The Temple Dancer (11 page)

Looking up from his port wine, Geraldo glanced at Fernando Anala and
once more experienced a moment of confusion. Anala's face was so perfectly Hindi-the dark, alert features, the bright, perfect teeth-but to see it
emerging from a lace-trimmed shirt and a Portuguese coat awash with gold
braid-each time Geraldo looked up, he was taken aback.

They had been discussing the upcoming leg of the journey through the
Sansagar Pass. Pathan seemed unable to avoid bringing up his concerns,
though clearly he and Da Gama had discussed the matter already. "Should
we not have more guards, sir? Are we not in danger?" he asked Fernando.

Fernando glanced at the farangs before answering. "What does Senhor
Da Gama say?"

"What I say is, the hell with guards. They only attract attention and
you can never have enough, not really, not if the bandits are determined.
Half the ones you hire will be spies." Da Gama took a long pull on his port
while Pathan shook his head.

"Still one must make provision against misfortune. One must plan
even if one does not expect trouble," Fernando said.

"My friend plans to offer chauth to the bandits." Pathan looked seriously at Fernando as he spoke.

"There's really only one clan active at the pass this time of year," Fernando said carefully. "His plan could work."

"The Three-Dot clan, you mean," Da Gama said. "They'd just as soon
take your money peaceably as rob you. So we'll pay them and the hell with
it. Baksheesh, chauth, extortion, call it what you will. We'll pay through the
nose, but they won't attack." Da Gama turned to Pathan earnestly. "And
why not? The key is keeping the cargo safe." Pathan nodded noncommittally but didn't appear convinced.

"Other than the pass, the route is safe enough," Fernando agreed. "But
how will you find them, the Three-Dot clan? If you don't pay-in
advance-your plan is useless."

Da Gama eased against the leather back of the big wooden chair.
"They'll find us, I have no doubt."

"If this were my responsibility. . ." Pathan muttered.

"But it's not," Da Gama replied. "Your responsibility begins when we
reach Bijapur. Until then, you're only here for the ride, so try to enjoy
yourself." He leaned to Fernando. "The only thing worse than a settlement
man is a burak," he said with a wink.

"Is it not unusual to have both settlement man and burak on the same
journey?" Fernando asked.

"Very," both men answered in unison. At this, at least, they laughed.

Geraldo said. "For some time I've been wondering-What is a settlement man? Exactly what does he do? I have been too bashful to ask." Da
Gama laughed out loud. "My shyness is well known, sir!" Geraldo
protested.

Pathan held up his hand like a mullah about to teach a lesson. "When
they first came here, the farangs were not used to our ways, sir. They could
not distinguish between a promise made in earnest, and a polite agreement
that would never come to pass. This ignorance caused many difficulties,
not only for the Portuguese but for their trading partners as well."

Pathan continued. "Eventually, the Portuguese developed a solution:
When a trade was to be settled they sent a man along to assure that the settlement took place as promised. Or more precisely, as the Portuguese believed it to have been promised. At first, settlement men were little more
than hoodlums. Threats-or violence if threats failed-this was their only
tool. But that was years ago, eh, Deoga?"

Da Gama nodded. "Violence may solve some problems, but it causes
new ones. Settlement men learned this, and adapted. We developed subtlety."

"For example?" Geraldo asked.

"Compromising. Offering terms. Imploring. Pleading. And if those
should fail, other means of influence. Settlement men consider the men
they deal with. Each man has a weakness; each fears something ...
censure ... poverty ... a secret coming out. Some call it intimidation, but a
settlement man calls it persuasion, and it's very nearly as effective as drawing blood. Only rarely these days must I hold a pistola to some fellow's
head and cock the hammer."

Geraldo frowned as he considered the implications of Da Gama's
words, then lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, but you're having your joke, cousin."

A silence fell over the room. Finally Fernando said, "It cannot be a
happy profession, brother. Nor one easily reconciled with the teachings of
our Lord Jesus."

"No," Da Gama said. "A settlement man is no more than a whore. Except whores earn more money. I travel constantly. Sleep comes hard.
There's . . ." Again he sighed . . . "an element of fear. Most settlement men
don't last long. Most quit. The rest die."

"But not you, sir." Geraldo's voice was troubled.

"Your uncle is the best settlement man the Portuguese have," Pathan
put in.

"The oldest, maybe," Da Gama said ruefully.

"Only the best can last so long," Pathan said. "Among buraks, Deoga
is a legend."

"And what, pray tell, is a burak?"

Da Gama snorted. "A burak is a Bijapuri settlement man. It's where
the Portuguese got the damned idea."

Pathan shrugged. "Except that we are not so subtle, we buraks. Old
ways are best. Blood is always persuasive."

For a long time then, the conversation stopped. Da Gama and Pathan
were locked in a fierce and burning gaze.

At last Da Gama broke the silence. "Anyway, you needn't worry about
it, Aldo. Settlement men are a dying breed. The Dutch are taking over, the
Dutch and the goddamned English. Most of the Portuguese are gone already."

Fernando could scarcely contain his shock. "The Portuguese gone?
This cannot be. What of my contracts?"

Da Gama shook his head. "Sounds like you may need a burak of your
own." He placed a heavy hand on Fernando's birdlike knee. "Look here,
brother, don't worry. There will always be trade. There's still the Dutch."

"But don't they speak a different language?"

"German, I think," Geraldo said encouragingly.

"German!" Fernando took a big gulp of his port. "Are they Christians,
at least?"

"Of course," Geraldo said. "Just not the same kind as us."

Fernando nearly choked. "There are different kinds?"

The rest of the evening did not go well.

It took Lucinda some time before she realized what all the fuss was about.
Slowly she understood that Maya had only allowed herself to become a
slave because she had given up hope, because she thought that her teacher,
her guru, was dead.

Silvia's news, apparently, changed everything.

If you're a whore, thought Lucinda, what difference who you whore
with? But to Maya and Silvia, it made a great deal of difference indeed.
They spoke of the grand vizier of Bijapur-a man of high position,
Lucinda knew-as if Maya were expected to have congress with a dog.

"Run away," Silvia whispered. "Tonight!"

Maya's eyes flashed for a moment. "No," she said at last, "they'd come
after me. Deoga. The burak. The hijra. Too many people have an interest.
They'd never give up."

They sat in silence. "What about death?" Silvia whispered at last.

"How?" Maya said.

Lucinda gasped.

Maya ignored her. "How?" she asked once more.

Silvia looked into the quivering shadows. "A knife?"

Lucinda could stand no more. "No! No!"

"Hush," Silvia ordered. "This is your fault!"

"Mine?"

Maya placed a hand on each woman's arm. "Do not let yourselves be
troubled. This is God's fault, or mine. Not hers, not anyone's."

Silvia winced at Maya's words, and then turned to Lucinda, looking up
from under her bowed head. "In the name of Jesus' mercy, forgive me, sister."

"Nonsense. Of course." Lucinda regretted how irritated her voice
sounded, but charged ahead anyway. "But why kill yourself? Why not escape?"

Silvia looked up as if surprised that Lucinda would take Maya's side.
Maya shrugged. "I have said that it is impossible."

"Impossible tonight, maybe. Impossible from here, maybe. But not
impossible forever."

Silvia considered this. "She is right, sister. The gods will provide a
chance someday. You must be ready! Do you have a knife? You may need
one. I will get you one, easy to conceal."

"No," Maya answered abruptly.

"A knife's too obvious," Lucinda agreed. "You need something subtle." Her eyes brightened. "Poison."

Maya sat up straighter.

"Ahcha," Silvia sighed, suddenly interested. "But where would one get
poison?"

"I have some," Lucinda said. She told the women about her arsenico.

"Fetch it! Fetch it!" Silvia commanded.

"We've plenty of time for that, sister," Maya said. "See how sleepy she
looks? Go to bed, sister. You can show me later." Gratefully Lucinda climbed
the bed stool and sunk into the featherbed. The other women hardly noticed,
and despite their whispers, Lucinda dissolved into a bottomless sleep. Slipper's rattling, sputtering snore, however, leaked through the chamber door
into her consciousness, and all night she dreamed she was pursued by bears.

Lucinda woke to see through a high window the dawn begin to pink the sky.
Maya and Silvia stood together facing the puja table, whispering a chant.
Lucinda waited until they were finished before she said, "Good morning."

"Did you sleep well?" Maya asked. Her eyes were bright as if polished
by her tears. She looked surprisingly fresh, though the other bed had not
been slept in. Lucinda wondered if they'd stayed up all night or slept on the
floor.

"I slept well, thank you."

Through the high window, they heard a high-pitched retching followed by a barking cough and a pitiful moan. "Slipper," Maya explained,
looking pleased with the eunuch's discomfort. "He's been in the latrine for
over an hour."

"Who will help us dress?" Instantly Lucinda regretted not voicing
some concern over Slipper's health, but the two women seemed not to care.

"I won't let him touch me, so it's no great loss," Maya said. Her answer
surprised Lucinda.

"And as for farang clothes-I'm sorry, sister, but no hijra will be of
any use to you," Silvia said. "They have no stomach for it."

"Maybe. . ." Lucinda stammered, suddenly feeling very helpless,
"maybe you could send your maid after you have done with her?"

Silvia frowned. "I dress myself. How hard is that?" But her face softened when she looked at Lucinda. "I know ... you think you can't do it
yourself. But only because you will not try! Even so, I myself will help
you.

Lucinda nearly jumped off the bed to hug her. "Thank you, thank
you.

Breakfast was a kind of pancake mixed with onions and spices, unexpectedly delicious. Lucinda washed it down with a creamy cup of waterbuffalo milk. If Helene could see me now, she thought.

Dressing, however, was a disaster. Silvia helped as best she could, but she
herself had never worn a corset, nor ever learned to tie proper bow. She and
Lucinda together could barely master the corset laces. The fit was too loose,
and there were knots that Lucinda knew she would never be able to untie.
But after the two were done wrestling with Lucinda's dress, the final effect
looked good enough that Silvia stood back and smiled in satisfaction.

"Now for the hair," Silvia said.

Oh, God, thought Lucinda.