The Temple Dancer

by John Speed

  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.

  He had arrayed his pistolas in a neat line before his bare feet, and now rubbed them one by one with coconut oil and lampblack, and thought. He faced his future as one faces a wall about to crumble. He liked to think of himself as a man of action, a soldier. But he had not counted on his present situation. This plan of Victorio's would be d
ifficult to manage, maybe impossible. One by one he considered the tasks that he was undertaking: Double-dealing with Wall Khan. Selling that young girl Maya to godknows-what fate at the hands of eunuchs. Victorio wedding Lucinda. A failure was hard enough, but the results of success made his stomach churn.

  What is a soldier's duty?

  You pledged your service to the Dasanas, he reminded himself. You gave your word.

  Then why do I feel sick?

  Because they are all a bad lot, and Victorio the worst. How was I to know I'd end up here, a partner in his scheming?

  Da Gama tried to ease his mind by polishing his pistolas. He tried imagining himself a wealthy man. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Lucy, and the nautch girl. Their faces blended in his mind until he could not recall precisely what either looked like.

  Even when the last pistola had been cleaned and oiled, he still felt too upset to sleep. He pushed some more wood chips into the fire, and took from his shoulder bag a little kit: a knife, a casting mold, a small pig of lead, and a cup of scorched copper with a screw-on handle. While the flames blazed up, he whittled chips of lead into the cup. He blew on the flames until the embers glowed bright orange, then thrust in the cup. As he waited, he unlatched the iron mold-it hinged opened to reveal a pattern like a cluster of grapes-and picked out some stray bits of lead with the tip of his knife.

  Da Gama liked casting shot: the smell of the hot metal melting, the swift motions of the hands, the concentration to keep from being burned. Involved with his task, he did not notice Mouse approach. "What are you doing, master?" Mouse whispered, wide eyes flickering in the reflected firelight.

  "Ever seen anyone cast shot before?"

  Mouse shook his head, and Da Gama motioned for him to sit. The eunuch lowered himself with silent grace, unconsciously moving his good right hand to shield the crippled left hand from Da Gama's eyes. Boiling up from his loneliness and uncertainty, and in truth, from too much wine, Da Gama felt an unexpected tenderness for the eunuch, and he smiled at him as one might smile at a favorite nephew. The gratitude in Mouse's eyes when he saw this nearly broke Da Gama's heart.

  Da Gama showed him everything; all his tools; how to pour the molten lead over the lip of the red-hot copper cup into the iron mold, taking care to pour slowly, taking care not to spill too much; how the mold could be opened nearly at once, and the lead, shaped like a flat cluster of grapes, dropped into the hand warm but not hot enough to burn; how one could break the balls from the cluster as one plucks fruit; and then how one shaved the shot with the knife to smooth any roughness. Mouse watched in fascination, and asked a dozen whispered questions. Da Gama let him fill the mold a couple of times, but he could not use the knife with his bad hand.

  Da Gama saw that this saddened the eunuch. "Never mind, Senhor Mouse. There is a different way to cast shot that does not require two hands." So he told Mouse about dropping hot lead from towers; the best way to make shot, Da Gama assured him. Mouse wanted to know more, and Da Gama told him of men with tongs who held red-hot iron crucibles over the balconies of high towers; the clever mechanisms for measuring out the drops of lead poured from the crucible into the air; the round shot that formed as the lead fell to earth. Mouse seemed eager to learn, and soon Da Gama found himself describing the drumming of the shot as it rained on the taut canvas sheet at the bottom of the tower, and the young boys who swept the warm rounds into boxes, watching the tower for fear more shot would fall on them.

  "But how does the shot get round?"

  "It's just round, that's all. Just from falling through the air. They add a metal to the lead . . . arsenico we call it-I don't know its Hindi name ... The arsenico hardens the shot and makes it rounder."

  Mouse asked more questions about arsenico, trying to guess from Da Gama's description what its name might be in Hindi. His eyes brightened when Da Gama told him the metal smelled like garlic. "Ahcha," Mouse smiled. "Haratala!" Without another word, Mouse moved to his small trunk in Victorio's room. He returned to Da Gama with a shy, happy smile, holding in his hand a small wooden box. "Here, master."

  Da Gama lifted the lid, saw the shiny, delicate red paste, and smelled the hint of garlic. "Haratala," said Mouse happily.

  "Why do you have this?"

  "It is a medicine, master. Some of the brothers use it."

  "For what?"

  "I should not say," Mouse said, his face suddenly clouding. "Our health is not so good, you know. The making of a brother causes problems all his life. Also. . ." Mouse seemed embarrassed. "Also old men use it. It gives them back their ... vigor."

  "Old men like Victorio?"

  Mouse nodded.

  Da Gama scowled. "It's poison."

  Mouse chuckled. "I've seen a pitcher from China, carved from the raw red stone. Exquisite. One of the brothers used it to pour wine for his enemies. He stored it in darkness ... light, he said, would make it crumble to dust. But haratala is not always poison. Not if you are careful, master. Even farang women use it."

  "But even a little too much . . ." Da Gama shrugged.

  "Too much of that ... ," Mouse lifted his chin to indicate the shot, "also can kill. Senhor Victorio says they call you the master of death."

  Hearing those hard words come from Mouse's tender mouth, Da Gama felt tears welling. You must be drunk, he scolded himself. You know they've called you that for years. Da Gama looked at his hands, no longer sure he could control his face. "It's true. I've seen too much death. At my age a man discovers regret, Senhor Mouse. I pursued blood instead of beauty. My memories are all of killing. I've forgotten the rest. Sometimes I cannot sleep."

  "Ah ..." Mouse sighed. "You wish for peace." His eyes flickered as he watched the melting lead begin to bubble in the fire. "But to bring death ... Surely that must bring peace, master? Is not death the greatest peace of all?" Mouse slid closer. Da Gama shifted uncomfortably, but then he realized that Mouse was in many ways no more than a child. Suddenly the eunuch held out his wooden box of arsenico. "Let's try it, master!"

  Da Gama looked up startled. "What? Eat some?"

  Mouse laughed. "No, master. Let's make shot!"

  Though by now Da Gama was exhausted, to please Mouse he melted more lead, this time with the arsenico. They cast a few more dozen rounds. Mouse was so happy, he clutched Da Gama's arm and laid his head on the farang's big shoulder. Da Gama made sure he kept his thoughts focused on making shot.

  "Enough, senhor," Da Gama said at last. "I must try to sleep." He took a few of the newly cast balls of shot and placed them in Mouse's hand. "Here. You made these. Keep them." Da Gama looked away so he would not be troubled by Mouse's reaction. The eunuch's hand was very soft.

  After a moment, Mouse placed the shot into his pocket, and then scurried to help Da Gama pick up his tools. But when Da Gama tried to give him back his arsenico, the eunuch refused. "Keep it, master, and when you use it, think of me. Find peace in your memories of our time together." Mouse bowed so low his good hand swept the floor, and without looking back, he stepped into the darkness and curled up on the threshold of Victorio's door.

  Da Gama slipped the box of arsenico into the bag with his pistolas, then lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling until the first dim light of morning.

  Of course they were to leave at dawn, but the muezzin had called the second prayer of the morning before Victorio lumbered down the stair, holding Mouse's arm for steadiness.

  Da Gama tried to curb his frustration at the endless delays. The only place large enough for the caravan to assemble was in the street outside the Gagan Mahal, and it was a disaster. A farmer led a long line of donkeys right through Da Gama's group; a skinny cow with a dripping nose nearly tipped over one of the palanquins; dusty dogs chased a pig through a nearby sewer. To this confusion the gods of chaos added jalabeewallahs and panwallahs crying out for men to buy their wares; a line of pretty nobody women carrying patties of cow dung in great baskets balanced on their heads; little boys herding goats with long blades of sword gra
ss.

  Tired of the delay, Da Gama's palki bearers were already demanding extra pay. A number of his guards had drifted away to the Mosque of the Hairs to say prayers.

  "Well, what are we waiting for?" Victorio grunted as he reached the bottom stair. "Let's be on our way. My bride awaits!"

  "We're waiting for that damned hijra," Da Gama said. At a look from Mouse, he regretted his word. "We're waiting for Slipper. I have sent messengers. Three or four of them. He can't be found."

  "Then the hell with him. We leave without him."

  Da Gama blinked. "You can't be serious!"

  Victorio drew himself up, pulling in his belly and puffing his chest. "This soldier is very rude, don't you think?" he said to Mouse in Hindi. "I have half a mind not to make him a partner."

  Mouse agreed emphatically, then glanced at Da Gama and blushed.

  "I won't tolerate insubordination, sir," Victorio said in Portuguese, turning to Da Gama.

  "We're partners, though, so I'm your equal, not your subordinate," Da Gama replied softly.

  An exasperated sigh puffed out Victorio's cheeks. "We're partners when I say we are partners!" Da Gama was about to answer, when from around a corner, a row of soldiers wearing formal turbans of palace green trooped directly toward them. They carried ebony maces bossed with silver.

  The leader glared at the farangs. "Are you Victorio Souza and Jebtha Da Gama?" His tone was impolite and his pronunciation intentionally terrible.

  "What business of it is yours?" Da Gama bristled.

  "You're to come with us, of your own will. The grand vizier wishes to speak with you."

  "He's in Golconda!" Mouse piped up, clutching Victorio's hand.

  "He returned last night." The guard's eyes narrowed. "If you cannot come on your own, we are to assist you."

  Victorio wanted to take a palki, but the guards wouldn't allow it. Furious, he trudged along a slowly as he could. "You created this problem, Da Gama," Victorio hissed. "I expect you to solve it."