by Amitav Ghosh
There was a catch in Shireen’s throat now, and she paused to clear it.
‘I can’t deny what you say, Zadig Bey: my husband was probably right. There would have been a terrible scandal and my brothers would not have allowed the boy to set foot in the house. Perhaps I too would have refused to meet him. But now that my husband is gone everything has changed. Now that I know about this boy, I will have no rest until I see him. Do you think he might still want to meet me?’
Zadig nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, Bibiji. Bahram-bhai’s death has left him orphaned and adrift. He has no one in the world now, except a half-sister. He needs you now, more than ever.’
‘But how is it to be arranged, Zadig Bey?’
Zadig steepled his fingertips: ‘Bibiji, I have received the news that Freddie is now in Singapore. If you were to travel to China you would have to stop there. To arrange a meeting would not be difficult.’
‘You think you will be able to find him?’
‘Yes, Bibiji. I am certain that I’ll be able to trace him. If you make the journey you will surely meet him. It all depends on you.’
In preparation for his night-time appointment with Mrs Burnham, Zachary spent many hours walking around the Bethel compound, scouting the grounds and plotting his route. There were several stands of trees between the budgerow and the far corner of the house so he knew that he would not lack for cover. The only foreseeable hazard was the gravel border that ran around the mansion: he would have to tread softly when he crossed it, in case the sound gave him away.
But in the event, these calculations were rendered superfluous by the weather: shortly before it came time for Zachary to leave the budgerow a storm broke over the city.
Zachary found a piece of tarpaulin and wrapped the Treatise in it. A few minutes before eleven he tucked the parcel under his arm, stuck a cap on his head and threw an old oilskin over his shoulders. Then he went gingerly down the gangplank, which was slippery with rain, and sprinted across the grounds. With the help of a few flashes of lightning he quickly found his way to a tree that faced Mrs Burnham’s boudoir.
The house was in total darkness now, but he was able to detect a trickle of candlelight, spilling out from under Mrs Burnham’s curtains. He looked around to make sure there was no one about, and then darted over to the house, crossing the gravel border with a flying leap. The servants’ door flew open at the first try and he slipped quickly inside, sliding the bolt into place behind him.
A candle was waiting, as promised, on the first rung of the narrow staircase that lay ahead. His shoes were caked with mud, so he kicked them off, depositing them at the bottom of the stairs, along with his dripping cap and oilskin. Then he grabbed the candle and ran up the steps, to the landing above. A faint glow was visible in the distance, through a pair of interconnecting doors. He began to walk towards it, stepping carefully around the commodes, basins and racks of the goozle-connuh.
Ahead lay the boudoir, a large, comfortably furnished room illuminated by lamps that flickered gently in the draughts that were whipping through the house. At the centre of the room was a huge four-poster bed, swathed in a gauzy mosquito-net. On the far side of the bed were two armchairs: Mrs Burnham was seated in one of these and when Zachary appeared in the doorway she rose to her feet, holding her tall, Junoesque figure stiffly upright.
Until then, Zachary had allowed himself to imagine that the unusually intimate circumstances of their meeting might lead to a slight relaxation in Mrs Burnham’s unbending demeanour. This hope was quickly dispelled: the avatar of the Beebee of Bethel that stood before him now was even more forbidding than her other incarnations – in her hands, which were clasped against her chest, she was holding a gleaming, blunt-nosed pistol. Her clothing too was of a warlike aspect: on her head was a velvet turban, and her body was fully encased, from the base of her throat to the tip of her toes, in a garment that shimmered like armour. Only at second glance did Zachary realize that it was a silken robe – a voluminous and heavily embroidered ‘banyan’ gown, held together, at the waist, by a tasselled cord.
Mrs Burnham wasted no time on pleasantries: she greeted Zachary by wagging her pistol, to signal to him to step inside. But when she saw that his eyes were locked apprehensively upon her weapon, she permitted herself a slight smile.
‘I trust my little tamancha will not incommode you, Mr Reid,’ she said in a tone of mild amusement. ‘The hour of night being what it is I thought it prudent to make sure that it was you and not some unwanted intruder who had gained entry to my boudoir. Now that I am satisfied on that score I will disarm myself.’
Turning aside, she placed the pistol on a nearby teapoy – but although the weapon was indeed out of her hands, it did not escape Zachary’s attention that it was still within easy reach; nor did he disregard the note of warning in her voice when she added, offhandedly: ‘I am an excellent shot I might add – my father was a brigadier-general in the Bengal Native Infantry you know, and he liked to say that a memsahib’s honour is only as good as her marksmanship.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Zachary was glad now that he had taken the precaution of wrapping the Treatise in tarpaulin: he did not like to think of the reproof he might have earned had it been damaged or drenched. He stepped forward, extending the package towards her. ‘Here is the book, madam – untouched by rain, I’m glad to say.’
‘Thank you.’
She received the book with a nod and pointed to the armchair that faced her own, across a low table. ‘Please, Mr Reid, do take that cursy.’
‘Thank you.’ Zachary was glad to see that there was a tray on the table, with a decanter and two glasses.
Following his gaze, Mrs Burnham said: ‘I thought it might be advisable to have some brandy at hand, on a stormy night like this. Please pour some for yourself, Mr Reid – and for me too.’
Zachary filled a glass and was handing it to her when he noticed that she had now armed herself with a notebook and pencil.
‘We are pressed for time,’ she said by way of explanation, ‘and in order to make good use of it I have taken the precaution of listing a few of the questions that I will need to ask. Shall we proceed?’
Zachary made a half-hearted effort to procrastinate: ‘Well I don’t know …’
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Mrs Burnham tartly. ‘How could you, since I have yet to put any questions to you? It is important for you to understand, Mr Reid, that the malignancy of your malady varies greatly with the time of its onset and other early experiences. It is thus of the utmost importance to ascertain the precise history of your experience of this illness. So we must start by determining when you fell prey to the disease. Do you remember how old you were when the symptoms first manifested themselves?’
Zachary flushed and dropped his eyes: ‘You want to know when I … it … started?’
‘Exactly. And it is important also to establish how you contracted the infection. Did the symptoms present themselves spontaneously? Or were they, so to speak, transmitted by contact with another victim?’
At this, a cry of indignation burst from Zachary’s lips. ‘Good God, madam! Surely you do not expect me to tell you that?’
Mrs Burnham’s face hardened. ‘Yes, I most certainly do, Mr Reid.’
‘Well then you must prepare for a disappointment, madam,’ Zachary retorted. ‘It is none of your business and I’ll be damned if I answer.’
Mrs Burnham was unmoved by this show of defiance. ‘May I remind you, Mr Reid,’ she said, in an implacably steely voice, ‘that the question – and such answers as it may elicit – are likely to be far more distasteful to me than to you? Nor should you forget that it is through no fault of my own that I find myself in the unfortunate situation of having to make these inquiries. Indeed I cannot understand why you are now affecting these airs of modesty, considering that it was you who presented your … your symptoms … unbidden before my eyes. Not once but twice.’
‘Those were accidents, madam,’ sai
d Zachary, ‘and they do not give you the right to subject me to such an inquisition.’
‘I assure you, Mr Reid,’ said Mrs Burnham, the menace in her voice growing ever more pointed, ‘that what I have asked of you is by no means as intimate as the disclosures that will be required of you by Dr Allgood should he learn of your condition.’
The colour drained from Zachary’s face and his voice fell to a whisper. ‘But surely,’ he pleaded, ‘surely you would not tell him?’
‘Well that remains to be seen,’ said Mrs Burnham briskly. ‘But you should know, in any case, that if Dr Allgood were in my place you would be required to do much more than merely answer questions.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Zachary, shrinking fearfully into the armchair. ‘What else could he want?’
‘He would consider it necessary also to examine the … the site of your affliction.’
‘What?’ Zachary looked at her in appalled horror. ‘Surely you do not mean …?’
She nodded firmly. ‘Yes, Mr Reid. Dr Allgood believes that examinations are imperative in such cases. I will not flinch from disclosing to you that his journals contain many detailed measurements and drawings of a certain element of the male anatomy.’ She gave a little sniff and straightened her turban: ‘You too would probably be required to sit for a portrait, if you know what I mean.’
‘God damn my eyes!’ gasped Zachary. ‘Has the man no shame?’
‘Oh come, Mr Reid,’ she said. ‘Surely you would not expect a doctor to treat a disease without examining its lesions, would you? And if you are gubbrowed by the thought of being sketched and measured for posterity, then you should know that these are by no means the most intrusive of the doctor’s methods.’
A shiver went through Zachary: ‘What else then?’
‘When necessary the doctor also makes surgical incisions to prevent the recurrence of the seizures.’ ‘No!’
‘Yes indeed,’ she continued. ‘In particularly recalcitrant cases, he even inserts a pin into the prepuce. He says that a great many lunatics have been cured by these devices.’
‘Geekus crow!’ Squirming in his seat, Zachary crossed his legs into a protective knot. ‘Has the man no mercy?’
Mrs Burnham smiled grimly. ‘You see, Mr Reid, you have good reason to be grateful that it is I and not Dr Allgood who is conducting this interview. It should be amply evident to you that your best course is to provide frank and honest answers to my questions.’
The peremptoriness of her manner fanned the winds of mutiny that were stirring inside Zachary. He jumped to his feet. ‘No, madam!’ he cried. ‘This interrogation is utterly iniquitous and I will not submit to it. I bid you good night.’
He strode to the door and was about to open it when Mrs Burnham’s voice forced him to halt, in mid-stride. ‘You should know, Mr Reid,’ she said, in sharp, ringing tones, ‘that in the event of your refusing treatment I will be compelled to disclose to Dr Allgood all that I know of your condition. And I do not doubt that when he hears of the incident at the ball, he, in turn, will deem it necessary to inform the relevant authorities.’
Zachary spun around. ‘You mean you’ll go to the police?’
‘So I will if necessary.’
‘But that is utterly monstrous, madam!’
‘To the contrary,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘it is a great deal less monstrous than the manner in which my modesty was outraged, at the ball, and in my sewing room. Are you not forgetting, Mr Reid, that I am the victim in this? Would I not be failing in my duty towards my sex if I did not exert myself to make sure that no other woman suffers such outrages? Is it not a matter of public safety?’
Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Zachary drew his sleeve across his face, which was now beaded with sweat.
Mrs Burnham was quick to seize on his hesitation. ‘It is wise of you to reconsider, Mr Reid,’ she continued. ‘If you give a moment’s thought to the courses that are open to you I think you will perceive that your best option is to answer my questions. And it is all for your own good after all.’
Zachary’s shoulders sagged, as though his chest had been suddenly emptied of air. Dragging his feet slowly across the rug, he returned to the armchair and poured himself some more brandy.
‘So what else do you want to know, Mrs Burnham?’
*
Kesri was not in the lead on the day when the Pacheesi finally completed its march back to Rangpur, where its Assam base was located. He and his company were assigned to rearguard duty that day, which meant that they did not get on the road until the tents were struck and the magazine was loaded on to carts and mules – and even then they had to march slowly in order to keep pace with the hackery carts that were carrying the sick and the wounded. The carts stopped frequently to allow the physick-coolies to tend to their patients; and at each halt Kesri and his company had to mount guard to protect them from looters and dacoits.
Marches were usually so timed that they ended before the full heat of the day. But only the forward parts of the column benefited from this – the rearguard often had to be on the road at the very hottest time of day. Baked by the afternoon sun, the iron frames of the sepoys’ armoured topees became so hot that it was as if they were carrying boiling cauldrons on their heads.
The march was even harder on Kesri than the others since he was the oldest among them – some of the younger men were less than half his age, and none of them had to carry so large a burden of old scars and wounds. Out of consideration for himself he ordered a long rest after the mid-day meal, so that they could wait out the heat. To get everyone moving again took longer than he had expected so that it was almost sunset before the hackery carts were back on the road. By the time the lights of the Rangpur camp came into view it was late at night and Kesri’s koortee was soaked in sweat; a thick layer of dust had settled on the wet cloth, clinging to it like plaster.
A mile from the base, Pagla-baba materialized suddenly out of the darkness. Kesri! he cried, tugging at his arm. You have to hurry – the subedar wants you, right now!
Why?
I don’t know, but you have to go to his tent ekdum jaldi. He’s got many other afsars with him – jamadars, havildars, naiks.
How many?
Nine or ten.
The number startled Kesri. It was very unusual for so many sepoy-afsars to assemble in one place, either in a cantonment or a camp: large meetings were expressly forbidden by the British officers, who believed such gatherings to be conducive to conspiracies and mutiny. A meeting could only be held with the approval of the adjutant; permission was very rarely granted, and then too, only for matters relating to family and caste. It was almost unheard of for such a meeting to be held so late at night.
Pagla-baba knew exactly what was going through Kesri’s head.
The subedar has taken permission from the adjutant-sah’b, he said. It must be some kind of family business; only the subedarsah’b’s closest relatives have been asked to attend. They are meeting with some visitors who have come all the way from their village, near Ghazipur.
Do you know who the visitors are?
I know only one of them, said Pagla-baba. He’s related to you – Hukam Singh’s brother.
Chandan Singh?
Yes. Isn’t he your sister Deeti’s brother-in-law?
That’s right. What’s he doing here?
I don’t know, Kesri – but you’d better hurry!
Mrs Burnham glanced at her notes: ‘You will remember, Mr Reid, that I had asked you if you could recall when the symptoms of the disease first appeared.’
Zachary drained his brandy and poured himself another: ‘I was twelve or thirteen I guess.’
‘And did the symptoms manifest themselves spontaneously? Or was the infection transmitted by another victim?’
Zachary swallowed a mouthful of brandy. ‘My friend Tommy showed me.’
Mrs Burnham’s pencil flew across the notebook. When it came to a stop she cleared her throat. ‘And may I ask,
Mr Reid, if you are a stranger to that … that act which Divine Providence has intended to be consecrated to the purposes of procreation?’
Zachary cleared his throat. ‘If you’re asking whether I’ve ever been with a woman, the answer is yes.’
‘And how old were you, may I ask, when you were first intimate with a woman?’
He tossed off his brandy and poured more, for both of them. ‘Maybe sixteen?’
‘And who was she?’
‘A ladybird, if you must know.’
‘You mean … a woman of the streets?’
He gave a derisive snort. ‘More like a woman of the house – a bawdy-house, that is.’
‘And have you visited those often, Mr Reid?’
‘Four or five times – I’m not sure.’
‘I see.’ She paused to take a deep breath. ‘And are those the only women with whom you have … fornicated?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Reid.’ She cleared her throat and took a sip of brandy. ‘Mr Reid – it is really important that you be candid with me.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Mrs Burnham. I have been as candid with you as it is possible to be.’
She frowned in reproof. ‘Mr Reid – I know that is not true.’
He answered with an angry glare. ‘How can you possibly say that? You don’t know nothin about me.’
‘Please, Mr Reid,’ she persisted. ‘I urge you to reflect and to be frank with me. Were I to ask if you had ever seduced and compromised a young, innocent girl, would you be able to deny it, in good conscience?’
‘Yes, you’re darn right I would,’ Zachary shot back. ‘I’ve never done nothin of that kind.’
‘But I happen to know otherwise, Mr Reid. I know for a fact that you have ravished at least one unfortunate young woman.’
This incensed him. ‘It is not a fact, Mrs Burnham, because it ain true! I never ravished no one.’
‘But what if I were to inform you, Mr Reid, that it was from the victim herself that I learnt of this? And in this very room at that.’
‘I tell you there is no victim!’ Zachary cried. ‘I don’t know who you could be thinking of.’
