoners’ release. The late-afternoon timing was unfortunate because customers arrived from five-thirty on, which meant I was supposed to be dressed and ready in the parlor by five fifteen.

I promised myself that I would attend only part of the meeting. And even though there was risk of being late to the Villa, my desire to learn more about Pankaj’s plight outweighed all of it.

AT THREE O’CLOCK Wednesday, I took a short tonga ride to the school on the Indian side of town. The roads here were rough and full of litter, and I felt the people’s eyes on me, as if they knew my Rose Villa background—despite the fact that I’d worn my plainest sari and no jewelry at all.

I had tried seeking work here long ago. This time, I went in with a large throng of men and some women toward a main auditorium. Most of the males attending wore white Congress caps, and I remembered the long ago time in Midnapore when Bidushi and I got on the wrong side of Congress protesters. Self-consciously, I touched the sari that I was wearing, hoping it was woven in India. At Rose Villa, nobody thought about such things.

The event was slightly late beginning. The local party leader who quieted the lively crowd with waving hands said that the Andamans report would be given immediately. He said the Andamans prisoners had forwarded a petition to the viceroy, asking to be repatriated to India. The viceroy had not yet responded, and as a result, the prisoners had begun a hunger strike. A ripple of concern seemed to go through the crowd, especially when the organizer said that all the leaders of
the Congress Party, and even Rabindranath Tagore, had cautioned the prisoners not to put themselves in such a dangerous position.

“How many have died?” The question was called from the crowd.

“A handful since July 25; but more are sure to go,” answered the Congress spokesman with a long face. “The last time there was a hunger strike at that prison, back in 1931, the guards did force-feeding. And that in itself is quite harmful.”

It was now the end of August. How could the men still be alive? Did Pankaj welcome death because he longed to be with Bidushi? This thought dogged me as the speaker went on, talking of how prisoners in jails throughout India were striking in sympathy. I would starve myself if it would bring Pankaj back to India, but who would pay notice to the sympathy strike of a prostitute who continued to lie down for Englishmen and take their money? I wanted to leave Rose Villa badly, but I had nobody to turn to who would accept me. As the proverb went, I’d made my own bed and had to lie in it.

GLOOM SURROUNDED ME like a thin cloak as I returned to Rose Villa after the meeting. I had little time to freshen myself upon arrival and decided to wear a dress instead of a sari. I would use my English voice and wear an English costume, for I wanted to share nothing of who I was with my customers that evening. Stoically, I powdered my face peach and painted my lips a garish coral color. I wanted to look ugly, not to be chosen too many times.

“You don’t look the same,” Lucky said, coming into my bedroom around six.

I slammed the cosmetics box closed. “Why not? Mummy says we should vary our appearance.”

“They don’t come for cheap tarts—that’s why we can’t wear red saris or chew paan.” She frowned at the ill-fitting floral chiffon I wore. “I haven’t seen that frock before.”

“It’s one of Bonnie’s old dresses. She was throwing it away.”

“For good reason! Not that necklace; take this one.” She placed a heavy circlet of artificial diamonds around my neck, in place of the faux topaz I’d selected. “What’s wrong, Pamela? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I said sullenly. And it was true. I was so distracted by my worries over Pankaj and the Andamans prisoners that I hadn’t taken note that the Taster had arrived early and been waiting since five in the Chrysanthemum Suite’s red-sheeted bed; Mummy suddenly realized and rushed upstairs to tell me. This time, I had neglected to cover myself with spices and fine lingerie; and there was no time for it. As Mummy pushed me toward the suite, scolding me all the way, I wondered if he would be disappointed or merely glad to get on with his evening meal. I could smell the food he’d brought even before opening the door.

“Good evening, my saheb.” I crouched to touch his feet as usual. When I came up, he pulled me close. His nose moved over my face, and then my shoulder.

“What is this?” he said abruptly. “You didn’t prepare for me.”

I thought of saying that the scents were so mysterious and faint that they had to be smelled most carefully. But the thought of him behaving like a street dog, sniffing and licking, made me want to deter him as long as I could. So I gave an automatic smile that felt like a spasm.

“I bathed, Saheb. Would you like to as well?” I extended my hand toward the attached bathroom, which he customarily used after he was through.

Suddenly, his manner stiffened. “What did you say? Do you think I stink?”

Pressing my lips together, I shook my head. Of course he reeked. Some men washed up before they arrived, but he didn’t. The Taster smelled of meat and all the things he ate, and of sweat and the evils of his prison. And tonight, as he pulled me against him, I inhaled the harsh rye that Mummy kept downstairs.

“Speak, girl!” But before I could think of a better answer, he raised
his fist and delivered a blow that smashed my lips open. I was stunned, both with pain and fear. The violence had happened so fast, I hadn’t seen it coming and had no chance to turn my head. Now my lips were bloody and my tongue smarted. I saw my smudged coral lipstick on his palm as he brought it back to strike me again.

“You don’t smell,” I gasped out, but he hit me anyway, and then he pushed me down on the bed and was tearing the flowered dress. Now I cursed myself for wearing something so simple; for I had no intention of being taken roughly in a house that prided itself on its genteel nature. At Rose Villa there were to be no beatings
by men
, Mummy always said coyly, implying that the reverse was acceptable.

“Sir, you mustn’t!” I shouted for the sake of anyone who might hear me in the corridor. But my next call for help was cut off, for he had filled my mouth with a greasy piece of mutton that had come out of his suit pocket.

I could not get my hands anywhere near my face without his hitting me, and I could not even speak without fear of choking. So I lay still as he raped me, for that was what it was this time. And the worst of it was, he had moved into me so fast I had not been able to bring out a French letter out of the box for my own protection.

“You will get your—just deserts!” The Taster panted hard as he pumped. It seemed that the liquor he’d consumed made it hard for him to perform. As he fell soft I hoped he would give up the whole business, but he made a growling sound and kept on, slapping at me each time I tried to free myself. If only it were the Lotus Suite, where the others might see through the ceiling spy hole; surely they would rescue me. But we were inside the Chrysanthemum Suite at the far end of the hall, a hellish room decorated with scarlet-colored lights and bed coverings, and on them, my blood.

At last he reached his goal and rolled off me. I spit out the foul piece of meat and wept with pain. The horror of what had happened filled me; I could not go to my imaginary cupboard for rescue. I’d been locked out.

The Taster stood and began to dress. Burping, he said, “No tip for you tonight.”