“That’s fine, dear. Go now.”
Anne leaves. Mrs. Chadwick has her confirmation. She was right on both counts. Anne, too, is drawn to the money. She had never mentioned finding the Will, never confronted the lie about the gift. Still, Anne is a Chadwick, and if she can turn herself around, find a good man, and stay married…
Anne walks slowly down the corridor toward her room, traversing a large balcony that overlooks the foyer. Herbert Eaton, the reporter, standing below, writing a note to himself. He is not unattractive—a bit pale and shallow-chested, perhaps, but well-scrubbed and lacking the oily, slicked-back hair that Anne dislikes. He is pleasant enough, and during her interview for the
Times
article he was courteous and attentive.
As Anne studies him, he suddenly glances up, eyes brightening as he catches her shape in the half-shadow. “I say, there you are,” he says, hurling his voice upward. “Did you find Gordon?”
“I’m afraid not. He appears to have abandoned me.”
“What a pity. I wonder if you would like to take some air. All those pastries have fogged my brain.”
“I’d be delighted.”
The time for mourning has passed.
Chapter 12
With a heart aching unbearably for his son’s companionship, ‘Abdu’llah had set out weeks ago for Mashhad to visit his son, Jalal, at the madrisih. But the Turkoman had raided his caravan and only thirty of them had survived. ‘Abdu’llah’s arm was badly injured and has now turned septic. In a nearby village he seeks a physician but finds that the only man with any experience in medicine had been captured by the Turkoman—except for a young man of twenty, Assaf, who tends to the animals.
Assaf looks at the blackening wound, sniffs the putrefying flesh, and moans loudly, “This is not good, this is not good.”
‘Abdu’llah, too, knows the signs of gangrene. Soon the sepsis will be coursing through his veins, poisoning his entire body. “Is there nothing you can do?” he implores Assaf, who only shakes his head and mumbles. “Did the doctor have any medicines?” ‘Abdu’llah asks.
“Yes, most certainly, but nothing that will handle this. The infection is too far advanced. But there
is
one thing…”
“What is it?”
“About a year ago we had a goat with an injured leg that was turning black like your arm. I knew it was only a matter of time before the goat died a terrible, painful death. My brother loved this goat and would not let me destroy it, so I cut off the goat’s leg and hung charms around its neck.”
‘Abdu’llah understands the young man’s suggestion. Amputating the arm would also excise the infection. The prospects seem grim.
“The goat lived,” Assaf cheerfully adds.
“Thank you for the story. Do you have any clean dressings that I can use to wrap the wound?”
“Of course. And I will get you what medicines the good doctor has.”
Assaf returns with a basket of rags, some bottles of strange powder, and a poultice that he wraps around the black wound. “I crushed some desert plants to treat your wounds. Maybe it will help draw out the infection.” He takes a knife and points it at ‘Abdu’llah’s left forearm as if to cut the flesh.
“What are you doing?” ‘Abdu’llah exclaims.
“I need to bleed you. Letting out the poison may help. If I cut your forearm below the wound, the blood will flow downward to the fresh cut instead of upward to your shoulder and chest where it can poison the rest of your body. You will need to keep bleeding until the infection is gone or you are dead,” Assaf says bluntly.
The thinking seems logical. ‘Abdu’llah grimaces as Assaf punctures the skin and the blood begins to flow.
“Can you tell me where I can hire a horse and a guide to take me to Mashhad?” ‘Abdu’llah asks.
“You are abandoning the caravan? Then I will take you myself. I’ve been to Mashhad and I know the shortest route. And I know a doctor there—a
real
doctor.”
Assaf packs provisions and meets ‘Abdu’llah at dawn. In the rugged hills it is better traveling in daylight. ‘Abdu’llah is pale and perspiring. It will be a long journey for a sick man.
“If you die before we reach Mashhad, what should I do with your body?” Assaf asks as they pass through the village gate. He is a practical man.
“Take my body to the madrisih in Mashhad and leave it with my son, Jalal of Bushruyih.”
On the fourth day of their journey the infection has blackened ‘Abdu’llah’s entire upper arm and the pain has become almost unbearable. Assaf ties ‘Abdu’llah to the saddle so he won’t fall as they travel. That evening he cleanses the foul-smelling wound with fresh water, trims dead flesh with a heated knife, and packs the wound with more crushed plants that he finds on the hillsides.
On the seventh day, as the tired travelers begin to descend from a barren ridge, Assaf suddenly begins to shout and sing. “There it is—Mashhad!” he hollers, waking ‘Abdu’llah from unconsciousness. “We can be there by nightfall.”
Assaf takes the reins of ‘Abdu’llah’s horse and begins a steady canter toward the Mashhad city gate. It is dark when they reach it and Assaf leads ‘Abdu’llah to the crumbling home of Pierre Renaud, a French homeopathic physician who has been marooned in Mashhad since the death of his wife and child to cholera. A loud bang on the door wakes the doctor.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming!” he yells in French-tinged Farsi. “I’ll be right there.” Dr. Renaud opens the door and finds the body of ‘Abdu’llah lying slumped on the ground. “Assaf, what have you brought me?”
“His name is ‘Abdu’llah of Bushruyih. He has a very bad infection.”
The two men drag ‘Abdu’llah into the doctor’s house and Renaud rips open the unconscious man’s garment, exposing the festering wound. “I’m surprised he is still alive,” he says. “The gangrene has spread. Here’s what you must do. Go find your friend Anoush of Zunuzi. He has recently buried some sheep who died from eating poisonous berries. Dig up the sheep and bring me back a pail of maggots.”
Assaf scrunches up his nose at this suggestion.
“You must hurry, Assaf,” the doctor says. “While you are gone I am going to open the arm from the shoulder to the wrist. I need maggots to put on the wound. They will eat the dead flesh. Off with you now!”
It is mid-morning when ‘Abdu’llah at last wakes up, confused at his surroundings. “Am I alive?” he asks Assaf. A fat dressing surrounds his entire arm.
“Yes. We’re at the doctor’s house. He treated your wound last night.”
The doctor enters the room and looks glumly at ‘Abdu’llah. “The news is not good,” he says. “I’m afraid the infection has spread quite far.”
“I came all this way to see my son,” he says weakly. “That’s my only wish.”
The doctor nods. “We can find him and bring him here if you like.”
“No. He will worry, and that will interfere with his religious studies.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Let me think. And rest.”
The doctor hands ‘Abdu’llah a cup of strong tea, then he and Assaf leave the room. ‘Abdu’llah shifts painfully on his mat. This journey has not been what he had imagined. He can feel the cold fingers of death flowing through his veins. If only he could see Jalal one last time. And then it strikes him.
Why not?
He struggles to his feet, pale and dizzy. Yes, his legs still hold his weight. He finds a walking stick in the corner of the room and staggers to it. Leaning heavily on the stick, he steps falteringly out of the house and into the street. Now he must find the madrisih.
Jalal sits in a large chamber with many other students. They face ‘Abid, their elderly and arrogant instructor. In the shadows behind ‘Abid, a bent figure painfully leans against a cold column out of sight.
Carried by an ox-drawn cart, ‘Abdu’llah has made it to the madrisih and is cheered at the sight of his son seated cross-legged on the floor. How big he has become! And how ‘Abdu’llah wants to call out his name, rush to his side and wrap his arms around him. But he must not be seen. And so he merely watches and listens as the discussion begins to unfold.
“Mulla, I have been told of some holy traditions
]
of the blessed Imams that I find very difficult to understand. Can you help me?” The voice is Jalal’s, and the familiarity of it shoots through ‘Abdu’llah like a dart, chilling and thrilling him at the same time.
“Yes, Jalal, I’m quite sure I can help you.”
“I have heard the mullas quoting a holy tradition on the subject of God’s mercy in sending the rains. They have said that every drop of rain is entrusted to an angel of God who carries it down to earth. Is this tradition true?”
“It most assuredly is true,” ‘Abid replies.
“Thank you. On the subject of the ritual uncleanliness of dogs, I have also heard that there is a holy tradition that no angel will visit the house where dogs are kept. Is this tradition also true?”
“Yes, it’s true. What is so difficult to understand?”
“Just this. How is it that rain falls on the houses that have dogs?” Jalal asks, “The rains, when they come, fall everywhere alike.”
Trapped and perturbed in the insolence of this student, ‘Abid abruptly stands. Despite his pain, ‘Abdu’llah silently laughs.
‘Abid has no answer for Jalal, and so he he angrily says, “These inane questions are beneath the dignity of our school. I would ask you, Jalal, to refrain from such purposeless riddles in the future.”
‘Abdu’llah can see that this was no purposeless riddle. In this simple exchange, his precious son had not only won the debate but had revealed the bankruptcy of a narrow, literal, unthinking reliance on scripture and tradition. Astonished and swelling with pride, ‘Abdu’llah silently stumbles out of the shadows and departs without speaking a word.
His heart is full and at peace. Jalal indeed will become a great mulla—a mujtahid, perhaps. Suddenly flushed with pain and nausea, ‘Abdu’llah knows that his time has come. No use wishing it were otherwise. The maggots in his arm are already gnawing to the bone; pieces of him have already died. The great mosque is but a short distance from here, and next to it the holy ground for which the corpses carried by many caravans are bound. He has come such a great distance already; surely he can make it that far.
Staggering slowly down the dusty street, ‘Abdu’llah finally reaches the burial ground and finds a mulberry tree. Sitting against it, in the cool shade, he takes in his hand the only two possessions he has brought with him. The first is a letter asking to be interred here and for his wife to be notified. The second is a pouch full of tumans to pay for his burial. He prays for forgiveness, for his family’s well-being, and that Jalal will achieve his destiny.
What is written, is written.
Suddenly the words are a comfort.
‘Abdu’llah’s last thought is simple and full of irony. How fortunate he is to have been allowed to walk with dignity to this holy place, while so many others have had to be carried like mummies slung over the backs of mules.
Chapter 13
Of all his London adventures, Ollie finds theatre excursions led by schoolmates the most intoxicating. Each night the curtain rises on sixteen stages throughout London to reveal worlds within worlds of astonishing entertainment that hook the boys like a narcotic. It is in the enormous pit of the Surrey Theatre, then, that the Ollie and his friends frequently find themselves bedazzled and giddy with laughter.
For Ollie, suffering through another dull Latin class, anticipation of tonight’s theatre attraction is building because of a playbill announcing
Juan Fernandez; or, The Island Ape
,
starring Mons. Gouffé, the Man-Monkey
.
Ollie replays the advertisement in his head, amazed by the outrageous descriptions.
“The Man-Monkey will perform his most extraordinary Leaps, Features of Agility and Gymnastic Displays,” the playbill promises. “He will conclude his Performance by Running round the Fronts of the BOXES and GALLERY, supported only by minute Mouldings.”
How is this possible?
Ollie wonders.
I must see it!
So enthralled is the boy by this world of man-made enchantment that he has almost forgotten his studies. His mind whirls around the whimsical tales and vibrant showmanship of these evening forays, and begins to spin his own version of a pantomime:
Harlequin and the Enchanted Horse; or A Persian Marriage
.
Thank goodness his mother will be having a fine
English
wedding. And so soon! Gordon’s mysterious disappearance had been mourned by few and explained by none, but Ollie knows the truth. He had seen his mother approach Mum’s bedroom on Christmas day, and had listened at the door as they delicately sparred. He had found the pages from Mum’s Will in his mother’s room, and though the words were complicated, he had understood his own inheritance, Gordon’s sudden departure, and his mother’s desire to marry quickly and begin fulfilling the ten year requirement for her own inheritance. When Herbert Eaton had announced two weeks later that he and Anne were to be married, Ollie was not surprised.
Behind all of this he can see the hand of his great-grandmother, wise old Mum. He does not hate Mum for her scheming; instead, he admires her canniness and influence. He is learning from her how to use power to obtain his own goals, and the patience to see his own schemes unfold over time. By his own hand the fate of Reginald Pennick has been altered, though Ollie does not yet know how. As soon as Mum has recovered from her illness, Ollie is sure that the old woman will satisfy his need for vengeance.
In the meantime, life is good.
After Latin class, Ollie races across campus, rounds the crumbling corner of a building and suddenly stops. Ahead of him is the door to Reginald Pennick’s office, but it is not the sight of this offensive place that makes him hesitate; stationed just down the cobblestone street is Mum’s carriage, the horses calm and still, the driver hunched and snoring loudly in his seat.
Why is Mum here?
Ollie wonders. He walks slowly past the carriage, peers into the vacant interior, then looks back at Reginald’s office and understands.
Yes, today is visiting day.