Flowers in the Blood (28 page)

 

The next two days—the eighth and ninth, including my wedding day to my silent count—passed quietly. I read a book on Indian art of the Moghul period, a subject that did not engage my full attention. After tiffin on Wednesday, I asked Silas if I might see a book of Coleridge's poems. “I would like to read
Kubla Khan
for myself,” I said.

A shadow crossed his face. “I thought I asked Euclid to put the book in your room the other day. I'll remind him now.”

Silas was gone longer than I had expected, and he returned agitated. “I did not bring home all of the documents I need, so Euclid and I will have to return to the town.”

I would have enjoyed another excursion, but only replied, “I'll be fine. Don't concern yourself about me.”

Euclid brought the book to me as I sat out on the sunny veranda. I thanked him, but the surly expression on his face did not change.

“Do you like Coleridge?” I asked, to see if I might get a warmer response.

“Silas is the one who cares for poetry,” he replied, backing away.

I took a deep breath and looked up to the snows, which had receded into the line of clouds for the afternoon. Contenting myself with the purple ridges of the foreground hills, the swaying cedars, and the bright pots of geraniums that bloomed on the posts, I read and reread the poem, trying to discover what Silas had meant about opium. The words were seductive and wonderfully evocative of the setting in which I now lived. Xanadu Lodge was a splendid name for the house, yet I could not understand why the poem seemed disjointed, almost as though it had two separate parts with different rhythms. A good question for Silas, I thought, pleased I would have something to discuss at dinner.

Scanning
The Ancient Mariner
, I mused about something else altogether. Silas and Euclid had been gone less than an hour. They would just be arriving in Darjeeling . . . so there was plenty of time. I strolled around the house. The servants were downstairs for their afternoon rest, and nobody would bother me unless I pulled one of the silken ropes that rang their bells.

I opened the door to Silas' room. I had been inside only once, when he had showed me the house. Otherwise, when he closed that door, he was in his private sanctum. I felt a momentary twinge that I might be trespassing, until I reminded myself this was also my home. The books on the shelves were arranged by a system I had not yet deciphered. Small cards lettered in flowery calligraphy stuck out at various points to indicate sections: classics, poetry, art, history, flora, fauna, and so on. The book for which I was searching fitted in none of these categories. I was about to undertake a volume-by-volume check when I saw several books on the table beside the bed. I glanced at the titles on the spines:
The Bhagavad Gita; Narrative of a Journey Through the Upper Provinces of India, from Calcutta to Bombay
, by Reginald Heber;
Titian's Son
, by Alfred de Musset;
Treatise on the Remedies of Good and Bad Fortune
, by Francesco Petrarch; and there, on the very bottom, was a slender blue volume:
The Kama Sutra!
Tucking it under my arm, I rushed to my own room.

The index itself stunned me. It extended from the “Arrangements of a house and household furniture” and “The classes of women fit and unfit for congress” to “The kinds of love” to “On kissing” to “On pressing and marking with the nails” to “On biting.” Biting? I flipped the pages forward, eagerly reading the eight styles:

The hidden bite

The swollen bite

The point

The line of points

The coral and the jewel

The line of jewels

The broken cloud

The biting of the boar.

The boar? “The biting which consists of many broad marks . . . with red intervals . . .” I should have found this distasteful, even frightening, yet I was stirred as I wondered why a man and a woman might find this appealing.

The next chapter, “On the Various Ways of Lying Down, and the Kinds of Congress,” offered practical advice. I figured out that
yoni
referred to a woman's private parts and
lingam
meant the man's, but how they went together was more perplexing. “When the legs of both the male and the female are stretched out over each other, it is called the 'clasping position.' “ Giving this and other possibilities some thought, I could imagine how the act might be accomplished, but later in the chapter some suggestions were beyond me. “When one of her legs is placed on the head, and the other is stretched out, it is called the 'fixing of a nail.' “ Realizing the time was growing short, I skipped a few chapters—to my eternal regret, for if I had read the few pages under the title “Auparishtaka,” I might have saved myself much confusion and pain later. Instead, I studied the section “About the Acquisition of a Wife,” with particular emphasis on the first days after marriage, to see what Silas might have in store for me. There were elaborate instructions for gaining a girl's confidence, leading up to the “shampooing of the thighs” before the actual congress. I was hoping that Silas would not be trying to duplicate this millennium-old instruction guide too faithfully, when words in the last paragraph captivated me:

A man does not succeed either by implicitly following the inclination of a girl or by wholly opposing her, and he should therefore adopt a middle course. He who knows how to make himself beloved by women, as well as to increase their honor . . . becomes an object of their love. But he who neglects a girl, thinking she is too bashful, is despised by her as a beast ignorant of the working of the female mind.

Did Silas' neglect mean that he thought me too bashful? Was he “an ignorant beast”? I felt more confused than before. Suddenly I noticed that only a mauve light streaked in through the window. What time was it? I clasped the book and tiptoed into the hall. Gulliver was lighting the lamps. I almost hurried back to my room, until I asked myself what harm might there be in letting a servant see me enter my husband's empty chamber when all I was doing was returning a” book. With my head held high, I completed my errand. As I came out into the drawing room, I heard the rattle of tonga wheels on the pebble drive.

 

Euclid was laughing. As I went to meet my husband, his assistant's smile dissolved. Without a word of greeting to me, he ducked downstairs. Kissing me on the cheek, Silas handed me a packet of letters. “There are several from Calcutta for you, and for us both, an invitation to the last ball of the season at Government House. Would you care to attend?”

“Would you?”

“When I was a bachelor, I was needed to round out the numbers, but I have never found much stimulation at such events. Frankly, I'm a. bit of an outsider in these parts.”

“I have always been an outsider as well.”

“There are two types of outsiders, though. Some, like my Nepalese mother, are immediately outsiders by birth or circumstance. Her solution was to get in the middle and eventually wind up running the show. Others, like me, who are born in the limelight, choose to distance themselves and remain on the sidelines.”

“We do not have to go on my account,” I replied, masking my disappointment with an uneasy grin.

“You would have no objections?”

“Not if you would rather stay at home.”

“Usually I would, but not this time. I have spent so many years disappointing my hostesses, they are most eager to see the young lady who finally won my heart.” He winked. “Funny, after all this time, the 'fishing parties' never figured out I would only marry a Jewish girl.”

“What's a fishing party?”

“Oh, you know, those girls who come out from England—especially during the hot weather—to 'fish' for a husband. They flock to the hill stations, where the men are so lonely—or shall I say so desperate?—that even a lady who has no grace or wit can be transformed into the belle of the ball.”

“What I do not understand,” I began, hoping he would catch the sarcasm in my tone, “is why, with so many 'desperate men,' they would need to drag in a reluctant partygoer.”

“Ah, but you see, the poor blokes who man the hill stations are drab soldier boys who do little to fuel the fantasies of the fisherwomen.” His lilt blended in with my tease, so I was confident he had not taken my words amiss. How I was enjoying this easy banter!

“Did you break many hearts?”

“A few, I suppose.”

“Then, if we go to the party, I shall have to watch my back.”

“Would you like to go?”

“Yes, if you would.”

“The end of the season is worth a celebration. It is always a relief when Darjeeling reverts to the natives. Besides, it's an excellent opportunity for you to find yourself a good ladies' maid.”

“Lucretia suits me, if she is willing.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

I could tell he was pleased as he accepted a drink from his bearer's silver tray. “A brandy for you this evening?”

I shook my head.

“A lemonade?”

I nodded to Gulliver.

“Did you read the book?”

The
Kama Sutra
came to my mind, and I flushed.

“The Coleridge,” he prompted.

“Oh, yes!” I gasped with relief.

“And . . .” He waited for my reaction.

“I am still perplexed,” I said, trying to sound intelligent as I questioned him about the oddness of the poem.

“I agree the rhyme scheme is neither like a stanza nor an ode,” he began, relaxing as he lapsed into a pedantic lecture. “In fact, the poem creates conflict among scholars. Almost everything about it is known, except what the damn thing is about!” He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. Standing in front of the center window, he stared up at the mountains. In the lilac twilight, a few snow streamers spewed out from Kanchenjunga. The other peaks were glowing crimson wisps.

“The milk of Paradise . . .”

He grinned. “What about it?”

“How did Coleridge know about opium? I thought that mostly the Chinese took it and . . .” I was reminded of my mother and stumbled. “. . . others in the East.”

“Many artists of his day spent a considerable part of their lives in a cloud of poppy smoke, dreaming the dreams they so brilliantly reproduced for us, so it is not surprising that Coleridge would herald opium as 'a spot of enchantment, a green spot of fountain and flowers and trees in the very heart of a waste of sands!' “ His voice rose with an ecstatic ring that alarmed me. No matter what anyone said about the benefits of opium, I could never forget the part it had played in my mother's downfall.

“I am surprised that so eminent a writer as Coleridge would have taken opium—and more surprised he admitted it.”

“What do you know about opium, Dinah?”

“Quite a bit about the plant, its cultivation—I've been to Patna—and something about the trading difficulties.”

“I meant its usage.”

“For pain . . . it cures diseases . . . also may make men happy . . .”I parroted my father's words from long ago, although I had never understood how the poppy plant managed these congenial alterations when it had the opposite effect on so many.

“They say Coleridge wrote the poem in a dream. However, one cannot write while, one sleeps.”

I took the tall glass from Gulliver and drank a few long swallows while Silas went on.

“So the 'dream' is said to be the visions Coleridge had during an opiate trance.” He stared at me. “You know nothing of why men take opium over and over, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Have you ever seen someone smoking?”

“Yes.”

“Your father?”

“No! He never does.”

Silas waited.

I hardly remembered my mother, except filmy images. Mostly I recalled her on the chaise, the beautiful inlaid hookah, the laxness in her mouth, her eyes half-closed, her gown hanging in sleepy folds, her limp hand stroking me, and the smoke . . . the sweet smoke curling around her head.

“When I was very little . . .” I mumbled. “I saw some people use it.”

“How did they seem?”

“Quiet, sleepy, somewhat confused. I didn't like the smell of the smoke.”

“Have you tried it?”

Alarmed, I spilled my drink. “Never.” I let Gulliver mop the floor, but waved him away when he asked if he should replace my glass. I felt a chill and drew nearer the hearth.