by John Speed
Da Gama snorted. "That again? How long will you plague me with your gratitude? I told you, it was nothing. A trifle. Any man would have done the same." Pathan lifted his head. "Now tell me, what do you know about the settlement?"
"Very little. The grand vizier said I was to be sure the goods arrived intact. He would say no more. He is cautious of spies."
Da Gama gave a low whistle. "Ah, my friend, my friend, my friend. The wind has blown trouble your way." He nodded toward the dhow. "Here comes our problem now."
A short, heavy ball of a man stumbled down the gangplank. Though he reached out for help, none of the sailors offered a hand.
"What, him?" asked Pathan.
"No." Da Gama lifted his chin toward the deck. "Her."
She was small, but the sunlight glancing from her silver shawl gave her a regal grandeur. As she turned, the sea breeze pressed against her silken garments, revealing for an instant each curve of her body. The sailors on the deck rose as she passed. When she reached the gangplank, a half-dozen hands went out to help, but she needed none. She smiled her thanks and stepped from the dhow with stately grace.
The small fat man bounced down the pier in front of her, his clumsiness exaggerated by the woman's flowing steps. The cinnamon bearers dropped their sacks and gaped; the cows lifted their sad eyes to watch; gulls flapped into the air and hovered around her head like attendants.
Da Gama alone seemed unaffected. He strode toward the palkis-no one now seemed to notice him-chose one at random and clapped its roof noisily, calling out, "Hey! Whose palki is this? Hey!" As if sleepwalking a halfdozen bearers stumbled toward him, eyes fixed all the while on the woman dressed in silver. Near the end of the pier the fat man's turban came undone. He stopped walking to rewind it, so now the woman came on alone.
As the glistening pulp of a ripe mango slips beneath its peel, her hips, round and luscious, swayed against her skirts. The dock fell silent except for the jingle of her ankle bells. She glanced into the eyes of every man she passed, a look both haughty and beckoning. Her long-lashed eyes, cinnamon-brown and flecked with gold, promised and teased.
When she reached Da Gama, she looked at him as if there were no other man in all the world. The breeze carried a hint of her perfume. "Is this my palki, sir?" Though her face was young she had a woman's voice: dark, suggestive, twining like the tendrils of a vine. Every man close enough to hear could imagine her lips brushing his ear, whispering his name.
Da Gama reached out to her. Grasped by her hand so delicate, his fingers looked swollen and enormous. She slid into the palanquin like liquid, and tugged its curtains closed. As the palki bearers moved in a daze to take up their burden, Pathan made his way to Da Gama. "Her? Is she the one, sir?"
"Oh yes," Da Gama answered. "That's our problem."
"But not Bijapur! You said we'd go to Lisbon, belie. Bijapur! Why would anyone want to go to Bijapur? It is just like Goa, only uglier!"
"We're going, and that's that," Lucinda answered. "It is not your place to give opinions, Helene."
"Such words! It was I who brought you up!"
"I am a woman now, Aya. You must be more respectful." But Lucinda's voice was not too harsh, for from Helene's unending complaints she had gleaned much about Bijapur-about the cannon at its gate, bigger than a house; about the dome of Gol Gumbaz, largest in the world. These facts Lucinda would slip into her talk when in the company of Tio Carlos or cousin Geraldo.
"You know quite a lot for a girl who's never left Goa," Geraldo whispered. But something in the way he said it, in the luster of his bright black eyes, or the way the corner of his lip curled in a half smile, sent a tiny shiver through her, like he was talking of another kind of knowledge altogether. Often when they spoke she'd end up blushing.
But she had little time for socializing if she were to be ready in three days. From the storage barn, servants humped dusty trunks up the narrow staircase to her bedroom. "Only two, my dear cousin," Geraldo told her, and despite her protests and her pleading, she ended up sending all the rest back down, saving the two largest for the trip.
"I could fit my house in here," Helene complained, "and my brother and his family could fit into this other." But Lucinda wondered how she'd squeeze in everything she needed.
Petticoats, corsets, linens of all kinds-Helene took these folded from the dresser, unfolded each one with a shake, then muttering in Hindi, refolded and packed them. The dresses were brushed and wrapped in yards of muslin against the dust. Stockings and garters, and then shoes, shoes of all kinds. And bed linens, and towels, and precious soaps from Lisbon. "The Virgin knows what you will find in that heathen city, bebe," Helene said. For Bijapur was a Muslim kingdom. Even so, Lucinda let out a little hmmmph, as though she were too sophisticated to care.
In truth, she'd seen only a few Muslims-pilgrims mostly, loading onto boats bound for Mecca, viewed from far away. Only three regularly visited her uncle's office. They always stared at her, and one-only onebowed stiffly when he passed her in the hallway. It felt dangerous when they were about, like when the snake charmers sat outside your house and you worried that one of the cobras might escape. Lucinda would wait by the window in her room, staring down into the street until she saw them leave. They rode horses-muscular Bedouins with flaring nostrils and bright, skittish eyes and coats that glistened like they had just won a race.
One day, after growing frustrated with Helene's impossibly slow packing, Lucinda burst into her uncle's office. "But I can never be ready in time, Tio!" she cried, managing to squeeze out an affecting tear.
"Don't go then! All the better!" Carlos had answered. He said it sincerely, of course, but stiffly. His table was neat today, his shirt starched, and he sat upright in his seat. Lucinda looked around, suddenly aware that he had guests.
One was a Portuguese soldado-middle-aged, paunchy, with ill-kept clothing and an amused demeanor-who slouched casually in one of Carlos's big wooden chairs, a glass of brown wine balanced on the carved lion's head of the arm. He twisted around for a better look at Lucinda, lifting himself half-sideways with a nod and hearty grin, as though this were the best courtesy he could manage. A half-dozen pistolas poked out from his wide leather belt.
The other man was already on his feet: tall, slender with a face shaped like an almond, and skin the color of polished teak. He wore a tightly wound turban. His bright eyes and long, narrow nose made Lucinda think of a hunting bird. Lucinda tried to hide her surprise. The man was Muslim.
"Lucinda, please greet my guests. This is Captain Pathan, of the court of Bijapur." The Muslim lifted his folded hands to his chin. His face, Lucinda realized, had a self-important air that was really quite annoying. She made him a very brief curtsy, but he didn't seem to comprehend its hinted insult. Or if he did, he was too smug to care.
"You've met this other rascal before, though you probably were too young to remember."
"I knew your father, Lucy," the soldier growled, finally managing to place his well-worn boots on the floor, and approximate a gentleman's bow. "You were a baby. He was a good man. A great man. I see you've turned out well. Beautiful like your mother." She realized that his eyes, which had seemed sleepy when she first saw them, were shrewd and full of life. His face was so unguarded that she blinked and nearly forgot to curtsy in response.
"Watch out for him, niece, he's a charmer of the old school," her uncle laughed.
"But, Uncle, you haven't said his name," Lucinda said.
"Jebtha Albuquerque Da Gama at your service, Lucy," the man said, lifting his bowed head. "Or should I now say, Senhorita Dasana?" He took her hand in his sun-browned fist and kissed it with a tenderness she had not expected.
"I'd be pleased if you'd still call me Lucy," Lucinda said, surprising herself.
"Good, good," her uncle said, as if wanting to be on with business. "Well, now you've all met, and I daresay you'll know each other better by the end of the trip. But I forget-you can't manage to be ready in time? Wasn't that what you came to tell me
?"
"Me? No, Tio Carlos! I'll be ready, of course! In fact, I must be going. So nice to meet you all!" Da Gama kissed his fingers in a wave as she left, but the Muslim, Captain Pathan, just stared at her, his lips pursed like he'd bitten something sour.
On the eve of their departure, Carlos Dasana set a feast. Lucinda sat at the end of the table as hostess. As usual, Dasana's secretary, Carvallo, sat to her right, next to his fat wife, Maria, who had painted her face with oil and lead oxide. Arsenico could only do so much to improve the complexion, and past a certain point lead was needed, for it not only whitened the face, but was thick enough to fill the pits and gaps of age. Supposedly. Why doesn't she do something about her hair then, thought Lucinda-use a lead comb, at least, to darken the gray.
On her left sat the soldado she'd met a few days before, Da Gama, the adventurer who said he'd known her parents. He'd had a bath and a shave, and his queue was oiled and tied in a bow, but despite his clothing, which was proper, and his manners, which were pleasant, he looked out of place amid the china and crystal. He seemed almost to be seated in a taverna, as though the blown-glass goblet in his leathery hand were a metal tankard and the tiny roasted pigeon on his gilded plate were a haunch of boar.
At the other end of the table Tio Carlos sat next to Geraldo, who had the polished look of a man freshly barbered. From time to time he glanced Lucinda's way, arching an eyebrow or tilting his head as if to say-you and I, we understand, we two. Every time he did this, Lucinda gave a little start and forced herself to look elsewhere. It was as though he could see into her heart.
The party might have been perfect except for the last guest, who sat across from Geraldo, the Muslim captain Pathan. He perched uncomfortably on his chair, his head held higher than the others. Such a conceited man, Lucinda thought. He drank only water, frowning as the wine flowed freely at the table, and he seemed especially disturbed whenever Lucinda raised the wineglass to her lips. Why should I care what you think, Lucinda thought, glaring at him. Even so she watched in fascination while he ate, using only his fingers, but with more delicacy and refinement than some of the men who struggled with their forks.
"Senhor Dasana says that you're still worried about the arrangements," Carvallo said to Da Gama, talking past Lucinda.
"I'd prefer to be taking Portuguese soldados."
"You won't need them. This is Hindustan, Da Gama-baksheesh means more than arms. You of all people should know that. Bribes are so much more effective than guns, particularly these days. Besides, the burak has four or five men with him."
"We should send our own men, and not rely on Muslims," Da Gama scowled.
"Well, you've got Geraldo. And you, of course, the great Deoga himself. Isn't that sufficient?"
Man-talk, Lucinda thought with a sigh. She took a long drink of wine and glanced at Pathan, realizing that he'd said not a word all evening. As if sensing her gaze, he looked back at her, and she saw his frown as he watched her drink. Smiling at him, she held out her goblet for a refill.
Suddenly she realized that the men were talking about Pathan.
"I don't understand why you're so concerned, Da Gama," Carvallo said. He seemed to be goading Da Gama.
"Because he's their best burak. They wouldn't have sent him unless they thought there'd be trouble."
Carvallo was about to speak. Then he thought better of it and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "And that's why we sent for you, sir. Aren't you supposed to be the best as well?"
"Maybe." Da Gama shook his head. "Maybe I'm not the best, just the last. Everyone else is gone, or dead."
"Gone where?" Lucinda said cheerily. This conversation was getting very dreary.
"Gone to Lisbon, Lucy," Da Gama answered. "Or to Macao, some of them. We're just handing Hindustan to the Dutch."
"Oh, Hindustan is so tiresome. I wonder what Macao is like?" Of course the men then began to tell her, and she nodded and laughed and shook her curls as though she cared. But her attention was suddenly brought back when Carvallo and Da Gama began whispering about Geraldo. Trying to be discreet, she listened hard.
"So Carlos paid off his Macao debts?" the soldado asked.
Carvallo, the perfect secretary, merely shrugged. "You'd be amazed if I told you what he owed. And he's run up more in Goa, if you can believe it, just in the few days he's been here."
Da Gama took a long pull of wine. "I remember being young," he said, smiling at Lucinda, who pretended to be uninterested. "What about his family?" Da Gama asked, but something in his manner made Lucinda wonder if he didn't already know.
"A bad lot, for the most part. They left him little, and what he had is gone, I expect."
"Well, it doesn't pay to be his relative, I can tell you that much," Da Gama said, leaning forward. "He's bad luck. People die around him. In Lisbon, three of his cousins died in one month." Carvallo raised an eyebrow, and Da Gama tilted his head for emphasis. "That man he killed in Macao was his great-uncle."
"But I heard he was a young man."
Da Gama leaned back, took a drink of wine and shrugged. "A distant relative. It's complicated. Genealogy's a hobby of mine."
This caught Lucinda's attention. "Why is that, senhor?"
Da Gama smiled and shook his head sheepishly. "Because of my name, Lucy. I had hopes, don't you know. I dreamed that I was related to Vasco Da Gama. I hoped I was a missing heir and unspeakably rich."
"And?"
"And I'm not," Da Gama said with dancing eyes. "I have the same name, Lucy, but a different family entirely. Related to the Dasanas, in fact. So while it is my good fortune to be your cousin, sadly, I must work for a living."
"Master Carlos plans to bring the boy into the business," Carvallo said after a pause, staring at Da Gama as if studying his reaction. "He'll stay in Bijapur and work with Master Victorio."
A darkness fell across the soldado's face. "Tell him to watch his back," he said at last.
Whose back? Lucinda wondered. But just then Tio Carlos raised his glass. Servants scurried to fill the goblets of the others while Pathan glowered. "Tomorrow, you leave for Bijapur. May the Blessed Virgin grant a pleasant journey to you all!"
"Long life and health to you, Tio Carlos," Geraldo answered, clinking his uncle's glass. Around the table all lifted their goblets and mumbled agreement.
All but Pathan, who stared fiercely at his water glass and scowled.
That night Tio Carlos came down with a flux so terrible that a doctor was summoned, and later a priest. Lucinda heard the commotion and hurried to her uncle's room, but Carvallo assured her that she could do nothing. She saw Geraldo seated in a corner by the door, his face in turmoil. "He's shown such kindness to a poor orphan. What am I to do if he should die?" he said. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He grasped it, and lifted it to his cheek and then kissed it before looking away, his dark eyes brimming with tears.
By morning the household was in an uproar. Pathan had brought the caravan to the door at dawn, as originally planned. Of course an argument had started in the hallway, for the servants had decided on their own that the master was dying and the journey was off. "You must do something, bebe," Helene told her as Lucinda dressed.
Lucinda threw on a painted linen dressing gown as she looked through the window. Muslim horsemen stood in the street, along with several bullock carts. But they were dwarfed by a great bull elephant with banded tusks, his gilded headdress glittering in the morning sun. The curtained howdah on the elephant's back came up nearly to her window. It looked like a miniature house: its curved green roof held up by red lacquered uprights, its carvings gilded with gold leaf, its platform flowing in silks and edged by a railing of polished brass.
"What's all the fuss?" she said as she came down the narrow staircase.
"Ah, Mistress Dasana," Carvallo said. "Your Hindi is much better than mine. Explain to this numbskull that your uncle is sick and the departure must be postponed."
Lucinda felt small as she walked toward the burak. Pathan's robes were cris
p and his sword hilt sparkled. His face, always dour, seemed to burn with resentment. She took a deep breath and stood as tall as she could. "Captain Pathan," she said in Hindi, "what Senhor Carvallo is trying to say ..."
"I understand completely, madam," Pathan answered, his voice much softer and gentler than she expected. "But what can I do, I ask you? I have a duty to perform, do you see? If I succeed or if I fail, I care not. But I am told to leave today and duty compels me to try. Please forgive me if I disturb the peace of this house."
"What does he say?" Carvallo demanded, but for the moment Lucinda ignored him.
"Then you understand, Captain, that my uncle is near death, and we must postpone ..."
"I understand nothing of the sort, madam. My men checked with the servants; they tell me that your uncle has much improved."
Lucinda looked at Pathan's steady gaze and found herself irritated once more by his smug demeanor. She was about to argue, but instead turned to Carvallo. "What is Tio Carlos's condition?" she asked in Portuguese.
Carvallo bowed, "Much better, senhorita."
"Then why do we postpone?"
Carvallo seemed taken aback. "It does not appear seemly, senhorita . .
"Has anyone asked your uncle's wishes, madam?" Pathan asked quietly in Hindi.
Now it was Lucinda's turn to be surprised. "I will do this," she answered. With a glance to Carvallo that she hoped would indicate her command of the situation, she burst inside and hurried upstairs.
She found Geraldo sleeping in a chair by her uncle's door. "He's been there all night," the valet, Adolfo, told her as he led Lucinda inside.
"Come in, niece," Carlos said. The wave of his hand seemed to take all his strength. His face was pale from being bled, but his eyes were bright and he beamed at her with love.
She explained the situation. "The caravan must leave at once," he told her. "Things are not good, and I fear any delay."
