Grandmaster (25 page)

"Then why are you here?"

Duma hesitated, seeming not to know what to say for a moment. Finally she said, "I was told that you possessed the curious mind of the Westerner. Since I, too, am a foreigner, I was selected to act as your guide. It is a great honor, considering the unpleasantness of my appearance."

"But why are you in this place at all?" Justin persisted. The folds of her white veil trembled in the breeze. "The goddess Varja rules over time," she explained. "Next to the creative force of Brahma himself, there is nothing more powerful than time. The goddess knows our destinies, because she understands time."

"You mean she can foretell the future?"

"Yes. There is one in time to come who will possess me. One whose destiny will be entwined with mine. He will desire me, despite my ugliness. It is for him that I was brought here."

"Where'd you come from?" Justin asked.

She shook her head. "I have already spoken too much."

She put her hand gently on his shoulder. "Come. You must begin what you were sent to accomplish."

She led him back to the harem. At the doorway, she knelt. "I will remain here, if you wish."

Justin nodded and walked desultorily inside.

The girl named Saraha, who had given him the drawing, came forward and knelt before him. In the background, the droning instrument played on, while a third girl, also very young, rose and glided in a sensuous, swaying motion to the middle of the floor. She was dressed in a brassiere of chained silver, which left her nipples exposed, and a loose silk skirt that hung low on her hips. Flowers were in her hair, and she wore a wide silver collar. She began to sway, finding rhythms in the tuneless music that was so alien to Justin.

Justin glanced at the doorway. Duma sat, as she had promised, the veil and the light from the garden behind her completely obscuring her features. She was a shadow of reality in this bizarre place where Justin felt more frightened than he had been even on the night his father was killed.

The dancer whirled, her perfumed skirts rising higher until Justin could see her thighs and, beyond, the mound of flesh downed with short pubic hair. He gulped, ashamed of looking, but unable to take his eyes away from the undulating female body in front of him. He was so transfixed that he didn't notice when two more women came to sit on either side of him, until they began to unfasten his garment. Involuntarily, he reached up to swat at the intruding hands. The women drew back with curious glances at each other. To Justin's astonishment, he saw that they were completely naked.

One was small, with breasts still budding and tender; the other was fully developed. The place between her legs was dark with long silky hair dappled with moisture. Gently, she took Justin's hand, questioning him first with her eyes for permission. Frantic, Justin looked for Duma. When she caught sight of him glancing nervously at her above the heads of the other girls, she nodded slowly.

The mature girl slid his finger along the cleft of her sex. When she maneuvered herself to let it penetrate her, Justin felt an aching in his groin that he thought would make his heart stop. He had experienced erections before—once when he had seen a pair of rutting mountain goats, he had nearly exploded with his own excitement—but he had never permitted himself to spend his seed. Tagore had told him that to fondle one's genitals was contrary to the discipline of yoga. Sexual pleasure was something that a man could enjoy only with a woman, and he was taught to curb his instincts.

Until now. Apparently it was all right for him to have an erection in this place. The deeper he probed into the dark, wet crevice, the more out of control he felt. His penis seemed to take on a life of its own, growing huge beneath his wraps, embarrassing him wildly. What if the women should see it? What if it just exploded, right here on the cushions?

The other girl leaned forward, almost across him, and rubbed her nipples across his lips. They were swollen with her first flush of womanhood and felt to Justin like wisps of air. His lips parted. Experimentally, he touched one of the nipples with the tip of his tongue. A thrill like a faint electric shock coursed through him. He opened his mouth wider and took the soft, soft disc into it until he could suck it. From deep in her chest, the girl moaned.

His breath came fast and hot. He could feel perspiration beading on his forehead and upper lip. A woman's body was a powerful thing.

He permitted the women to remove his robe. They were all over him, fluttering, caressing his chest, his neck, his buttocks, teasing him softly with their fingernails and teeth, using their tongues to stimulate him in areas where he had never thought to seek pleasure. The musician slowed her rhythm to a persistent, steady beat; the dancer followed suit. Undulating so that her belly heaved with each thrust of her hips, she spun slowly, unclasping her skirt as she turned. When she faced him again, moving as sinuously as a snake, she wore only the silver halter and a girdle of silver chains high on her hips. She bent backward, nearly touching her head to the floor, while her hips continued to push. The exposed vulva was glistening with wetness, and gave off a faint odor that affected Justin like a drug.

Saraha, at his feet, turned to face him. With her small hands, she spread his thighs apart.

What's she going
to do?
Justin thought, panicking. Not with her mouth!

She took him easily, her practiced tongue flicking, then holding lightly as he slid into her up to the hilt. She squeezed him with muscles at the back of her throat. The pleasure was so exquisite that it was a hair's breadth away from pain. His eyes were heavy; he wanted to sink into the cushions of silk and flesh around him and cry out with his ecstasy.

But instead, his gaze wandered toward the shadowy figure in the doorway. Duma sat, unmoving, veiled, and tense as a statue. He could not see her eyes, but he knew she was watching him. And for a reason he did not comprehend, he felt a great sadness coming from her. Duma was the only one of all the women around him who was not a complete stranger; and yet his pleasure excluded her. It was not that the women did not please him; there was something else, something about the lonely figure in the doorway that drained his pleasure as soon as he saw her. Because, for all the skills the women possessed, something was missing, an essential he could not name, and the sight of her reminded him of it. He felt lonely.

"I'm sorry," he said, getting clumsily to his feet. The women whispered, shocked, among themselves. He strode toward the garden.

Duma leaped up and hurried toward him. "What is wrong?" she asked anxiously.

"It's nothing," Justin said, brushing past her. It was difficult for him to walk. His belly ached. His senses, still filled with the tastes and scents and sensations of the harem, reeled. He sat down on a stone bench, wrapping his robe around him. He buried his face in his hands.

"They—they did not please you?" It was Duma, standing a few feet away. Her hands were clasped in front of her.

Justin looked up, but unable to speak, he covered his face again.

"It was my presence," she whispered. "My spirit destroyed the love force."

"No," Justin said with an effort. "It wasn't you. It was me. Something was missing."

"Perhaps if they were to try again ..."

"No!" He hadn't meant to shout. But the girl bowed to him and left. He was relieved. He didn't understand his own feelings, let alone hers.

Inside the harem, the women were chattering in a fury. He had doubtless offended them all, Justin thought. He would be considered not only a coward but a boor as well. Tagore would not be pleased. At the moment before completion, he had failed. But why? Perhaps he was not Patanjali after all. Perhaps he was not even worthy to become a man. The monks had made a terrible mistake, selecting as their leader a boy who was afraid of women.

He stayed in the garden, alone, until long after dark. The sound of soft, feminine voices stilled. When he was sure the harem was empty, he went inside.

Duma was waiting for him.

"I have prepared a sleeping pallet for you," she said.

"You shouldn't have stayed awake on my account."

"It is my duty," she said softly. She bowed again to him, then rose.

"Wait," he called. She turned around. For a moment, he longed to tear the shapeless veil from her face, see whatever scars or deformities it hid, shame her with her own ugliness. He wanted to blame her for his failure. It would take some of the sting away. But he knew that she had done nothing, that the fault was his alone.

"I'll leave tomorrow," he said at last.

"But the goddess Varja will not receive you for many days to come," she explained, her voice strained.

He could not offend the goddess with so grave an insult. There was nothing to do but bear the derision of the women for however long it took the abbess to meet him. Tagore would still be displeased with his performance, but at least he could not accuse Justin of endangering Rashimpur by his rude behavior.

He nodded to her. "All right."

She took a tentative step nearer. "Would you like me to send someone to share your pallet for the night?" she asked hopefully.

Justin laughed bitterly. "No. No, thank you. I prefer to sleep alone."

He stayed awake, his thoughts a jumble of fear and self-reproach, until the first gray streaks of light appeared in the sky.

He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be in this place, this playpen full of girls. He had no desire to meet the terrible Varja, whom the legends said could eat a man whole and spit out his skeleton. He wanted to talk with Tagore, not with the deformed young girl who talked from behind a veil.

But mostly, he wanted to see Duma's face.

He got up slowly and walked to the inner entrance to the harem. He made no sound, although his heart was pumping furiously. What if Varja caught him? He had seen no men, but Tagore had said that the goddess ruled over both sexes. Were the men invisible? Anything was possible in this place. Had she eaten them whole? Would Justin's own skeleton be spat out in some desolate place with the others?

To his right was a room. It was little more than a tiny enclave, with no door. Inside, a plump young woman slept.

Beyond it was another room. He recognized the occupant as Saraha.

The sleeping rooms.
She's in one of these.
He moved swiftly, checking each room. When he reached the end of the hallway without finding Duma, he reproached himself angrily for his childish curiosity.

What difference does it make what she looks like? he asked himself. There's nothing special about her anyway, except that she goes around all covered up while the others live as naked as jaybirds.

Nevertheless, he turned around, walked back the entire length of the hall, and searched the other side.

What if she's so horrible that I turn to stone just looking at her? he thought, seized with sudden fear. That would really shame Tagore. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back a pace.

He turned to go back into the harem. But before he could take the first step back to reason, he glanced over his shoulder at the corridor of silent rooms. Duma was inside one of them. And suddenly, he didn't care if she was ugly or not. She was his friend, his first and only friend, and he had to see her.

His mind shut off like a machine. His reason was gone. There was no fear of Varja now, no self-recrimination, no struggle with his better judgment. He wanted to look at her, just look at her, just once.

He would never mention it to her or to anyone else, he decided as he raced down the hall, checking every room. Rakhta's
vina
was propped in the corner of one; books and scrolls were stacked neatly in the corner of another. And then he saw it. Hanging on the wall like part of a bride's trousseau was the long white veil.

His breath caught. Trembling, he moved silently inside the room. She was sleeping on a mat on the floor, her long brown hair streaming out behind her. She was turned away from him. She was wearing a white cotton shift, and in her hands—they really were pretty hands, he thought, regardless of what the rest of her might look like—she clutched a thin sheet of pink silk.

He tiptoed toward the other side of the mat, the thrill of adventure rising in him. He had never been disobedient to the monks at Rashimpur; he hadn't dared. But here, so far from home, alone, with no restraints ... He was supposed to be learning how to be a man, after all. Wasn't a man supposed to be independent, especially around women?

Just as he bolstered his confidence sufficiently to reach the foot of Duma's mat, the unthinkable happened. His toe caught on the corner of her pallet, throwing him off balance. My toe! he cried inwardly in the half-second before he fell. To look on the forbidden face was bad enough, but to betray himself by his own clumsiness was a shame too great to bear. It was the end. He would have to run back to Rashimpur and beg the monks to accept him into the lowest beginning classes. He landed on his hands with a thud.

Duma woke immediately, sitting bolt upright. "What... what? It's you," she said, aghast.

Justin's hoarse intake of breath was louder than the sound he made hitting the ground.

She was beautiful!

She blinked, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. Her skin was white as alabaster, making her large, dark eyes even more striking than they would have been on an olive-skinned girl like the others of the harem. Her nose was long and delicate, its tip chiseled. Her mouth was larger than the other girls', the lower lip thick and full.

"I've never seen a face like yours before," he whispered.

As soon as he spoke, Duma's eyes darted toward the veil hanging on the wall. She pulled the sheet over her head.

He knelt beside her and lowered her hands forcibly with his own. "No... Don't cover your face. Your beauty pleases me," he said in formal Hindi.

She stared at him in bewilderment.

"Will you come to the garden with me, just for a little while?" he asked. She didn't respond. Her features remained fixed in an expression of stunned suspicion.