by John Speed
"Tell me, daughter. Tell me." Seeing Silvia cradle Maya's hand so gently, Lucinda recalled the nearly forgotten memory of her own mother's touch.
"You know I was a devadasi." Silvia nodded. "I was at the Paravati temple in Orissa. My guru . . ." here Maya halted, letting out a tiny sob. Silvia stroked her hand. "My guru said I might go to the Shiva temple. She said I might do seva there with the sadhus and siddhas."
Lucinda knew that sadhus were mendicant monks: beggars, most of them naked with matted hair so long that the dirty, braidlike locks fell to their knees. She didn't know what siddhas were, or seva.
Silvia, oddly, seemed conscious of Lucinda's ignorance. "Seva means work; work for god," she whispered to Lucinda, while her hand stroked Maya's arm.
"It was good, you know. The training was difficult, but the work made it all worthwhile. In the morning I would dance for the god; in the evening I had congress with the sadhus."
In less than a day, Lucinda had all but forgotten that Maya was a whore.
Well of course she'd had congress with them, Lucinda realized. Of course. That was her work. But Maya's wistfulness and regret made Lucinda realize that Maya thought she was doing something worthy, not something shameful. Maya spoke of having congress as a nun might speak of giving alms.
Silvia sighed. Lucinda expected her to pity or to scold. Instead she said: "You were most fortunate, daughter. Why ever did you stop?"
"There was a flood. The temple was damaged. There was no money, so I offered ..."
"Is that really why, daughter?"
Maya's cry began as a low moan and ended as a wail. She pitched forward, shaking her head and sobbing. "My guru was gone. She was swept away in the floods." Lucinda could not resist reaching out to Maya, patting her back while she sobbed.
"Who was your guru?" Silvia asked.
"Gungama," Maya said. The name set off a new round of sobs.
"Gungama?" Silvia whispered. Her face grew pale and her eyes wide.
"Did you know her?" Lucinda asked, as Maya tried to still her sobbing.
"Of course I know her. My father was one of her patrons. She's famous throughout the world." Silvia seemed shocked that Lucinda had not heard of her. "But she's not dead."
Maya sat up. She seemed to have cried all her tears away. "Auntie, she drowned eight months ago."
"But she didn't," Silvia insisted. "She slept in this very house last month."
Looking up from his port wine, Geraldo glanced at Fernando Anala and once more experienced a moment of confusion. Anala's face was so perfectly Hindi-the dark, alert features, the bright, perfect teeth-but to see it emerging from a lace-trimmed shirt and a Portuguese coat awash with gold braid-each time Geraldo looked up, he was taken aback.
They had been discussing the upcoming leg of the journey through the Sansagar Pass. Pathan seemed unable to avoid bringing up his concerns, though clearly he and Da Gama had discussed the matter already. "Should we not have more guards, sir? Are we not in danger?" he asked Fernando.
Fernando glanced at the farangs before answering. "What does Senhor Da Gama say?"
"What I say is, the hell with guards. They only attract attention and you can never have enough, not really, not if the bandits are determined. Half the ones you hire will be spies." Da Gama took a long pull on his port while Pathan shook his head.
"Still one must make provision against misfortune. One must plan even if one does not expect trouble," Fernando said.
"My friend plans to offer chauth to the bandits." Pathan looked seriously at Fernando as he spoke.
"There's really only one clan active at the pass this time of year," Fernando said carefully. "His plan could work."
"The Three-Dot clan, you mean," Da Gama said. "They'd just as soon take your money peaceably as rob you. So we'll pay them and the hell with it. Baksheesh, chauth, extortion, call it what you will. We'll pay through the nose, but they won't attack." Da Gama turned to Pathan earnestly. "And why not? The key is keeping the cargo safe." Pathan nodded noncommittally but didn't appear convinced.
"Other than the pass, the route is safe enough," Fernando agreed. "But how will you find them, the Three-Dot clan? If you don't pay-in advance-your plan is useless."
Da Gama eased against the leather back of the big wooden chair. "They'll find us, I have no doubt."
"If this were my responsibility. . ." Pathan muttered.
"But it's not," Da Gama replied. "Your responsibility begins when we reach Bijapur. Until then, you're only here for the ride, so try to enjoy yourself." He leaned to Fernando. "The only thing worse than a settlement man is a burak," he said with a wink.
"Is it not unusual to have both settlement man and burak on the same journey?" Fernando asked.
"Very," both men answered in unison. At this, at least, they laughed.
Geraldo said. "For some time I've been wondering-What is a settlement man? Exactly what does he do? I have been too bashful to ask." Da Gama laughed out loud. "My shyness is well known, sir!" Geraldo protested.
Pathan held up his hand like a mullah about to teach a lesson. "When they first came here, the farangs were not used to our ways, sir. They could not distinguish between a promise made in earnest, and a polite agreement that would never come to pass. This ignorance caused many difficulties, not only for the Portuguese but for their trading partners as well."
Pathan continued. "Eventually, the Portuguese developed a solution: When a trade was to be settled they sent a man along to assure that the settlement took place as promised. Or more precisely, as the Portuguese believed it to have been promised. At first, settlement men were little more than hoodlums. Threats-or violence if threats failed-this was their only tool. But that was years ago, eh, Deoga?"
Da Gama nodded. "Violence may solve some problems, but it causes new ones. Settlement men learned this, and adapted. We developed subtlety."
"For example?" Geraldo asked.
"Compromising. Offering terms. Imploring. Pleading. And if those should fail, other means of influence. Settlement men consider the men they deal with. Each man has a weakness; each fears something ... censure ... poverty ... a secret coming out. Some call it intimidation, but a settlement man calls it persuasion, and it's very nearly as effective as drawing blood. Only rarely these days must I hold a pistola to some fellow's head and cock the hammer."
Geraldo frowned as he considered the implications of Da Gama's words, then lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, but you're having your joke, cousin."
A silence fell over the room. Finally Fernando said, "It cannot be a happy profession, brother. Nor one easily reconciled with the teachings of our Lord Jesus."
"No," Da Gama said. "A settlement man is no more than a whore. Except whores earn more money. I travel constantly. Sleep comes hard. There's . . ." Again he sighed . . . "an element of fear. Most settlement men don't last long. Most quit. The rest die."
"But not you, sir." Geraldo's voice was troubled.
"Your uncle is the best settlement man the Portuguese have," Pathan put in.
"The oldest, maybe," Da Gama said ruefully.
"Only the best can last so long," Pathan said. "Among buraks, Deoga is a legend."
"And what, pray tell, is a burak?"
Da Gama snorted. "A burak is a Bijapuri settlement man. It's where the Portuguese got the damned idea."
Pathan shrugged. "Except that we are not so subtle, we buraks. Old ways are best. Blood is always persuasive."
For a long time then, the conversation stopped. Da Gama and Pathan were locked in a fierce and burning gaze.
At last Da Gama broke the silence. "Anyway, you needn't worry about it, Aldo. Settlement men are a dying breed. The Dutch are taking over, the Dutch and the goddamned English. Most of the Portuguese are gone already."
Fernando could scarcely contain his shock. "The Portuguese gone? This cannot be. What of my contracts?"
Da Gama shook his head. "Sounds like you may need a burak of your own." He placed a heavy hand on Fernando's birdlike
knee. "Look here, brother, don't worry. There will always be trade. There's still the Dutch."
"But don't they speak a different language?"
"German, I think," Geraldo said encouragingly.
"German!" Fernando took a big gulp of his port. "Are they Christians, at least?"
"Of course," Geraldo said. "Just not the same kind as us."
Fernando nearly choked. "There are different kinds?"
The rest of the evening did not go well.
It took Lucinda some time before she realized what all the fuss was about. Slowly she understood that Maya had only allowed herself to become a slave because she had given up hope, because she thought that her teacher, her guru, was dead.
Silvia's news, apparently, changed everything.
If you're a whore, thought Lucinda, what difference who you whore with? But to Maya and Silvia, it made a great deal of difference indeed. They spoke of the grand vizier of Bijapur-a man of high position, Lucinda knew-as if Maya were expected to have congress with a dog.
"Run away," Silvia whispered. "Tonight!"
Maya's eyes flashed for a moment. "No," she said at last, "they'd come after me. Deoga. The burak. The hijra. Too many people have an interest. They'd never give up."
They sat in silence. "What about death?" Silvia whispered at last.
"How?" Maya said.
Lucinda gasped.
Maya ignored her. "How?" she asked once more.
Silvia looked into the quivering shadows. "A knife?"
Lucinda could stand no more. "No! No!"
"Hush," Silvia ordered. "This is your fault!"
"Mine?"
Maya placed a hand on each woman's arm. "Do not let yourselves be troubled. This is God's fault, or mine. Not hers, not anyone's."
Silvia winced at Maya's words, and then turned to Lucinda, looking up from under her bowed head. "In the name of Jesus' mercy, forgive me, sister."
"Nonsense. Of course." Lucinda regretted how irritated her voice sounded, but charged ahead anyway. "But why kill yourself? Why not escape?"
Silvia looked up as if surprised that Lucinda would take Maya's side. Maya shrugged. "I have said that it is impossible."
"Impossible tonight, maybe. Impossible from here, maybe. But not impossible forever."
Silvia considered this. "She is right, sister. The gods will provide a chance someday. You must be ready! Do you have a knife? You may need one. I will get you one, easy to conceal."
"No," Maya answered abruptly.
"A knife's too obvious," Lucinda agreed. "You need something subtle." Her eyes brightened. "Poison."
Maya sat up straighter.
"Ahcha," Silvia sighed, suddenly interested. "But where would one get poison?"
"I have some," Lucinda said. She told the women about her arsenico.
"Fetch it! Fetch it!" Silvia commanded.
"We've plenty of time for that, sister," Maya said. "See how sleepy she looks? Go to bed, sister. You can show me later." Gratefully Lucinda climbed the bed stool and sunk into the featherbed. The other women hardly noticed, and despite their whispers, Lucinda dissolved into a bottomless sleep. Slipper's rattling, sputtering snore, however, leaked through the chamber door into her consciousness, and all night she dreamed she was pursued by bears.
Lucinda woke to see through a high window the dawn begin to pink the sky. Maya and Silvia stood together facing the puja table, whispering a chant. Lucinda waited until they were finished before she said, "Good morning."
"Did you sleep well?" Maya asked. Her eyes were bright as if polished by her tears. She looked surprisingly fresh, though the other bed had not been slept in. Lucinda wondered if they'd stayed up all night or slept on the floor.
"I slept well, thank you."
Through the high window, they heard a high-pitched retching followed by a barking cough and a pitiful moan. "Slipper," Maya explained, looking pleased with the eunuch's discomfort. "He's been in the latrine for over an hour."
"Who will help us dress?" Instantly Lucinda regretted not voicing some concern over Slipper's health, but the two women seemed not to care.
"I won't let him touch me, so it's no great loss," Maya said. Her answer surprised Lucinda.
"And as for farang clothes-I'm sorry, sister, but no hijra will be of any use to you," Silvia said. "They have no stomach for it."
"Maybe. . ." Lucinda stammered, suddenly feeling very helpless, "maybe you could send your maid after you have done with her?"
Silvia frowned. "I dress myself. How hard is that?" But her face softened when she looked at Lucinda. "I know ... you think you can't do it yourself. But only because you will not try! Even so, I myself will help you.
Lucinda nearly jumped off the bed to hug her. "Thank you, thank you.
Breakfast was a kind of pancake mixed with onions and spices, unexpectedly delicious. Lucinda washed it down with a creamy cup of waterbuffalo milk. If Helene could see me now, she thought.
Dressing, however, was a disaster. Silvia helped as best she could, but she herself had never worn a corset, nor ever learned to tie proper bow. She and Lucinda together could barely master the corset laces. The fit was too loose, and there were knots that Lucinda knew she would never be able to untie. But after the two were done wrestling with Lucinda's dress, the final effect looked good enough that Silvia stood back and smiled in satisfaction.
"Now for the hair," Silvia said.
Oh, God, thought Lucinda.
Two unexpected events occurred before they left. After making their farewells, Maya and Lucinda climbed the silver ladder to the howdah. Slipper was nowhere to be seen.
As the mahout helped her mount, he gave Lucinda a big grin, showing a single front tooth. "Have you seen the mukhunni? Do you know where he is?" he then asked. Lucinda shook her head. Maya, already seated among the cushions, seemed unconcerned.
The horseman had mounted, and all were forming; up to leave. Brother Fernando and Silvia stood by to see them off. Lucinda had just started to wonder if Slipper would be left behind when she saw him. He walked with careful, uncertain steps, like a girl learning posture by balancing a pitcher on her head. The stair to the courtyard in particular seemed difficult, and he winced with every footstep. He looked neither left nor right, passing Fernando and his wife without a glance.
Lucinda was surprised therefore when Slipper changed direction and slowly spiraled back to face Brother Fernando. With awkward, painful dignity, Slipper bent his knees to the bare ground, and then got on all fours. Lucinda thought he was going to vomit. But instead he slowly stretched forward, until his face was in the dust. "I acted shamefully, sir," Slipper's high voice came, muffled, but loud enough for all to hear. "You showed me kindness and I repaid you with discourtesy. I beg you to pardon me."
Fernando, who had maintained until now a stolid countenance, seemed shocked. "Get up, get up!" He grabbed the eunuch's hand and tried to pull him, but it was hopeless.
"Not until you forgive me; only then will I rise!" Slipper wailed. Good Lord, he's crying, Lucinda thought.
"Yes, yes, I forgive!" Fernando said. "Now stand! Stand!" Then he jumped back so suddenly, Lucinda wondered if Slipper had tried to kiss his feet.
Maya gazed at the morning clouds, ignoring the scene.
Slipper struggled to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. He seemed ready to prostate himself once more, but this time Fernando shooed him away. With many low bows, Slipper took his leave.
"It was well done, sir," the mahout whispered as Slipper clambered into the howdah.
"Oh, master, please make the elephant walk smooth today." He collapsed on a heap of cushions.
The other unexpected event happened as the gate to the courtyard was opened.
A wolf was standing there.
At first Lucinda thought it was Fernando's big dog, but when the animal staggered through the gates, its eyes wild, foam falling from its jaws, she realized it was a wolf, and a sick one.
One of Pathan's guards shot
an arrow through its belly, but instead of dying, the animal raced around the courtyard in a blind rage. The horses skittered as the wolf snapped at their heels with its yellow teeth.
Maya slid next to Lucinda. "We are safe up here," the mahout said. "My friend fears nothing. The wolf cannot hurt him." Even so he rubbed behind the elephant's ear and whispered calming words.
The horses danced and bucked, kicking at the sick animal. "How do the riders hold on? What if they fall?" Maya whispered.
Fernando hurried Silvia into the house.
After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, the wolf fell to the ground, exhausted. The horsemen rode up, arrows fixed in their bows, backing away whenever the wolf spasmed. Da Gama aimed his pistolas at it, but for some reason no one shot.
Then Pathan dismounted and fetched a pistola from Da Gama's saddlebag. The burak walked calmly to stand over the shivering wolf. He fired. The wolf's head imploded and its body shuddered.
Pathan shouted that all was well. He had a couple of his guards carry the carcass to the woods outside the gate.
Fernando's door opened, but he did not come out again. Instead he pushed his small, lace-trimmed hand through the opening and waved his kerchief in farewell.
Slipper snored through it all.
Part Two
Bandits
Soon the howdah resumed its relentless sway. Maya had taken up her usual position, her palm-leaf book on her lap; Slipper snored curled up nearby, a ball rolling in the cushions. Lucinda watched the house of the Analas disappear behind the trees that lined the road. Soon there was nothing to see, only trees and more trees, and Lucinda shut the curtains and made herself as comfortable as she could.
There was nothing to do except to sit. Lucinda wished that she had brought some needlework, something. She glanced at Maya, and wondered whether she should bring up the subject of arsenico, but the bayadere seemed so totally absorbed in reading that Lucinda held her tongue.
Someone had placed a bowl of fruits in a corner of the howdah, but they were unfamiliar. Lucinda finally chose one that looked something like a custard apple, but when she cracked the papery skin with her thumb, the insides were brown and she put it back without tasting it. She glanced around, and found Maya looking at her.
