Flowers in the Blood (33 page)

She shook her head. “No, Hayeem, there are special circumstances . . .”

“Yes?”

Silas and I remained mute.

Sighing, Grandmother Helene filled in. “As you were telling me earlier, the grounds for divorce include the presence of a physical defect in one's spouse.”

“Only if the defect refers to the inability of one member of the union to cohabit or procreate. Of course, a woman who is incapable of bearing a child, for instance, would not be considered defective as long as there was prior knowledge of the problem before the marriage.”

“Dinah,” Grandmother Helene asked in a hoarse voice, “were you aware of his problem before the wedding night?”

“Of course not,” Silas intervened.

Grandmother Helene silenced him with her eyes. “Dinah?”

“No.”

“When did you notice it?” she prompted.

“After we tried to . . . He just could not manage to—”

“This is unnecessary,” Hayeem Barook said, looking away. “No one is on trial here. Let me just say that any defect, no matter how serious, if it does not preclude the possibility of cohabitation, will not suffice to demand a divorce. As I understand it, these young people have been together only a short while. During this period there has been a move to a strange location and the death of a beloved family member.” He winked at Grandmother Helene. “I suggest that with more time . . .”

“I am convinced they will never be married in the eyes of God,” she replied firmly.

The old man's white brows arched with surprise. “Such a sad business.” He shook his head. “However, if matters stand as you say, Helene, I will do everything in my power to assist you both. It is only too easy to commence and complete a divorce under Jewish law. That is why any reputable member of the community attempts to procrastinate. Men and women change their minds, circumstances are altered, unforeseen things happen every day. I would not want either of you to regret this decision.”

We both nodded solemnly.

“The only requirement is a sufficient reason for the marriage's dissolution and, most important, mutual consent. If at any time prior to the giving of the
get
, the bill of divorcement, either of you reconsiders, your marital obligations will remain in effect.”

“There is no other choice,” Silas replied.

“And you agree with him?” Barook asked me.

“I do.”

“All right, then. I will make the arrangements with Hakham Sholomo tomorrow.”

“Won't you need to speak to my father?”

“He is not a party to this matter,” Barook replied.

“He is already so angry. Don't you think that—?”

“This is something we should handle on our own, Dinah,” Silas insisted. “Don't you see it will be better for everyone if we don't inform him until this business is over?” Silas continued earnestly, “He will have to accept a fait accompli. Otherwise he may try to manipulate us into doing something we do not want.”

“But tomorrow?” I gasped.

“Is that too soon?” Hayeem Barook asked pointedly as he suppressed a smile. He probably was thinking we still might work out our difficulties.

I thought I could use the excuse I was still in mourning for my grandmother, but what would be the advantage of prolonging the matter? I clutched the peacock brooch that clasped the collar of my jacket and gazed directly into the old man's molten eyes. “No, tomorrow would not be too soon.”

 

Hayeem Barook took us to the home of Hakham Sholomo Abid Twena, where witnesses were already assembled in a library bursting with books stacked on shelves, tables, even in the corners.

Hakham Sholomo began the proceedings in a chilly voice. “A divorce is effected by the simple means of the writing of the
get
, the signing of the
get
, and the delivering of the
get
by the husband to the wife.” He pointed to the tiny man who waited expectantly with dark eyes gleaming. “May I introduce my
sofer
, or scribe, Samuel Musleah.”

Hayeem Barook broke in and explained further. “The
get
must be written in Aramaic, and only a trained sofer can prepare it so it meets the peculiar requirements. For instance, the words must fit on one page and fill exactly twelve lines, no more, no less.”

“Why is that?” Silas asked.

“An old custom. The
gematria
, or numerical equivalent, of the word
get
is twelve.”

Silas' lips were pursed thoughtfully. For him the tension of the moment was dissipated by his curiosity. What I wanted was for the whole matter to be finished.

“Shall we begin?” Hakham Sholomo asked gently.

Silas nodded. He reached for my hand. The hakham's bright eyes followed the movement, but he did not comment.

“Do you, Silas Luddy, son of Maurice, give this
get
of your own free will without duress and compulsion?”

“Yes,” whispered Silas.

“Perhaps you have bound yourself by uttering a vow or by making any binding statement which would compel you to give a
get
against your will?”

“No, I have not,” he responded to that and several similar questions.

There was nothing for me to do, since it was the husband's responsibility to order the
get
be written. Even though the day was cool, the room soon became oppressively hot. No refreshment was offered during this transaction, which dragged on for several hours while the scribe tediously scratched out the traditional form, making some letters very tiny, others so they spread out over a wide space to fill the requisite twelve lines. At last he called the witnesses to place their marks on the document.

After Hakham Sholomo had asked if I would receive the
get
, to which I replied yes, he read it aloud. When he had finished, he looked at me and then at Silas and spoke solemnly. “Ordinarily, once the next step is taken and the
get
is delivered from the hands of the husband into the hands of the wife, the divorce is completed. However, in unusual circumstances the
get
may be written and delivered conditionally. That means it will not take effect except on fulfillment of a stipulated condition. I do not wish to embarrass either of you further, but I feel I must offer protection to any innocent party. Therefore, to be certain no issue has resulted from this union, the condition of this
get
is that it will not become final for eleven months from this date.”

I gasped and looked over at Silas. His face had taken on the impassive mask I remembered from our first meeting.

Hakham Sholomo then reached into his pocket for a pair of scissors and cut the four corners of the parchment. “This is to ensure that no paper can be substituted. I will keep the pieces as proof of what has occurred here this morning. You will both receive written statements that certify that your marriage has been dissolved according to the requirements of Jewish law, but these will not be delivered for eleven months, as I have already explained.”

No pleasantries accompanied our departure. Outside, our carriage was waiting, and as we stepped up into it, I thought: How odd for us to be driving off together. “Do you think we should have planned for two carriages?” I asked, half-jesting.

“Symbolic perhaps, but not practical. After all, we don't dislike each other.”

“There was hardly time to get to like each other!” I laughed, not meaning any offense.

Silas also seemed amused, but his response was more serious. “I will never forget you, Dinah. I hope we can remain friends.”

“I have no hard feelings.”

“May I write to you?”

“I will always welcome your letters.”

“And may I help support you?”

“You have no responsibility for me any longer.”

“Helene Arakie's argument was sensible, and they tell me that many men do.”

“I can understand it being necessary if there were a child or if the woman had no place to go, but not in my case.”

“It is considered a
mitzvah
, a good deed, and it would help me repent for marrying you when I never intended to leave Euclid.”

“I do not want to feel beholden to you.”

“All I ask is for you not to be too hasty in turning me down. Your father has not been appeased, and now you will have almost a year before you can change your situation. Besides, he may be even more upset once he hears we did the deed behind his back.”

I puffed up righteously. “You are the one who insisted he had no say in the matter.”

“He may see it differently, at least at first.”

“Perhaps, but he would never throw me out.”

“Just leave the option open. I will always be there if you need me. The eleven months hardly matter in my case. Certainly I shall never marry again.” He looked at me steadily. “I hope the delay shall not be a hardship for you.”

“Have you seen any suitors lining up at Theatre Road?”

“You may be surprised.”

The carriage was pulling up at Grandmother Helene's gate. Silas helped me down and spoke close to my ear, “So, it is over.”

“Yes,” I murmured.

“And it was not so awful as you expected.”

“No,” I agreed, wondering why I felt no different than I had this morning. I entered the vestibule and smelled the familiar ginger and lemon scent. Grandmother Helene stood at the top of the staircase, wearing the same blue gown she had worn to see us off. Silas gave her a modest wave while I stood numbly by his side, thinking the world had not changed either. It was the same huge incomprehensible sphere that spun on its axis and revolved about the burning sun despite what had happened to me that day or would happen to me the next.

21

 

I
n the span of a few months I had gone from daughter to wife to . . . what? Living with Grandmother Helene, I lacked an identity. Worse, I seemed an outcast. To my surprise, redemption came from an unlikely quarter.

Zilpah, for all her faults—or the faults I attributed to her in those days—lived by a religious code which defined for her what should and should not be done in almost any circumstance. This comprised more than the primary aspects of ritual, dietary proscriptions, and prayer. Above all was family harmony.

I do not know what she said to my father. In fact, I do not know exactly how he learned of my divorce. All I remember is that on the day Silas left for Darjeeling, she arrived at Grandmother Helene's house and told me she had come to fetch me home. My adopted grandmother, who probably conspired in this reconciliation, slipped from the room after a few minutes of polite chatter.

“Zilpah, I appreciate your offer, but perhaps if we give my father more time . . .”

My stepmother's face was unusually pliant. “As you know, your father sometimes reacts first, thinks next, regrets last. Perhaps I understand him because he reminds me of my own father. The trouble is, those characteristics benefit a soldier more than a parent.”

“He has never admitted to me that he has regretted anything.”

“Parents feel they must be above confusion and error so their children will feel secure.”

I wanted to turn from her gaze, but her dark eyes flashed with such intensity I forced myself to meet it.

“Maybe this is the time I should admit my blame in the choice of your husband,” she continued. “I was the one who suggested to your father that he look for a match away from Calcutta. I introduced the Luddys to him. Though I did not know Silas very well—he always kept to himself—I had heard rumors that he was an odd sort of fellow with unconventional ideas. When he built that strange house near Tiger Hill, the town gossiped for a year. On the other hand, I too was an outsider—first as a Jew, second as a Bene Israel. Neither the Indian nor the Jewish community accepted me, so that may be why I was sympathetic to someone whom society might have scorned unfairly. Just because someone preferred to live independently, just because someone's tastes were more scholarly than social, was no reason to condemn the man. For your sake, I should have explored some of the rumors—rumors I hastily attributed to bigots—but I was convinced that we had stumbled upon the perfect man for you. And if it had not been for his . . . peculiarity, you might have agreed with me.”

“Do you think I should have stayed with him?”

“You had no other choice.” Zilpah spoke with the elegant diction that humbled me. “After he thought the matter over, your father came to see your side. You accepted the match with the expectation that you would do your utmost to make it a success.”

“What will become of me?” I said, trying to cover my plea with a brave smile.

“The worst days are behind you. In the meantime, I would be pleased to have your company, since your father is about to go off again in a few months. Together we can explore what might be over the horizon.”

“I don't know—”

“You would be much more comfortable at Theatre Road.”

“No, that is not what I meant. I would like to live with my family again, but I am not certain I could enjoy being inactive.”

“Then we shall find something for you to do,” she promised warmly.

For the first time in my life I believed her.

 

“You will have to look farther than Darjeeling to find someone who does not know of either calamity” was Aunt Bellore's comment when she paid a house call the day after I returned home. She came dressed in a shiny black satin suit with flounces at the wrong places, and a slippery sound accompanied her every movement.

“Thank you for the advice,” my father said with the hint of a sneer. He showed his sister into the smallest of our drawing rooms, where Zilpah and I had been teaching Seti and Ruby a card game. Zilpah hurried the younger girls away so they would not hear whatever might fall from her sister-in-law's venomous tongue.

“I am only thankful that our parents have not lived to see the day when someone in this family would be a party to a divorce. Zilpah should have known better. After all, she knew about the Luddys.”

“That’s not true” I said defending Zilpah. “Nobody guessed his secret.” I astonished myself by standing up for my stepmother, and my father's eyes shone with gratitude.

Aunt Bellore sat herself in the place Zillah had been sitting, her dress swishing like a burst of steam as her bulk settled down. “And what is this business about having to wait a year?” She stared at me coldly.

“Eleven months,” my father corrected.

“There is something fishy about this whole business, but who cares for my opinion?” She glanced back at her brother. “Eleven months or eleven years, you had better start combing the bushes, because this girl isn't getting any younger. My Sultana will make me a grandmother in a few months, and my Abigail will be wedded before Dinah gets another chance.”

Zilpah, who had just returned, remained standing in the doorway. “Bellore, please, why can't you think of the child's feelings for once?”

“Well, then, Dinah,” Aunt Bellore said to me, “what do you feel about this?”

As my father raised his hand to silence his sister, I jumped in with a reply coated in honey: “I feel fortunate to have the support of my family. Besides, I am not anxious to contract another marriage.”

“At least, considering everything you went through, not immediately,” Zilpah said with an exaggerated sympathy that she hoped would defuse my aunt’s vitriol.

When Abdul arrived carrying a tray of tea, even I noticed the pot was of china, not silver, and that bread and butter were all that accompanied the beverage. He began to arrange the plates on the small table in front of Aunt Bellore, a space far too small to lay out a proper spread. Normally Zilpah would have suggested we retire to the hall to” eat, but she seemed determined to go on with the clumsy arrangement. The conversation did not continue until Abdul, after doing his best to find a place for everything, had taken up his station in the vestibule.

“Now what will you do with yourself?” Aunt Bellore prodded.

“I thought I might teach at the Jewish Girls' School,” I answered stiffly.

“What are you trying to do, make yourself completely unmarriageable?” Zilpah opened her mouth, but Aunt Bellore's next volley silenced her. “Not many women in your position would stand by such a difficult stepdaughter the way you have, Zilpah, but it is time Dinah came down off her cloud. Unless she becomes an observant young woman with modest habits, she can look forward to being a spinster who is always pitied and lives off the charity of first her parents and later her brothers.”

“No daughter of mine need fear that end!” my father bellowed. “She is richer in her own right than you are, my dear sister.”

What did he mean? Aunt Bellore lived in a mansion that was easily a match for Theatre Road. She had inherited more jewels and fine furniture than the brothers. Her husband had a key position in the Sassoon enterprises. Even so, she sputtered, then whitened.

I pretended not to have noticed. “Aunt Bellore is right, Papa. If I worked at the Jewish Girls' School, everybody would be reminded of my predicament. My first duty is to the family.”

“That is better,” my aunt replied in an artificially soothing tone.

Zilpah and my father exchanged puzzled glances.

“We will talk about your future later.” My father stood up. “Now I must return to work.”

“Good, for I have an idea that shall please each of you,” I said enigmatically to his back as he left the room.

 

Several days passed before I had the opportunity to present my plan to my father. For some reason he was away before I came downstairs in the morning and home either so late that I did not want to approach the subject or too surrounded by the other children for me to have him to myself. I might have hinted that I wished to speak with him privately, but my goal was to catch him off-guard. The thought that he might have been avoiding me did occur, but I was not daunted. The important factor was to present my concept in a businesslike fashion and, no matter how provoked I might be by his response, to counter his concerns with logic, not emotion.

The seed of this idea had germinated ever since I decided I could not remain in Darjeeling, yet I had not been certain how the shoot would develop until Aunt Bellore's vile attack provided the fertilizer. My first plan, to teach school, was flawed, for there would be many obstacles to overcome for little gain. My second, which had congealed as Aunt Bellore fumed and scoffed, had layers of possibilities. The only difficulty lay in convincing my father to agree to set it in motion.

After five days of waiting, I finally caught him at breakfast.

“Good morning, Dinah,” he said, beaming. “How pleasant to see you up this early.”

“Good morning, Papa,” I replied, trying not to let on that he knew that I knew we had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. “Ever since Darjeeling I have found it difficult to sleep late.”

“Why is that?”

“Silas had a custom of awakening at dawn to see the snowy peaks.”

Papa crunched his toast nervously. Any mention of Silas was more discomfiting for him than for me. I busied myself with my fruit cup until he wiped his chin and asked, “Well, what is on your mind, Dinah?”

“I would like to discuss my prospects for the future.”

“Of course, whenever you like,” he said, shifting in his seat as though he were about to rise.

“Now would be convenient for me.”

“Well . . .” he demurred as Zilpah glided into the room. He smiled at her, then glanced back at my frown. “I have a splendid idea,” he said, glancing up at his wife. “Would you object if I took Dinah to lunch, my dear?”

“Not at all, except you promised I could have the phaeton.”

“If you don't mind, Dinah, I'll send the office jaun at noon,” he said, apologizing for the common vehicle he used for getting around the city.

“I'd like that,” I said buoyantly. “You know the funny poem, don't you?”

“I don't believe I do,” he said, rising to his feet.

I grinned up at him, and quoted, “ 'Who did not know that office jaun of pale pomona green/ With its drab and yellow lining, and picked out black between.' “

My father laughed. “You are in a fine mood today.” And before I could ask where we would be going, he hurried from the room.

The syce drove me to meet my father at the Castellazzo Brothers' restaurant, a place I had heard about but had never been to before. I shivered with anticipation when I saw my father waiting in front of a colonnaded building that later became one of Calcutta's most famous restaurants, Firpo's.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sassoon,” greeted the burly man who opened the door. “Your usual table, sir?”

“Today I would prefer something on the veranda, Mario,” Papa said under his breath.

We were led upstairs to the corner table nearest the Grand Hotel. Without even asking, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses were placed before us.

“Does he expect you to drink the whole bottle?” I asked.

“See this mark on the label? At the end of the meal the waiter will measure the difference with his thumb, you'll see.”

“Do you come here often?”

“My brothers and I frequent the place. I have never brought Zilpah here,” he said, knowing this would please me enormously. I hadn't felt so close to him since our trip to Patna, more than half my lifetime ago.

“Where do you usually sit?”

“Downstairs, in the front section. I like to see who is going and coming.” He opened his menu and suggested omelets and potatoes. Then he straightened his back and gave me his full attention. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about how you might occupy yourself during this, ah, awkward period. Knowing how much you like school, I was thinking you might like to go off to one near Simla and—”

I cut him off. “No, I have had enough of the hills.”

He leaned back and rolled his neck as if to relieve some stiffness. “We might consider England. More and more young ladies your age are continuing their studies, and as you know, some British young women go to school abroad.”