Flowers in the Blood (36 page)

Sensing his patience was waning, I spoke in a rush. “That is only one of my reports. I have several others you might want to look over. The figures are too complicated to memorize.”

“I should hope so.” He beamed and set down his glass. He opened his mouth to say something else, but I jumped in.

“Before I finish, I think you will be pleased that, with the fifteen-percent increase in the number of chests and the seven-percent decrease in price—and if the costs of selling have remained constant—there was a six-percent increase in profits last year.”

My father's smile vanished. “May I ask how you calculated profits, my dear?”

I looked down at the snowy tablecloth, which was now stained by drips from wine and red sauce from noodles. The grisly patches blurred as I blinked back tears. “I used a textbook figure of one hundred and fifty percent of the cost of sales,” I said, skirting the specific figure I had heard from Uncle Jacob, “so I could put the increases and decreases into perspective, and I kept our costs the same from three years ago, after checking there had not been any significant changes from the shipping or tax ledgers.”

My father laughed obligingly. “That is one textbook I would like to read.” I dared to look into his eyes, and found them without judgment. “Anything further?”

For a moment I felt as if I had been untruthful with him—and myself. I swallowed hard. “Do you ever . . . ?”

“Yes?” He was drumming his fingers again.

“Do you ever worry that people will stop needing so much Indian opium?”

“There are ninety million Chinese opium users, and few ever give it up once they start,” he said, the tautness around his mouth increasing.

“What if they grow their own?”

“Even if they plant half their fields with poppies, they will require more and more. Of course, Patna is the finest grade in the world. You mustn't concern yourself about ending up on the street someday.”

“That wasn't what I was thinking about.”

“What is it, then?” he said with a hint of impatience creeping into his tone.

“Don't you ever . . . ?”

“Yes?” His expression was somber, yet soft. This was the moment to ask what was on my mind.

“Do you think there is anything wrong with selling opium?” I blurted out.

“Whatever brought this on?” he asked benevolently.

“Some people may not benefit from the product,” I gulped.

My father diverted his gaze from mine. “As I said before, there are millions of opium users.” He tapped the bottle on the table. “And millions of wine drinkers. Certainly we would be healthier if we drank only spring water and breathed pure air, but that is not the nature of the beast.” He poured himself some more wine and took a lingering sip. “Besides, my brothers and I are not any more accountable for the weaknesses of others who indulge in too much of our smoke than one of the Castellazzo brothers is if I am foolish enough to belt down this whole bottle. What we are responsible for is the thousands of workers— from the peasants in Patna to the merchants in China— who depend on our business to feed them and their families. One doesn't halt growing a crop or dispense with a whole trade because of the stupidity of some abusers.” Unexpectedly he reached across the table and clinked my wineglass with his own. “Oh, Dinah, I shall be so sorry to lose you again.”

What on earth did that mean? I held my breath while the waiters cleared our plates and served fragile pastry cornucopias filled with lemon pudding. Half-moons of mango dusted with pink sugar decorated the plate. At any other time I would have been enchanted with the treat, but now I began to perspire with dread.

Papa pulled his hand back and poked at his dessert. He did not lift the fork to his lips until he muttered the beginning of his explanation. “I may have found another possibility . . .” With his attention focused on me instead of what he was doing, he took a hesitant bite, and flakes of pastry crumbled down the front of his waistcoat. He did not brush them away.

“Who?” was all I managed to utter.

“A young man from Cochin. You know where that is, don't you?” He pressed back some damp locks above his ears with his manicured fingertips. “A most agreeable port south of Bombay.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No, but it has a fine reputation, especially among Jews. The Jewish community has been there far longer than in Calcutta. Many families date themselves back to the 1400's, when they came over to escape persecution in Spain.”

How could I tell him I did not want a black Jew for myself without insulting him and Zilpah? Or, considering my predicament, was that the only alternative?

“Now, these Jews are not Bene Israels,” he said, as though he had been reading my mind.

“How did this come about?” I asked as the first clutch of fear brought on by the unanticipated news lessened its grip. My abdomen relaxed and I was even able to let a cool mango slice slip down my tight throat.

“How did the first Jews get to Cochin?” he asked, confused.

“No, how did you hear about this man?”

“In Hong Kong I became reacquainted with someone who handles some Sassoon business in that region. He is primarily a spice merchant,” he said as an afterthought.

Poking at the pastry, I waited for him to continue.

“Anyway, this man—his name is Elisha Salem—has a nephew who he says would consider a Calcutta girl.”

Especially someone with a dowry like mine, I thought to myself. Before I could wipe away my scowl, my father continued deliberately, “I assumed you would be more intrigued with my news. You do want to remarry and live a normal life, don't you?”

I forced a weak smile. “I hadn't expected anything so soon, since . . . well, since I am not yet free to marry, and—” Another odor from the kitchen, something incompatible with creamy puddings, wafted past. Perspiration dotted my brow, and I had to lower my head.

“Are you all right?” he asked with tender concern.

“The heat,” I mumbled.

“Not a smart idea to bring you here today, was it?” He rolled his napkin, dipped it in his water glass, and wrung it out on the spattered cloth. “Here, place this behind your neck. Let some drip down your back as well. Nobody will notice.” The coolness did relieve me to the point I could sit upright again. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so.” A few sips of water revived me further.

“Good. The red wine didn't help matters. As I said, we should stick with water!”

“Have you told Zilpah?”

He blotted his own brow. “I thought you should hear the news first. If you had any serious objections, I would not pursue the matter, thus there would be no point in getting Zilpah's hopes up. You know how anxious she is for you to be settled and happy, especially since she blames herself for that unfortunate Luddy business.”

“Thank you for speaking to me first,” I said evenly. “I can only think of one objection, Papa. Darjeeling was far away, but I could return to Calcutta in a few days. Cochin is the other side of the subcontinent.”

My father looked at me with a profound sadness in his eyes. “I know, my child,” he sighed with despair. “Life is often both the closing and the opening of doors.”

“Yes, if you shut one to block out an unpleasantness, the next one opens a whole new group of problems,” I said with a rueful laugh.

“Have you considered the possibility that happy surprises may lie behind one of them?” He had forced a lilt in his voice, but it sounded strained.

“You are right, Papa. In my position I would be unwise to say no without hearing more about the man. What does he do? How old is he? What is his family like? Is he handsome? Might he wish to move to Calcutta?” I asked in a rush.

My father shook his head and rubbed the bump on the side of his nose.

“He wouldn't live in Calcutta?”

“No, that is not it. I know almost nothing about the young man except that he had a good position in the family spice business until his father died, leaving many debts.”

Ah, that was it. They were desperate for money—my money. “At least do you know his name?”

“His name is Edwin Salem.”

“Edwin?” I almost shouted. “Like Edwin Drood!”

“Who is that?”

“A character in a book I just read, a book I did not like very much.”

“What sort of bloody rubbish is this?” My father's face reddened. “You won't consider this man because his name was in a book?”

“I did not mean it that way,” I demurred.

“I am glad you did not, or I would have to stop trusting that good sense you have shown working with my accounts.” He stood and gave me his hand. Two waiters came and moved the table so I could get out more easily.

“Then it is decided,” my father said as he helped me into the office jaun. “I will contact this man's family and begin preliminary discussions.”

I sat in my seat and closed my eyes. I did not dare respond, for I was afraid the noodles and the cream, the smells and the heat, combined with the shock of the news and the man's unfortunate name, would cause me to be sick again.

24

 

Y
our Aunt Bellore came running to me with the news about the possibility,” Grandmother Helene said when I next saw her after my lunch at Castellazzo Brothers'.

Stepping around the array of boxes and trunks that littered the first floor of her house, I ignored the remark and asked if I could be of some assistance. Fanning herself, she groaned, “I wouldn't know where to tell you to begin. Since there are no hotels in Madhupur, I must take my crockery, cutlery, and linens, besides clothing and everything else.”

“Seems more like work than a holiday,” I said as I helped her prepare to leave for her annual vacation. My father's family preferred Darjeeling, while other Calcutta Jews selected the seaside fishing village of Madhupur. Even though Grandmother Helene had a modest income from her late husband, everyone believed my father was the main contributor to her sustenance, and ever since the Sassoons had accused her of extravagance after her daughter died, she had attempted to live frugally.

“Once I arrive, I do nothing but give orders to the cook. Provisions are wonderfully reasonable there. Why, I can buy pigeons for two annas, a seer of tomatoes is even less, and the sweetest papayas in the world grow on a tree just outside the door of Myrtle View—the cottage I take each year.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“Since this is not the most crowded season, the rent is less than my monthly expenses would be here. This will be Ruby's third time with me. Why don't you join us?”

“Papa wants me to remain in Calcutta in case he hears from Mr. Salem again.”

A strange look crossed her doughy face. “Let's sit for a while.” Stepping across bundles of bedding, she kicked a path into the parlor.

“I cannot bear to think about this mess until I have had a drink of lime water. It's so much more refreshing than lemonade, don't you think?” Without waiting for a reply, she summoned her bearer and placed her order.

“So where was I?” she asked after she had downed a full glass of the pungent liquid mixed with a spiced-honey syrup. “Your Aunt Bellore . . .”

“She cannot know any more than I do at this point.” I shrugged to make light of the encounter, but a wariness in Grandmother Helene's gray eyes put me on guard. “Or has my father told her something he did not tell me?”

“I would not want you to hear this from anyone else. Would you pour me another glass,
abdalak?”
she asked, using the tender expression for a loved one.

I had to steady the silver pitcher with both hands. “Please tell me,” I urged.

“Apparently this man, the father of the boy—”

“His father is dead. Elisha Salem is the uncle who spoke to my father in Hong Kong.”

“Yes, whatever,” she said, fanning herself more quickly. “Anyway, there was some sort of dispute about an amount of money he owed your father. The man says he never received the shipment in question, your father claims he did. Even if Benu Sassoon is wrong, he can refrain from doing business with the man in the future, or worse, persuade others not to deal with him. Never forget, Dinah, that a Sassoon can ruin a lesser man with a mere implication.”

I felt chilled despite the cloying heat. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Bellore claims that Benu promised to forgive the debt if the uncle arranged this match for you.”

I shuddered. “I wonder what is wrong with the boy.”

Grandmother Helene seemed to shrink back into the cushions on her chair. “We don't know much yet. He's from Cochin, but this you knew, and is from a modest family. The second son of a spice trader, he hardly seems destined to become the Croesus of his community, but you will never want for money. Take it from me, Benu is the most generous of the Sassoons.”

“If there was anything terrible, like one eye or one leg missing, don't you think my aunt would have mentioned it?”

“You are right about that.” Grandmother Helene sighed with relief. “Now, what am I to do about all this?” She gestured to the boxes and bundles.

“Why don't we make a list?” I suggested, and I began to organize her baggage.

 

A few days later, when Zilpah and I were arranging roses in baskets on the terrace, I told her what I had heard, stating firmly that it did not alarm me. “My dowry would interest any man. Even Silas, who claimed the money would be mine to manage, was impressed at having a Sassoon for a wife.”

“What a sensible viewpoint,” she commented, stepping back to study her creation. To my eyes, two long stems ruined the symmetry. She glanced at my mass of pinks, whites, and oranges and said, “I would never have put those colors together, but the way you did it is splendid. They look like saris in a Hindu procession. I picked only reds, but they won't even stand up for me.”

I assisted her by cutting the stems off at a steeper angle and inserting them more firmly into the clay pressed at the bottom of the bowl. “There, is that better?”

She nodded her thanks, then looked over my shoulder while I filled in my own basket with greenery. “We have been making more inquiries about the Salems,” she began evenly. “I feel it my responsibility to know everything about this man before we invite him to visit.”

“What have you learned?” I asked without halting my work.

“When his father died, his mother returned to her family with enough money to live simply. They gave the eldest son a small stake to establish a business—something having to do with a shipyard that repairs fishing boats—and two years ago she married off her middle child, a daughter, to another Cochin Jew. The youngest, this Edwin, has a reputation as a mischievous lad who was always up to pranks. Because he often was in trouble with his teachers, his mother—at no small sacrifice—moved him from school to school. We know that he spent some semesters at St. Xavier's in Calcutta.”

“When was that?”

“He was there for two years, around the ages of thirteen and fourteen. He was born in 1872, so that would have been in—”

“You mean he is my age exactly?”

“Yes. Your Uncle Saul checked the records at the school.”

I thought of the boys my age who had gone to St. Xavier's after the Jewish Boys' School. “Gabriel Judah might have known him,” I said in an offhand way so Zilpah would not notice the pang I felt. “By now Aunt Bellore has probably spoken to him . . .”

“Gabriel does not recall a Salem boy.”

“Where did he finish school?”

“He left before his formal education was complete, probably because his mother could no longer afford the fees, and went to stay with some relatives in Singapore. That's where he learned the rudiments of trading. He's been back in Cochin for a year or so.”

“What does he do there?”

“I believe he was assisting this uncle—the Elisha Salem your father knows—while he was in China.” She turned to gather the ends of the stems and plucked leaves in her cutting basket before she asked warily, “What do you think?”

I found it easier to respond to her back. “His mother sounds as though she has done everything she could for her children. The uncle is more peculiar, but I won't be marrying him. Best of all, it doesn't seem as though Mr. Salem is tied to Cochin.” My voice rose enthusiastically. “Maybe he would move to Calcutta and I could be closer to everyone.”

“Ow!” Zilpah cried as a thorn dug under her nail. She sucked on her finger, then replied firmly, “A girl goes to the family of the husband. Mr. Salem has a widowed mother to care for. His trading connections are with Singapore, a port convenient to Cochin, and he has a job with his uncle.”

“I guess you are right,” I replied without rancor. Resigned, I decided that unless there was something monstrously wrong with this Edwin Salem, I would accede to their wishes.

 

As far as I could tell, only a few letters about the match were sent back and forth. The Salems were not the correspondents the Luddys were. I did not care, for experience had taught me that letters revealed far less than one glimpse, one conversation, one hour together would.

“It would be our pleasure to consider Miss Sassoon,” Mrs. Salem had written. Zilpah had followed with an invitation for the Salems to visit Calcutta at their convenience, but delicately suggested they wait until after the hot weather, after the monsoon, and after the High Holy Days. This brought us to the end of October, within a few weeks of when I would be free to remarry. Mrs. Salem agreed to wait until then, and announced that we could expect them on the first of November.

Over the next few months my father indulged me by giving me documents to copy and books to balance. If my delight to be hard at work had not been muted by my ruminations on the morality lesson in
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
and my mind not muddled with thoughts of the intriguing Edwin Salem, I might have extrapolated from his sales figures and refined my analyses. As it was, I did the rote work competently, but without enthusiasm. Perhaps sensing my diffidence—as well as expecting I might be leaving—my father began to turn my duties over to his clerks. By the time Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur had passed, my sole responsibility was to prepare my wardrobe. This time I did not want any frivolous blue dresses, so I undertook the ordering of my own clothing and proudly paid the durzi myself from my little legacy.

I selected fabrics in
crépon
and silk with the most simple yet eye-catching details. One of my favorites was a shirt ornamented with three silver star-shaped buttons. The slim godet skirt flattered me with curves in the right places, and the short basque jacket minimized my height. Another costume, cut from a crisp green sailcloth, had mother-of-pearl buttons and a white collar and cuffs. Its dignified look was more suitable than flounces and frills.

“Why is Dinah getting new dresses?” Ruby complained when the durzi came for the second fitting. “Mine are also too tight!” She pushed out her expanding chest to prove her point. Since returning from Madhupur, she had lengthened and blossomed, and had shocked us by becoming a woman. Zilpah was perturbed because Ruby, who barely understood what was happening to her, had been frightened and could not manage the rags without Selima's assistance. Also, Ruby was often pouty and difficult, so to keep the peace, Zilpah agreed she might have some new clothes as well.

“Why is Dinah able to pick the designs and I am not?” Ruby whined as Zilpah and the durzi settled on her fabrics.

“Because you are too young,” Zilpah said with a firmness that sent Ruby rushing from the room in tears. Lying, Ruby told her ayah that Zilpah had said to take her to visit her Grandmother Helene. When Zilpah discovered that Ruby had left, she decided to let it pass, saying, “This is a difficult period for her.”

That evening, after Grandmother Helene brought her back to Theatre Road, Ruby boasted, “Grandmother Helene said she would have some dresses made for me.”

“How nice, Ruby, I am certain they will be very lovely,” I replied on my way past her. In the small drawing room I found Zilpah and my father discussing Ruby with Grandmother Helene. Nobody asked me to leave the room.

“Tell me, Helene,” Zilpah said, holding her hands out in supplication. “What am I to do with a girl who has the sense of a baby and the body of a woman?”

“She's a pretty thing,” Grandmother Helene said with a touch of pride in her voice. “Doesn't she remind you of Mozelle?” she asked Benu.

“I suppose so,” my father responded gruffly.

“You might consider finding
her
a husband, someone mature, who would look after her.”

Zilpah was shocked. “That's ridiculous. How could she manage on her own?”

“There would be the family of the husband, her dowry, servants . . . and I always would be there for her,” Grandmother Helene replied earnestly.

“It's barbaric,” Zilpah sniffed.

Aware of the resistance, she did not push the issue. “Well, there's plenty of time to plan for Ruby. May I suggest you keep your minds open? You never know when the right opportunity might present itself. We have learned the folly of waiting too long in these matters.” She shot me an apologetic glance.

The preparations had left me feeling hopeful, so comments about my situation were no longer like barbs pressed under my skin. I had lived with the facts long enough to have accepted them; and I also had realized the dire predictions of my elders often proved false. Hadn't Silas come along? And now this Mr. Salem was a new mystery:
The Mystery of Edwin Salem.
I ached to know what he looked like and whether he would find me attractive. Nothing could have been worse than my first reaction to Silas, and if it had not been for our insurmountable problem, I might have carved out some happiness there. Or maybe I was going about this all wrong. I should have rejected Silas because my first reaction had been the most accurate assessment of the man, but was it fair to judge the next man by that standard? I could be content with a good man who did not dazzle me. After all, the chance that I could interest a marvelous match had long ago been lost.