A Beggar at the Gate (17 page)

S
ent to the kitchen to help old Firoz with the afternoon meal, Akhtar squatted on the stone floor across from the two great wood-burning stoves, a stack of worked copper trays at her feet. Beside her, piled high on banana leaves, ninety-four large rounds of bread waited to be added to the trays. Akhtar knew there were ninety-four because Safiya Sultana had counted them five minutes earlier, during her customary premeal kitchen visit.

“Never try to steal food,” a burly cook had cautioned Akhtar on her first day of kitchen duty. “Safiya Bhaji has the eyes of a vulture and the memory of an elephant.”

As an apprentice ladled boiled lentils, curried goat with turnips, and spiced chicken into Akhtar's serving dishes, she thought about her dreams.

The first had come unexpectedly seven nights earlier, as Akhtar lay waiting for sleep in the servants’ quarters. Fully formed, unclear as to its meaning, the vision had intruded upon memories of her village childhood, confronting her instead with the unfamiliar picture of a woman sitting beside an open gate, her figure nearly obscured by a multitude of rose petals that blew out through the opening and enveloped her.

The woman and her cloud of roses had remained with Akhtar all week as she washed veils, served food, and plucked eyebrows. Telling no one, she had hugged the dream to herself, enjoying its frequent reappearance in her mind's eye: the woman, anonymous in her wrappings, the heaps of dawn-colored petals, the scent of roses. Such a dream, Akhtar was certain, could never have entered the foul hovel where she had lived with her husband. No, these visions were meant only for places like this haveli, where cleanliness and common sense combined with power and mystery.

The second vision had come yesterday morning just after she had been awakened by the call of the muezzin. It had revealed the same woman and the same gate, but this time, the woman crouched, head bent, engulfed by a raging dust storm that had scattered all her rose petals save for a small remaining handful that she held clutched to her breast.

What did they mean, these two visions and the story they seemed to tell of blessing followed by disaster?

Akhtar lifted her first tray and started for the stairs, but then, struck by a thought, she stopped so suddenly that old Firoz, behind her with the next tray, gave a grunt of irritation.

In Safiya's story, the prince had dreamed. Although his vision had been different from Akhtar's, it had been no more vivid than hers. If the prince's dream were an important part of his story, then her two visions might have some importance of their own.

With no gift to lay at Safiya Sultana's door, Akhtar could, at least, offer her dreams.

Now was not the time, for she had ladies and children to feed, and Safiya, who thoroughly enjoyed her food, was never to be interrupted while she was eating. But Akhtar would find the right moment, later on perhaps, when most of the ladies had gone to rest, and Safiya sat alone, composing her poetry.

This might prove more interesting than any search for a caster of spells. Why had she not thought of it before?

MARIANA SAT against the wall, her arms about her knees, watching the trays arrive, with their thick rounds of bread and covered copper serving dishes. Ladies and children settled on the floor with their food or carried it away to other rooms. The fat girl took Saboor's arm and led him away, a sheaf of banana leaves in her free hand. Mariana looked away from him, forcing herself to let him go.

The last person to be given a tray was Safiya Sultana. “Come, Mariam,” she called, pointing to the empty place beside her. “Join me. I will show you how to eat with your hands.”

Mariana watched carefully as Safiya ladled a helping of chicken from a zinc-lined serving dish onto the banana leaf in front of her, then tore off a small piece of bread and used it to detach a bit of meat from its bone.

“You must learn to eat properly, with the right hand only,” she instructed before putting the bread with its cargo of chicken and sauce into her mouth. Chewing, she looked Mariana up and down. “And do not try to eat while you are wearing that shawl. You might spoil it. Hassan bought it for you a week ago, from an Afghan trader.”

Hassan.
Mariana stiffened, but even as she prepared to defend herself, she saw that Safiya had already turned back to her meal.

A nearby group of women found their voices at last.

“She does not know how to wear her shawl,” said one. “Here, Tehmina, show Mariam Bhaji how to drape it.”

“Go away, all of you,” Safiya grumbled, waving a bit of bread. “Leave me in peace.”

“This is a beautiful old
jamawar
—such delicate work.” A young woman with a high-bridged nose took the edge of Mariana's yellow shawl between her thumb and finger. “The purple color is unusual. See how the green embroidery matches her eyes.”

“You must wear it like this,” offered another woman, who wore a braid down her back as thick as Mariana's wrist. She reached forward and arranged the fabric loosely about Mariana's shoulders. As she did so, her sleeve fell back, revealing a smooth, hairless forearm.

Mariana stared. Where had she seen such a well-kept arm before? Unable to remember, she pulled her sleeves lower, suddenly aware that her own arms were covered with fine, blond down, that her flyaway hair was too dry in spite of all her brushing, that for all her use of Aunt Claire's precious store of rose water, her lips and face were sore and chapped.

No Englishwoman of quality used artificial means to improve her appearance, but there was no avoiding the fact that while Mariana had seemed perfectly presentable at Shalimar, she now looked dreadful beside the well-tended ladies of this household.

Why were these women so nice to her now, after ignoring her all morning? Did they know she had come to divorce Hassan and abandon Saboor? Did they not? In either case, how was she to behave?

“Look at her condition,” put in a gap-toothed aunt. “Someone must attend to her appearance.”

“No.” Mariana shook her head vigorously. She had been plucked and dyed once before, and that experience had been sufficient for a lifetime. Besides, any native beautification of her would be noticed at Shalimar, if not by myopic Aunt Claire, then certainly by Lady Macnaghten. Mariana could not possibly risk her fledgling friendship with the latter by appearing at camp looking like someone's native mistress.

“Oiling her hair will scarcely help.” The first woman peered into her face, then took up one of her hands and examined it.

“Look at her hands,” she exclaimed. “They are a pretty shape, but they might belong to a coolie's wife.”

Mariana jerked her hand away. “I am English,” she snapped. “Englishwomen do not—”

Wait. The creamy forearm she had remembered a moment ago belonged to Lady Macnaghten.

Even in this cold, dry weather, Lady Macnaghten's skin remained moist. No stray hairs marred the delicately shaped brows framing her face. Her smooth coiffure showed a hint of the auburn color Mariana had seen in her own curls after they had been treated with henna paste.

“Have you no woman servant to do these things for you?” inquired the gap-toothed aunt.

Mariana shook her head, remembering with growing comprehension the two quiet, sari-clad women who rarely left Lady Macnaghten's tent. She herself had no female servant to polish and pluck her, but, it seemed, she knew someone who did.

She reached up and touched her hair, imagining Lady Macnaghten stretched on a chaise longue in her grand tent, her dark hair falling heavily, thick with paste, over the chair's back while one of the women pressed a wad of sticky substance against her white skin, then jerked it away, tearing the hair from her arms, then her underarms, then her legs, then her—

No. Not even brave, irritating, snobbish, deliciously wicked Lady Macnaghten, who had fooled everyone but her, would do that.

Mariana studied her red hands. For all she could tell, a little judicious dyeing and oiling might not do any harm. Lady Macnaghten would, of course, notice immediately, but she would never tell. They already had one secret, after all.

At breakfast this morning, she had offered Mariana a small, private nod of greeting

For the first time since she had entered the haveli, Mariana gave her wide, unfashionable smile.

“AND NOW,” Safiya announced a little while later, “we will finish the story of the beggar prince.”

She cleared her throat and settled herself against her bolster. “The youngest prince,” she commenced, “spent the second day as he had spent the first one. After hiding his beautiful carpet behind a loose stone, he again wandered the streets of his father's city, observing rich and poor, idle and hardworking, good and evil.

“At the day's end he returned to the teashop, anxious to discover the secret of his magical carpet, but the beggar did not come. Remembering the beggar's advice to give regular charity, the prince gave his second coin to a blind woman who sat silently outside the teashop door.

“It must be admitted that the prince felt lonely. He watched sadly as men embraced each other in greeting, for he dearly missed his brothers. When chattering maidservants let down baskets over the balconies of the houses to be filled with sweetmeats for the ladies hidden upstairs, he sighed, thinking of his mother and his sisters.”

“We let a basket down from our windows,” a small boy with a shaven head put in loudly.

Safiya smiled at him, but did not reply. “That night,” she continued, “the prince spread his carpet once more, offered his evening prayer to Allah, the Lover of His Good Servants, and lay down to sleep. Again, as soon as he closed his eyes he was transported to the invisible garden, but this time, as he drifted off to sleep, he heard a sweet voice singing an exquisite, mysterious song.

“The beauty of that voice pierced the prince's heart, giving him a joy so profound that when he awoke on the third morning, he felt that his soul had become as new as the two little coins that shone on the edge of his silk carpet.

“The next day thinking only of the music he had heard the night before, the prince walked aimlessly about his father's city, waiting for the sun to set. Doubly anxious to meet the beggar, he again ate his simple meal at the teashop, but again the beggar did not come. With a sigh, the prince gave his second coin to a crippled man.

“As he lay on his magical carpet, he scarcely noticed the garden's perfumed breezes, its splashing fountains, or even the sound of its nightingale. All he cared for was that lovely, mysterious voice, for he had come to believe that it was the voice of his beloved.”

Mariana shifted on the floor. It was as evident as ever that the grown-ups in the room already knew the story of the prince and his dream. Had Safiya chosen it for her benefit, to teach her some allegorical lesson? If so, what was she supposed to learn? Could it have to do with Saboor, whom she could see playing with clay animals in the verandah? Or with Hassan?

“One evening,” Safiya went on, “a curtained litter was carried past the teashop. As it passed, the prince thought he heard a voice more beautiful than a playing fountain, whose song was more lovely and haunting than a nightingale's.

“His heart filled nearly to bursting. His beloved of the garden was near—his own beloved, whose song had filled his dreams with joy and longing

“Flinging down one of his two coins in payment for his food, he leapt into the crowded street, thinking only of seeing her face. Pushing aside cripples and beggars, he strove to reach the litter, but found his way blocked by the crowd thronging the narrow street. Mad with longing, he watched helplessly as the litter glided farther and farther away, then turned as if to leave the city.

“By the time the prince reached the great city gate that opened onto the countryside, there was no sign of a litter anywhere.

“ ‘Come inside, sir,’ called a gatekeeper, beckoning to the prince. ‘It is sunset, and we must lock up for the night.’

“ ‘O gatekeeper,’ asked the prince, ‘have you seen a litter with silken curtains pass this way?’

“ ‘No, sir, I have not,’ the gatekeeper replied gently, for he could see that the young man's heart was breaking.”

A small green lizard crept cautiously across the wall near a window. Mariana followed it with her eyes, but in her imagination Hassan stumbled to a halt outside an unfamiliar city gate, searching desperately for someone, but not for her.

Safiya sighed dramatically. “Desolate, the prince returned to the city and found his doorway. Blinded by tears, he reached behind the loose stone for his magical carpet, but it was no longer there.” She lifted her thick hands expressively. “With nowhere to go, surrounded by the shuttered silence of the city and the rank smell of its gutters, the prince offered his prayers to Allah, the Transformer of Hearts. Then, exiled from the garden of his beloved, he lay down on the stones of the doorway and wept himself to sleep.”

Little Nadir tugged at his mother's clothes. “But the prince was grown-up,” he said in a stage whisper.

“Chup,
hush,” his mother whispered back.

“When the prince awoke there were no little silver coins to greet him, but after he set off to wander the city streets, he remembered the solitary coin from the day before that had been lying forgotten in his purse.