The PuppetMaster (20 page)

Our driver grinned from ear to ear as we approached the top of the street. He was clearly enjoying my version of a tour of Varanasi. Uli just sighed as we clambered into the back.

A short distance from the house, she turned to me. “This afternoon, when we were on the Ghats, your face got very dark when you were watching that cremation. Are they difficult for you to watch?”

She didn’t miss much.

“Yes . . . I don't enjoy the ceremony much. I’ve seen it too often, I think, but it wasn’t the cremation that shook me, it was Adam. He was one carrying the body, and that is very, very strange.”

“I know. I saw him also. Is this a bad thing?”

I took a breath. “No, not really bad, I guess, but what it means is, he's harijan, an untouchable, and that’s surprising. I would have sworn on a stack of manuscripts he was a high caste. Certainly not untouchable. He’s well dressed, well educated and, in his odd way, rather influential. It's like this. People here look at your feet to see what shoes or sandals you're wearing--a little measure of who you are. His were very nice, and it’s a contradiction that makes no sense. The young Hindu I was talking with afterwards told me that Adam was orphaned. Being orphaned and harijan, that’s a couple of heavy strikes against you in this place.”

“I heard that man use the word a nipuda. What does that mean?” Now I was positive she didn’t miss anything. Her eyes searched mine.

“Well, a literal translation would be savant, a genius.”

“Well,” she smiled. “Is that wrong, being a genius und untouchable?” I smiled and shook my head, because couldn't answer that.

We turned onto Shivanan as the sun slipped below a sea of spires, domes, and corrugated roofs. I paid our driver and tipped him well. As I handed him the folded notes, I bid him health and wealth for himself and his family. He looked at Uliana, then me, and with a little grin, returned the blessing.

She had pulled the purple scarf back across her hair, eyes shining like polished lapis beneath the shawl. “So Bhimaji of South Nagpur. You have shown me these amazing sights, sounds, und smells of your city. But I seem to remember that there are five senses, six if you count a woman’s intuition. What about the sense of touch?” Shyly, but with growing confidence, I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. Electricity, when it is so reliable, is a marvelous thing.

She grinned. “Okay, so that just leaves the sense of taste.”

“I have, as we say, saved the best for last,” and with a hand on her shoulder, I guided her to the dining nook between the kitchen and salon.

Thirty-Four

I nearly burst out laughing as I entered the room. Lalji was wearing a shirt--a white one, two sizes too large for his bony frame. It had a ruffled collar, puffy sleeves, and good assortment of noticeable stains. But, what really put me into stitches were the gloves. He stood like a mannequin in the corner with his hands folded across his crotch. The hands were covered with small, white waiter’s gloves. Thank god he still wore his purple loongi, otherwise I might have mistaken him for an Oberoi Hotel doorman, or Mickey Mouse. With the gloves, the resemblance was uncanny.

“Would Saab and his premika enjoy a cocktail or a glass of wine before the dinner?” He stepped to pull out Uli’s chair and I bumped him out of the way with my hip. That was my job.

I replied quickly, “A glass of U.B. for me, and the premika would like…?”

Uli, understanding that she was the premika, asked uncertainly, “Red wine with ice?”

“Very good, Maam.” And Lalji, of recent broken pinky fame, hustled with all seriousness into the kitchen to fetch my lager and Uli’s Cabernet.

I whispered, “Dinner isn’t usually like this.”

“He’s sweet. What’s his name?”

“Lalji, and yes, he is sweet, in a lazy, undependable, lethargic, sort of way.” I looked at the table. Sahr had pulled out all the stops on her table-setting organ. Two pink candles flickered in low brass holders. Carnations and lilies floated in ceramic bowls in the center of a linen-covered table. Somehow she had gotten one of her housekeeping friends, or perhaps one of her wealthier clients, to loan her two china place settings replete with real silverware and crystal water glasses. We were in a five star bistro.

Lalji re-emerged with a tall, frosty glass of United Brewery Lager and a full glass of Cabernet on cracked ice. His tray was trembling so much that I thought it prudent to stand and help him set it down. We didn’t need a disaster before the first course.

Pakoras stuffed with lamb, peas, and cheese arrived with a small tray of salted cashews and macadamias. Our first course saw us through a second glass of lager and iced wine, and a lot of laughter. Uliana couldn’t stop describing the events of the afternoon as simple and sanctified as they were. Sahr peeped out to say hello at one point and announced that my ferenghi nose was still not allowed inside her kitchen.

Lalji kept astonishing me with how well he’d grasped the teachings of some crash course from his buddies. He displayed a decent talent for waiting tables, with the one exception of a palsied hand when carried liquids. I rose to help him set the bowls of spiced pumpkin soup in place. The second course surpassed the first.

As Lalji lifted our empty bowls, Uli confided that she thought she knew why I loved the classical poetry so much. People usually asked me first why I liked it, followed by standard comment that it must have been hard to learn the language. She skipped all that and went right to what inspired me. “The sound,” she said. “Und because the themes are mostly about love.”

After some encouragement, I recited some of my favorite lines from Meghaduta, Kalidasa’s The Cloud Messenger. It had the same name as Sahr’s parrot, and to a novice it is like hearing a Brahms sonata for the first time.

When I finished, she said exactly what I’d hoped to hear. “I never knew it was so . . . melodic. What does it mean?”

With shyness, I took a sip of lager and replied, “Well . . . my translation still needs work, but I think I’ve gotten the idea of it. ‘On the ascending paths of mountain snow, where elephants amble on a yearly course, the pearls from the claws of lions stay.” I translated the second verse and the third, watching her eyes as I explained the deeper meanings. Her face was an oil lamp glowing brighter.

She took a sip of Cabernet and said dreamily, “Your verses are like a gateau cake. You know this pastry? Ten layers and all of them filled with flavor. Your voice makes it even more delicious.” That reaction, so unorthodox, delighted me.

For the third course, Sahr had prepared one of my favorites--cucumbers and chopped currants in dill, parsley, and fresh yogurt. Uli, by this time, was beginning to undulate, rippling back and forth with each bite. When she began emitting little chirps of pleasure, it had a profound affect on my groin, and had I wished to really embarrass myself, all I would have had to do was stand up.

With a light laugh, she asked if a rubber scraper came with the meal. I told her it was an accepted, if not an expected, custom in South Nagpur to lick one’s salad plate.

Sahr came out to present the main course herself--a dish she had dubbed Chicken Bhiryani for Sri Bhimaji and His Fair Premika.

She chatted with Uli for a time, explaining all the important functions of being an oracle and a godmother to Master Bhim. The two of them bonded immediately, as I’d expected they would, Uli taking Sahr’s side on everything, including the shape of the ivory birthmark. With an ‘I told you so’ glance at me, Sahr returned to her kitchen.

Uli whispered, “What an amazing woman. She is rather . . . full . . .”

“Bosomed?” I finished for her.

“Yes, that is the word for it.”

We lingered over the Bhiryani, Sahr’s piece de resistance—perfectly proportioned spices, each bite brimming with a dozen flavors, none of which overwhelmed the other. Tamarind, saffron, curry, sharp mango chutney, and succulent chicken. Another glass of wine and lager arrived.

Our conversation shifted into the spheres of literature, history, and art. I learned that she had mastered in geology in Copenhagen and that she loved to ski and hike in the mountains near her home. As we were nearing our final bites, she suddenly asked, “So, what does this word premika mean?”

I turned three shades of crimson as I stammered that it meant girlfriend. She nodded silently and stared with traces of wine and melancholy at the candle. “I’m sorry,” I moaned. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Lowering my voice, I added, “Sahr is like a worried mother with an aging son that won’t leave the house. She would like to see me . . . have more stability in my life.”

“You mean have a girlfriend, und it isn’t you that needs to be sorry. It is me, I have…” She hesitated, stared at me, and then looked away. A fleeting shadow, not a result of the candlelight, crossed between us. Suddenly, I was filled with all the old apprehensions. Had I said something wrong?

It took a moment to respond to her unfinished statement, and it still came out stilted. “Uli, it’s alright. You don’t have to explain a thing to me. It was . . . a silly word misused by my overly-protective housekeeper.”

She moved the candles that had melted to three-inch stubs to reach across the carnations for my hand. My fear began to melt like the wax at my elbow. “Sometime, not now, not tonight with all this bliss, we can tell each other our stories.” She traced a fingertip along the edge of my hand. “You know, I watched you that evening in Haroon’s, and it is easy to admit that I watched because you fascinated me. What was a tall, handsome American, speaking Hindi, doing in a disco bar with a beautiful Indian woman? It intrigued to me.” She paused. “But there was something else. You were talking und dancing with one of the most beautiful women in the city—we women recognize these things--und I could see that you didn't want to be there. I saw it in your eyes und the language of your body.” She smiled and squeezed my fingers. “Ach, I’m glad I don’t see that in this light.”

“Uliana, I can truly say there is not a place on earth I would rather be than here. And with no other person. To be honest, I rarely go to Haroon’s. I’m not really the social type, and that happened to be the first date I've been on in four years. Disco is also not my kind of music.” I looked shyly at her. “So, is that why you said namaste to me? Because, that fascinated me.”

A coy smile touched her lips. “Ya…und the fact that you were the cutest thing I’d seen since Tönder. How could a woman not say hello to cute and fascinating?”

“Cute? Do you still think so after being yanked all over Varanasi listening and smelling all sorts of odd things?”

She just looked at me with the same teasing smile.

Fruit compote in Varanasi is the best dessert one can offer a favored guest, with the possible exception of mango pie, which would have been too rich after the Bhiryani. It’s the assortment, and Sahr had found the sweetest and ripest selections in the market.

Uli declined coffee or tea, and we took our dessert cups into the salon.

She went to stand in front of my desk, and I followed. “So what does it look like, this magical poetry of yours?”

I opened an over-sized book, Shakuntala and the Ring of Recognition, a love story as powerful as Romeo and Juliet. It was illustrated with large, glossy plates, and as her fingertips drifted across the script, I saw the look of fascination, the absorption into the curves and shapes that reminded me of myself many years ago. Our bodies touched as we leaned over the desk to study the lines. She turned to an illustration near the end--Shakuntala and Dusyanta wrapped like forest vines in a lover’s embrace. Whatever reluctance Indians had in showing eroticism in modern film, they certainly didn’t mind in their ancient art. With a giggle that I could only describe as unique to her, she pointed to a random verse.

“Can you read this one?”

“With pleasure.”

I read the couplet, the syllables tumbling like mountain water, and Uli, with a small clearing of her throat, read the faintly penciled translation in the margin. “Shall I employ the wetted lotus-leaf to fan away your weariness, your grief? Or take your lily feet upon my knee and rub them till you rest more easily?” She nudged my ribs with her elbow. “So her lover wants to give her a foot rub, ya? I like this. Much better than sword-fighting. Is it sad or happy?”

“A little of both, but it’s happy in the end. I think you would enjoy it, no sword-fighting at all.” We stood looking at the page, neither of us inclined to leave our places.

“So it is a good love story then?”

“One of the greatest.”

She turned and the space between our eyes and lips narrowed. “Then I shall read it,” she whispered. A pause ensued where we looked at each other. I smelled mango and cabernet on her breath. Then the moment evaporated like mist. She looked at my legal pad and notes on the cave writing, and seeing the angular Brahmi said, “This looks different, more like our Nordic runes.”

“It is. Same language, but earlier script, something I’ve been working on for about a week.”

I think she was expecting it to be like the play we had been reading, because she giggled and asked, “And do the lovers snuggle und kiss und rub each other’s feet like in the other?”

“Not exactly, it’s a list of plants and anatomical descriptions. No kissing at all.” For a brief moment I wanted to share with the fascinating woman next to me. I wanted to tell her about the discoveries, the etchings, the possibilities, but Devi’s voice whispered, “What we have found today is of value, and valuable means dangerous.” A voice told me that a man had been crushed under a mound of rock two days earlier. I decided if I told her, it would be later. Nothing would tarnish this evening.