The Temple Dancer (46 page)

"Perhaps you have a cold, sir?" Slipper piped, his voice like honey.
"Your eyes are rheumy, I see."

"Only the smoke." Victorio caught another burp, which puffed out his
cheeks. He rose from his folding camp chair and mocked a bow, spilling a
little more wine. "Gentlemen ... gentle people . . ." Victorio corrected
himself with a nod to Slipper, "I'll be back soon. I need my ... my medicine." He staggered toward the tent.

"Medicine?" Da Gama muttered to himself. "Is he sick?"

"Dravanas, Deoga," Slipper said smugly. "Didn't you know? Can't you
tell?"

After a tiresome day's travel out of Bijapur, the caravan had set up for
the night in a wide pasture outside Sunag, about a third of the way to Belgaum. The night sky glittered with a million stars. Bats danced in circles
through the sparks and smoke rising from the campfire.

Da Gama gave Slipper a hard look. "Dravanas? Whatever do you
mean?"

Slipper smiled. "Really you are so ill-informed in some ways, Deoga.
You should be more attentive to me, my dear friend. Just think of all you'd
learn." Da Gama turned away so he would not see Slipper's insinuating
look. "Dravanas, if you want to know, are medicines of desire. The brothers have master hakims trained in the Kamashastras. Why do you think Mouse
had that haratala?"

"You don't mean arsenico?" The word burst out without Da Gama's
meaning of it. "Why would Victorio ...?"

"You needn't believe me. Here comes Victorio to rejoin us. Let's ask
him."

Slipper seemed quite amused by Da Gama's horror at the suggestion.

But Victorio minded not at all. Though tears ran from his blinking
eyes, though he winced as if his belly griped, still he laughed as he answered. "Of course I'm taking dravanas. Whatever would you expect? I go
to meet my bride. What would she say if my fonte didn't show an interest,
eh?" He grunted, and winked a wet eye, and moved his arms suggestively.
"She'll be satisfied, believe me."

Da Gama tried not to look. Slipper and Victorio noticed this and
laughed at him together.

After a while, they grew quiet, and stared into the fire, each thinking
his own thoughts. At length, Victorio cleared his throat. "Da Gama, that
boy, our cousin ... what's his name?"

"Geraldo..." Da Gama answered, though he saw that Victorio remembered it, and simply didn't want to say.

"Yes, whatever his name is.... Would you say that he's attractive?"

"Ask him, why don't you?" Da Gama nodded to Slipper, who turned
away as if blushing.

"He's a nice-looking man, senhor. But I don't approve of his personality. He has a violent nature that he keeps hidden. I think he is dangerous.

"But good-looking, you say," Victorio repeated sadly. Slipper's head
wobbled indecisively, as though reluctant to go this far. "Would Lucy notice him, do you think?"

Slipper's discomfort disappeared. "Oh, sir, I don't think he's her type;
no, not at all. She is so gentle-not a violent or wicked bone in that fair
body." Victorio flashed his eyebrows at Da Gama at these words, cautioning him to say nothing. "That Geraldo is not a gentleman, sir. He is a villain! And he owes me money." Slipper finished by giving a big, bewildering
wink to Da Gama.

"What! Owes you money? I say, that does sound wicked!" Victorio chuckled and wiped his eyes with his cuff. "But you're sure? My dear
fiancee, Lucy, is so innocent ... What if ..."

"You misjudge her, senhor. She has the taste and refinement found in all
members of your family, save that one man only, that miserable villain who
proves the rule. Besides, senhor, what woman would not prefer a man like
you? With your experience? And with your wealth? She's loved you all her
life, and now you'll be her bridegroom. She must be delirious with joy!
You'll have an heir in no time!"

Victorio shifted uncomfortably. "You're right, Senhor Gelding, of
course. It's just that Geraldo is a distant heir to the Dasana fortune ..

"Not so distant," Da Gama broke in. Victorio frowned at him. "You
haven't noticed? A lot of the Dasanas are dead, sir. In fact, there's Lucy, and
there's you. You two are all that's left. After you two comes Geraldo. He's
that close!"

Again Victorio blinked his watery red eyes. "Now you sport with me,"
he scolded.

But Da Gama, with careful seriousness, counted out the names on his
fingers. This cousin, dead. That uncle, dead. His brother, dead. And on,
and on.

Victorio's face grew more and more concerned. "I hadn't realized. He
could end up with everything. I shall have to be more polite to the boy next
time. He stands to inherit everything, it seems, unless I have an heir."

"What about your partner?" Da Gama said.

"Partners come and go, sir," Victorio replied. "Only family is eternal."

Slipper had listened to this conversation, growing more and more frustrated. "All you farangs talk about is relatives," he complained at last.

"Family is everything, senhor," Victorio replied, nodding for Da Gama
to agree.

"Please excuse my rudeness, Senhor Eunuch. Genealogy is a study of
mine," Da Gama said.

"Yes, Senhor Gelding, here he speaks the truth. Da Gama has the most
annoying ability to remember everybody's family tree. Get him started and
he talks of nothing else. He's like a tax collector's book-every little item
noted and recalled in triplicate. He's quite astonishing that way. It's why
everyone despises him." Vittorio smiled to show he meant no harm.

Da Gama smiled. "I'm sure it's the same everywhere. I'm sure the
nobles of Bijapur. ..."

"Oh the nobles ... who cares a fig for them? The brothers give genealogy no thought."

"Don't you wonder about your parents?" asked Da Gama earnestly.
"Your brothers and sisters, whether you have them? You may not have
children, but you might have nephews, nieces. . .

Slipper put up his hand in an imperious gesture. "Families betray,
Deoga. Families are poison. The first thing the brothers learn is to forget.
We have no parents, not really. Our parents died, or sold us, or were slaves
themselves. And the brothers have no offspring. So we only have each
other, and that not for very long. The brothers are like flowers; some
bloom, some wither while we watch, others live on in memory, for a while
at least. At last all will be forgotten, as I will be forgotten. For this I thank
Allah who made me."

Slipper looked at Da Gama seriously. "Things are best that way,
Deoga. Forgetting, not remembering. You farangs become encumbered with
your past. The past drives you mad. It keeps you from acting sensibly."

When the others went to their tents to sleep, Da Gama spent a long time
gazing at the fire. After making sure that no one watched him, he reached
beneath his pillow and took out a letter, and two similar cloth sacks. He
smoothed the letter on the ground to catch the fire's light, and read it once
again.

He'd
received
it
from
a
courier,
who'd
found
him
after
they'd
stopped
to make camp-a letter from Pathan. The burak wrote that he was taking
everyone away from Belgaum, as Lady Chitra had requested. He planned
to make for his family's estate at Konnur, then to proceed on toward Sunag,
and hoped to meet Da Gama there.

Of course Da Gama had no map-only the image he had formed in his
head from travelling in these parts. But he had not traveled here long, and
so had only a vague notion of how far it was to Sunag.

Da Gama did some calculations. If all had gone as Pathan planned, then
Lucinda and Maya and the rest were at this moment at Pathan's home in
Konnur-a cottage on his farm, Pathan had called it. Da Gama wondered
how everyone would be comfortable there.

They might reach Pathan and the others by tomorrow, if they traveled
quickly. Da Gama made up his mind to start at dawn. They would be turning west tomorrow, into the Gokak hills, and the going would be slower.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow we meet them. Tomorrow the reckoning begins.

Or the day after, he thought ruefully. For such reckonings are never
prompt.

He folded the letter, and then drew the two twin bags close to the fire.
Only a few flames licked the glowing embers. Da Gama glanced in all directions. Nothing. He wondered if the Three-Dot clan were really nearby,
watching from the shadows. He listened and heard nothing but tree frogs
and the screech of owls. Not even a dog's bark, nor a jackal's wail. The
silence unnerved him. Then a rattling snore began in Victorio's tent, and
Da Gama smiled, feeling suddenly at ease.

He opened the bags casually, as though unconcerned that anyone
should see. He poured their contents into his hand, and spread the empty
bags near the fire. Then, with some care he arranged them on his bedroll:
two headdresses, pearls and diamonds woven by gold thread into a delicate
web. That at least was how it looked a first glance.

How easy would it be to tell them apart? A eunuch could tell-isn't
that what the jeweler had said?

The plan had been percolating in his mind for days now. Should I do
it? Da Gama wondered. After all, he said to himself, now I'm Victorio's
partner.

He shook his head. Partners come and go, he repeated ruefully. Why
do I hesitate? None of them would hesitate to cheat me.

Da Gama knew what was holding him back. The real headdress, which
he now felt certain was the long-lost Web of Ruci, belonged to Maya. How
could he bear to hurt her, she so innocent, so beautiful? He tried to think
of her face; he tried to imagine her blank hatred if he put his plan in action.
But he found his faulty memory could not even recall her perfection.
Instead he thought of Lucinda and recalled her with uncanny clarity.

Won't your plan hurt her as well, he asked himself.

She's a murderer. What difference does it make?

A murderer? Because Victorio says so? And you believe him?

Da Gama squeezed his eyes tight, suddenly furious.

He scooped the twin headdresses into their bags and shoved them in
his pockets.

Who is looking out for me? Da Gama thought. Who can't sleep for
fretting about my welfare? The world is cruel, and I'm old enough to know
that I too must be cruel. It's time I begin to think of myself.

Then the thought occurred to him: his plan would hurt Victorio worst
of all. While he savored this, he stomped the dying fire with his big boots,
and the embers showered in all directions, flying in the air like stars.

Pathan and Geraldo rode ahead of the palki, two abreast. They never spoke.

From the palki Lucinda's gaze rarely left Pathan, though he never
looked round toward her. The rigidity of his posture, usually so fluid but
now so unyielding, convinced her that he burned with anger.

After rounding the Palace Lake, their road led through the town of
Belgaum, and passed the dargah where Lucinda had gone with Pathan. It
seemed to her now as if that had been someone else's life.

The whitewashed dome of the saint's tomb could just be seen above the
compound walls. As they approached, Pathan placed his right hand on his
heart, and bowed his head. Lucinda felt certain he would then break down
and glance her way, but instead he straightened and looked steadfastly
ahead. It struck her as a gesture of insolence, as if he hoped to show how
little he cared for her, or for anyone.

Beyond the town, the road twisted through a mountain pass. Though
not so dramatic and terrifying as the Sansagar pass, both women stirred
with memories. Without a spoken word, they shifted their seats until they
pressed against each other, and Lucinda curled her fingers around Maya's
wrist. In that way they rode for miles as the sun soared in the cloudless sky;
Lucinda staring at Pathan, Maya pretending to read.

On the plateau beyond the pass they stopped for lunch beneath a neem
tree beside a tiny stream. While the women dipped their hands and washed,
the palkiwallah spread out blankets for them, with packages of food
wrapped in banana leaves bound up in twine. Pathan ate standing near his
horse, apart from everyone.