The Temple Dancer (26 page)

She could hardly know the consequences of her decision, or how much
pain she would cause herself.

At the entrance to the wide, common verandah of the guest quarters,
Maya saw Geraldo. The young farang, pacing the length of the balcony
that overlooked the valley, glanced up at her grumpily, and then turned
away. He seemed not even to notice Lucinda.

He's still sulking, thought Maya. Even so, he looked rather
dashing in his borrowed jamas. What will he do when he discovers my
plan?

As the women drew near him, Maya favored him with her most fetching smile, and a long look that promised much.

After rinsing her breasts in rose water, and combing her hair, and rubbing
sandalwood paste on her wrists and ankles, Maya dressed in a fresh sari of
bright green edged with gold. She dabbed a single dot of bright red kumkum
between her eyebrows, and blinked a dab of kohl into the corner of each eye.

As she made to leave, she paused briefly before a small bronze statue of
Durga riding her tiger. Oh, Goddess, she thought, what do you think of my
plan? If it is not your will, let me fail. If it is not my guru's will, let me fail.

Maya's bedroom had tall, narrow double doors of dark wood. Opening one
just a crack she peeked through. As she expected-as she hoped-Geraldo
lounged in the verandah, leaning on a column near the entrance to the
women's quarters. Maya's smile was like a lotus flower; Geraldo yet another bee driven mad by its fragrance.

It was not such a great step, Maya reasoned, to go to the verandah, nor
such a great step to speak with him. Before she had time to reconsider, she
stood near his side.

Of course he insister. on sulking, and Maya could barely keep from
laughing at him. But this did not distract her from her purpose. "Oh, sir,"
she said. The deep tang of sandalwood paste floated in the air whenever she
moved.

Of course he would not answer her at once, and as she waited, she
looked out over the lake, touched by the purple shadows of the setting sun,
its surface a green so dark it looked nearly black. At last she heard him
sigh, and she turned to him with practiced coyness. "Are you still very annoyed with me?"

She was shocked to see how his face hid so little, so different from a
Hindi: he was naked to her. His emotions floated on his skin like paint: she
saw not just his anger, but his desire. His burning eyes seemed deeper and
darker than most men's, contrasted by his pale skin which glowed in the
sunset light. He breathed deeply, through clenched teeth, as though each
breath were an effort. "Oh, dear, you are still very angry."

"Should I not be? I showed you kindness and you insulted me."

"You speak the truth, and I am ashamed." That much was true-Maya
regretted what she had said earlier, just as she regretted what she was about
to do. The best duplicity, she knew, was mixed with a measure of honesty.

Her words, her downcast eyes, the closeness of her body, which
seemed to set the air trembling, the sandalwood paste and her own natural,
dark perfume began to confuse his senses. "Well, you were upset," he said,
a little hoarsely. "That eunuch could irritate a stone."

When she smiled up at him, her look was so forthright, he gulped. He
glanced around: The veranda was empty. The corridors silent. They were
alone.

She let the solitude enfold them. "If I asked most sincerely, sir, could
you forgive me?" She bent her head, and then lifted her gold-flecked eyes
to him ever so slowly. Geraldo seemed to have trouble swallowing.

The green silk of her sari rustled as Maya raised her small hand and
placed a single finger on his chest. Her voice whispered like a breeze: "You
could maybe forgive your Maya? If she were very good to you? If she did
her very best to make it up to you?" Geraldo's eyes watched as Maya's finger traced a tingling path across his shirt, and slipped past the closure of his
jama, and then touched his skin.

"This is not right," Geraldo said. His voice was husky. Even the crows
had stopped their cawing. Silence fell everywhere like the night around them.

"Right or wrong? What is to stop us?" She leaned forward and lifted
herself so her lips were a breath away from his ear. "Do you not want what
I want?" Her hand reached out and glided over his.

She was trembling, or he was.

It was not such a great step from the verandah to the men's quarters,
nor from there to Geraldo's room, nor from his door to the cushions of his
bed.

And only after they had clasped and unclasped; only after the moans
and slaps of flesh thrusting into flesh had risen and dissolved in the duskcooled air; only after their sighs had mingled with the scent of sandalwood
and sweat; only after she caught her breath and Geraldo slept, while she
stroked his cheek that gleamed like metal in the last light of the setting sun;
only then did Maya discover the unexpected flaw in her designs.

After two days rocking in the back of a farmer's cart, Slipper saw a miracle.
After two days of eating only chapatis and bananas, and hearing only talk
of drought and scarecrows and dung, Slipper trembled, as one trembles at
the sight of a prison door swung wide at last. He held his breath for fear
that even breathing would make the vision disappear. But the farmer by his
side only swore when he saw it, clapping his fists to his head in frustration.
He loved whining, Slipper had discovered. "By the Prophet's beard! Did I
not say that Allah the all-merciful hates farmers! Is this not the very proof?
This is your fault, eunuch! You have brought bad luck!"

"Me, sir?" Slipper's tiny eyes widened.

They had come nearly to the crossing of the Bijapur road when they
saw it. Slipper, despite his weak eyes, could just make out the sight, just
ahead of a line of wagons and carts and herders with cattle, bunched up
motionless at the crossing.

"I bless all the angels," Slipper whispered to himself. But the farmer
jumped from the cart, holding his head as if it would explode. Slipper jumped down as well. Already other travelers were lining up behind them,
just as annoyed as the farmer. Finding others more willing to listen to his
miseries, the farmer ignored his passenger, and Slipper pushed through the
crowd until he came to the crossing itself. But he held back behind the line
of people waiting there-he did not want to be seen just yet.

Beneath the wavering shadows of huge-branched trees that canopied the
crossroad, a dozen guards, tall, dark-skinned, powerful, barred the road.
Their lances bore the green tassels of the harem eunuch guard.

Crushed eunuchs, Slipper saw at once. So many of them, he thought,
hardly able to contain his pleasure.

To the south, he could hear a procession approaching. First came the
tinny sound of small cymbals clanging, and then the blare of herald trumpets. Soon the musicians came into view, a bored lot of crushed eunuchs,
walking in a listless approximation of a march. Slipper despised them for
their indifference. More eunuchs followed, carrying pennants of Bijapuri
green.

After them came the Guard cavalry, riding lively bedouins on shining
saddles of gilded leather, the silver bosses of their shields glinting in the
sun. Their horses-all geldings of course-pranced scornfully before the
annoyed onlookers who waited at the crossroads, just as their riders eyed
the peasants with disdain.

Surrounded by his bodyguard, the captain of the Guards followed on a
tall blood bay. His bodyguard carried unsheathed swords. Next came the
captain's servants holding in their outstretched hands caskets of his jewels
on velvet pillows. A young Abyssinian eunuch (cut, or even shaved,
thought Slipper with approval) walked beside the captain's horse, lifting a
huge peacock feather fan on a long pole to shield his head.

Behind the captain, came the elephants. Five, ten ... Slipper was too
dazzled and too happy to keep count. He gaped at the ornamented howdahs, the curtains closed so the riffraff might not see in, and let himself
imagine who was sitting inside.

Slipper waited breathlessly, and then, to his delight he saw it: the Flying
Palace of the Sultana. Only a few roads in Bijapur were wide enough to accommodate the Flying Palace, for it took four matched elephants, walking
in unison, to manage it. Two walked side by side in front, two side by side behind. Each beast had a special harness tied round its midsection. Stout ropes
strung from each harness attached to the corners of a sturdy platform as
large as the foundation of a temple. Wooden walls rose from the sides of the
platform, above them a roof; painted to give the illusion of a palace hall of
stone, with columns and arches, and even a glittering silver dome above all.
The Flying Palace was two stories tall, with a breezy balcony over the royal
suite below: bedroom, kitchen, bath, even a toilet. The walls were bossed
with shining stars and crescents, gilded, and silvered. Hovering on its long
ropes, held at perfect level by the careful elephants, the palace appeared to
float. One could not imagine a structure so large moving so, hovering in the
air-it defied logic, and many who saw it felt a wave of vertigo.

When the palace passed, Slipper could hold back no more. He pushed
through the crowd. The caravan was far from over: more elephants and
closed howdahs, more guards, and, of course, the whole train of carts
and palanquins and wagons that made up the Sultana's suite. He thought
for a moment about thanking the farmer for his ride, but then snorted at
his thought.

He would need no longer to be courteous nor kind. Slipper was going
home.