Cromartie vs. the God Shiva

by Rumer Godden

  ‘And you are sure, Professor, that it was the same?’

  ‘Of course it was, there was no mistaking it, and that was last year. It was only this year that I knew at once that what we now have is a fake.’

  ‘Long after Miss Artemis brought it back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Professor Ellen was firm.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me I’ll go up. I want to write to Honor,’ Michael told the Fishers.

  He could hear Indian music now. What will Mrs Moaner have to say about that, he wondered. For him it conjured up the magic of Veeranna’s Saraswati and the vina in her hand. The hall, though, was deserted until the drawing-room door opened and Artemis came out, closing it quickly behind her.

  She was dressed in what Michael guessed she had adopted as her uniform. Another long black skirt and white frilled blouse, but these were fresh and clean, while her hair was up in a knot tied with another red chiffon scarf. She looked what she was, a leader, but she leaned back against the door and gave a wide yawn.

  ‘Tired?’ Michael’s voice was tender.

  ‘Michael!’ At once she was poised again, as she said, ‘You were so cross on the beach I thought you would never speak to me again.’

  ‘Silly! You know I’ll always want to speak to you, Artemis …’

  He had come closer but before he could touch her she was gone – back to the other side of the door.

  ‘Today is your day for the Sun Temple at Konak.’ Although it was early, Sir John was up and had found Professor Ellen with her list waiting for the group to come downstairs.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’re just getting ready.’ The coach was waiting under the portico as the group gathered, carrying their usual paraphernalia. Samuel was taking on board freezer bags of iced mineral water, orange juice, biscuits and tea-making things.

  ‘It’s a long way,’ said Sir John. ‘They only arrived yesterday and I see Artemis is giving a lecture tonight.’

  ‘Yes, on the sculptures. She really has become an expert.’

  ‘I’m sure, but, my dear, how you do drive them.’

  ‘That’s what they came for. They wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to go or not.’ Mrs Moaner had come downstairs with Hannah.

  ‘Memsahib try,’ Hannah encouraged. ‘I’m sure if you get tired Professor Miss Sahib send you back by car.’

  ‘They say it’s dreadfully erotic.’

  ‘That’s why I want to go.’

  Duke’s eyes sparkled, but Madame Duvivier said, perhaps in gentle rebuke, ‘It’s the beauty and majesty we go to see.’

  ‘Michael.’ He had just appeared and Professor Ellen came eagerly up to him. ‘Why don’t you come too? It’s such a chance.’

  ‘I’m afraid there are things I have to do.’ He did not want to hurt her feelings but, as he told Lady Fisher when the coach had left, ‘If I can get to Konak I shall go by myself, not in a group with a guided tour.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lady Fisher. ‘It’s truly the most beautiful temple in the world, built like a vast stone chariot with huge carved wheels and drawn by gigantic stone horses that seem alive. No one has ever fathomed how men – ants by comparison – got the great slabs of stone in place. To see its full beauty you need to be there at the moment when the risen sun touches the entrance, which is guarded by two stone lions crushing elephants, where Surya the sun god sits on his charger as if in welcome. His face has a’ wonderfully beneficent smile for all who come to pay tribute at his temple. I can’t tell you how beautiful it is but you must get up at three or four in the morning. We always did, didn’t we, John?’

  In her own quiet way Lady Fisher knew even more about this vast country than Artemis.

  Artemis! Be sensible, Michael had told himself that very morning. She has things to do and you have things to do, so get on with it.

  Samuel had given him a note. It was from Inspector Dutta.

  Shall be away for about twenty-four hours.

  Colonel McIndoe has my telephone number but I shall be moving about. Think I am on to something.

  So am I, thought Michael.

  He had not forgotten that gleam of resentment in Veeranna’s eyes and knew he had to go and see him – with someone to translate.

  Instinctively, he did not take Thambi – he was too senior – so, ‘Moses,’ he said, ‘I want to explore the village but I don’t speak Telegu and you speak good English.’ A little flattery, he had learned, goes a long way. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘I very pleased, Sahib. I not needed here this morning.’

  Quiet lay over Patna Hall. Auntie Sanni and the Colonel were busy at their desks; Sir John had gone for a quiet stroll along the beach; Lady Fisher was, as usual, on the veranda. There was, of course, no sign of Inspector Dutta, nor had he been at breakfast.

  ‘I come now,’ said Moses.

  Michael and he set out. As they walked through the gates, Michael smiled again at Shyama, who was in the courtyard sitting on a rush mat dreamily shifting chillies, which were turning scarlet in the sun. She could not hide her face in her sari, which was hanging down her back, leaving her brief bodice and bare midriff showing plump, but this time she smiled back boldly. Out of respect for Thambi, Moses ignored her.

  There was a telephone, call for Michael. It came to Colonel McIndoe’s office – to Kanu’s indignation the Colonel did not allow direct calls to reception. Now he pressed a buzzer which Samuel, who was nearest, answered. ‘Fetch Dean Sahib. There is a call for him. It’s from London so be quick.’

  Michael was not in his room, or on the veranda. Samuel sent a boy running to the beach but he was not on the beach. It seemed he was out with Moses. Why Moses, Samuel wondered. Michael was usually with Thambi. After a moment he went to the gatehouse. ‘The young English sahib,’ he asked Shyama in Telegu – she was too indolent to pick up even a few words of English – ‘did he go out?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Shyama. She was in awe of Samuel, who clicked his tongue in annoyance.

  The Colonel was irritated, too. ‘Think of the expense. Why didn’t they send a fax?’ But Samuel’s annoyance was not at the telephone call: he had a deeper dismay.

  ‘The young sahib. Was he alone?’ he asked Shyama.

  ‘No. With Moses.’

  Now Samuel was truly alarmed.

  ‘What I really want,’ Michael told Moses, ‘is to go and see the potter.’

  ‘Him Veeranna.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Very good potter. Most clever. He make beautiful god and goddess.’

  ‘I know.’

  Veeranna was making one now, working on still another Ganesh whose elephant trunk was almost completed. He was absorbed, a lump of clay in his left hand, which he took, scrap by scrap, working it in with his thumb. He did not notice them until Moses touched his shoulder, almost reverently, but as soon as he saw Michael he was up, letting the clay fall back into the hole on the floor.

  Copying Inspector Dutta, Michael said, ‘Veeranna bhai,’ and made a namaskar, his hands held together finger to finger in the Indian greeting he had learned as a little boy. ‘Tell him, Moses, the Ganesh will be very good.’

  Veeranna’s face cleared as Moses translated and he returned the greeting.

  ‘Ask him if he has ever made a god in metal.’

  There was quite a conversation during which Veeranna was obviously proud. ‘Him say yes. He take many lessons …’

  ‘Where?’

  At that Veeranna withdrew. All Moses could get from him was, ‘Far away.’

  ‘Ask him for how long.’

  More talk with Moses, then, ‘He say two years. Not all the year. He go and come. He has his work here.’

  Michael wasted no more time. ‘Veeranna, you made the second Shiva Nataraja, didn’t you?’

  There was no need to translate. For a moment Veeranna shone. ‘Sahib has eyes! Ji hah! Yes, I made him and fool all those clever sahibs.’ Veeranna threw back his head
and laughed, a deep, throaty, delighted laugh.

  Michael’s instinct was to stop there – ‘If only I had,’ he said afterwards, ‘but I felt bound to go on.’

  ‘Veeranna bhai, you must have had help. Tell me …’ But the delight was gone. Veeranna’s face was stern, his lips shut tightly. ‘Please tell.’

  ‘I not tell,’ and suddenly Veeranna turned to Moses with a torrent of words.

  ‘He say he promise not tell. Sacred promise. If he break promise, Shiva punish him. Shiva punishment most terrible, Sahib.’ Moses’ eyes showed he had caught some of the terror and awe. ‘Perhaps kill.’

  ‘I not tell. Never. Go away.’ Veeranna turned his back, sat down before his Ganesh on its plinth and picked up a ball of fresh clay.

  Michael had given Moses a handsome tip, then shut himself in his room at the desk Auntie Sanni had sent up for him, his pad in front of him, as he went over the scene in the potter’s house.

  ‘Why? How? Who?’

  How? Michael knew little about sculpture but enough to realize that, even granted much skill, such an exact replica could not have been made from memory or even photographs. Veeranna must have had the Nataraja before him every moment of his work, but if he had visited it in its niche, or openly borrowed it, everyone would have known.

  Why? Michael felt sure he knew the answer to that. Veeranna, by bone, blood and brain, was an artist, and someone, though Michael could not imagine who, had given him the chance to show it – he a poor potter. He had been taught, elsewhere, thought Michael, been given tools. Someone had paid for all these.

  That brought him to who, and here he was lost.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Samuel. ‘Dean Sahib, your call, in reception. It from London, so quick.’

  It was a repeat call from Honor Wyatt. ‘I could have faxed you but I wanted to hear your voice. Are you still alive and well?’

  ‘Never been more alive and well.’

  ‘Good. How’s it going?’

  ‘Inch by inch … at least I hope it is.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Hannah.

  What had made Michael go to Hannah and not Samuel he could not say, even to himself. He found her on the top veranda, superintending the gardeners – sometimes with a sharp tongue – as they arranged vases of flowers they had brought freshly in; as each was finished a houseboy came and carried it away to a different room. Hannah would have broken off but ‘Let them finish,’ Michael said. ‘Then when you have a few minutes …’

  As soon as they were alone he began – not with Veeranna but with the little Nataraja. ‘Hannah, I think you knew the Shiva had been changed.’

  ‘Of course I know. Miss Sanni say I not to let the houseboys touch it ever. The shelf, yes. I tell them clean carefully, take away flowers and food, but it is I, no other servant, who lift Nataraja to dust it. That how I know, soon as I lift. It not as much heavy.’

  ‘Did you tell Miss Sanni?’

  ‘Indeed I tell and I say to her, “Professor Miss Sahib always telling it very valuable. What should we do, Miss Sanni? Call police?” And I say to her, “What shall I do?”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘“Dust it,” she say.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘As Miss Sanni say,’ said Hannah, as if that was the only thing anyone could do.

  ‘Did you tell Samuel?’

  ‘Of course, and Samuel say to me, “You hush.”’

  Michael went in search of the old butler. ‘Samuel, where is Chief Inspector Dutta?’

  ‘He gone away, Sahib.’

  ‘I know, but where?’

  ‘I not know, Sahib. He say back tomorrow night,’ and Samuel went on, ‘Sahib, I think you take Moses and go to see Veeranna.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Will you tell Samuel why?’

  ‘Because I knew Veeranna had made the new Shiva.’

  ‘Who told you, Sahib?’

  ‘I guessed when I went yesterday to see Veeranna with Inspector Dutta. Veeranna’s face told me and this morning he told me in words.’

  The bushy eyebrows under the white turban bristled. ‘I think you very clever, Sahib, far more clever than police.’ Samuel looked at Michael with distrust. And fear, wondered Michael.

  He tried to conciliate. ‘Samuel, you know I came to help Miss Sanni.’

  ‘Then go away.’

  ‘Samuel!’

  ‘Yes. We all liking you very much, Dean Sahib, but, please, go back England. Do what Miss Sanni say, “Let things be.”’

  ‘It’s too late. This taking of the real Shiva has become even more serious since your government called in the police – and remember there is Mr Cromartie. Do you want him to have your Shiva?’ Samuel shuddered. ‘I am afraid, Samuel, that my knowing that Veeranna made the Nataraja is only a first step. I am bound to find out how and why, if I can.’

  ‘But you are on wrong side, Sahib.’

  ‘The wrong side?’

  ‘Yes. I tell you, we know, I Samuel, Hannah, Thambi, but we not say anything ever, not for a thousand thousand rupees, and never to Inspector Dutta. Never. Never.’

  There was another telephone call for Michael. ‘Inspector Dutta,’ Kanu told him, as he handed him the receiver.

  ‘Kanu, please go away, right away.’ Michael was sure he would try to stay in earshot.

  The Inspector began, ‘I was sorry to leave you without warning but I had to leave early. I had a hunch, a feeling that I must go by myself, check about the sculptor, Sri Satya Narayana.’

  ‘I knew you weren’t satisfied.’

  ‘No, it sounded somehow too convenient.’ The Inspector’s voice was excited. ‘But it was all exactly as Miss Artemis had said. The Master, as they call him here, had died two years ago but his widow is still living in the studio house – it was easy to locate as he was famous. Mrs Narayana did not know anything about the Shiva. He had so many statues here but she was quite certain he could not have done any work on it. She did not seem to remember Miss Artemis taking it away. “But she very well may have,” she told me. “She knew us and knew I was still in mourning and she may have thought it best to have come and gone without troubling me. A charming person.”

  ‘I asked her,’ the Inspector went on, ‘if her husband had lately had any unusual contacts with the outside world, and she said there had been some strange things neither he nor she could explain. A few years ago a letter had come. A printed letter, which she showed me with pride, and certainly it was uncommon, being from what seemed to be a worldwide centre of art, the Presidential Central College of Art, Ancient and Modern, with headquarters in New Delhi but offices in London, Paris, New York and Tokyo, their addresses given as post-office box numbers. The letter was most respectful, asking if Sri Satya Narayana, as master sculptor, would take one of their outstanding male students and teach him the original, centuries-old method of making images of the gods in metal, bronze, silver and gold, first carving them in wax. Sri Narayana had not taken apprentices for years but such a truly magnificent fee was offered “that I’m afraid,” the widow said almost regretfully, “it made him accept”, so he wrote agreeing. There was no reply but suddenly the money arrived. To her amazement it was in cash, quite a bundle, without even a registration or request for a receipt, and with it the pupil. The young man said he was from Bengal, giving his name as Gopal but, she told me, “He was no Bengali, nor did he want to be an apprentice, saying he had his own work to attend to, but for two years he came for six weeks at a time. He seemed to know nothing of the arts centre but someone supplied him with tools. He never told us who. He had great reverence for my husband, who said he was the best pupil he had ever had. He came for two years, then vanished.”

  ‘Michael,’ the Inspector went on, ‘I tried to contact this arts centre in New Delhi. It seemed not to exist. I in tried also London, New York, Tokyo, through the police. This is why I have been so long. Yet there is the letter, the money and, above all, the young man. Michael, I believe I am on
to something at last.’

  ‘And so am I,’ Michael began, but the Inspector was too engrossed in his own story.

  ‘Tomorrow I am going through the statuary with Mrs Narayana to see if there is anything resembling the Shiva.’

  ‘Hem, wait. I must tell you.’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You can tell me then.’

  ‘Hem!’ But Inspector Dutta had rung off.

  ‘Michael,’ said Sir John after dinner, ‘I have a mind to drop in on Artemis’s lecture. I always enjoy listening to her putting it across. She really is very good because she knows her subject so well, yet has a light touch. Come and see.’

  Considering the long day at Konak, a surprising number of the group were there, and all the young people.

  ‘Konak!’ Duke had said, when they came in. ‘I’d expected those statues to move me, which was why I went, but they were … tremendous. I’m still speechless, and tonight Artemis is going to tell us more about the gods, and how these wonders were made.’

  Artemis was in mid-speech, standing before a table on which was a small collection of images, small because, like all experienced lecturers, she never said too much. These, Michael knew, were the household puja-corner gods, probably borrowed from Veeranna. On a pedestal was the niche’s Shiva, and as Sir John and Michael came in, she drew it to the centre, saying, ‘I should like to tell you how ten, eleven, twelve centuries ago, this little dancing Shiva was made.’

  She was in her uniform, long black silk skirt and frilled blouse, her hair tied with the usual chiffon scarf but tonight it was of a flaunting emerald green. She loves colours, thought Michael, and knows how they fit an occasion.

  On the table various tools and photographs were laid; her voice was as clear and natural as a bell. ‘The master sculptors of that time were not primitive as, for instance, early African art is primitive. In its very simplicity, their art has a remarkable sophistication, as has that of the Greeks. They put us to shame with our modern sculptors and their technical appliances from such amenable things as plastic-covered wire with which they can make a structure, the brilliant lights on stands which can be heightened or lowered and moved. These old masters worked by daylight on the floor of, probably, an open-fronted hut – no trace of a studio – or at night with a small oil lamp. This particular method is called cire perdu, or “lost wax”, but thank God, there are still a few artists left who can do it.