Flowers in the Blood (45 page)

 

The next time we returned to the synagogue, it was to say our wedding vows. Until then the tiny house bustled with preparations.

“A pity that we cannot have everything the way it was meant to be,” Esther Salem griped as certain ceremonies were truncated because they had no meaning to a couple who had lived together for several weeks.

The Tuesday morning of the wedding itself, Edwin's sister, Hanna, came early to prepare me. First she tied a
tali
, a local Indian marriage symbol, around my neck.

“Thank you, it is lovely,” I said. “Where's Edwin? I want to show it to him.”

She giggled at my enthusiasm. “You cannot see him.”

“Why not?”

“His brother and uncle are giving him a bath and shaving his head.”

“No!” I shouted.

Hanna giggled again. “You will see.”

I was not permitted to eat at midday, which for me was more of a relief than a purification. After the other women had finished their pungent meal, they dressed me in the traditional Cochini bridal dress called a
marante deldpud.
Aunt Reema showed off the lavish embroidery of the shirt and the cords of gold braid on the blouse. “This is the one Hanna wore for her wedding. Pity there was not time to make you one of your own. The skirt alone took a year to complete.”

I smiled to myself. The idea of having to wait a year to marry Edwin was ludicrous, when we had been unable to wait more than a few days! The system was backward, I realized. First should come the wedding night, and then if the partners were compatible, the rituals that would unite the couple for eternity could commence. In my case, having the liturgy first—as when I married Silas—was a formula for disaster. Having an abbreviated courtship—like mine with Edwin— followed by this panoply was more sensible. Now we could say our vows with conviction.

“Here they come!” a young cousin called from the gable window.

A white carpet was stretched out a third of the way down the street. A band of musicians led a large procession. After them came Edwin, wearing a large pillbox skullcap embroidered with gold thread and a white satin shirt also covered with intricate designs. A breeze rippled his long cloak and revealed white silk pants. From the second story I could not tell how much hair remained, for he was draped in masses of jasmine garlands that covered the back of his neck.

“Have you been to the synagogue and heard the story of the copper plates?” Hanna asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you will see them come to life, for in our weddings we use the rights given to us so long ago. You and Edwin will walk on the white carpet, you will wear garlands, the men will carry parasols and lamps that are lit by day, and drums and trumpets will play for you.”

Hanna led me downstairs and placed ashes on my forehead. “A sign of mourning for the destruction of the Second Temple.”

“In Calcutta we break a cup,” I offered, but nobody was listening. Garlands were lowered over my head, women circled me, coins were tossed into the air. Just before we stepped outside, they covered my face with an opaque veil. The white carpet became my guide as I looked down and followed it to the synagogue door.

Inside the temple, I was seated on a chair under a hoop from which a long drapery was hung. The fabric enveloped me, and all I could see were blurred shadows of people moving about me, then a flare of light as candles were lit.

Unexpectedly Edwin's voice sang out, “By your leave.”

The congregation responded, “By leave of heaven.”

The strange chanting between Edwin and the guests continued. “O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good,” Edwin said.

“For his mercy endureth forever.”

“May joyous occasions multiply in Israel . . .” Every time I heard Edwin's voice, so strong and firm, my heart soared. If only I could watch his expression, look into his eyes, and see what they had done to his hair! “. . . Blessed are thou, O Lord, who sanctified Israel by means of the nuptial canopy and wedlock.”

At last I was released from the drapery for the betrothal, but still could not tell how much of Edwin's locks they had shorn because I wore the veil.

My ring, which had been made from a coin used at a ceremony on the previous Sunday, was dipped into a gold chalice by a white thread with seven strands. After tasting the wine, Edwin placed the cup in my hand and spoke in Aramaic,
“Ba kiddushiki.”
He slipped the ring onto the forefinger of my right hand and repeated the phrase.

The congregation called out, “May it be a good sign.”

The marriage contract was read, several unintelligible songs were sung in Maylayalam, and at last my face was uncovered. We shared some wine, and the service was complete. As we stepped down from the pulpit, I reached up, as though for balance, and tipped Edwin's hat. Lovely dark locks peeked back at me.

“I thought they shaved you,” I mumbled.

“They did.” He grinned. “They shaved my face.”

Unexpectedly, tears streamed down my face.

“A lucky sign!” Aunt Reema cried. “They will be blessed with many children.”

“Make way for the bride and the groom,” a woman called from the rear.

“The street is closed,” someone in the front shouted back.

There was a buzz of voices. “What is this?” Edwin boomed. A new sound, like a tuneless trumpet, splintered the air. “It's Amar!” He rushed ahead, leaving me behind.

Stepping outside, I faced the flank of an elephant arrayed in Moghul splendor. Beside it was a troop of red-turbaned soldiers who saluted us with fife and drum. Looking up to the height of the roof, I saw a golden howdah cosseting a young gentleman. He wore a scarlet coat with diamond buttons and a turban of white silk set with the largest, most dazzling ruby I had ever seen.

I clasped Edwin's outstretched hand. “Come meet my friend, Prince Amar of Travancore,” Edwin said as the elephant once again brayed his congratulations.

 

There was not one elephant. There were five. Each took up half the breadth of Jew Street. Tail to trunk, they stretched almost to the square. After the prince descended, the entire wedding party flattened themselves against the walls of the buildings or ducked inside doorways while the prince's
mahouts
turned the massive beasts around and led them to a grassy intersection near the fishing jetties. Ten sweepers followed behind the beasts, scouring the street, a necessary procedure, since they obviously had been waiting there for some time.

The prince embraced Edwin and said something to him privately. Both men laughed. I was surprised to see that the Indian, who had seemed enormous atop his elephant, was a head shorter than Edwin. His face was as round as a moon and had a greenish pallor. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and had cultivated a curlicue mustache that seemed pasted on his smooth face. Small dark eyes like onyx gems darted back and forth as he surveyed the effect his arrival had on the guests.

“You did not expect me, Winner, did you?” he said in a voice that was so slurred it was difficult to understand.

Edwin playfully punched the prince's diamond buttons one by one. “Of course I did, Lover,” he said, grinning. “Didn't I make it to your wedding—
sine magnis elephantis.”

They continued to trade quips with each other until Edwin took notice of my inquisitive expression. “Isn't this a wonderful surprise?”

“Yes,” I said a bit dubiously, “but why does he call you 'Winner'?”

The prince grinned broadly, causing his mustache to tilt. “It is a nickname we gave him at La Martinière because 'win' was in his name and also because Edwin won many prizes.” He pursed his lips. “And I suppose you will want to know about my name also.”

“The prince became 'Lover' or 'Lover-boy' because his name, Amar, sounds like 'amour,' “ Edwin explained. “And not because he has a way with women.”

“I doubt that is true, Edwin.”

The prince's eyes shone their approval of my comment. “After you, bridegroom,” he said, indicating that Edwin should lead him across the street.

Edwin hesitated, but finally went ahead after Amar insisted.

Esther Salem stepped forward to greet the prince. “An honor to have you in our home again, sir,” she said with her back straight, her eyes fixed on his ruby. “It is our custom that today the bride and the groom are king and queen in our household. For a week we call them the
manamatee
and the
manamarlen
and not by their proper names. Anyone who makes a mistake will be fined.” She pointed out Edwin's uncles, brother, and brother-in-law. “Prince Amar, do you see those men dressed in red?” He nodded. “They are the
shoshbinim
, the groom's men, who will guard the honored couple and punish any lapses.”

The prince hung his head respectfully. “I understand completely.” He turned to Edwin. “Now, Winner, will you be kind enough to introduce me formally to your beautiful wife?”

Edwin's brother, Julien, approached the prince. He shook his head sadly, like a father about to reprimand a foolish son.

“Hello, Julien,” the prince said jovially. “What have I done now? Surely merely saying one little 'Winner' doesn't make me a loser, does it?”

Julien's chin bobbed solemnly.

The prince sighed and threw up his hands. “What is my punishment?”

“Usually a few coins,” Julien said with a touch of embarrassment. He held out his hand.

The prince reached deep into a pocket and brought out three large silver coins. Julien seemed stunned as they clanked one by one into his fleshy palm. “B-but . . .” he stuttered. Mother Esther took them from him with a sly smile.

The prince licked his pink lips and turned back to me. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes . . . so this must be Dinah . . .” He cocked his head to see if Julien had heard him use my name.

The flustered brother held out his hand again. Prince Amar reached into the same pocket and came up with four more coins. Julien made a clumsy attempt to give two back, but Amar protested, “Surely one

'Dinah' is worth more than a 'Winner.' Oh, now what have I done?” He hit his head and allowed the coins to go singing across the tile floor, then reached into his other pocket and pulled out a handful of smaller coins. They were, however, gold. “Now I suppose I shall have to pay double.”

Esther Salem passed around a brass bowl to collect the fines while Edwin laughed and laughed. Guests who had heard of the prince's prank were pressing forward trying to find out what would happen next. I was appalled by the garish display, but forced myself to keep smiling.

Musicians began to play in the courtyard and the street, prompting the dancers. As the guests approached us, they wished us luck, using our names deliberately, then proffered a few rupees or a bottle of whiskey to pay their fines. A table was soon laden with a variety of liquors and the bowl clinked with coins.

“What will happen to the bottles?” I asked Edwin.

“What we do not drink tonight will be used during the week of celebration. After that they are given as favors in the card games that everyone enjoys in the evenings.”

The more the drinking and dancing increased, the farther down the street the party progressed. We should have moved along with our guests, but Edwin, and I were trapped by the prince, who wanted to know more about me. Edwin politely told him where I was from and who my father was.

“Ah, yes, my father knew some Sassoons from Bombay. How would a scoundrel like Winner come to marry into such an esteemed family?”

“An introduction from my uncle,” Edwin said without seeming to take offense.

“Tell me more about Calcutta—I have never been there,” the prince demanded.

“A city of palaces, or so they say,” was all I could offer.

“Palaces?” He chuckled. “Wait until you see Padmanabhapuram!” He stroked one of what must have been two dozen pearl necklaces that filled in the short space between his collar and his chin.

“Is that where you live?” I inquired.

“No, that's where my uncle, the maharajah, resides. I have my own humble quarters on the palace grounds.”

“ 'Humble' is hardly what I would call them.” Edwin turned to me. “The principality of Travancore is even grander than Cochin.”