“Are you a Yank?” Bonnie asked, smiling up at him as if he were a film star. I could not understand why, but her woman’s intuition must have told her something.
“No, my pretty lady. Australian or Aussie—as they sometimes say.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mulkins, on Sundays we aren’t open till two o’clock,” I said.
“I’m sorry, too.” He grinned back at her. “My train came in an hour ago. And the light’s so good, I can’t wait.”
Bonnie gestured toward an empty chair. “You must not have had breakfast yet! Please sit down, Bernie. My name is Bonnie. I’m sure you know its meaning.” Then, even though Premlata was just inches away, Bonnie shouted for her to bring a new pot of tea and fresh milk and some biscuits for the saheb.
“You appear to be Anglo-Indian. A lovely Eurasian half-caste.” Bernie Mulkins studied Bonnie with lazy, practiced eyes.
“Yes. My friend Pam is not, but that’s obvious, isn’t it?” And although Bonnie laughed, her words gave me a sense that she was afraid I might somehow poach him.
“Excuse me; I have something to do,” I said, getting to my feet because Bernie and his questions were making me uncomfortable, and I was feeling sickly anyhow.
Bernie Mulkins pulled a tattered business card from his satchel and gave it to Bonnie. “I’ve been traveling India three months now, shooting people. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Shooting?” I exclaimed, my eyes going to his heavy bag. Surely it couldn’t be full of guns.
“Shooting photographs.” Bernard Mulkins laughed. “I take pictures of the people of India—all of ’em, from the wretches in their hovels to maharanis. Down in Calcutta, I heard about beautiful girls hidden away in a villa in Khargpur. I haven’t shot any Anglo-Indians yet, so I decided this was a must-see, and having met you two lasses, I’m convinced. How many others like you are in the house?”
Bonnie’s eyes were alight. “Do you take photographs for fashion magazines and such?”
“I have, but I’m under contract now to shoot photographs of lovely women for a very special book—”
“Books last forever. They aren’t ever torn up or thrown away.” Bonnie breathed deeply. “Oh, Pam, you must go wake Mummy.”
“She won’t be happy to have a visitor so early.” And, I was thinking to myself, someone who wasn’t a paying customer.
“I think,” Bonnie said, her eyes fixed happily on Bernie Mulkins, “once I explain to her, she’ll be quite happy indeed.”
Bonnie knew Mummy better than I did. Within an hour, she had called everyone downstairs—even the girls still yawning with sleep. We would all pose for Mr. Mulkins before our work started. We wouldn’t be paid because we weren’t providing the usual services, but he would provide her with a first edition of the book and photographs of all her girls, which would be framed and hung downstairs for customers to enjoy.
YOU MIGHT THINK that women in our line of work would be accustomed to being naked in front of a stranger; but there is a great difference between a darkened, private suite and daylight’s glare in an ordinary room. I was not the only girl who didn’t want her picture taken, but Mummy insisted that everyone participate.
“He’s well respected, girls. He has exhibited with a famous American photographer called Man Ray.” Her voice squeaked as it did when she was most excited. “When his book comes out, you will be known in Paris, New York, and London!”
Nobody had ever taken my photograph before, and I wasn’t interested in having a copy; I was bent on staying unrecognized and hidden. Hoping that he’d be so overwhelmed with subjects that he would forget me, I stayed in my bedroom while everyone else crowded about the various places he was setting up for his “shoots.” Premlata told me what was happening: each time he chose a girl, he spent a brief period looking at her and then would inspect her almirah in order to choose the right costume and jewelry. To Premlata, this step seemed a waste of time; she said that, in the end, everyone was posing half-naked.
We were supposed to stop by one o’clock, but he was not yet finished. Customers who came were aware something unusual was going on upstairs. When the girls told them, some left out of fear they might wind up in the pictures, though a few seemed to take special delight in watching the photography sessions.
In late afternoon, my turn came to open my bedroom door to Mr. Mulkins and reveal what was hanging in my almirah. I did not pull out clothes for him to examine; I just stood beside the cabinet with my arms folded, wearing one of the faded old saris from my Lockwood School days. I made sure the expression on my face was also unattractive.
“You really don’t want to do this, do you?” Bernie Mulkins asked as he studied me.
“It will be a waste of time. I am not photogenic.” I had heard girls at Lockwood use this phrase when they despaired over their yearbook photographs.
“And why is it that a girl who chooses a career like yours is too good to sit for a simple art photograph?”
I said that I did not want my face photographed.
“Oh, are you wanted by the law?” He laughed as if he’d made a very witty joke. “Well, I can avoid your face if you like. I shot Natty from behind.”
“But you showed her face in the mirror!”
“Who said that?” He sounded aggrieved.
“Everyone. They were peeking through the door.”
“The door.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s an idea. The door could be opened to reveal you—just a glimpse of you, from behind. No mirrors, but maybe—a hand on the door. A white man’s hand.”
Bernie had the picture in mind: I was to be photographed sitting in a chair that was facing backward. I mentioned that I’d never seen anyone except a drunken Englishman sit in a chair in such a manner, but he waved off my objection.
“It’s about light and shadow and angle, love. A glimpse of you through a slit in the door, a hand on the knob. . . .”
But he could not find a willing customer to be photographed. In the end, he enlisted Mummy, because her hands were covered in heavy rings that he declared “imperialistic.” Mummy twinkled as brightly as her diamonds to hear this compliment, but in her next breath insisted that he absolutely, positively, not photograph any part of her body and head. There could be no incriminating photographs of her on record, given her undying dream of attaining a British passport.
“Very modest, the two of you,” Bernie said, and I turned my head to see him through the crack in the door, posing Mummy’s hand. To me, he said, “Head back in place. Hasn’t she got lovely curves, Mrs. Barker? No, no, ma’am, please keep your wrist just like that. Don’t move.”
It was a long time until Bernie declared that he was finished. Gingerly, I swung one sore leg around to get up from the chair: I didn’t even care if Bernie saw the front of me, because I saw he’d put the camera down, and I was anxious to be gone. In the corner of the room lay my silk wrapper, looking soft and comforting.
“Wait a moment, Pamela.” Mummy had come through the door into the room and was staring at me with horrified eyes as I slipped on the wrapper. Then she said, “How could you?”
“What’s that?” I asked, quickly tying the sash.
“How did you do it?” Her words hit like tiny, sharp knives. “I always ask Premlata about your monthlies. Did you pay her to lie?”
Fear rose in me, as I realized she’d seen my belly. I could do nothing now but tell the truth, because I didn’t want Premlata to suffer the same fate I had at Lockwood school. “Premlata did not lie to you. She never knew I put goat’s blood in the pail.”
“My God.” Mummy sucked in her breath. “How many periods have you missed?”
“Only three—”
“Must do the next girl. Cheerio!” Bernie called, his loud footsteps moving swiftly away. “You broke the house rule about French letters, obviously.” Mummy paced back and forth. “What do you think our rules are for?”
“I always use them! It could only have happened the time the Taster raped me. He d
idn’t give me a chance—”
“Splendid!” Mummy said sarcastically. “Mr. Abernathy’s quite unlikely to marry you. The best we can hope is he’ll pay some expenses. If only you had told me right away, I could have taken care of it.”
“Taken care? But how?”
“With the help of a dai. So stupid you are, and you’re going to stop working immediately! The men will notice your change soon, if they haven’t already. It frightens them to bang up against a place where a baby is; they feel it’s watching them. And we have no babies living in this house, even if they’re still in someone’s stomach.”
After her last words, my fear was replaced by a small hope. Maybe Mummy would move me to a rented room. To think of all the reading I could do during the next months! I still would not know what to do after the baby came, but if the prostitution halted, I would surely be free to look for other work. I said, “I see your point about leaving being a good idea—”
“No, you don’t see; you are blindly stupid. You are a natural talent who has ruined herself; but damn if you’ll ruin my reputation! Oh, what to do?”
CHAPTER
15
INCORRIGIBLE: 1. Incapable of being corrected or amended. Bad or depraved beyond correction or reform: of persons, their habits, etc.
—Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 5, 1933
What to do?
Everyone at Rose Villa thought differently. Natty told me that the dai Mummy had talked about was very good at pulling out babies before they were born. Then Sakina warned me that a number of that midwife’s customers had perished, including her own cousin. Premlata thought I should give up the baby to a temple, because the priests would give me a little money and heavenly blessings. Remembering what Lucky had told me about the duties of temple maidens, I declined.
Bonnie suggested that I burst into tears in front of the Taster, describing my plight, and he might be worried enough about his reputation to set me up in a bungalow in another town that he could visit when he wanted. I told Bonnie that I never wanted to see him again, and I was sickened to find out that Mummy did indeed speak to him about my condition when he was waiting for Natty to be ready. Premlata hid near the parlor door and reported to me that he had answered her with harsh language, saying nothing could ever be proven because I was known to serve half the cantonment.
I was glad not to have any further interest from the Taster, but I continued to feel desperate about the baby. Mummy’s rule was fast; she said that I must move out, but she had arranged for a place for me to stay. Wondering what was ahead of me, I packed up my silk moiré dresses, embroidered saris, and high-heeled chappals and pumps with rhinestone decorations. I had room for about a dozen books, so I packed only my favorites and sold the rest back to the bookseller, knowing that I’d need to live on my savings for several months, and maybe longer. In the back of my mind, I was thinking, perhaps this was the best thing. I had wanted to leave Rose Villa, hadn’t I?
Mummy had booked a room for me in a place she called a dancing girls’ house. She made it clear to the dancing house managers, a sour-looking couple called Tilak and Jayshree, that I must not have my body spoiled by working for them, although I could help by caring for the brothel’s young children. They seemed to spill out of every doorway on the day I arrived at the place that reeked of opium mixed with rotting food and human waste. Mummy gave candies to them and cooed that they would soon be getting a baby sister.
“It may be a boy,” I objected, because I didn’t like how Mummy seemed to think she knew everything.
“Don’t say it!” Mummy shook a finger at me. “A girl is what we want. Jayshree will keep her while she’s little, and if she’s pretty enough, she can shift to Rose Villa and follow in your footsteps. When she’s thirteen, you’ll be thirty: the perfect age for her debut and your retirement.”
Mummy looked so pleased with herself that I dared not contradict her. But the thought that I kept to myself was that I would never allow any child of mine to participate in such a loathsome tradition. My feelings only magnified after spending my first night in the hot, filthy place. I could not believe any children were allowed to be on the premises, with people running around half-naked, smoking opium and cursing. The behavior within its rough clay walls made Rose Villa seem like a cathedral.
I talked to the oldest of the children, a girl called Lina. At nine, she was in her last year before debut, which came much earlier at an ordinary brothel. She was not pretty or well spoken enough for Rose Villa; she would work only at this house. I imagined the prospect would be terrifying for her, but Lina told me otherwise.
“I don’t mind, Auntie,” she said with a wan smile. “It’s better than being rented to beggars at the station, as they did until I was eight.”
Lina ruled the weed-choked courtyard where most of the children ran about all day in rags; the tiniest ones were naked and tethered with chains. I managed to convince Jayshree to unchain them for most of the daylight hours and set Lina to playing with them while I washed their clothes and then took each one for a bath and hair-combing. In turn, Lina asked me to properly comb her own hair, and I did so, grimly working out the lice. On all the children, there were lice and other insects, too: ringworms on their scalps, nestled in their food-smeared clothes, and most awful of all, the biting bugs that dug their tiny claws deep into the skin. I could not see them with my eyes, but I recognized the holes they left and how the children cried at the pain. I brought them a cream from Dr. DeCruz that healed the wounds, but the clever bugs still hid in the clothes and bedding. If I had not washed myself thrice daily, I would likely have become infested, too.
Jayshree and Tilak’s place was so dirty that the British military were not authorized to visit, which meant their customers were poor Anglo-Indians and Indians. From what the women told me over morning tea, these customers were often rough and unkind. After a week, the horrible sounds I heard at night, paired with the vile surroundings, led me to decide that no matter the cost, I should pay to stay elsewhere. After making an excuse about going shopping in the bazar, I walked through the town, seeking a decent boardinghouse. My polite voice opened doors, but whenever the landladies saw the bump under my sari—and learned no husband would be staying with me—I was refused.
So I returned to the brothel and resolved to walk daily outside and spend time reading in the park, where the air was fresh. But as my stomach became bigger, people on the streets mocked me, the fallen sinful girl.
DR. DECRUZ TOLD me I had only a month left until the baby was ready, but each day dragged out like a month in hell. Jayshree wanted more money from me, complaining of my overuse of water for baths and washing laundry. What she asked for was more than I had on hand, so with a great deal of effort, I walked to the bank.
When I gave the bank clerk the savings withdrawal slip, he looked at me sorrowfully. “Miss Barker, I’ve missed seeing you. Have you forgot that your account is closed?”
I couldn’t have heard him right; he must have been speaking of another of the Rose Villa girls. With emphasis, I said, “I’m Pamela Barker. My account is in good standing, with more than five hundred rupees saved.”
The clerk looked in his record book again and came back. “Your account is jointly held with your mother, Mrs. Rose Barker. Last month she withdrew the remaining funds. Surely she told you?”
The baby kicked inside, as if he’d also heard the terrible words, and I had to grab at the counter for security. My God. Mummy had told me she would either keep the money for me safely in the house, or I could bank it. I’d thought this was a straightforward choice, but now I understood that there was no difference in either method. Girls like Bonnie and Lucky who behaved well could take money out. The ones who displeased her lost their money. Hundreds of rupees I’d had, and now I was destitute, unable to do anything for the baby or myself. I would never get a Cambridge certificate; never even take a train to Calcutta and catch a glimpse of Pankaj Bandopadhyay.
The loss of money felt alm
ost like a second rape. In a daze, I stumbled back to the dancing girls’ house. I told Jayshree that if she wanted any money, she would have to get it directly from Mummy. There must have been something about my voice that convinced her, because she didn’t argue.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, I had an unexpected visit from Lucky. How alien she looked, with her smoothly lacquered hair, powdered skin, and delicate chiffon sari. I felt a surge of envy, which faded as I remembered what she did each day to earn these luxuries.
“I brought money from Mummy to give those people. They’re awful! They aren’t making you work here, are they?” Lucky’s big eyes, so beautifully painted with mascara and kohl, looked at me with obvious concern.
“I’m not working except for helping with the children, and I’ve become very poor,” I confessed, for there was no point in trying to put on appearances with Lucky. “I have no money anymore. Mummy closed my account.”
“How?” Her glossy mouth dropped open, revealing the single dead tooth she always tried scrupulously to hide.
“Remember how we all were told to use the surname Barker when we set up the bank accounts?” I asked. “It means Mummy is the joint owner of each account. The bank lists us all as daughters under her guardianship.”
“I have her keep my money in the house,” Lucky said slowly. “It’s never been a problem for me to get enough for shopping—”
“Because you are behaving the way Mummy wants. But, Lucky, you must find a way to withdraw your money while you still can—little by little, so she doesn’t notice. Hide it somewhere she won’t know. You must not lose it!”
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Lucky said, and her calm face made it clear she didn’t believe she would ever be in my same situation. “But I thank you for the warning. And before I forget to say it, Bonnie sends her regards.”
“How is she?” I asked eagerly. I hoped Bonnie would come to see me.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 18
