The Temple Dancer

by John Speed

  "No, madam. I am indebted to you for your courtesy. We all are."

  Chitra snorted. "It is Commander Shahji's courtesy. I am but his hostess, a guest here myself. He has been kind to me as well." She leaned in closer. "He said he knew your father. He said your father was a good man." Pathan did not answer. "He told me I could trust you."

  After a moment, Pathan answered. "Yes."

  "The fragrance of the roses wet with dew, the peacocks' cries, the wet smell of the lake breeze. You alone maybe have truly understood how special this palace is."

  Again Pathan paused, then as if casting off a mask, he answered. "Yes."

  Chitra smiled. He had never seen her smile, and the sudden beauty of it as it burst on her soft face struck him like a blow. She was not old, he saw now that she smiled, and she had been beautiful-more than beautifulnot that many years ago.

  "I am glad you don't dissemble now. There is no place like this, not for many miles. In Kashi, maybe, near the Ganges, or on the shore of Pushkar Lake, or at the confluence of the rivers at Nasik, or in Puri maybe, or in Kanyakumari which is my home. Here as in those places old Hindustan still survives. Like a fragile flower, I maintain it here by my will. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes. I have felt it."

  Chitra sighed. "I could tell that you too were special, Captain." She lifted her hand before Pathan could say a word. "I was worried when you came here, you and the farangs." Pathan looked uncomfortably at Lakshmi, who whispered at that moment in Chitra's ear.

  "Leave us," Chitra said to Lakshmi. The girl seemed shocked by this command. She stared at Pathan as she strolled away with exaggerated slowness. "You must speak frankly to me, Captain." She reached into the empty air, searching for his hand. Pathan watched as she sought him, and with a look of resignation, came closer to her. Her fingers closed around his wrist.

  Her touch unlocked his heart. Suddenly he found himself telling Chitra everything. "What are you doing to me, madam?" he asked, as tears spilled from his eyes. He could not stop himself or even slow his words. The bandits' deaths, the rescue. His awareness and growing feelings for Lucy. His disgust at Geraldo's seduction of Maya. All this he told while Chitra stroked his hand and sat unmoving, except for the wavering of her sightless eyes.

  She asked Pathan many questions about Geraldo and Maya. His every answer seemed a needle that pricked her, but she kept on. At last she asked no more, but sat silent, rubbing his hand. Lake birds cawed outside, and that set the peacocks wailing.

  Then she said, "Have you not loved before, Captain?"

  He felt as though her hand were squeezing his heart, and once more his tears began to flow. But he choked back his sobs and did not answer.

  "When Kama shoots his arrows, Captain, no heart is safe, for their sweetness is full of poison. Have you told the farang girl of your love?"

  With the back of his free hand, Pathan smeared the moisture from his cheeks. "She knows, madam."

  "Don't confuse the issue. Have you told her, yes or no?"

  Pathan swallowed his tears, ashamed to show such weakness. "Not like that, madam."

  "And of course she would not say such words to you."

  "But I can tell. There are other ways than words."

  "Not to the blind, Captain. And have you not heard that the heart is blind?"

  Pathan looked up at Chitra. "You are different than I expected, madam."

  "The Goddess keeps me so, Captain, not my own will." She sighed and let go his hand. "Now, Captain, to the point. I don't want those others coming here, that caravan from Bijapur. Deoga, maybe, I would not mind, but not the others. Not that hijra, and not that old farang. I don't like what little I've heard about him. He sounds too much like an aged version of the farang Geraldo, and that one is a poison. I'm depending on you."

  "But precisely, madam, what do you want?"

  "I want you to go-take yourself and the other guests-and leave here before the caravan arrives."

  Pathan considered this. "My family's estate is not far from here. We could meet the caravan there."

  Chitra again gave that sumptuous smile, but this time Pathan could see that there was pain behind it. "Yes. If you don't mind, Captain. Do that as a favor for me. Leave me now, as one leaves a corpse ... with regret, and memories, but without a second look."

  Pathan rose and bowed, full-knowing that Chitra could not see.

  "One thing more, Captain. Tell your love. Tell before you step across that bridge. The power of this palace will propel your words so that they land deep inside her heart. She does love you, Captain, and she would be happy."

  Maya spent most of her time with Lucinda now. They talked little and thought much, but each took comfort from the other's presence.

  Maya had stayed with Lucinda for a while after Da Gama's letter had been read, but finally she left, and found her way once more to Aldo's room. She slid through his door as soft as moonlight. He looked so different in farang clothes. Before, he would have looked up right away, sensing her arrival, but he had changed. Now his attention totally focused on whetting the blade of his black sword.

  After waiting for a moment, she whispered his name, but he answered without turning. "We have nothing to say now, you and I. What once was has passed away. It's best that you leave now. Best that no one sees you here."

  Maya felt her face go pale. "You must tell about us, Aldo. I can't be sold to the hijra. You can't imagine what they'll do to me. You must tell what passed between us."

  Only now did Geraldo look up, and a faint smile passed his elegant lips. "Now I see how it is. You played me. You meant this from the beginning, didn't you? You meant to use our pleasure to your advantage."

  "Did you not do that very thing with me?"

  Geraldo gave a snorting chuckle. "Tell them yourself. I will say nothing." He turned back to his sword.

  "But you must tell them. They won't believe me."

  "You are right-they won't believe you. And without my word to back you up, it's as though nothing ever happened. Oh, don't act innocent. You got what you wanted."

  "Aldo, I beg you!"

  "Save your weeping. I'm sure it starts and stops at your command. Unlike you, my dear, I have no desire for a painful death." He smiled, but did not look at her. "Anyway, what difference would it make? Perhaps a Muslim would be disgusted to know that I had plowed your furrow, or even a Hindi. But what would a eunuch care? Aren't they lower even than farangs? Besides, I think they have other plans for you."

  Maya's skin grew cold. "What plans?"

  "That box you carry with the sword inside. How does a nautch girl, a devadasi, come to have a farang sword, one worth a lakh of hun? That makes one think, that does. And then there's that bag, the missing bag, the bag you gave Da Gama. What's in that bag, I wonder? I'd guess the eunuchs wonder, too. About those things, and about what else you own. And about what else you know." Aldo's lips had stretched into a grin, but his eyes were cold. "You don't look well. Do you want some air?"

  "But I don't have it anymore ..." she whispered.

  "Yes, I know. You gave it to Da Gama; dear, trustworthy Deoga, everybody's uncle, everybody's friend." Geraldo snorted. "Be careful who you trust, my sweet. Has no one ever warned you to be careful?"

  Before she even realized it, Maya had fled from Aldo's room. She was halfway across the courtyard before she stopped and clutched her head and wept. She managed to contain herself enough to reach the ladies' quarters. There she burst into Lucinda's room, fell down beside her, and sobbed. Lucinda cradled her and asked what had happened, but Maya would not say.

  She slept on a carpet near Lucinda's bed. Neither woman got much rest ... they spent the night tossing fitfully, scared of what they might dream.

  The next morning Maya helped Lucinda tighten her new corset and put on the heavy, rag-stuffed skirt Victorio had sent. "This is how poor women dress," Lucinda told her. "They can't afford stiff silks to hoop their skirts, so they fill the channels with rags."

  "But you can bar
ely see the difference," Maya lied. Lucinda's face, like Maya's, was a blank: she was full of thoughts too deep for speaking, thoughts that made no dent upon her face.

  After she had dressed, from a little chest beside her bed, Lucinda took out her silver box and flipped the lid. "Do you want some?" she asked Maya, holding out the arsenico.

  "Why do you have this?" Maya asked. "Why do you offer me a dra- vana?"

  Lucinda blinked. "This is arsenico, to pale and purify the skin. What is a dravana, sister?"

  "You don't know? It means a drug for passion, to make congress more pleasurable. Your cousin offered this same stuff to me."

  "Surely not," Lucinda said.

  "Yes, I say. It looked just the same. And had that same smell, just like garlic. It only made me dizzy. He said I had not taken enough, but I wanted no more."

  Lucinda's eyes widened. "You did right. This is the poison I told you I had. A little makes you pale. Too much . . . "

  Maya's face grew serious. "Give me some."

  Lucinda held out the box. "Just a small bit, placed on the tongue."

  "No!" Maya's eyes burned. "Give me what you promised me. Give me enough to kill."

  Lucinda thought about saying no. She thought about asking what Maya meant to do. But she knew already, she knew by Maya's bright stare fixed upon her, for Lucinda's own thoughts also were dark. Having arsenico, having power, having hold of one's fate. Arsenico gave freedom, though the harshest kind of freedom. And she had promised Maya, after all.

  "Bring me a cloth," Lucinda said at last.

  Maya found a small silk handkerchief, and on it Lucinda scooped out half her arsenico. With some care she used an edge of the cloth to wipe the excess from her finger, and then tied the corners of the kerchief, and handed it to Maya.

  Lucinda saw that there remained a few small dots of red upon her finger. She reached up and touched the tip to Maya's lips, and then her own. "Now we are sisters indeed," she said.

  The next morning, Lucinda found Pathan in the courtyard, saddling his horse. She could not stop her feet from hurrying toward him, and when he noticed her, he gave the cinch an angry tug. She watched the change that crossed his face as she approached-how the brightness left his eyes, and his mouth grew harsh. He stiffened to a soldier's posture. In short he looked as distant and as haughty as the first time she had seen him in Goa. What happened to my Munna, a voice cried in her heart. But the heaviness of her skirts and the tightness of her corset whispered the answer: Lucy too had disappeared.

  Even so, his gaze found hers and never wavered until she reached his side.

  "You're leaving?" Her voice sounded harsher than she wished.

  "You've heard my plans. I'll be back tomorrow night with palkis and horses. You heard all this last night, did you not?"

  "I thought you'd tell me goodbye." His coldness chilled her. Lucinda felt the few feet of space between them like a chasm. Looking at his face she remembered the moist pliance of his lips against hers, and the press of his long fingers on the bare skin of her waist; she remembered the slippery, unexpected twisting of his tongue; and she had to turn away. "I wanted you to say goodbye."

  "I could not bear it," he whispered back.

  She realized that the stony blankness of his face was held there by the hard force of his will. Oh, the child, she thought. He believed it pleased her that he did not show his pain.

  The fullness of her skirts kept a distance between them. He could not casually come closer without pressing against the bulky clothing. "Will you remember me, Munna?" she whispered, stretching out her hand. From where she stood, she could not quite touch him.

  He looked at her pale hand, and her chalk-powdered face, and her cumbersome clothing, and peered at her as if to see behind a mask that she'd put on. He lifted both his hands, and cradled her outstretched fingers as gently as one holds a bird. "You are closer to me than my breath," he said. His eyes, for just a moment, lost their coldness, and she saw that he was frightened. "Must you marry him, Lucy?"

  "I have no choice, Munna."

  His face grew hard. "You say this? When you were pledged, then I could understand. But that pledge is broken."

  "Another pledge now takes its place."

  "It means nothing! I see that now. It is not your pledge, Lucy! This is another's will, not yours!"

  "I have made it mine. I am a Dasana, and my will is not my own." She lowered her head. "I am no more than a puppet, Munna. Another pulls the strings." She pulled her hand away. "Listen, Munna. It is my duty to my family. But he will have my body only, but not my heart."

  "Have I no family? No duty? Yet I would cast them all aside-for happiness, for love. For you."

  Lucy looked up as if seeing him for the first time. "You are not a Christian, or a Portuguese. We are so different, you and I."

  His face grew hard. "Suppose I put on farang clothes, and drank blood like a Christian, then would I be suitable?"

  "No!" Lucinda cried. She stepped away for him, recoiling at the thought.

  "Did I really mean to give my heart to you? Damn you then, and damn all women!" Pathan shouted, suddenly on fire. She had seen such a fury in his eyes once before, when he had killed her attackers at the pass, when his hands were stained with bandit blood. Without another glance Pathan slapped his horse, and mounted it even while it ran, and galloped out the gate, across the causeway.

  "Munna!" Lucinda's throat was so tight, she could barely hear her own words. She tasted the ocean-her own salt tears, she realized-and then cried out once more, "Munna!"

  The word echoed against the palace walls. He was gone. From nowhere, a bloated cloud edged past the sun, and the courtyard darkened in cold shadows. "I never meant," she whispered toward the empty gate. "I never meant for you to change, dear Munna." Her throat closed in a sob. "Come back. Let me tell you so." Lucinda shivered, and straightened her skirts, and pressed the pins more deeply in her hair, and turned and walked away unseen except by one, and he could only chuckle at what had passed.

  "Until we leave here, won't you wear your sari, sister?" Maya asked. She and Lucinda had come together to the wide platform swing in Lady Chitra's garden. On their backs they lay as the corner ropes creaked, staring through mango-leaf shadows at the clouds and sea-blue sky; lying so their heads just touched, and the closeness comforted them both. Maya had told Lucinda of her conversation with Geraldo, and Lucinda then had told Maya about Pathan and the courtyard. They had no secrets now.

  "I dare not think about it, sister. I must set my thoughts on what is, not what might have been."

  "There's yet time." Where Maya's head touched hers Lucinda felt the subtle vibrations of her skull with every word. It tickled. It made Lucinda smile. She felt her head buzz as Maya asked, "Do you ever think of dying?"

  Maya's question hardly shocked her. They both possessed arsenico now, and when one carries poison, thoughts of death are never far away. If Lady Chitra had been there, of course, Maya might not have said a word, but Chitra had not come out for days, not since Da Gama's letter came. "In truth I think more of killing than of dying, sister," Lucinda answered softly. "But you asked if I ever think of it-and I tell you: yes."

  "How do you imagine it?"

  Lucinda thought but did not answer for a long time. Maya waited and then spoke again. "I think it is a coldness, like a shadow." Maya paused. "That's how it was when my mother died."

  "Then what?" Lucinda asked.

  "I think it is a sleep. There's darkness for a time. Then you see your next body glowing for you, lighting the way, waiting for you. You put on the baby's body, as one slips a sandal on a foot. Then another life begins."

  "Is there no end?" Now Maya did not answer. "When I die," Lucinda continued, "I want an end. I want arms around me, holding me. I want to see his eyes with my last sight, to taste his kiss with my last breath." Lucinda's voice grew so soft that Maya could barely hear it for the groaning of the swing against its ropes.

  Maya reached her out hand until she touched
Lucinda's face. "Sister, have you no hope at all?"

  Lucinda grasped her fingers. "There is nothing for me now but death. I myself shall die, or walk among the living with a dead heart. Or maybe I will kill."

  "Who?" Maya asked.

  "Who would you kill, sister? Who has destroyed your life?"

  A half-dozen faces flashed across Maya's thoughts. "I must not think this way," she whispered.

  "And I," Lucinda answered, "must not wear a sari. It is just the same, you see: some thoughts are too painful to be borne." The swing moved in its long slow arc while the branches swayed. In her warm clothes, beneath the afternoon sun, Lucinda's thoughts began to drift.

  As if from inside her, Lucinda heard Maya speaking. The sound of each word, vibrating where their heads touched, formed a brilliant image in Lucinda's drowsy brain.

  "I had a dream last night," Maya said. "I went in spirit to the Guru planet, where my dear teacher found me. She took my hand and we began to fly. There she lives atop a mountain island, in an ocean of pure milk. The sky was bright, but filled with brighter stars. We flew so high I thought to touch the sun, when suddenly we began to descend. I thought we were falling, but my guru held me close and gestured to the ocean. We dove into the milk.

  "I saw that the ocean was the very void from which all creation springs. It sat completely placid, in abundant readiness, and as we two swam through it, the milk assumed a million forms-bubbles turning into objects that in a moment melted and were gone.

  "My guru drew us toward a giant structure white as bleached bone. A great temple tower, so it seemed. Against its endless walls the milk swirled. Carved there I saw a million bright white figures: men and women-not gods but humans just like us-pressing and touching and coiling round each other. They were locked in couples, all of them, embracing, kissing, having congress in every imaginable way.

  "Then I saw that the carvings were alive: thrusting and twisting in furious embrace-a million, million couples locked in endless passion, as far as any eye could see.