The Temple Dancer (13 page)

Not long after, the caravan stopped so the Muslims might pray. Slipper
made a show of getting down from the howdah, demanding that the ladder
be brought even though the mahout told him the elephant could lower him.
"I've seen you riding on the trunk, sir. That is for mahouts and little boys,
not for a mukhunni of the first rank."

With much puffing, he worked his way down the ladder, and after the
mahout too had joined the prayer, Maya came over to Lucinda. Now she
wants to talk, Lucinda thought bitterly, so I suppose I, of course, must listen.

Maya glanced toward the clutch of men facing west toward Mecca, and
sighed to Lucinda. "I wanted to speak with you alone., away from the presence of my captor."

Lucinda blinked. "Your servant, you mean? I thought you were his
mistress."

"That monstrosity? He is my jailer, nothing less. I wanted to warn you.
Do not trust him. He is wicked and treacherous. Hear me: do not trust
him."

Lucinda frowned as though amused. "But he's such a silly ... so eager
to please."

"So he tries to appear. But you must ask yourself-who is it that he
seeks to please? I assure you, it is not me, and much less is it you."

Lucinda blinked, uncertain. "But to call him a monstrosity ..."

"Those like him, they are not persons anymore. You heard how we
Hindis keep them apart.... Their souls are broken with their bodies. They
cease to act like men."

Lucinda shook her head. "Your words are too harsh."

"My thoughts were gentle, not so long ago. I no longer have that luxury." Maya leaned forward, glancing round her. "You know about the
Brotherhood?"

"Well, I've heard of it," Lucinda answered, looking doubtful.

"What you've heard is true, and more besides. Beware."

But at that moment a rustle of the curtains and the sound of huffing
made it clear that Slipper had returned.

"Sharing secrets?" the eunuch asked when he regained his breath.

Before either could answer, however, Geraldo's face appeared at the
curtains of the howdah. "How are you ladies faring?" He cast a long appraising look at Maya.

"Geraldo, hurry up," came Da Gama's voice in Portuguese. After
hours of Hindi, the language sounded like music to Lucinda.

"I'll just ride here with my cousin for a while, if I might, Captain,"
Geraldo answered lightly. He winked at Lucinda.

"All right," Da Gama said, "ride there until we get to the dharmsala.
I'll lead your horse." They could hear Da Gama cursing softly as he rode
off, and the sound of the silver ladder being stowed.

"This seems a pleasant place to ride," Geraldo said in his flawless Hindi.

"How have you two learned to speak our language so well?" Slipper
asked while they waited.

"My cousin, I think, speaks much better than I," Geraldo said. Lucinda pretended to hide her face and they all laughed. "My father's second
wife, my stepmother, was a Christian Hindi woman. She was beautiful, but
she spoke not a word of Portuguese, and my father spoke no Hindi. I was
young then, and much more agreeable; so I learned Hindi at her very attractive knees. Of course, for the rest of my father's life, I had to translate
for them both: arguments, love talk, everything."

"Your stepmother still lives?" Slipper asked politely. But Geraldo only
shrugged as if the question were meaningless. "Well, what about you,
madam?" the eunuch asked Lucinda, quickly changing the subject.

The howdah lurched as the caravan began to move, and everyone but
Geraldo grabbed for something as the floor jostl°d into its rocking
rhythm. Geraldo, who'd spent much time at sea, sat upright easily, smiling
at the discomfort of the others.

"My mother died young," Lucinda said. "My father always hired
Hindi governesses, and I must confess I won their affection by learning
their language. But this knowledge has come in handy, as you see."

"All of us, orphans," Slipper remarked softly.

"So, does everyone know about where we're headed?" Geraldo asked
amiably.

"Bijapur!" Slipper answered, like an eager pupil.

Geraldo laughed and Lucinda saw him steal another a glance at Maya. "I
meant our route today.... We've been heading east, over the coastal plain.
We're a few miles from a high mountain range called the Western Ghats. You
probably saw the mountains in the distance yesterday."

"Do the mountains look like steps, sir?" Slipper asked-for "ghat"
also meant stairway.

"Alas, senhor, if only the mountains were shaped like steps, our journey
would be easier. Bijapur lies in the middle of a wide plateau-very much
hotter than this part of Hindustan. To reach the city, we must climb those
Ghats. But they are not steps; the roads are steep and treacherous. See how
much slower we're travelling today than yesterday."

In truth none of them had noticed ... the road looked much the same as
ever, though the hillside had grown much steeper of late. "There's an especially difficult road ahead, through a narrow pass. But Deoga says we will
stay at a dharmsala tonight and face the pass tomorrow."

Slipper pursed his lips. "A dharmsala." His tone was disappointed.

"Why do you call him Deoga?" Lucinda whispered in Portuguese.

"It is what the Hindis call him; I don't know why. I've just picked it up
in talking with them." Geraldo's teeth showed benea-:h his well-trimmed
mustache. "This is the first I've spoken in Portuguese all day."

"Yes." Lucinda sighed, feeling the tension fade from her shoulders.
"Speaking Hindi constantly is quite exhausting. It's a pleasure to talk with
you.

"And with you, Lucy," Geraldo said. His eyes bored into hers and she
turned away, wondering if she were blushing.

"What are you talking about?" Slipper demanded in Hindi.

By late afternoon, the caravan reached the dharmsala. Unlike inns, dharmasalas were provided by the government, free of charge. The dharmsalas
of Bijapur were famous for their austerities, yet merchants travelling with
goods preferred them to inns because of their safety. The gates were locked
at night, and only opened in the morning after the guests had checked their
possessions. Anyone found with someone else's goods would be arrested
or even killed on the spot.

Da Gama and Pathan quickly got the caravan settled: the horses were
stabled, women safely stowed in the plain guest houses, food cooked, dinner served.

The master of the dharmsala was just about to lock the gates when two
well-armed horsemen rode up. After a little discussion and a little baksheesh, the master fetched Pathan. "Bring your purse, Deoga," Pathan said,
and the two of them went to meet the riders.

Pathan hung back, letting Da Gama make the arrangements. Da Gama
considered the faces of the riders, their rings and earrings, their richly liveried stallions, their shining weapons. "Can I trust you to guarantee our
safe passage?"

The bandit with a dark scar across his flat nose had been doing most of
the negotiating. His hand curled around the emerald-covered handle of his
dagger. "The courtesy of the Three-Dot clan is well known. Some small token of your respect, that is only fitting. Do you think we have no honor?"

It took a quarter of an hour to haggle the precise size of that small
token of respect.

"Ask for proof," Pathan whispered when a price had been set. The riders glanced at each other, and then the one with the scarred nose peeled
back his sleeve and showed Da Gama three black dots tattooed in the crease
of his elbow.

"What do you think?" Da Gama asked Pathan, who simply shrugged.
At last, Da Gama counted out a pile of golden rials.

"Have a pleasant journey," the rider told him, rolling down his sleeve.

"You're not accompanying us?"

"Do we look like guards?" The rider snorted. "You'll be safe enough.
We'll be watching."

"But you won't see us," his companion said. Without a bow, without
another word, the riders wheeled their horses and rode off.

"Now do you see why I wanted to have our own guards, Deoga?"

Da Gama looked helplessly at Pathan. "Shall I tell you why we hired no
guards? Dasana couldn't afford them. He gave me barely enough to cover
this bribe. If it weren't for my family obligation to my cousins I should never
have taken this job." Da Gama stalked off, leaving Patr.an staring speechless.

Finally the dharmsala master came and waved them both inside before he
locked the gate. The sun set and the moon glowed behind great silver clouds.

"Tonight you sleep like a Hindi," Maya said as she and Lucinda looked at
the small dharmsala room they were to share. Two quilted bedmats had
been tucked into opposite corners of the room. "Hive you slept on the
floor before?"

Does she mock me? Lucinda wondered. "This will be my first time."

"So many first times. So many new experiences for both of us," Maya
said, moving toward one of the mats without looking at Lucinda.

I wonder if I make her as uncomfortable as she makes me, Lucinda
thought. She struggled with the brass latch of her large, leather-bound trunk.
With a final grunt, the latch opened, the sound echoing like a gunshot from
the high whitewashed walls. Maya meanwhile spread on her bedmat her few
possessions from the cloth shoulder bag she carried. Lucinda compared them
to the piles of clothing and linens heaping from her trunk. "I envy you,
Maya," she said quietly.

"Do you?" Maya replied, just as softly, without looking up. She pulled
a pair of roughly finished wooden boxes from her bag.

"What are those?" But Maya hid them underneath the quilted cotton
coverlet without a word. "Aren't we friends?" Lucinda demanded.

"You are the daughter of my owner," Maya answered without looking up.

Lucinda looked up, shocked. "No, I'm not!"

"You deny it? It is your father who bought me!"

"My father's dead!" Lucinda sighed. "Who told you this?" The look in
Maya's flashing eyes told Lucinda everything. "Slipper. . ." she said.

Maya muttered something under her breath. "Look, if you want," she
said, pushing the wooden boxes toward Lucinda. Inside the smaller box was
a cloth bag. Out of it spilled a sort of golden net, strung with beads. Lucinda
held it up, spreading her hands. "A headdress?" Maya nodded. "How pretty.
And so heavy!" The beads caught the flickering lamplight; some clear glass,
others white.

"The person who gave it to me said it belonged to my mother."

"Ahcha," Lucinda said, gently setting it back. "And this?" Lucinda
started to open the long box.

"My father's, that person said. Who knows? I like to think so, any„
way.

As Lucinda lifted the wooden cover, she saw a broken sword. "This is a
farang blade."

"I think my father might have been a farang. I remember so little, but I
seem to remember the man who lifted me over his head, his face so pale and
his pale eyes. And a white shirt full of ruffles. Only farangs wear shirts like
that."

"Was your mother a farang as well?"

A tear slid down Maya's cheek tracing a glistening path. "I remember a
cold night, and a woman pulling me into the forest. I don't remember much
about her, but she wasn't a farang. She wore a sari, wet with blood. I remember that she fell asleep and I could not wake her. I pushed leaves into
the wound beneath her breast. When she stopped bleeding, I thought I had
healed her. But she then grew cold."