Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  The Priestess whispered a few solemn lines and Diren translated, ‘If it is liberation you seek, the only map you need is in your heart. Release the paradigms that imprison your spirit to find your true nature.’

  This conversation was not going where Madeline expected but it struck a chord. In Bengal, without the prison of identity, routines, obligations, or a past, she felt liberated. She felt free to be herself.

  ‘Priestess says you are beautiful so emeralds will suit you,’ said Diren. ‘You like emeralds?’

  ‘No, merci,’ said Madeline. His words wooed a blush to her pallid cheek. ‘Please ask her, would she happen to know the whereabouts of the unchartered territories of Kollur?’

  ‘Kollur?’ said the Priestess.

  Madeline nodded.

  The Priestess took in a drag from the bong and shut her eyes, rocking back and forth in a trance. When she opened her eyes, she motioned Madeline to come closer.

  The Priestess ran her wizened fingers through Madeline’s hair. Her stroke was calming. Madeline noticed her mottled scalp, beneath her diaphanous silver hair. She smelt of wet leaves and departed lovers and ancient truths and fresh coriander. She emenated grace, elegance and untold strength.

  The Priestess passed Madeline the bong and insisted that she take a puff.

  ‘No, no!’ Madeline said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Diren. ‘It’s herbal.’

  Unable to talk her way out of the situation, Madeline arranged her lips around the rim of the bong. She took a tentative puff and erupted in coughs.

  The old woman giggled, toying with her hair.

  Madeline experienced a tingling sensation and then an inexplicable tenderness for the Priestess Chief and for the natural beauty around her and for life in all its glory. Everything seemed to be infused with love. She felt outrageously mirthful.

  ‘Chief says she does not know the location of the Kollur mine,’ said Diren.

  From one extreme, Madeline swung to the other. The Ruby Monkeys were not going to help her ... After all she had been through, nothing could be more wretched. Her father would never be released. She would never find a husband of value. Before her stretched the dismal inevitability of poverty and loneliness.

  ‘But,’ Diren added, ‘She knows someone who does. If she tells you of him, what can you offer in return?’

  Finally Madeline was getting somewhere. ‘Just name your price,’ she said, revealing too early her eagerness.

  ‘Chief wants your hair.’ Diren brandished a shiny blade.

  Madeline shrank. Had Diren mistranslated? Had she misunderstood? Did they want her HEAD? ‘My hair?’ she asked, pulling a frizzy coil out to its tip.

  ‘Yes,’ said Diren. ‘I will cut it, if you permit?’

  Madeline mulled over the suggestion. She had never considered her chestnut tresses valuable. Hidden under fashionable wigs, her hair was a bother: hot in the summer, itchy in the winter. Only in the anonymity of Bengal had she discarded the norms of her society and travelled without a manteau.

  She saw herself for a moment through the eyes of the Priestess, a sea-born Venus. Hair was only a material halo, superficial and inanimate. The Priestess, without hair, clothes, jewels or youth, was true loveliness. Madeline nodded, ready to discard her distorted ideals of beauty.

  The Priestess clapped her hands in delight. With a wide-toothed comb, she ceremoniously combed Madeline’s hair down and pleated it with a strand of jasmines. She tied both ends and held it out for Diren to cut.

  As the blade snipped through the braid, shortened strands of Madeline’s hair bounced below her chin. She swished her bob side to side and took in a deep breath of freedom. She was more than flesh or bones or hair. She was more than her past or her present. But what was she? Who was she? Had she travelled across the world to lose herself or find herself?

  The Priestess rubbed the braid against her cheek, cooing softly as though it were a sparrow perhaps or a kitten in her hand.

  ‘Priestess says one man can help you. His name is Tavaji,’ said Diren.

  ‘Where can I find him?’ asked Madeline.

  ‘He lives in the hut under the pomegranate tree at the edge of the bazaar,’ said Diren. ‘Beware. What you desire and what you need are not always the same.’

  Madeline thanked them for their help and made her way back to the beach to find Abdul and the rowboat. It was too dark to search out Tavaji’s hut. She would return in the morning.

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘I

  will not tolerate subverters,’ said Shayista when the Magh Raja arrived at the docks the next morning.

  Wara Dhamma Raja, a squat, slovenly man, fell to the floor in taslim. With him were William Hedges, arm in a sling, and a bespectacled Company representative, presumably, Admiral Nicholson.

  Van Diemen, slightly sobered, arrived in tandem, wondering what was going on. Shayista was happy to see him there, news would spread quickly.

  ‘Your Highness,’ stuttered the Magh Raja. ‘O, Brightest Sun of the Mughal Empire, we were not expecting you. We have not had time to prepare a proper peshkash. Forgive me. As a token of my goodwill, I present to you these three elephants and golden howdahs laden with pineapple, guava and banana. Do you like fruits?’

  Shayista glared at him.

  The Raja shrank like a child. His eyes were fearful, his chin defensive. His body language revealed the jarring discord between his words and the truth.

  Shayista fingered the hilt of his sword and contemplated a quick execution of the Raja. Or perhaps he should sew him up in the carcass of a dead jackass. ‘What business do the English have here?’

  A torrential sweat broke out on the Raja’s forehead, a pained smile on his face. Admiral Nicholson adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully, twiddling his nervous thumbs. William Hedges was pale as a ghost.

  Shayista called William forth. The man bowed before him. Shayista grabbed him by a fistful of hair and with one strong swipe, relieved him of his troublesome head.

  ‘This is what will happen to you!’ he said to Admiral Nicholson, holding the head out for him to see. Blood dripped down the severed neck and onto his sleeve. ‘Will anyone dare steal from Bengal? Anyone? ANYONE?’

  A moment of stunned silence followed.

  Shayista wondered if they would cower before him or assassinate him right then and there. He had no reinforcements on the way, only his bluff. He hoped they would not notice the beads of perspiration on his brow.

  Raja Wara Dhama threw himself at Shayista’s feat, grovelling for mercy, promising to pay indemnities, swearing to never entertain English guests again.

  Shayista kicked the recreant aside and turned to Admiral Nicholson. ‘And you?’ he asked.

  The Company man’s face drained of pallor, his voice trembled. ‘We shall return to England at once. This is an utterly inhospitable place infested with mosquitoes, snakes and tigers.’

  True to his word, the admiral led his men to Hooghly, and from there, retreated as fast as he could, across Ispahan, Shiraz, Basra and Mashhad, across Aleppo and back to England, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the diabolical Viceroy of Bengal.

  Shayista, Costa, Van Diemen and the crew rejoiced at the fortuitious victory.

  CHAPTER 44

  A

  s she ripped through the bramble in the morning, Madeline wondered what was happening to her. The flimsy foundation of her beliefs was crumbling. She came to Bengal to map Kollur as a last attempt to clear her father’s tarnished name so she could find a suitable husband who would secure her a place in aristocracy but now she wasn’t sure if that was what she wanted.

  She had left Abdul and the rowboat at the water’s edge and was making her way to the bazaar to find the pomegranate tree. What an absurd predicament she was in. She had voyaged to Bengal to negotiate her freedom and what she found instead was an exotic new perspective. Now Paris seemed dull. Marriage seemed dreary. The rigid social structures of France seemed drab. Her insipid dream h
ad lost its charm.

  In Hindustan, with the startling loss of familiarity, Madeline found a space to be uncensored. She could embrace topless strangers, experiment with novel coiffeurs, consume hallucinogens and swim in rivers. Ensconced in obscurity, she found the courage to be her natural self: no expectations to conform to, no norms defined.

  The pomegranate tree was just where the Priestess had said it would be and next to it was a well-maintained hut. She knocked at the door but there was no answer. She wondered what Tavaji would be like and poked her head in.

  A portly man in a white kurta and a turban wrapped with pearls was busy at a desk, his back to the door. Madeline coughed politely to announce her presence.

  The man whipped around, his lips around a bamboo shooter, pointing a poisonous dart at her. She reeled in shock.

  He put the weapon down. ‘Madeline Du Champs? I have been expecting you,’ he said with an expansive smile and bow.

  ‘Mon dieux! Jean-Baptiste, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  The florid Frenchman had gone local. He was dressed in full Mughal attire. He wore an embroidered vest and gemstones on all his fingers, a golden cummerbund and string of pearls. Sapphires twinkled in his turban knot. Even in his outlandish costume he looked impeccable. She was suddenly conscious of her coif.

  ‘And you, in Hindustan, mais pourquoi?’ she asked, though she knew perfectly well the answer to her question.

  Jean-Baptiste Tavernier was a notorious hedonist and a spy who romanced princesses from Persia and wrote obscure travel books. He was not only a diamond merchant, he was the pioneer of the diamond trade with Hindustan. If he was in town, there could be only one sparkling reason why.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of tropical air to keep a man young,’ he said. ‘Besides, I do prefer the brightness of a copper faced lady to the pallid hue of the European damsels. Looks like you’ve gotten some sun. What brings you out this far?’

  ‘I have come for herbs,’ stammered Madeline, with a sinking feeling in her gut. Tavaji was not going to help her at all. She was chasing a chimera.

  ‘Isn’t destiny splendid?’ Tavernier laughed. ‘I was wondering how I would reach you, and voila, here you are at my door step! Incroyable, n’est pas?’

  With a heavily bejewelled hand on her shoulder, he propped himself up and leaned on his walking stick, a polished piece of mahogany with a golden handle the shape of a serpent. He walked over to a stand with a decanter and two glasses. ‘This tribal region is titilating, is it not? Have you tasted their rice wine?’

  Madeline shook her head. His slurs suggested that he most certainly had.

  ‘Would you like some?’ he asked, waving his stick. It was about four feet long and delicate, with intricate designs chiselled on the serpent, ornate gold inlays and encrusted jewels.

  She shook her head. Her hair was light and bouncy.

  ‘Liquid jollity is my raison d’etre.’ He smiled indulgently at his big belly and poured himself another glass. ‘As a connoisseur, I do say, these simple folks have perfected their brew.’

  He walked back to Madeline, tapping his stick with each step. Tap, tap, tap, tap. ‘There’s a proper matriarchy here. In my 180,000 miles of travel, I’ve never come across anything quite as quaint.’

  What was he getting at? What did he want from her?

  ‘While Bengal flourishes, look at us?’ Tavernier cleared his throat. ‘France is being taken over by narrow-minded zealots.’ He paused to polish the golden snake hilt of his staff with his handkerchief. Its eyes were made of red rubies. Its teeth were sparkling diamonds.

  ‘Code Noir?’ He spat out his words. ‘King Louis is a fascist slave trader!’

  Madeline shrank back.

  ‘Do you know he has evicted Protestants from the country?’ Tavernier’s eyes were raving with hatred. ‘He’s a pig! Un conchon! Un CONCHON!’

  ‘Where are your manners, Monsieur?’ said Madeline, scared.

  ‘Don’t pretend to be so honourrrrable.’ He stumbled towards her. ‘I know why you are here.’ He caressed a strand of her hair. ‘Trying to weasel your way into my diamond outfit?’ He was so close, his speech sprayed on her face.

  She pushed him away.

  ‘Mademoiselle, such arrogance when you know nothing? You must really gather more intelligence if you plan to succeed. You see, I know everything about you.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  Tavernier raised a cocky eye brow. ‘Your father was caught selling fake pearls to Madam Maintainant for her wedding and now you are trying to win back his freedom.’

  Madeline froze.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s not much of a secret anymore. Everyone in Versailles knows you supplied those pearls to your father. He sold you out! He is grovelling at King Louis’ feet. Now it is your own freedom you must earn, not his.’

  Madeline glared at Tavernier. There was nobody she detested more. Could it be true? Her own father had betrayed her?

  ‘I could kill you right now,’ said Tavernier. ‘And no one would ever know.’

  Madeline disguised her fear. To show fear would be to lose the battle. ‘I am not here alone. If I go missing...’

  He drew a skinny, straight sword out of his walking stick. It looked more like an accessory than a weapon but its tip could surely poke a hole through her dress.

  ‘I could kill you,’ said the intoxicated Frenchman. ‘But I won’t. Not if you agree to help me.’

  ‘Help you?’ asked Madeline. ‘But how?’

  He waved the blade at her face clumsily. ‘I sold my chateau to finance this odessy.’ He traced her figure with the tip of the blade. A storm clouded his countenance. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘I want that diamond.’

  ‘Diamond?’ Madeline could not conceal her shock. She thought they were talking about maps.

  ‘Sacre bleu, do you take me for a fool? I’ll kill you,’ he shouted.

  ‘Talk business rather than threatening me. We may both have something to gain.’ She spoke with an even voice though fear knocked her entrails. She glanced out the window and wished she had brought Abdul along with her. There was no one to call to for help. Later, she would pay Costa to stick a dagger in this fool’s derriere.

  Tavernier resumed his seat. ‘You have access to the Subedar?’

  Madeline nodded. ‘He is an extraordinary gentleman.’

  ‘Here is the plan. It’s simple really. Purchase Kalinoor then hand it over to me.’

  ‘Since you want it, I assume it will cost a fortune,’ replied Madeline, her heart racing. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’

  ‘I will take care of that. Your only task is to convince the Viceroy to part with his bijoux.’

  ‘Why don’t you buy it yourself?’ she said.

  ‘The Viceroy and I have our ... differences.’

  Madeline raised an eye brow.

  ‘As a young soldier, Khan fought with Aurangzeb to overthrow the Deccan Empire. Their campaign was successful and Khan came into possession of the treasury of Qutb Adl Shah of Golconda.

  ‘Khan was rich before but after that he became one of the richest men in the Empire. Within his collection were several unique specimens. Diamonds of immense size and power, unusual colours: pink, yellow, blue.’

  ‘Blue?’

  ‘Deep-blue like the ocean,’ said Tavernier, nostalgically. ‘Glows in the dark. Cool to the touch. Never have I seen anything as exquisite.’ His eyes sparkled with pure adoration.

  ‘You stole it?’ said Madeline.

  ‘Stole is an unflattering word,’ said Tavernier. ‘I appropriated it from Khan just as he appropriated it from the Deccan.’

  ‘It is an ancient gem,’ said Madeline, recalling words she had heard earlier. ‘It belongs to these people.’

  ‘Khan offered 300,000 rupees for the return of the French Bleu. I sold it to King Louis for a whopping 450,000 rupees instead!’

  Enough to purchase a castle, thought Madeline, but not class.

>   ‘I am an afficionado of art and fine gems, same as you,’ said Tavernier. ‘But let me warn you, you cannot pull off this heist on your own. You need me. Without me, you’re nothing. Bring me the diamond and we can both make it big. You can return to France alive and purchase all the posh friends you dream of.’

  Madeline narrowed her gaze. ‘Why would the Subedar give me the diamond?’

  Tavernier glared. ‘Don’t be daft!’ His spit sprayed all over her face. ‘How does a woman persuade a man of anything?’

  Madeline scowled at the impropriety of his words. ‘If I can obtain Kalinoor,’ she said cautiously, ‘How will I find you?’

  Tavernier smiled. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  CHAPTER 45

  T

  hat night after the warship departed, Shayista fell asleep and dreamt of enemies. They strolled through his slumber, plundering his fortress: Company men, Marathas, zamindars, elitists, fanatics, bigots and more. He tried to fight them but they kept emerging: the shamefully narrow, the disgracefully greedy, the slothful, the arrogant and the weary. Fortunately his uncomfortable sleep was disturbed by an urgent banging at the door.

  He rubbed his eyes and opened the door. It was Champa, windswept hair rippling like the Ganges. Her eyes blazed with yearning. She wore a crimson cloak that hung to the ground, murmuring as she moved towards him. Confused, he asked how she had gotten there.

  ‘My Lord, I thirst for your lips,’ she whispered, closing the door behind her. She traced his lips with her finger. ‘I crave you just here.’ She nuzzled her cheek into the space between his clavicle and shoulder. Her energy was different: confident, seductive, bold. Her smell was infused with a tantalizing mix of cinnamon, musk and … was it sulphur?

  ‘This neck, how I have longed to kiss it!’ She pressed her wet lips against the nape of his neck and sucked his skin.

  ‘Champa, you’re acting odd,’ he said but didn’t push her away.

  ‘Is it odd for a woman to have desires?’she asked. She lifted her arms to the sky. The cloak slipped off her chocolate shoulders and fluttered to the ground. She stood before him naked, her smooth skin glowing. She invited him to kiss her.