by John Speed
The bridge was set only a few feet from the falls' edge. Da Gama could look over the drop. Mists swirled like ghosts in the moonlight. Below he made out the pool where Pathan's horse dove, and past that, the listing tower of the crumbling temple.
Suddenly Da Gama thought of Lucy. He wanted desperately to reach out to her, to wish her well, to give her his blessing and embrace. She had been a brightness, but she was gone forever now. He thought of the life ahead of him-of days spent on the move, of nights spent sleeping on the damp ground, of the company of men like Geraldo, Victorio, men who made his stomach churn.
Da Gama shook his head. These thoughts came from exhaustion, he told himself. He looked around, and was considering a chat with the eunuch guard when he saw across the lawn of the zenana a moonlit figure floating toward him like a sylph.
Maya.
She drifted toward the bridge. The eunuch guard stopped her, but she spoke soft words to him, and at last he let her pass. She came next to Da Gama, gentle as a whisper, in a sari more sheer than a moth's wing. Her face shown delicate in the brilliant moon.
"You're up early, Deoga," she breathed.
"I couldn't sleep."
At the end of the bridge, the eunuch guard watched suspiciously. "He thinks we're here for romance, Deoga," she laughed. The sound pierced Da Gama. She seemed utterly without a care, a living jewel, desirable and impossible for one like him to grasp. Even more than usual, he regretted his clumsiness, his gruff voice and thick body, his stiff whiskers, and his heavy thoughts. Like Lucy, Maya made him think of perfumes, and of the things that women keep around them; the delicate things they wear against their skin; the fragile things they hold in slender fingers and soft hands. Every moment with her heightened his despairing emptiness, yet he found himself longing for that despair. In that despair was his last joy.
Then Maya said something that caught him by surprise. "This is my last day of freedom, Deoga. The Sultana says I will be in purdah by the evening, in the harem, nevermore to walk again through the world of men."
Da Gama blinked as if newly wakened. "What did you say?"
"Purdah, Deoga. We all knew it would happen sometime. The time comes tonight."
"But, it can't.... When will I see you?"
She laughed at him. She was so beautiful when she laughed, he could almost bear the sting. "You silly. I'm just a nautch girl, a slave. Soon I shall be a whore-but whether for the grand vizier or the Khaswajara, the Sultana has not yet said."
He'd never seen her so open. Perhaps the final resolution of her fate brought relief. But his mind raced. "Listen, Maya," he whispered in a rush, interrupting whatever the hell she was saying. "We can get out of here. I can steal some horses. We can go into the forest, like Lucy and Pathan...."
Her silence was her answer, and her lowered head, and her fingers, hidden from the guard, that crept across his hand where he gripped the flimsy railing of the bridge. She squeezed his hand, and her eyes drifted over the falling foam. Then she took her hand away. It felt cold now where her fingers had just been.
"It's impossible anyway," Da Gama said, suddenly hoarse. "That's a young man's fantasy. Time I act my age." He tried to force a laugh. He stared at the emptiness where the waters spilled away, and at the pool below, dark and impenetrable. The falls roared.
Maybe he was drowsy after all. His eyes grew fascinated by the sweeping river. Suddenly it felt as if the water were standing still, and that the bridge itself rushed forward like a ship racing on the wind, a ship flying toward the edge of the earth.
It would be so easy.
"Deoga!" Maya said, grasping his arm. "You were falling!"
The eunuch guard moved forward, but Da Gama waved him away. "I must have nodded off."
"But did you not hear what I was saying? The heir. . ." she lowered her voice. "I think he is the child stolen from Lady Chitra." This information made no difference to Da Gama. "Deoga, promise me you'll get word to her. She must be told. You must give me your word." But Da Gama made no sign that he had heard. "Deoga, promise me."
"Of course." He glanced at the falls, then away, forcing his mind to work. "There's something I have to give to you. How can I ..."
"I'm supposed to dance at the audience later. That's when the queen will announce her decision about me. My last appearance in public before I'm sent to purdah. Give it to me then." A worried look flashed across her face for just an instant. "The Sultana gave me good advice. I must cultivate my own resources. I should have done this long ago. Oh, Deoga, I have been so very foolish! I must be hard as diamonds, and as cold." She then moved away, backward, her eyes on his. "Do not forget me, Deoga. Remember me as I was!"
She walked slowly to the end of the bridge. Da Gama watched until he could no longer see her shadow, and kept watching until the first pink light of dawn peeked over the horizon, and the river glistened. He turned to see the moon setting behind the ancient temple near the falls, where the swirling mists, now silver from the moon, now gold from the sun, churned endlessly over the roaring void.
It was nearly noon when Shahji woke Da Gama. "Turn out, soldier. Your presence is required by the queen. And anyway, we've got to strike the tents. We break camp after the audience."
Da Gama grunted and got up. New clothes had been laid out for himsome of Shahji's jamas-and he dressed quickly. "Do you go back to Bijapur, General?"
"No, to Belgaum for a few days. What about you?"
"I have no idea." Da Gama drew on a long robe of tawny silk. "Perhaps you would do me one more favor, sir? I have a message to deliver to Lady Chitra." He told Shahji of Maya's discovery about the heir.
Shahji's eyes grew wide. "Is this true?"
"She has never lied to me, General."
Shahji's eyes darted nervously, like a soldier assessing a battle. "Deoga, if she's right ... This could be the key for me."
Da Gama wrapped the wide brown sash around his waist. "Perhaps I'm missing something."
Shahji gave Da Gama a shrewd look. "I doubt it. I think you know exactly what this information means. Why you would pretend otherwise, I don't understand. This information gives me the power to deal with Whisper and the Brotherhood." Da Gama bowed as if confused, and again Shahji searched his face for a sign that he realized the import of his words. "The Sultana admired your subtlety, Deoga. So do I."
"Don't mistake my ignorance for cleverness, General," Da Gama answered.
Outside, tentwallahs scurried to pack the grand tents into a train of bullock carts. "Mine is the last to be taken down, you see? A favor for you, Deoga. I thought you'd need your rest." Despite Shahji's mocking smile, Da Gama lowered his head to acknowledge the courtesy.
Courtiers hurriedly made their way to the Flying Palace. Nearby, mahouts directed the placing of the huge yokes and harnesses on their enormous elephants. Large men tied the thick lifting ropes through the massive iron rings at the corners of the palace. "The Sultana's whim changes with the breeze," Shahji explained. "At dawn, she commanded that the camp return to Bijapur. Everyone's been hurrying since. It will take an effort to reach the gates by nightfall."
Da Gama glanced across the river. The muslin screens were gone, and only one harem tent remained. A few more men stood at the river bridge. "That bridge will be the last to go. The queen always takes one last look at the falls, and throws roses in the river in memory of the sultan," Shahji explained as they mounted the palace steps.
The audience hall teemed with courtiers, many more than yesterday, standing in small groups as they awaited the arrival of the queen. Wall Khan stood already behind the silver railing, speaking with a group of smiling men.
"Everyone is here, you see. With the tents being struck, there's nowhere else to go. You'll wish to join those fellows, I expect?" Shahji said, nodding to a cluster of men across the room. Whisper was among them, stroking his long chin, and talking earnestly with Geraldo-whose farang clothes were at last freshly pressed-Da Gama saw the eunuch Slipper.
"I'd prefer to stay with you,
sir, if that's convenient."
"My dear fellow," Shahji answered.
They moved toward the place that Shahji seemed to prefer, near the right-hand corner of the dais, when Wall Khan rapped the floor with his silver-tipped staff of office. Once, twice, thrice the staff banged, and the hollow beneath the dais boomed through the hall. Conversations stopped, men straightened their robes and pressed their turbans into place. Whisper hurried to the highest step of the dais just as the queen glided in.
As before, she wore such a profusion of robes that no sign of her could be seen. She'd altered the color of her outfit, to a bright leaflike green; its gold embroidery glittered when the hill of cloth passed beneath the sunbeams streaming from one of the small, high windows. As the queen's form moved along the dais, all the courtiers in the room bowed at the waist, sweeping the backs of their hands along the wood floor.
Behind the queen, Da Gama noted not only the usual guards and eunuch boy attendants, but also Maya, wearing a brilliant sari of bright red and gold. As she turned through the door, Da Gama caught a glimpse of a boy behind her, maybe eight or nine, he guessed. He held Maya's hand, not as a child might, but with the formality of a royal escort. "That is the Heir," Shahji murmured into Da Gama's ear.
When they caught sight of the boy, the courtiers began again to bow, and some to cheer: Jai, Jai, sultan. Jai, Jai Add! Whisper glowered at the noise, but it took Wall Khan, banging his staff once again, to bring it to a halt. The boy brought Maya to the Sultana's side, and then sat at her feet, not far from Whisper.
The queen, beneath her many veils, gave a barely visible nod, and Whisper spoke, so softly that the crowd had to struggle to hear. After a dozen flowery preambles, Whisper said, "At the request of the heir, Adil, our sultan, may he live forever, the queen brings to us today Prabha, the famous devadasi from the Orissa temple. Before she joins the women in purdah and takes her nautch name, Maya, she has graciously agreed to dance for us."
"This is unusual," Shahji said softly to Da Gama. "Why bring a nautch girl out in public?"
But before Da Gama could reply, he heard music. For the first time he noticed tall screens of wood and silver set near the dais; behind them unseen musicians played. Women, Da Gama guessed, nautch girls in purdah, and soon Maya would join them in the shadows.
But now she stepped forward, glorious in her brilliant sari and borrowed jewels. Over her bare feet, ankle bells jingled as she walked down the dais steps to the palace floor. She had wrapped her sari skirts to cover each leg separately, so instead of being hidden, her bare calves showed when she moved. Her skin glowed like rich cream, her black hair gleamed like polished ebony. She passed only a few arms' lengths from Da Gama, and the light that glistened in her gold-flecked eyes was as brilliant as diamonds, and as cold. She gave no sign that she had even seen him.
The courtiers pushed back to the edges of the hall to give her room. The boy sultan rose from his mother's feet and slipped beneath the golden rail as a child ducks under a fence. He stood next to Wali Khan, who placed a big hand on his small shoulder-neither said a word, but only watched.
Maya came at last to the very center of the hall. Every eye was on her. She held her folded hands before her heart, and then stood still, more still than Da Gama had ever seen a person stand, the way a tree is still, or a statue, or a stone. Her stillness filled the hall. Da Gama became aware of his own heartbeat, and the river's roar, and the grunts of elephants and shouts of men outside. Meanwhile the music curled through her silence: a flute, and the endless buzzing of the tamboura's drone.
Even after all this time in Hindustan, Da Gama could make no sense of the music. From simple notes that hung like clouds at first, the melody progressed to flow in intricate randomness, suggesting a pattern sometimes, but never a simple theme or rhythm.
A drum then joined the music. The time for dancing had begun.
At first Maya made small, simple movements, from her current place into a new posture. She held each in stillness for a moment before switching to the next.
Her face, which had been void of all expression, suddenly came into bright relief. The tilt of her head and hips, her eyes, her hands, her feet combined with each new pose. Each attitude gave voice to an emotion: happiness, alarm, and some that Da Gama recognized, but for which he had no name. With each trill of the flute and slap of the drum, Maya added another step, another move. It was as though she flipped through a book of paintings, revealing with each beat another page.
Her head turned, and now her eyes surveyed the room. She caught Da Gama's gaze in a kind of web, and with his eyes, his full attention. It was as though she danced for him alone. He knew it was part of her art, that every person there at this moment felt the same, but it made his feelings no less palpable for knowing.
Each pose came on now faster than the last. Sometimes now her feet moved four times while her arms moved three. She turned her head so quickly that her braid swung behind her like a whip; her hands cut the air like knives. Her steps became strides; her strides hops, then jumps. Soon she was leaping in the air, landing as lightly as a paper ball. The soles of her feet slapped the wood floor like a drummer's fingers.
The music swelled in intricate profusion as she turned. Da Gama himself began to sweat, just watching her exertions. It was not desire that he felt, at least not as he was used to. Maya did not flirt nor leer. But the power of each pose, each leap brought to his thoughts an awareness of the supple strength of her limbs. His heart beat faster as he watched, joining the music like another drum.
Da Gama could feel the swirling of the flute pulsing through his veins. As Maya danced, a strength, not only of her body but of her will, exuded from her. It stirred him to be her equal with his own strength and will. She seemed to him both childlike and godlike-divinity approachable by man.
What I might do, he thought as she soared in a leap. What I too might be!
It took a while to realize that the dance had ended. The hall still echoed with the tamboura's drone even when the music stopped, and once again Maya stood alone and unmoving in the center of the hall. Her limbs shone with sweat, and her sari clung to her body. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. But that same unnerving stillness hovered in the air around her. The bountiful nothingness from which her dance had emerged could be perceived once more. At last the moment faded like a mist before the sun. From outside the shouts of the tentwallahs could again be heard, and the bellow of the elephants, and over all, the roaring of the falls.
The boy sultan stepped out from behind the silver rail, and with him two of the eunuch boy attendants, one of them carrying a square of folded black cloth. The heir came to Maya, and raised his hands in a formal bow. Then the eunuch boys approached her, and opened the cloth with a snap, and lifted it over her. It floated through the air and fell in a billow over her head.
She was now veiled.
They led Maya up the dais. The cloth was dark, but sheer, and as she moved, it pressed against her and puffed out as if it breathed. Sometimes the curve of a hip might be guessed through the cover, or the outline of her chin or cheek. Before the hidden queen, Maya inclined her cloaked head, and the veiled queen bowed back. Then Maya passed through the door like a shadow.
The hall, which had been utterly silent, came once more to life. Courtiers again began to move, to talk. Nervous laughter filled the air; Da Gama got the sense of men making ribald jokes. If he had his pistolas he'd have shot a few. He saw Geraldo whispering with a leering grin to Slipper, who giggled at his words. Shahji, at least, had the courtesy to stand apart, watching Maya's departure as one might watch a passing funeral.
After a moment, as the talk crescendoed, Wall Khan once more rapped his staff on the dais. "The Sultana speaks," he announced.
After the quiet had returned, the Sultana's muffled voice began. "She has a rare gift. You have seen today what few will see hereafter. But what shall be done with her? That is the question we must decide."
As she spoke, the young sultan
settled once again at her feet, lounging comfortably and looking pleased with himself and rather bored. Whisper made a show of giving him extra room. At last the queen continued. "Many men have laid a claim to her, and her circumstances are enmeshed with a family of farangs, and many of them are dead, and one, maybe, a murderer. So our deciding has been difficult. Hear then our will."
"First, the nautch girl Maya was given as a gift to our grand vizier. Wall Khan, therefore shall have her."
At these words, from across the room, Slipper squealed in pain. Wall Khan did his best to look serene despite the sudden envy of the courtiers. "Hear, though, grand vizier ... You made a promise to the Moguls: that you would deliver her to Viceroy Murad. That promise has been a factor in our thinking. Do not disappoint us." The grand vizier lowered his head in obedience.
"Also, there is a later item that may affect you, Wall Khan," the Sultana said as if in afterthought. At this he looked up with a frown. Trouble came in the queen's second thoughts.
"Next, the matter of the Dasanas. We find that before he died, Victorio Souza, trustee of the estate, made Geraldo Silveira a partner. We confirm that now. One half of the estate belongs to him." The murmuring of the court grew loud. Geraldo beamed, and Slipper grabbed his arm happily. Da Gama gave no sign that he had even heard. "Master Khaswajara, there is some small tax on transferred holdings, is there not?"
"Highness, your memory once again is perfect. I shall see to its collection."
"A tax indeed. Seven parts of ten, if I recall," Shahji whispered into Da Gama's ear.
"The remainder of the Dasana estate belongs to Lucinda Dasana, accused of poisoning her uncle. Until she is produced, and condemned, and executed for her crime, those assets shall be held in trust. Senhor Geraldo Silveira shall manage them as the crown's agent. Upon the poisoner's death, they shall revert to the state."
Slipper had been growing more and more impatient, and suddenly burst out, "But, highness! What about the claim of the Khaswajara?" After he spoke, he clapped his hands across his mouth.
