The Temple Dancer (40 page)

He kept walking. After a few yards the stalls grew less grand; here
the merchants sold silver. In the street beyond that, Da Gama found what
he was looking for; the shabby stalls of traders in gilt and lead and glass,
where barefoot women peered at jewels that gleamed as no real gem had
ever done.

Da Gama glanced at the faces of the proprietors of these stalls as they
sat and worked tailor-fashion, at miniature anvils. He chose one who
seemed both busy and dull. He sauntered over to the counter, pulled off his
boots, and sat cross-legged on the floor. "Let's do some business," Da
Gama said.

"I won't like it," the proprietor said. He put down a pair of tiny pliers
and rubbed his eyes. "Whatever you're here to ask me for, I won't like it.
Farangs only come here by mistake. They want only gold, or what can pass
for gold. I make baubles for the poor to wear when they marry. I have
nothing you could want."

"This is what I want," Da Gama answered. He took Maya's headdress
from his pocket, wrapped in a white kerchief, and tossed it casually into
the proprietor's lap. "I need a copy," Da Gama told him. "Fast."

The proprietor lifted the headdress and whistled. "This is quite good.
Quite good. For a moment I thought it was real." His hands played through
the web of gold. The pearls and diamonds caught the light.

"Sure. Those are real jewels. It's the Web of Ruci."

"The what?"

"Never mind. If it were real, would I be here? How much for a copy?"

The proprietor looked at the design. "For this, three hundred rupees."

"Fifty. And I need it tomorrow."

"Impossible. Two hundred, and it will take me a week."

Back and forth a few more times until, as they both knew from the
start, the price was set at a hundred rupees. But still the jeweler shook his
head and said, "Look, I'm telling you like my own brother, I need at least a
week."

"It must be sooner."

"The copy will suffer. Even a eunuch will see that it is a fake."

Da Gama's eyes opened wide. "Why do you say that ... about a eunuch seeing?"

The proprietor snorted. "They are famous for their bad eyes. Surely
you know this. By the time they are forty, they can barely see, most of
them, if they live that long. Have you not heard the expression?"

"There are few eunuchs among the farangs," Da Gama answered.

"Lucky for the farangs," the jeweler answered. "Listen, sir, for a very
bad copy, three days. Maybe two. I'm telling you a child would know."

"I'll will see you in two days."

"I'll need something on account."

"You've got my headdress; is that not enough?"

"Not if you're willing to leave it." Da Gama parted with a few rupees
and found his way back to Victorio's apartment at the Gagan Mahal.

Two days later he went back to the sad-faced jeweler, and took back both his
original and the copy. As the proprietor had warned, the copy was not very
good. "Your original was very fine. The workmanship was very fine," he told
Da Gama sadly. "The pearls looked almost real. Too large, of course, for real
pearls, but very nicely done otherwise. The glass of the diamonds, that too was very good, very hard and clear. My reproduction is shabby in comparison. You should have given me more time. Who made that headdress, sir? I
will give you two hun for it."

"It has sentimental value," Da Gama told him as he pocketed the original and the copy. But when he examined them later, Da Gama saw that the
proprietor was wrong. The copy was good. At least, it was good enough.

Da Gama stayed in touch with Shahji. The general helped him select reliable guards for the journey. The night before they were to leave, Shahji invited Da Gama to his house once more. Over cups of raisin wine, Da Gama
told him everything, except about the headdress. He wanted Shahji's insight.

But the general could make no sense of it. "What do the hijra want
with a nautch girl? It can't be for congress, and at that price, she would
need to dance like a goddess. Anyway they care nothing for dancing, except for the rude sort with others of their kind." By the flickering light of a
dozen butter lamps around his apartment, Shahji stared at Da Gama.
"What do you think, Deoga? Does she know some secret?"

"She's an orphan ..." Da Gama said.

"Ahcha," Shahji said, brightening. "Maybe a lost princess whose
parentage the hijra have discovered?" Shahji shook his head, dissatisfied.
"But who? No princesses are missing. And I would guess that she is part
farang, with her skin so fair, and eyes so light and flecked with gold." Da
Gama smiled. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed," Shahji scolded him. "If
I had more money I might have bid on her myself! Anyway, for that much
money, a treasure must be involved, but I can't imagine how."

Da Gama quickly changed the subject. Fortunately Shahji was entirely
happy to discuss his own concerns: the politics of the court. Who would
become the young sultan's regent? The court spoke of little else, it seemed.

Neither Wall Khan nor Whisper had won the regency. The Sultana,
who would make the choice, wavered constantly between the two. "In the
end, I think that Whisper shall be regent, and then Bijapur will be in much
difficulty. Already the hijra stand behind the thrones of many countries, dark powers in the shadows. A eunuch as regent here will bring them one
step closer to dominating us all."

Before Da Gama might have chuckled at this notion, but as he came to
know the hijra better, he found himself considering whether Shahji's feeling might not be justified. "What will you do if Whisper wins, General?
Will you leave Bijapur?"

Shahji looked sheepish. "Well, that's the odd thing. We see eye-to-eye
on most matters, Whisper and myself. I find myself arguing with Wall
Khan, not Whisper. And if Wall Khan were regent he would force me to resign, and would then make the Sultana's nephew commander in chief."
Shahji shrugged. "What is best for my country may not be what is best for
me. What is a soldier's duty then, eh, Deoga?

Da Gama looked at Shahji and realized that they were not so different.
"I ask this same question of myself, General."

"And what do you answer yourself, Deoga?"

Da Gama shrugged. "I tell myself to have another cup of wine, General."

Shahji smiled and passed the pitcher.

After a few more cups, their tongues grew looser. Shahji told Da Gama
of the darkest gossip at the court-that the young heir might not even be
the sultan's son. "He doesn't look like the old sultan, and in truth, not at all
like the Sultana either, or so they say. But who knows what the Sultana
looks like, hidden as she is behind those veils? Still, the maids have seen her
face, and the eunuchs, and it is from them the rumors come."

Da Gama felt compelled to reveal some secret in return, and found
himself telling Shahji about Victorio's marriage plans. "But he is so old!
And the farang girl is so young and pretty. What a shame!" the general
cried.

"Maybe it is for the best." Da Gama then told him about the madness
and murders of the Dasana women.

Shahji took another drink. "You farangs are as bad as Turks," he said.
There was a darkness in his eyes when he looked at Da Gama, a look Da
Gama recognized: a secret Shahji wished to tell but could not; would not.

Eventually servants came and took Shahji to his bed. Da Gama stumbled back to the Gagan Mahal beneath a black and moonless sky where
even the stars glittered like unfriendly eyes.

One flight, two, three ... and Victorio's rooms were on the seventh floor!
Rats skittered past Da Gama's feet as he clambered up the stone staircase of
the Gagan Mahal. Outside, the crescent moon was rising-soon it would
be dawn-but the only light in the passage came from pierced shade lamps
at every landing. Their tiny flames made the rats' eyes glow.

Up, up, step, step. Da Gama was too tired to think-he could barely
plod to the next stair. In the dark, half-drunk and drowsy, his mind fell into
a dismal reverie.

At the top, he nearly fell when he lifted his foot, for there were no more
stairs. He stepped onto the long verandah that led to the apartments. He
had a perfect view of the crescent moon rising and the bright morning star.
Below him, far, far below, such a drop that made his head reel, he saw tiny
figures: guards who had stayed awake all night, and cooks and servants rising before dawn: half-asleep passing half-awake. The sound of Da Gama's
boot heels echoed softly down to the street below. There was little noise;
this was the time of whispers; soft greetings, nods, small waves. Even the
dogs passed each other silently.

A few feet from Victorio's door Da Gama looked out over the whole
sleeping city. The rising moon lit the white facades of Bijapur. He realized
that at this moment in the Gagan Mahal he was the only one awake and
watching, that only he and God and the night birds could see the unfolding
of the morning from this height. It made him feel special, and small.

At that moment however, a clatter arose from inside Victorio's apartment; the door banged open, and Victorio himself staggered out. Barefoot,
in his nightshirt, his wispy hair flying, Victorio lurched to the edge of the
balcony, not noticing Da Gama. Mouse crept out behind him. "No, master,
please, no!" the eunuch whispered, but with a grunt, Victorio waved him
off. He hitched up his nightshirt over his wide, sagging belly, and leaned
against the stone balustrade. "Please, no!" whimpered Mouse.

But Victorio had already begun to pee, a thin trickle that glittered in
the moonlight and splashed like rain on the walls and street below. Mouse
moaned softly. Then with a resigned shake of his head the eunuch took the
old man's hand. Victorio shook his fonte, and let go a thunderous fart that
echoed against the quiet walls. With a snort, blinking and smacking his lips, Victorio thumped back to bed. Though the old man never saw Da Gama,
Mouse did, and gave him a sad, helpless shrug as he followed Victorio back
to his room.

Da Gama sat cross-legged near the glowing embers of the hearth wearing
only his nightshirt. He could not sleep. His mind would not stop.