The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  “I shall be there. But if there’s nothing new to say, leave a message with my office canceling.”

  “It is done.”

  “Very well, Mr. Pal. And I’m going to unlock the library now, in case anyone’s waiting outside. Do have something more to eat before you leave.”

  “I shall rejoin the group as you wish, sir—but don’t think I’ve stopped working! My ear is always to the ground!” The edge of Mr. Pal’s body crossed my spy hole, and I heard Mr. Lewes unlock the door.

  My employer bent over the desk. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the middle drawer. He slid an envelope inside and relocked the drawer. And then he disappeared from my view, although I heard the library door opening and his voice calling to people to come inside and see the best folios.

  CHAPTER

  26

  DECEIVE: To ensnare; to take unawares by craft or guile; to overcome, overreach, or get the better of by trickery; to beguile or betray into mischief or sin; to mislead.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 3, 1933

  Don’t tell on the men.

  Bonnie had said it to me when I was fifteen, when the police chief had frightened us with his pretend snake. Englishmen in India could behave with impunity. And we were supposed to allow it. Mr. Lewes was a terrible man. When he’d stood closely to me in the library, I’d been seized by a brief, dangerous fever. But now I felt rage at myself for this lapse and for misreading the intentions of a man who’d stop at nothing to suppress freedom. With his polite requests for my companionship at dinner, Mr. Lewes had manipulated me to gather information. What I’d fed him was allowing his government to keep India under its heavy elephant feet forever.

  That night, I longed to break into his desk, find the list, and destroy it. But the rational part of me said to wait. If the list of people seen at the rally vanished, Mr. Lewes might suspect me. I needed only to get into the desk, check the list, and communicate the names to Pankaj.

  The next morning, I was in the library at the usual time, dressed to work. I tried wiggling a letter opener in the lock, but it did not work. I put that away and was industriously sorting through a stack of books when Mr. Lewes stumbled in an hour later than usual, still wearing his dressing gown. His face was drawn, and he held a bag of ice against his head with one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

  “A good morning to you, sir!” I turned away, thinking he deserved this.

  “Not really. I feel like someone threw a Gazetteer at my head,” he grumbled.

  I did not comment, just kept working with my back to him. I wondered if his keys were in his pocket. If I were still a Rose Villa girl, I would go to him and slip my hands into his pocket while I kissed him; I imagined he would like it. But I had come through that hell pledging never to use any of the sordid skills I had learned.

  Mr. Lewes sat down at the desk, putting his teacup on the blotter soiled by so many cocktail glasses the night before. “Is that homespun cotton you’re wearing?”

  “Yes. It’s called khadi,” I said, pulling the pallu a bit higher over my shoulder to keep my bosom fully covered. “It’s all the fashion these days.”

  “I rather prefer what you wore yesterday evening.” Mr. Lewes yawned. “Actually, I haven’t thanked you properly for all you did. Except for a few misbehaving guests and my overimbibing, I think it was a good night.”

  “People enjoyed it,” I said, thinking, everyone except for me. I had worked so hard to organize it, but then nobody had spoken to me because I was obviously in Mr. Lewes’s employ.

  “This really is the only tolerable room in the house,” Mr. Lewes said, moving the ice from one side of his head to the other. “The humidity never ceases, even this early.”

  I couldn’t stand having him near, not with what I now understood about his character. Coolly, I said, “I’d rather you didn’t breakfast in here, as I’m still cleaning up yesterday evening’s mess.”

  He sighed. “I may begin taking breakfast in the garden.”

  But there is no table in the garden, nor proper chairs on which to dine, I was about to say. And then I had a brilliant idea.

  “If you’d like to dine outside, you must have a table and chairs built of a wood like teak that can withstand rain. Jatin can carry out the lounge chairs when you have your drink, but it is not suitable for breakfast or dinner.”

  “I don’t know if I could,” he said. “Mr. Rowley wants to know about anything I intend changing in public spaces. He was rather miffed about the air-conditioning work going on.”

  “It’s because he lives downstairs and had to suffer the noise of all the workers putting in the air conditioner. You should have invited him to the party to improve relations.”

  “I did try, but he doesn’t care for mixed parties.” At my blank expression, Mr. Lewes added, “That is, parties with more than European guests. I’m sorry, Kamala, but some of my colleagues seem to think it’s still the days of the East India Company.”

  I stopped sorting books and delivered a cool look. “Really? But in those days, apparently the company men at least took the effort to learn the local language.”

  Mr. Lewes stretched back in his chair. “Not because they were studious; it was because every fellow had his own sleeping dictionary.”

  “What kind of dictionary did you say?” I asked, although I remembered full well what Rose Barker had told me.

  “Sorry. Sleeping dictionary was a term used for”—Mr. Lewes hesitated a moment—“their paramours. Every evening, underneath their mosquito nets, company officers learned Bengali and Hindustani from their lady friends.”

  “How practical,” I said crisply. “As you know, you have a modern English-Bengali dictionary to help you, should you like to learn something; but I think not.”

  Mr. Lewes put down his ice pack. “Kamala, I am sorry if you still believe I didn’t like your Christmas present!”

  “You have no reason to learn Bengali. Why should you?” I said, thinking, Not when you have Mr. Pal to spy for you and me to translate Indian opinions.

  “I’m dismal at speaking languages. I studied French and Latin, of course, but when I see the Indian alphabets I just—slow down mentally. I feel like a child.” He shook his head, and this made him wince and put the ice on his head again. “Your gift made me feel wretched because you don’t spend enough on your own clothing and so on. I wish you’d buy more saris like the one you wore yesterday. You should take yourself shopping next week; I won’t have as much for you to do because I’m going to Delhi on temporary duty.”

  “Oh, that’s quite a long trip. What is it you will do there, sir?”

  “Meetings. Writing. Perhaps a polo game with some old friends.” Again, he yawned.

  “Well, I hope you have a relaxing trip. And I am very glad we spoke about the garden furniture. I will know not to bother Mr. Chun about it.”

  Mr. Lewes passed a hand over his eyes. “Actually, why don’t you just go ahead with it? That Infernal Rowley’s not my landlord. And go ahead. You may order whatever table and some chairs you think right.”

  MR. LEWES LEFT on Monday morning. I could not stop smiling as I waved him off, because my subterfuge was about to get under way. After giving Manik orders to simplify our menus to ordinary Bengali vegetarian cooking, I hurried off to Bow Bazar. In this old commercial district, the twisting lanes were packed with interesting small shops owned by Chinese and Nepali and other foreign merchants; I could have browsed for hours but concentrated on finding Mr. Chun’s furniture shop, where I had not visited for some time. Mr. Chun recognized me with pleasure and offered me a cup of delicious oolong tea. As we sat down on blindingly polished rosewood chairs, I mentioned that I needed a minor repair to the library.

  “Is there a problem with the new ladder? Not the bookcases!” Mr. Chun’s face tightened with worry.

  “Not at all,” I reassured him. “It’s Mr. Lewes’s desk. He has misplaced the key to the central drawer and is beside himself wanting to have whatever
is inside.”

  “I know the desk—walnut, two sides for sitting, from England, isn’t it? A partners desk.”

  “Surely you can fix the drawer—I’ve heard you can fix anything!” Woman’s intuition told me not to give him a siren’s look but that of a hopeful daughter.

  Mr. Chun tilted his head, considering things. “I can remove the lock plate and put on a new one. But I have no copy of the key, because I did not make it.”

  “Mr. Lewes insists on keeping the original lock plate. Isn’t there something you can try?”

  “I cannot promise to fix it; but I promise to come.” Mr. Chun looked unhappy; clearly this was a prospect of some trouble, and little financial gain.

  “I will be most grateful if you try,” I said softly. “And we’re also considering a dining table for the garden and several chairs to go around. I don’t know if you have time for that.”

  “A new order, you say? Dining set?” The carpenter’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps—perhaps I can come this very evening. I’ll solve every problem and build every thing.”

  THERE WAS A solution, after all. Mr. Chun knew a skilled metalsmith who could make a new key, but he would need the whole lock plate in order to cut the key to fit it. I agreed, and Mr. Chun removed the lock plate itself and wrapped it in cotton to take to his metalsmith.

  “The key will not have the same patina as the old brass,” he said, rubbing his finger against it. “But this brass of the lock plate can be polished to match like new.”

  “Please do not,” I said. “Mr. Lewes likes the original finish and it makes the desk more valuable. But tell me, how quickly can the metalsmith work?”

  “I will bring it to him tomorrow morning. And Memsaheb, do not worry. I shall tell him that it is an important job to do right away.”

  LATER ON, WHEN Manik, Jatin, and Shombhu had said good night, I barred the door and went into the library. The desk’s thin middle drawer looked the same as always, save for the graceful gap where the lock plate had once been. I had some feelings of guilt to be doing this to a man who trusted me implicitly. Then I shook myself. Netaji had said every Indian citizen should work bravely for freedom. It was my turn.

  With a protesting squeak, the old drawer pulled out. Inside, I saw layers of papers and telegrams. Slowly, I sifted through all the papers in the drawer, trying to be mindful of the order in which they lay. Mostly they were blurred copies of typed pages on the thin, tissue-like paper that was called onionskin. The pages were reports of various crimes as they were reported in newspapers, including the editorial reaction and letters to the editor about the stories.

  I sorted through copies of letters from Bengal’s last two governors to the viceroy in Delhi dated each fortnight from January 1935 onward. The letters gave reports of strikes, elections, and other notable situations. The theme of each letter was that the governor was well aware of all events in Bengal and was carefully overseeing industry and hunting terrorists. Accompanying these letters were note cards and papers scrawled in Mr. Lewes’s handwriting that dealt with the topics in the letters. So he was the true writer—not the governor.

  When I was through with the desk drawer, I moved on to search the unlocked drawers on the left side of the desk, and then, the shelves of the library itself. But I couldn’t find the list of names. I imagined that Mr. Lewes had already filed a report with the Communist names and discarded Mr. Pal’s original list.

  I closed up the study and went to my room, but I could not sleep. After tossing and turning for a while, I turned on my small electric lamp and reached for India’s Struggle for Freedom, which was still in my bedside drawer. Then I was hit with the idea that perhaps Mr. Lewes read in bed, too; and his room could be a place where he stored his lists and other secret information.

  One o’clock. With a battery-powered torch, I went downstairs and turned the knob to his bedroom. I had never been in this spacious, pleasant room with a four-poster bed made from mahogany. The same polished wood was used for large cabinets for his clothing, a desk, and two easy chairs. The windows were shut and long linen curtains drawn.

  I intended to search the room from top to bottom. Under the small, bouncing circle of light, I saw framed photographs of people in England, including a school with many boys standing in front of it and young men moving a boat with long poles. Mr. Lewes was in the center of this laughing, happy group, a handsome, dark-haired boy barely out of his teens. In the background, I glimpsed the building’s spire and guessed it might have been Cambridge. Did he know then what he would become—a suppressor of people’s freedom?

  I crossed the Agra carpet to investigate a tall dresser. As I slid the first drawer open to find stacks of handkerchiefs, I remembered what Nancy had called me: a snoop. What an ugly word! I moved on to the next drawer, which held his underclothes. I couldn’t bring myself to touch such personal items, so I closed that drawer quickly. I carefully checked the other drawers holding his shirts, collars and stays, suspenders, and the like. No papers or anything other than clothing. Then I searched the desk and bookcases and even looked under the bed.

  I sank down on the edge of his four-poster, thinking. My eyes drifted over the area I’d originally meant to search: two marble-topped nightstands that flanked his bed. The nightstand nearest to me was empty on top and inside. The farther nightstand was topped by a geography of Uttar Pradesh, a clean ashtray, and a drinking glass. In the cupboard-style compartment below, I found a leather-bound photograph album. I opened it, expecting more scenes of his old life in England, but as I turned the pages, I found the streets and train stations of India. For every picture of scenery, there was a companion picture taken of the same scene, but with a man in it. Some of the men wore Congress caps, or carried Muslim League banners, or had flags bearing the Communists’ hammer and sickle. It was apparent by the way these men were looking off to the side that they did not know they were being photographed.

  Gently, I lifted the pictures out of the little black edges that held them against the page. On the back, Mr. Lewes had written the date and location and sometimes a name, but more often a question mark. I did not wonder why he’d put these pictures into an album. My only question was whether the men pictured in these political gatherings had already been arrested. The initial shame I’d had at entering Mr. Lewes’s room was gone, as was any doubt that I was betraying his trust in me. India mattered more than anything. In terms of gathering intelligence, I’d had a very successful search.

  And finally, something to tell Pankaj.

  CHAPTER

  27

  PRIVILEGE: . . . 2. A right, advantage, or immunity, belonging to or enjoyed by a person, or a body or class of persons, beyond the common advantage of others; an exemption in a particular case from certain burdens or liabilities.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 8, 1933

  At ten in the morning, I walked at a leisurely pace through Ballygunge, dressed in a purple-and-white-striped sari and carrying a shopping bag in my left hand. The Bandopadhyay home looked as solidly established as it had months before, with the same darwan sleeping in his chair. But this time around, I was not afraid to approach. I tapped my umbrella on the path; the darwan jumped to his feet and escorted me to the large wrought iron door that was answered by a young bearer who ushered me into a parlor to wait.

  I perched on a prickly settee and looked around. On the wall directly across me, several of Pankaj’s ancestors regarded me with sober, sepia-tinged faces. Lace curtains swayed at the long, open windows that overlooked the street. A large electric ceiling fan stirred the stacks of newspapers on the table, near a framed photograph of Gandhiji standing beside a tall, solemn-looking man. It took me a moment to recognize him as Pankaj’s late father. Now I noticed on the far wall, the senior Bandopadhyay’s portrait was draped with a fresh jasmine garland. I wondered how recently he’d expired, and how that must have grieved Pankaj.

  Because Pankaj’s father was gone, I did not have to worry about his recognizing me, but his
mother remained. I prayed that four years’ time and my fine new clothes and elegant bun were enough differences to disguise me.

  I heard a light footstep and saw that Pankaj had entered wearing a kurta and dhoti in fine, cream-colored muslin. Just seeing him quickened my pulse, but the good feeling turned to anxiety when a short, stout woman wearing a plain white widow’s sari appeared at his side. His mother’s expression was just as measuring as it had been at Lockwood School.

  “I have come for legal consultation.” I kept my eyes down, pretending to be a shy client desiring privacy. Although Mukherjee was a very common Bengali Brahmin name, I didn’t want to speak it aloud in front of her.

  “Ma, this is Kamala Mukherjee, from the Chhatri Sangha group.” Pankaj smiled at me. So he recalled me only as a well-dressed lady; the servant girl of four years earlier must have vanished entirely from his consciousness.

  “You are a Mukherjee?” Mrs. Bandopadhyay came closer, as if to examine my face. “Who is your father? From which town?”

  I wished Pankaj had not given me the name. Now my stomach roiled in fear. I opened my mouth to speak, but words would not come.

  “There are many Mukherjees in Bengal, Ma,” Pankaj said, taking his mother’s hand and gently pulling her away. “Miss Kamala Mukherjee is a student friend of Lata Menon’s and the Sen girls.”

  “Oh, the Sens! Such a good family. You are a shy one, Kamala.” His mother’s face relaxed but only slightly. I was relieved when Pankaj asked her to please return to her room, because this legal consultation, like all others, was private. Mrs. Bandopadhyay went out clutching a shawl around her shoulders but turned her head to give a last searching look.

  Pankaj shut the door to the hallway and came to sit in the chair nearest me. “I’m very sorry. Because my mother is a widow, she has little activity and becomes too engaged in my life.”