The Temple Dancer (39 page)

Perhaps Chitra in her blindness saw what Lucinda had only sensed, the
way one senses a coming storm in the wind's change or in the sounds of
rustling leaves. But by the time the sun set behind the mountains signs
were everywhere: in the whispers of the maids and the glances of the cooks.
As she waited for supper, Lucinda found herself drawn to the balcony near
Geraldo's room, and found Maya there already, talking with Pathan, who wore a long, formal jama robe and a tight turban, as a man might wear to
meet an elder. She could not tell from his dark eyes what he was thinking.

Maya reached up her hand, and pulled Lucinda to a nearby cushion.
"What's happening?" Lucinda asked. Maya shook her head, and Pathan
had already turned his eyes away to the shadowed mountains.

She did not recognize the sound at once. It had been so long since she
had heard it: the click of leather bootheels on white tile, echoing like shots
along the sandstone walls. Geraldo appeared, dressed again as a farang. He
had worn only jamas since the bandit raid at the pass. This change, Lucinda
thought, was not for the better. She wondered if his coat and pants had always fit so poorly, whether they had always made him look so furtive and
squashed down.

He came with loud, broad strides to the edge of the carpet where the
women sat. "A gift from Uncle Victorio," he said without a glance at Maya,
and dropped a large flat parcel at Lucinda's feet. It landed with a thud.
Lucinda stared at the ribbons that tied it, but did not move.

"So," Geraldo said, straightening his shirt. "I've had word. A parcel
from Bijapur as you see," he said with a smile toward his new clothes, "and
a letter from Da Gama." He reached into his doublet and took out a sheet
of stiff, ivory paper.

"And?" Pathan gazed levelly at Geraldo, as though his thoughts were
calm and elsewhere.

"And there is much news. His letter concerns each one of us. Since you
ask, Captain, let me read that part concerning you."

"I myself will read it, if I may." Pathan reached out and after hesitating,
Geraldo handed him the letter. The Muslim held it out and frowned.

"It is in Portuguese, Captain," Geraldo said, trying not to smile. "Allow me."

But Pathan turned away. "Lucy, you read it to me." He held the letter
toward her.

She did not raise her lowered eyes. "I can't, sir."

After looking at her for a moment, Pathan passed the letter back to
Geraldo.

"Here is the news for you, Captain. It concerns the bayadere as well."
Maya's eyes shot up at the word, but Geraldo kept his focused on the letter.
"My uncle Victorio sends his compliments and informs you that he will
not complete the arrangement made with Wall Khan."

"What! Why not?"

"He has made a different agreement. The bayadere is to be sold to another party."

"This will not do!" Pathan exclaimed. "He has not the right!"

Geraldo shrugged.

"Who?" asked Maya softly.

Again Geraldo hesitated, as though realizing how his importance increased with each silent passing moment. "I should not say ..." he murmured.

"Who!" Pathan demanded.

"To the Khaswajara, if you want to know."

"What? A eunuch? What need has a eunuch for..." Pathan managed to recover
his calm and let the question drop, but Maya's face had drained of color.

"The letter says that Da Gama, and Victorio, and their suite will come
to Belgaum soon, and escort the bayadere back to Bijapur. Da Gama says,
Captain, that you are welcome to come with us or go on alone as you
may wish. He reminds you that with this new arrangement, your official
capacity as hurak is ended."

"We shall see," Pathan muttered.

"Ended," Geraldo repeated with emphasis, "but our family will always
remember your rescue of Lucinda, and therefore hold you in the highest
regard."

"And this is how your family displays its regard?" Pathan glared at
Geraldo, and then turned to Lucinda. But he found he could not maintain
his indignation at the sight of her downcast eyes, and so frowned at Geraldo once more. "Who will act as burak for the Khaswajara?"

Geraldo could not conceal his amusement. "An old friend of yours,
Captain. Slipper, the mukhunni." Geraldo enjoyed Pathan's astonishment.

Lucinda felt Maya grasp her hand when Geraldo said the name. She looked
up for the first time since the package landed at her feet. Maya's other hand
was covering her mouth, and tears trickled from her gold-flecked eyes.

"And what of me, cousin?" Lucinda whispered.

Geraldo once more hesitated, looking Lucinda over before he spoke. "I hope you find it pleasant news, cousin. Your engagement to Marques
Oliveira is ended."

Lucinda's shoulders sagged in relief, and she tore at the bent locket she
had replaced around her neck. "Thank god I will not marry that disgusting
old frog!" she cried, and threw the locket with all her might. It landed near
the railing of the verandah, skittering over the marble floor.

"There's more, cousin. Another suitor for you, a different husband.
One you know quite well," Geraldo said with eyes gleaming. "Da Gama
says Uncle Victorio means to marry you.,,

"No!" Pathan blurted out the word, but no one looked at him.

Lucinda's eyes widened, and her mouth gasped open. "Uncle Victorio?
He must be eighty!"

"I doubt he's much older than seventy, cousin." Geraldo's eyes glittered.

"How dare you take enjoyment in her suffering," Pathan burst out.

"You are a heathen and know nothing," Geraldo answered. "Apologize.

"I will not."

"Then never speak to me again." Geraldo eyes gleamed as Pathan began to stand. They looked at each other for a moment, the tension crackling between them, until at last Geraldo without a further word spun on his
heel, and strode from the room, the clack of his boots echoing into the twilight.

"Lucy," Pathan said, reaching toward her, but she shook her head and
did not stir. Maya placed a hand on Lucinda's shoulder, and Pathan
watched with a sad envy.

"Things may yet work out, Lucy," he said softly. "The road is not certain, and the end of the journey cannot be seen." Lucinda could not look
up. Pathan reached out again, then shook his head, stood tall and drew back
his hand. He then spoke in a low voice, staring into the distance because he
could not look at her for fear of weeping. "Why, the poet asks, is my road
so drear? Why do the stones give me no rest? Why is my way so hard, Lord,
when my brother's way is so pleasant? That is your task, the Lord replies. It
has no joy, but it is meant for you. Only do your best, the poet says, then
close your eyes and see God's face." With silent steps Pathan turned into
the shadows.

"I hate his poems," Lucinda whispered.

Maya thought Lucinda would be weeping, but her eyes were dry. "Sister," Maya said, her face close to Lucinda's ear. "He is right. We must take
the road prepared for us, however hard-there is no other way." At last,
Lucinda nodded silently and squeezed Maya's hand. They sat quietly, each
thinking her own thoughts. Maya at last sighed, and tried to change the
subject. "Whatever is in that parcel?" she asked.

In answer, Lucinda only slid the package toward Maya's feet. "Open it
if you like." As Maya began to tug at the knots of the sisal string, Lucinda
spoke, almost to herself, "Once you said I was a slave, and I denied it. But
now I see that I was wrong."

Maya pulled aside the strings, and unfolded the cotton cloth to reveal a
new-made dress, and a pair of hose, and silk slippers, and a stiff corset.
"What is all this, sister?" she asked.

"Those," Lucinda answered, "are my chains."

It seemed to Da Gama that they would never leave for Belgaum. He had
sent the letter and clothing to Geraldo a week ago, promising to be there
soon. How long could it take to find some palanquins, some horses, and a
few guards? By himself, he could be in Belgaum in two days if he traveled
hard.

He had not counted on the stubborn slowness of Victorio, or the ways
that Mouse would find to make the simplest tasks impossible. Packing
took forever: clothes could not be packed until they were clean; and the
old trunks must be newly painted, and so on and on. Vittorio went along
with anything the eunuch asked.

"But we should move quickly. We don't know what's happening in Belgaum," Da Gama told him angrily.

"You worry too much," Victorio answered. "You'll become old before
your time." Victorio motioned for Da Gama to come close, as though to
whisper a secret. "Be attentive to my eunuch. Listening to Mouse has made
me young. By the Virgin, I woke up hard as a rock this morning. He has
some marvelous potions! I can't wait to get that little murderess to my bed.
Pleasure is the best revenge!" Da Gama took a moment to realize that Victorio was speaking of Lucy. He tried to hide his face.

And suddenly there were eunuchs everywhere, it seemed, Slipper in the
lead. The fellow had come up in the world, it appeared, for he had servants
of his own, even a little black African boy who followed him like a puppy.
For a while, Slipper pretended to make suggestions, to ask polite favors. It
took only a few days before he was telling Da Gama how to make arrangements, and turning red if his words were not accepted.

Slipper had decided to go along to Belgaum. The eunuch had observed
how Pathan had traveled with the caravan, and intended to follow the captain's lead. "After all I am Whisper's burak, you see, just as Pathan was the
burak for Wall Khan. But in my case, I shall finish the job and we will have
the settlement. Then I shall be a settlement man myself, Deoga! You must
look out or I shall have your job!" His servants all laughed at Slipper's
jokes, except for the African boy, who did not speak Hindi, but was as
beautiful as a doll.

Then Victorio, old and slow as he was, decided he must also go to Belgaum. What should have been a simple suite quickly became a caravan. Da
Gama would have traveled light, sleeping under the stars on the way to Belgaum and stopping in dharmsalas when he returned with the women. But
Slipper would have none of it: Tents, he demanded, and of course, Victorio,
under Mouse's influence, went along. Tents meant assemblers, of course,
and bearers, and cooks and serving women, and soon a couple of dozen
men were required, and schedules and deposits and all the rest.

When Mouse had demanded that in honor of his master's betrothal a
wedding parade accompany the caravan, complete with horses and musicians, Da Gama had enough. After arguing with the eunuch for a quarter
hour, he took out a pistola and began to clean it with his handkerchief.
"Not to worry," Da Gama told Mouse as the eunuch eyed the wavering
barrel nervously. "I'm sure it's unloaded. In any case they don't go off
when I clean them-not unless I'm very, very careless." Mouse had to run
to the latrines to keep from soiling himself. After that, Mouse's suggestions
dwindled to a trickle.

Slipper let it be known that he once more was Whisper's second-incommand. No one knew why after leaving in disgrace Slipper was so honored on his return. But Da Gama knew, or thought he did. The answer lay
hidden in Shahji's house, and with mounting delays, a plan began to form
in Da Gama's mind.

One day he went back to Shahji's palace. Shahji had gone out, which suited Da Gama. He gave the servants an apologetic story and a little baksheesh, and in no time he was in the guest room where he spent his first
night in Bijapur. He pried up the loose wall panel he had found that night,
and retrieved from its hiding place the headdress that Maya had given him.

Then he went to the bazaar. He walked, because it cleared his thoughts
to walk. People turned to stare at a farang striding in long boots through
the streets, pistolas shoved into his belt; Da Gama ignored them. Every few
yards he took his bearings and asked directions, for the center of the city
was a warren of shops and alleys. The advice he received was cheerful, enthusiastic, and usually wrong.

Each street had a different character. After passing the meat markets
with their abominable smells and fly-blown carcasses on iron hooks, he
found stalls of fruits piled into pyramids. Beyond these were the working
boxes of the flowerwallahs, who strung garlands as they sat cross-legged in
piles of roses and marigolds. Next came the opulent, pillow-covered stalls
of Gold Street, where jewelers hung earrings and necklaces on velvet
boards, and weighed out their value on tiny scales. In one of the stalls, a
woman in translucent veils stretched out her wrist while a goldwallah fitted
it with heavy jeweled bangles. Nearby, her husband stood and frowned.