Flowers in the Blood (60 page)

The Harvest

 

In this age of civilisation we are unwilling to see anything that can detract from that distinguished character which in former times gained to the Merchants the title of “Princes” and to traffickers that of the “Honourable of the Earth.”

—
JAMES MATHESON,
The Canton Register,

19 April 1828

41

 

Calcutta, 1892–1897

 

T
he egg of our marriage survived intact. Our sojourn in Travancore may have contaminated its pristine surface, but once it was washed clean after our return to Calcutta, not even a hairline crack could be found. Edwin's concern for my health and mine for his loss, coupled with our mutual disgust for the maharajah's despicable proposal, united us further. Although we knew we could weather the storm together, we had still to face my father and the other Sassoons.

I would recommend that anyone running away from a wrathful maharajah and having to confront parents after disposing of a munificent dowry arrange to give birth within a week of returning home. Our son, Aaron David, was delivered by Dr. Hyam, who was assisted by the Jewish midwife Saleh Arakie and Yali on the first of October. In the feverish hours of my labor, everyone tried to hide the significance of this date from me, yet I eventually realized that my child had arrived on the fourteenth anniversary of my mother's murder. Rather than dwell on the bizarre coincidence, Edwin prodded me to remember that our lusty son proved there was much more goodness than sadness in life.

Aaron had been born several weeks early, and being a small baby, required feeding every two hours. Heeding Jemima's advice, I nurtured him myself, much to the dismay of the Sassoon aunts. However, Zilpah thought mine the most sensible course, especially in the anxious aftermath of the plague.

One benefit of my postpartum state was that explanations of our predicament had been left to Edwin. He must have handled them admirably, for I received sympathy in place of reprimands. Only after the baby passed the crucial three-month mark with plump cheeks and a glowing report from the doctor did my father sit down with us to address our future. The January morning was so cool, a patina of moisture fogged the windows, and he asked us to join him in the parlor, where a pungent fire burned in the hearth. Aaron, wrapped in muslin, slept in my arms.

“As much as we would like to have you at Theatre Road, you need to continue to make a life of your own,” Papa began gently.

“Absolutely,” Edwin responded with an agreeable smile.

“These days it is costly to set up a family in a suitable house.” His expression became more somber. “Also, we have experienced tragic losses, proving once again that families must share responsibilities along with their fortunes.”

There was a long pause that I felt I had to fill. “What do you have in mind, Papa?”

As Aaron stirred in his sleep, I patted his back, and my father asked, not unkindly, “Don't you think the child could be laid down now?”

“He prefers to be close to someone.”

“Babies need to learn to sleep alone.”

“I can't imagine why,” I replied sweetly. “Now, please tell us what is on your mind.”

“In one way your return is a blessing. I never cared to have you far away, and now I never want you to leave again.” He shot a glance at Edwin. “I know your ties are in Cochin. If your mother would consider moving to Calcutta, I would assist in the transition.”

“That is very kind, but—”

My father cut him off. “Let me explain my proposition. When my brother Jacob died, his wife, Sumra, was left without a husband and grieving for the loss of four of her children, all of whom had been living at home. As you might know, Dinah, the three eldest are married and on their own. The youngest one remaining, Yedid, is a shy boy who has not begun to recover from the trauma. However, his case is nothing compared to his mother's. Poor Sumra walks about as if she is in a trance. She rarely even speaks. Without a firm hand, the servants have allowed the house to deteriorate.”

While he spoke, I recalled Uncle Jacob's gloomy house in Free School Street, which always seemed filled with too many children and not enough light or air. It was not difficult to imagine why the plague had struck there.

“. . . Sumra wasn't much of a manager before the sickness, and the situation has worsened considerably since then. . . .”

Slowly an understanding of my father's intentions clarified. Flinching at the idea of living in that crowded older quarter, I exclaimed, “Are you suggesting that we move to Free School Street?”

“I am asking you to consider the possibility. Your aunt is incapable of making decisions. She would defer to you. There should be no quarrels on that score. Yedid needs a man like Edwin around. I realize the house—which Sumra inherited from her mother—is north of Park Street, but funds are available for a renovation. Many of the smaller bedrooms could be combined, new windows could be installed, the parlor refurbished to your tastes . . .”

Edwin, who had never seen the ghastly place and was probably as glad to leave his father-in-law's domain as I had been to leave his mother's, spoke up cheerfully. “Dinah does prefer to rule her own roost—doesn't any woman?—and I would do anything I could to help your family. Our Aaron might even bring some sunshine into those dark corners. Don't you agree, darling?”

“If I can be assured the house is a healthy place to live,” I replied hesitantly.

“There is no rush to leave Theatre Road, Dinah,” my father added to seal my cooperation. “The kitchen and pantries must be torn out so that the plumbing can be repaired. Sumra can live with her eldest son, Mir, until then.” He rubbed his hands to signal the matter was concluded to his satisfaction.

Aaron began to cry. Yali rushed into the room and offered to take him from me.

“No, he is fine now,” I said as I calmed him. “I'll bring him up in a short while.”

I thought a shadow of disapproval crossed my father's face, but he said nothing about my reluctance to let anyone else care for my child. “Yali and Hanif will go with you, of course,” he continued smoothly. “The household budget from Jacob's share should enable you to have at least four, possibly six servants, if you wish.”

Edwin shook his head. “I don't think that will be—”

My father waved for him to be quiet. “There is another matter. You will be wanting to make yourself useful,” he said, staring my husband in the eye. “I know you have been looking around and I realize you have not wanted to ask any more favors of me, but it makes no sense to have such a bright mind at the service of another company. Everyone makes mistakes, perhaps not of the magnitude you suffered, but let me say that I believe you thought you were making the correct decisions and those decisions might well have held you in good stead if a confluence of unfortunate events had not occurred.” My father went to stand behind the chair where I sat rocking Aaron. “We learn from our errors. We become more cautious. We mature. Thus, today you are more valuable than you might have been a year ago.”

“That is very kind of you, but—”

“No, let me finish. Now you are a family man. You can see what it means to want to do the best you can for your child, your wife. For better or for worse, you are also a member of the Sassoons, a clan that has been decimated by the loss of my two brothers Saul and Jacob. I am trying to fill the shoes of my eldest brother, but there is nobody groomed to fill Jacob's place. He was our link to the ryots in the Patna region.”

“That is not the place for Edwin,” I said, less gently than I could have.

My father's expression darkened. “I don't believe he has many options at the moment, Dinah.”

“There are always complications in a family business,” I added quickly, as if that, not the nature of the crop, had been my objection.

Sensing my discomfort, Edwin leapt in. “What I think she meant was that I know nothing about the cultivation of opium. Perhaps I could be more useful in Clive Street or . . .” He trailed off as he observed my father's disparaging expression. Avoiding my pleading gaze, he capitulated. “Well, I will help you in any way possible.”

“Then that settles it.” My father reached down and stroked Aaron's ruddy cheek, then turned on his heel and left the room abruptly.

 

The house in Free School Street was scrubbed from the inside out. The grimy exterior was painted a lemon yellow, and the hideous green shutters—so common in Calcutta—were painted a more tolerable shade of cream. The interior required white on every wall. Marble tiles replaced wormy wood floors. Dusty panels were removed. Unfortunately, along with the increased light, noise and dust from the busy intersection filtered in as well. I added more cleaning staff and punkah-wallahs and moved our bedroom to the back side of the house, giving Aunt Sumra the noisy front room. I did not mean to be unkind. I thought the commotion might stimulate her, and if it didn't, then at least she was used to it.

I would like to say that I worked as impressive a miracle with my aunt as I did with her house. At most, I managed to have her maintained, like a piece of the furniture. All the idealistic plans I had—which included having her tend Aaron—fell flat. She could not be trusted with the baby, for she had no sense of where his body began or stopped. Once she almost dropped him, so that ended that. Aaron learned first to crawl, then to walk around her. If she noticed him, or anything else for that matter, I never knew it. Her face never lost its flat, bleak stare. Thus our domestic life proceeded without her, although we hoped she was able to absorb a portion of our contentment, if only subconsciously.

Yedid, on the other hand, bloomed under Edwin's tutelage. “Every night when he goes to sleep, he must be afraid,” my husband had remarked perceptively when we first went to live in Free School Street.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because there was a period when every time he woke up, he found someone else had died in the night.”

He asked Hanif to sleep in the boy's room, and each evening he was home he would read the child to sleep. In less than a year Yedid's energy returned. He ran down the halls knocking lamps, furrowing runners, but was never chastised. Aaron toddled after the boy with worshiping eyes.

Against my wishes, Edwin went to work for the Sassoons. Was there no way I could disassociate myself from opium, or was it in my blood? For his part, Edwin shrugged off my aversion to the family trade much as Silas had done. And, given our reduced circumstances, I could hardly demand my husband refuse my father's offer.

I was troubled by another matter. I had always looked down at the positions that Aunt Bellore's husband, Samuel Lanyado, and Cousin Sultana's husband, Gabriel Judah, held, because their salaried status was that of poor relations compared to the brothers, who divided the vast profits. They lived well—Aunt Bellore at the Kyd Street mansion, Sultana and Gabriel in a much smaller house in the fashionable section south of Park Street—but everybody knew they would never be partners in the firm. My brother Jonah, who was being groomed to work beside my father, would be Gabriel's superior in a year or two; and my father, who was younger than Samuel Lanyado by many years, was expected to take Uncle Saul's place as head of the family in Calcutta. If Edwin remained with the firm, he would never be more than a clerk, subservient to Uncle Samuel and even Gabriel.

Nevertheless, Edwin thought he could make his mark. “Your Uncle Jacob gave the ryots too much latitude. It won't take much to bring a finer grade to market, one that will raise prices in China without the competition at the auction being any the wiser. If I can make a difference in the balance sheet rapidly, I will have earned my position in the family. I might be able to make back fifty thousand rupees in less than two years—for the company, of course.”

I thought his predictions optimistic, but did not dispute him. Nor did I let him know there was no possible way he would ever end up with a share, no matter how deserving he was. Instead I concentrated on making a happy home and participating in the seasonal rounds of events that I had missed after leaving Calcutta.

 

Other mothers must look back on the infancy of their children and see the months and years as a blur as I do. Three years after Aaron's birth, I was again pregnant. This time I was uncomfortable almost from the first, and gained an enormous amount of weight. The worst part of my pregnancy came during the harvest in Patna, when Edwin was away for weeks at a time. I was pleased he could be spared my complaints, and yet I was so lonely, I was distraught without him. Zilpah thought I should come to Theatre Road, where it was cleaner and quieter, but I was loath to uproot Aaron and Yedid. When Edwin returned, my grossly swollen ankles, puffy face, and enormous belly shocked him. Within two hours of his arrival he had Dr. Hyam examine me.