The Sleeping Dictionary (61 page)

My lost child. My little girl. My love.

“Where are your servants? Nobody was here to let us in!” Mummy said in her plaintive whine.

She thought I would invite her in and serve her like a guest: what madness! I was grateful that Simon and Reverend McRae were still out at the film. They would never know about her, and neither would Shombhu or Jatin or Manik, because it was their day off. It was awful that she’d come to see me, but at least it was on a Sunday.

“Hazel, this is Mrs. Lewes.” Rose pushed the child forward, and she fell into a wobbly curtsy. “I always thought you’d do well for yourself; but this is more than I expected.”

As Rose’s tiny eyes raked over my moonstone necklace, ostrich purse, and handloomed silk sari, I remembered when she had me take off my clothes so she could judge whether I was worth hiring. But this time, her eyes did not linger on my breasts. She was looking at my rings.

“I’m sorry, but nobody’s home to make tea. I can’t very well bring you in—” I smiled apologetically, playing the part of an elite lady. “Let me bring you somewhere comfortable.”

“No!” Rose said sharply. “Not after four hours on the train and a hellish tonga ride of more than one hour! I must sit down.”

Feigning enthusiasm, I clapped my hands. “Let’s have a treat at Flury and Trinca’s, then. It’s just around the corner. Have you heard of it?”

“As long as it’s not far,” she grunted.

She moved more slowly than I remembered; all those years of overeating and drinking had taken a toll. I wrangled all of us into a tonga and told the driver where to go. As we rode, I prayed that the driver didn’t understand much English, because Rose Barker was talking.

“The girls saw your picture in the Sunday
Statesman
, opening a home for old men—how funny, given your past!”

The society page photograph had been taken with Reverend McRae, when I had helped him open a nursing home for the elderly poor.
I’d wanted to drum up donations, but now realized it had been a mistake to stand before the camera’s lens.

“So you found me—but what about her?” I inclined my head toward Kabita, whose eyes were fixed on the spectacle of Park Street.

“Oh, we found her much earlier. But it took hard work!” Mummy pinched Kabita, who yelped. Ignoring this, she said to me, “After you ran from Kharagpur, I asked Chief Howard to interview the girls on any possible thing they might remember. We tracked you to a school in Midnapore and learned about the school driver who’d been like an uncle to you. He lost his job on suspicion of aiding and abetting.”

“That was wrong of them.” I felt hollow knowing that I really had ruined his life. I shut my eyes, not wanting to see Rose’s smug expression.

“I found only the wife with Hazel in Midnapore, because your driver-uncle had already died at his next job—terrible accident, I’m sorry to say. Mother and child were very poor, so I gifted them with money each year.”

Just as I’d been doing. With help coming in to them from two donors, it may not have seemed obvious to Hafeeza that I was Kabita’s birth mother. Perhaps she’d thought Rose Barker was the more generous and kind benefactress.

“They were grateful to me indeed,” Mummy said, as if picking up on my bitter thoughts. “Naturally, Hafeeza sent word to me when she decided to move to her brother-in-law’s home. I kept sending money, of course, so I could keep a connection to Hazel. And how tragic that Hafeeza died from dysentery—it is like that with the poor, isn’t it? Half of that household died—but not our Hazel. Her uncle was very glad for my offer to house and school her.”

Hafeeza dead! I didn’t know whether to believe it until I looked to Kabita and saw the way her lips trembled. A lump rose in my throat as I remembered the odd feeling I’d had in 1943 that something had gone wrong. Trying to keep my voice steady, I asked Kabita in Bengali how long ago her mother had passed. She couldn’t have liked the way
Rose was talking about her as if she were as dumb as the mangy horse pulling the tonga.

“Two summers ago,” she whispered.

Few words meant less of a chance of crying; I knew this from my own life. Gently, I asked, “And are you now living with Mrs. Barker?”

“Yes.” Now her tight little face relaxed. “It is very lovely there. “I sleep in the room with the nicest auntie. She has a funny name: Lucky-Short-for-Lakshmi!”

“Lucky is my business partner now, but still learning. She will be well prepared after I leave.” Rose’s hand, an age-spotted, bejeweled spider, closed over Kabita’s tiny one. “Hazel is our little bud waiting to blossom. I wanted you to see her while she is still innocent. She will be too busy to travel later.”

A fresh wave of fear and rage roiled inside me. Kabita was being trained to join the Roses, just as Mummy had always wanted. I couldn’t let this happen. I would have to flee with her now—

No. If I grabbed Kabita out of the tonga with me at the next intersection, Rose Barker could call out to the constable directing traffic that I was stealing her fair-skinned child. Kabita would be afraid as well. And even if I did manage to get the two of us back to Middleton Street, they’d know where to come for her. And Simon would see all of them, and my whole past would become clear. These awful scenarios and a few more were racing through my head by the time we’d reached the famous confectionery. I dreaded going inside, but I could not leave Kabita.

“Stay outside,” Rose said roughly to Hari, reminding him of the servant he still was, despite wearing city clothing. And this positioning was strategic: if I ran out with Kabita, he’d be there to catch us.

Mummy was impressed with the sugary cakes in the display case. As she jabbed her finger toward the most lavish-looking ones, I bade her to follow me to a table, where we ordered several along with a pot of Darjeeling. Sitting down, Mummy kept Kabita closely at her side.

I leaned over toward Kabita from my place on the table’s other side.
“Please try the Black Forest cake. If you don’t like it, I’ll give you my palmier. Did you know that palmier means hand in French! Just as we call this our palm.” I lightly tapped on her pale pink palm, but she recoiled. I drew my own hand back, knowing I’d tried for too much; it would take a while for her to trust me.

When the cakes arrived, Kabita stabbed at them with the fork I imagined she was still learning to use. But an expression of rapture slid across her small face. She liked the Black Forest cake as well as the palmier and the rum ball.

“You haven’t asked much about the girl,” Rose Barker said, licking whipped cream from the side of her mouth. She’d polished off half a piece of Black Forest cake very quickly and was eyeing an unclaimed raspberry tart. I was so unnerved by the situation that I couldn’t eat a bite; I was on the verge of retching.

I did not want to talk about Kabita as if she were invisible, so I tried for something innocuous. Feigning a smile, I said, “Are you only calling her Hazel?”

“Of course! It has always been her good name.”

“My mother called me Zeenat.” Kabita spoke uncertainly, casting a glance at Rose, who frowned. Obviously she was not planning to sell her as a Muslim girl.

“I can call you that if you like,” I said quickly. “Are you seven years old, then?”

“Yes. Mummy gave my birthday party,” she answered in her halting English. “The aunties gave me three dolls and such pretty-pretty dresses.”

The thought of them being able to spoil her—when I could not—made me jealous, and also angry about their techniques of manipulation. Reminding Mummy of her old policy, I said, “She will remind men of their own children, and make them feel guilty. She is too young to stay at Rose Villa.”

“But Hazel’s excited to earn her own money—aren’t you, darling? All the more dollies and sweeties for you.” Rose Barker turned her
sickeningly sweet smile from Kabita to me. “It’s because of the Independence. The English are leaving, and everyone says Indians prefer their girls very young. Her debut will be next year, I think.”

I had brought my teacup up to my mouth; now it dropped, spilling tea across the table. “No,” I whispered, staring at Rose. “No!”

Kabita gave a small gasp, put down her fork, and looked toward Rose. This made me want to collapse, but somehow I kept breathing.

“Hazel, it is time for you to visit the little girls’ room. Pam, tell us where it is.”

“In the back. I’ll take her—”

“No. You stay; the waiter will show her.” Rose inclined her head toward the door in the back of the room; obediently, Kabita went.

I looked back at my enemy. Resisting the urge to plunge the cake knife in her throat, I took a deep breath. “That’s not a ploy, I hope, where she goes off with Hari.”

“No chance!” Mummy’s tone was brisk. “I wanted to speak privately. Now that I’ve seen you, I’m guessing you’d like to keep Hazel; but for me to release her would cost thousands in unearned rupees. I don’t think we can afford it; however, my business partner has a tender heart. Lucky thought I should ask what you wanted.”

So this was the game. Blackmail. I shook my head and said, “You can’t keep her. I’ll go to the Calcutta police—”

“Who will certainly telephone Chief Howard in advance of coming to Kharagpur. And you can imagine what he’ll tell them about you!”

“Wait. I won’t—” I broke off, belatedly realizing she had tapped my current fear as easily as she’d tapped my old ones a lifetime ago.

Rose smiled sweetly, as if anticipating my reaction. “Here is what I can do, my dear. I can give you the chance to pay me for those lost earnings. Then you can keep your daughter.”

“What are you talking about?” I felt my head spinning with anger and some confusion. “I don’t earn money anymore. I’m a wife.”

“A society wife.” She wiggled her fingers as if in awe. “Your
husband must have oodles of rupees and pounds of sterling. Investments of all sorts that a wife has a right to.”

I shook my head. I could hardly spring the news about Kabita and follow it directly with a request for money. Somehow, I would have to shut down the blackmail plan before it went any further. Struggling to sound calm, I said, “My husband earns a government salary. He’s not wealthy enough to blackmail—”

“I am not trying to blackmail! I will not see you again because I’m going home at the end of the month.”

“That can’t be true. You never had the papers to get a passport,” I reminded her.

“I had help. Just look.” She opened her purse and withdrew a passport the same dark red as Simon’s. Inside was written her name, Rose Barker, and a visa permitting emigration to Britain. “With my earnings, I shall buy a little boardinghouse by the sea. But I need more money for the ticket.” Again, her eyes fell on my rings. “Those are very pretty. Are they the most valuable things you own?”

I nodded, although it was not true. The most precious things in my life were my new husband and my long-lost daughter.

“Perhaps you can’t afford my offer.” She raised her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “If I’m forced to bring Kabita back to Rose Villa, it will cost you three hundred for the time I’ve kept her so far—and the inconvenience. But if you decide to take her home tonight, I will forget that I ever knew you—and so will Bonnie and the others. It will cost a thousand, though—after all, I’m going to England.”

This financial scheme was ludicrous. A thousand was more than twice the debut price I’d been sold for at Rose Villa and significantly more than the cost of a first-class sea ticket to Dover. I could not let her dominate me this way; I would have to muster the strength she was stealing from me.

“A sea ticket is six hundred rupees,” I said. “That I can give in exchange for leaving Hazel here and getting on with the rest of your sordid life.”

Rose’s thin eyebrows arched into horrible, high moons. “The best bargain I can make is seven hundred fifty—the extra covering Hazel’s expenses since June.”

“Done,” I said before I could doubt myself. “But I don’t have such an amount in my purse now. It is Sunday afternoon. The bank won’t open until tomorrow morning at ten.”

“But you can’t take her without paying.” Rose Barker ran her tongue over her lips and said, “I’ve got it. You will put us up for the night, then . . . let’s say the Grand Hotel or the Great Eastern.”

Both luxury hotels were expensive, but the Grand was unthinkable. And Simon had an account at the Great Eastern; I could charge a room there and come up with a story about a tea party with other women volunteers. Reluctantly, I said, “I can get a room for you at the Great Eastern.”

“I trained you very well,” she said, looking again at me. “Who would think an Indian peasant would ever be inside this fancy tearoom, eating cake so prettily with a silver fork?”

She was trying to make me feel inferior, but since I had no respect for her, it didn’t work. “That’s enough,” I said. “Does Hazel know I’m her mother?”

“She thinks you are another auntie. I never said you were her mother because I didn’t know your intentions.”

“Yes.” In the half hour we’d spent together, I’d had no time to address the impossibility of my situation. What would I do after getting Kabita? I could not simply bring her home and explain she was mine. After all, Simon thought I’d been a virgin until he’d touched me.

Kabita arrived at the table and was looking covetously at the remains of the sweets on her dish.

“Sit down and finish,” I said to her. “And there will be more tasty food tonight. You two will be staying at a very nice hotel.” I glanced sidelong at Mummy and asked, “What about Hari’s accommodation?”

“Now that I have a good agreement with you, I’ll send him back on the late train,” she said with a yawn. “But don’t try any tricks; I expect you by noon tomorrow.”

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