Flowers in the Blood (18 page)

 

I did not yet realize the seriousness of my predicament. I wept for weeks, not just for Gabriel, but at the terrible truth of Aunt Bellore's perfidy. In the end, the bitter gall at losing him to Sultana was dissipated by Gabriel himself. A few days after the engagement was announced, his sister, Masuda, brought me a letter from him.

“Gabriel was going to tell you the news himself, but our mother wouldn't let him,” she said sullenly. “I wanted you for a sister, not her!”

“We will still be friends, and now you will be part of the family,” I said with more civility than I felt.

As soon as I was alone I read Gabriel's quotations from Horace:

Delicta maiorum immeritus lues.

For the sins of your sires, albeit you had no hand in them, you must suffer.

His message made me feel vindicated. I wished him well and wanted him to know this. Masuda was more than willing to give him my reply, a gem I found in Virgil's
Eclogue:

Non equidem invideo, miror magis.

As for me I grudge thee not—rather I marvel!

This should have been the end of our private communication, but to my surprise, I found one last missive tucked under my door the morning of his marriage. Catullus was to have the last word:

Sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti
,

In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.

What a woman says to her ardent lover

ought to be written in wind and running water.

As Gabriel, flanked by his parents, made his way toward the
huppah
to consecrate his union, he caught my eye. With the slightest of gestures I acknowledged him, thrilled to be reminded I had been his first choice.

I was able to hold my head high through the agonizingly long festivities until late in the day. I remained on the outskirts of the circle of Sultana's friends, thinking if she did not see me, she could not gloat. All the same, I heard exclamations as Sultana showed off her wedding band and the solitary diamond at her throat that had been a gift from Gabriel's family. Then she held up her arm, and I caught sight of a double strand of pearls which formed a bracelet.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Masuda murmured.

“My mother saved it for my wedding day,” Sultana gushed.

I tried to get closer for a better look, but Sultana moved on to another group. My head began to pound. I was seething with curiosity about the bracelet's origin, for something in that flash of a wrist had triggered a memory.

 

My last year at school was fairly dull. As the eldest student, I taught more than I studied. I began looking forward to the school's Prize Day. How proud I expected my family to be when they saw I would be honored with every top award.

The Sunday before school ended, a special luncheon was planned, to which both Grandmother Helene and Grandmother Flora were invited. After the meal, the other children—even Jonah and Pinhas—were sent away. My father and Zilpah had spoken little to each other across the table, but as soon as they were side by side on the way to the hall, they began whispering to each other. I saw nothing unusual in that; the intensity of their relationship had never altered.

Abdul brought everyone a brandy and soda, and nobody refused one, not even Grandmother Flora, who rarely took hard spirits.

“Would you care to try one, Dinah?” my father offered for the first time.

Reveling in my new adult status, I accepted immediately. The taste tickled, then burnt, but I determined I would finish it. Just then my father took his seat beside his wife—opposite me—and looked so grim my stomach contracted, almost rejecting the brandy. What was wrong? Then I thought I knew: they had discovered my last communications with Gabriel and were going to chastise me en masse. I clutched the stem of the glass and decided against drinking any more until the dreadful sensations subsided.

“As you know, your mother and I, your grandmother, and the others who care about your welfare have kept our word not to make plans for your future until you completed your studies. However, preliminary inquiries on your behalf were made, and the most influential
dilallas
—matchmakers—were consulted.”

I watched Zilpah's face for a signal. When she dropped her eyes as he said the last words, I began to tremble. Whom had they chosen? Someone who would put Sultana's match to shame? I did not care; I only prayed it would be someone I could love.

“And so . . .” My father faltered.

My heart beat with happy expectation. I realized this was the moment I had been waiting for—that every girl waits for—my entire life.

Zilpah looked at him beseechingly. I could see they were both bursting with the news, but she was allowing him to be the bearer. When he could not continue, she looked up and said, “There are no prospects.” Her face was blank. “None at all.”

“Not exactly true—” my father started in a shaky tone.

“Please, Benu, those were insults, not offers,” she spat.

“Well . . .” I began, thinking they were probably much too particular. “Who are they?”

Grandmother Flora shook her head, warning my father not to reply.

“Dinah has a right to know.” He took a long swallow from his glass.

Before he could begin, Zilpah interrupted him. “Your father and I thought the most appropriate match for you, because of your maturity and your—shall we say—strong character, might have been a man somewhat older than yourself, a man of experience and substance. Not an easy category, since most men in our community marry young, but we thought we might find someone who had been educated abroad, or someone active in his trade, or even a widower. Unfortunately, nobody met our requirements,” she said, lying, since I would soon discover these eligible men had rejected me flatly. “Next we looked at the young men your age, boys like Gabriel Judah and his friends.”

My father shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

I put down my glass and gripped the sides of, the armchair.
Nobody
would have me? How could this be true? Wasn't I head girl at school? Wasn't I rich, with a dowry that would eclipse that of any girl of my generation? I thought of those boys they might have overlooked: the less attractive, the ones from poorer homes, the ones I would never have considered two years or even two hours ago. I listed the least desirable boys at St. Xavier's. “What about Aboodi Belilios, Ellis Silman, Immanuel Duek, Hayeem Arzooni?” After each name, my father shook his head pathetically.

“Not even Immanuel Duek? Who, then?” I staggered forward. “Who?”

Zilpah pushed me back into my chair. With her hand pressing my shoulder she kept me in my seat. “Do you remember Isaac Shooker?”

“I don't think so.”

“You know,” Grandmother Helene assisted, “the brass vendor at Barabazar.”

“He's a cripple! He's—”

“The best offer.” Zilpah's whisper grated.

“A generous Jew,” Grandmother Helene offered.

“Younger than you might think—he's in his twenties,” Grandmother Flora added.

Zilpah seemed grateful for the support. “His mother was from a good family.”

I gave both grandmothers horrified stares. “How could either of you . . . ?”

Grandmother Helene threw up her hands. “Isaac Shooker makes the others look like princes.”

“The others?” My head snapped back and hit the back rail of the chair. Stunned for a second, I rubbed my head and stared from person to person. Each avoided my eyes. “Who else, Nani?” I demanded, knowing she could not deceive me.

Grandmother Flora modulated her disgust. “The Tosters' idiot son and two men who have children older than you.”

I gave an incredulous laugh. A cripple, an idiot, and two decrepit widowers?

Nani spoke to the hideous silence. “Don't worry, Dinah. We are not asking you to accept Mr. Shooker, or any of them. Better no marriage than a bad marriage.”

Grandmother Helene forced herself to sound optimistic. “There will be other possibilities. When the parents of the boys have time to compare your dowry with the others, they will come around. Stupidity and superstition are the first response; reason will follow.”

“Yes, yes,” my father added. “Too many women are permitted to interfere with these arrangements. I shall talk to some of the fathers privately. They shall see the sense in my generous offer. They shall—”

I cut him off. “How long will this take?”

“I thought you were in no rush to marry.” Zilpah's tone was a challenge I might have met if my status had been stronger. Instead I quailed.

“In the meantime, what would you like to do?” Nani wondered.

“I suppose I could teach. Already I tutor some afternoons. I'm certain I could get a position and—”

“Hush,” Zilpah ordered. “You talk nonsense. Do you want to wear a signboard announcing: 'spinster'?”

“What else could I do?” I asked weakly.

“Hold your head high and continue to behave like a lady,” she replied. “We have not given up yet. Your father and your grandmother have agreed to a plan of mine. There might be some possibilities . . .” She trailed off.

Under any other circumstance I would have begged her to tell me what she was thinking. At that moment, I did not want to know.

 

There was a subdued celebration for my graduation. I knew my family felt that my academic honors—which had been handed out by the vicereine, the Marchioness of Landsdowne—not only did not make up for my unpopular status but also might contribute to my unsuitability, since I was better educated than many of the men who might have considered me.

Two of my schoolmates married within a few weeks. They did not invite me to their weddings. As the summer heat descended like a claustrophobic cloak, I retreated into the world of books while my father and his wife prepared for their annual return to Darjeeling. Ever since our aborted trip because of illness, we children had not been asked to accompany them to the hills. This was their time to visit Zilpah's mother (“My
third
mother-in-law,” Papa groaned to me privately). For the past few summers I had resented this exclusive aspect to marriage, feeling as though they were escaping the heat at our expense. This year I was happy to be free from their disappointed expressions.

A week after their departure, Dr. Hyam sent a message asking me to call on my grandmother. Propped in a cane chair to permit air to circulate, she cooled her feet in buckets. A punkah-wallah worked double time to keep the stagnant air moving.

One look at her face, which was so swollen her eyes seemed mere slits in doughy flesh, and I nearly collapsed with fright. “What has happened?”

She barely moved her bloated lips. Her voice was distorted and mushy. “I'm an old lady, that's all. I can no longer tolerate the heat.”

“You should go to a hill station.”

“The altitude would make matters worse.”

“What about Gopalpur, at the seaside, where many of the Sassoons go?”

“No, no, I will manage. Will you stay with me, Dinah?”

“There is nothing I would rather do.”

If it weren't for Nani's miseries, the next weeks would have been pleasant ones. When my grandmother did not need me—which was most of the time, since servants tended her needs—I assisted in the dispensary. Finding the doctor's records and bills disorganized, I fashioned envelopes to hold the charts for his more frequent patients and combined the remaining by alphabet and then by symptom. I made lists of the accounts he had to pay and the receipts due him. To those who had not paid, I sent a reminder letter attaching a detailed list of dates and fees.

Dr. Hyam was amazed at how much money was collected in so short a time. “A pity you aren't a man, Dinah. You would do splendidly out in the world.”

I had written my father that I was caring for my grandmother, and since he had not replied, I assumed he had no objections. Two weeks later, his gharry pulled up to the door of the Lower Chitpur Road clinic. When I saw him, I leapt to my feet. “Papa!”

“How is your grandmother?” he asked kindly.

“Better today. She slept well last night. At first we thought she was only suffering from the heat, but now Dr. Hyam thinks it might be her heart.” I rushed to defend myself: “That's why he wants me here with her. I sleep in her room at night. He doesn't trust a servant to know if she needs attention, so—”