The Sleeping Dictionary (27 page)

“No, my pretty lady. Australian or Aussie—as they sometimes say.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mulkins, on Sundays we aren’t open till two o’clock,” I said.

“I’m sorry, too.” He grinned back at her. “My train came in an hour ago. And the light’s so good, I can’t wait.”

Bonnie gestured toward an empty chair. “You must not have had breakfast yet! Please sit down, Bernie. My name is Bonnie. I’m sure you know its meaning.” Then, even though Premlata was just inches away, Bonnie shouted for her to bring a new pot of tea and fresh milk and some biscuits for the saheb.

“You appear to be Anglo-Indian. A lovely Eurasian half-caste.” Bernie Mulkins studied Bonnie with lazy, practiced eyes.

“Yes. My friend Pam is not, but that’s obvious, isn’t it?” And although Bonnie laughed, her words gave me a sense that she was afraid I might somehow poach him.

“Excuse me; I have something to do,” I said, getting to my feet because Bernie and his questions were making me uncomfortable, and I was feeling sickly anyhow.

Bernie Mulkins pulled a tattered business card from his satchel and gave it to Bonnie. “I’ve been traveling India three months now, shooting people. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Shooting?” I exclaimed, my eyes going to his heavy bag. Surely it couldn’t be full of guns.

“Shooting photographs.” Bernard Mulkins laughed. “I take pictures of the people of India—all of ’em, from the wretches in their hovels to maharanis. Down in Calcutta, I heard about beautiful girls hidden away in a villa in Khargpur. I haven’t shot any Anglo-Indians yet, so I decided this was a must-see, and having met you two lasses, I’m convinced. How many others like you are in the house?”

Bonnie’s eyes were alight. “Do you take photographs for fashion magazines and such?”

“I have, but I’m under contract now to shoot photographs of lovely women for a very special book—”

“Books last forever. They aren’t ever torn up or thrown away.” Bonnie breathed deeply. “Oh, Pam, you must go wake Mummy.”

“She won’t be happy to have a visitor so early.” And, I was thinking to myself, someone who wasn’t a paying customer.

“I think,” Bonnie said, her eyes fixed happily on Bernie Mulkins, “once I explain to her, she’ll be quite happy indeed.”

Bonnie knew Mummy better than I did. Within an hour, she had called everyone downstairs—even the girls still yawning with sleep. We would all pose for Mr. Mulkins before our work started. We wouldn’t be paid because we weren’t providing the usual services, but he would provide her with a first edition of the book and photographs of all her girls, which would be framed and hung downstairs for customers to enjoy.

YOU MIGHT THINK that women in our line of work would be accustomed to being naked in front of a stranger; but there is a great difference between a darkened, private suite and daylight’s glare in an ordinary room. I was not the only girl who didn’t want her picture taken, but Mummy insisted that everyone participate.

“He’s well respected, girls. He has exhibited with a famous American photographer called Man Ray.” Her voice squeaked as it did when she was most excited. “When his book comes out, you will be known in Paris, New York, and London!”

Nobody had ever taken my photograph before, and I wasn’t interested in having a copy; I was bent on staying unrecognized and hidden. Hoping that he’d be so overwhelmed with subjects that he would forget me, I stayed in my bedroom while everyone else crowded about the various places he was setting up for his “shoots.” Premlata told me what was happening: each time he chose a girl, he spent a brief period looking at her and then would inspect her almirah in order to choose the right costume and jewelry. To Premlata, this step seemed a waste of time; she said that, in the end, everyone was posing half-naked.

We were supposed to stop by one o’clock, but he was not yet finished. Customers who came were aware something unusual was going on upstairs. When the girls told them, some left out of fear they might wind up in the pictures, though a few seemed to take special delight in watching the photography sessions.

In late afternoon, my turn came to open my bedroom door to Mr. Mulkins and reveal what was hanging in my almirah. I did not pull out clothes for him to examine; I just stood beside the cabinet with my arms folded, wearing one of the faded old saris from my Lockwood School days. I made sure the expression on my face was also unattractive.

“You really don’t want to do this, do you?” Bernie Mulkins asked as he studied me.

“It will be a waste of time. I am not photogenic.” I had heard girls
at Lockwood use this phrase when they despaired over their yearbook photographs.

“And why is it that a girl who chooses a career like yours is too good to sit for a simple art photograph?”

I said that I did not want my face photographed.

“Oh, are you wanted by the law?” He laughed as if he’d made a very witty joke. “Well, I can avoid your face if you like. I shot Natty from behind.”

“But you showed her face in the mirror!”

“Who said that?” He sounded aggrieved.

“Everyone. They were peeking through the door.”

“The door.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s an idea. The door could be opened to reveal you—just a glimpse of you, from behind. No mirrors, but maybe—a hand on the door. A white man’s hand.”

Bernie had the picture in mind: I was to be photographed sitting in a chair that was facing backward. I mentioned that I’d never seen anyone except a drunken Englishman sit in a chair in such a manner, but he waved off my objection.

“It’s about light and shadow and angle, love. A glimpse of you through a slit in the door, a hand on the knob. . . .”

But he could not find a willing customer to be photographed. In the end, he enlisted Mummy, because her hands were covered in heavy rings that he declared “imperialistic.” Mummy twinkled as brightly as her diamonds to hear this compliment, but in her next breath insisted that he absolutely, positively, not photograph any part of her body and head. There could be no incriminating photographs of her on record, given her undying dream of attaining a British passport.

“Very modest, the two of you,” Bernie said, and I turned my head to see him through the crack in the door, posing Mummy’s hand. To me, he said, “Head back in place. Hasn’t she got lovely curves, Mrs. Barker? No, no, ma’am, please keep your wrist just like that. Don’t move.”

It was a long time until Bernie declared that he was finished.
Gingerly, I swung one sore leg around to get up from the chair: I didn’t even care if Bernie saw the front of me, because I saw he’d put the camera down, and I was anxious to be gone. In the corner of the room lay my silk wrapper, looking soft and comforting.

“Wait a moment, Pamela.” Mummy had come through the door into the room and was staring at me with horrified eyes as I slipped on the wrapper. Then she said, “How could you?”

“What’s that?” I asked, quickly tying the sash.

“How did you do it?” Her words hit like tiny, sharp knives. “I always ask Premlata about your monthlies. Did you pay her to lie?”

Fear rose in me, as I realized she’d seen my belly. I could do nothing now but tell the truth, because I didn’t want Premlata to suffer the same fate I had at Lockwood school. “Premlata did not lie to you. She never knew I put goat’s blood in the pail.”

“My God.” Mummy sucked in her breath. “How many periods have you missed?”

“Only three—”

“Must do the next girl. Cheerio!” Bernie called, his loud footsteps moving swiftly away. “You broke the house rule about French letters, obviously.” Mummy paced back and forth. “What do you think our rules are for?”

“I always use them! It could only have happened the time the Taster raped me. He didn’t give me a chance—”

“Splendid!” Mummy said sarcastically. “Mr. Abernathy’s quite unlikely to marry you. The best we can hope is he’ll pay some expenses. If only you had told me right away, I could have taken care of it.”

“Taken care? But how?”

“With the help of a dai. So stupid you are, and you’re going to stop working immediately! The men will notice your change soon, if they haven’t already. It frightens them to bang up against a place where a baby is; they feel it’s watching them. And we have no babies living in this house, even if they’re still in someone’s stomach.”

After her last words, my fear was replaced by a small hope. Maybe
Mummy would move me to a rented room. To think of all the reading I could do during the next months! I still would not know what to do after the baby came, but if the prostitution halted, I would surely be free to look for other work. I said, “I see your point about leaving being a good idea—”

“No, you don’t see; you are blindly stupid. You are a natural talent who has ruined herself; but damn if you’ll ruin my reputation! Oh, what to do?”

CHAPTER

15

INCORRIGIBLE:
1. Incapable of being corrected or amended. Bad or depraved beyond correction or reform: of persons, their habits, etc.

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 5, 1933

W
hat to do?

Everyone at Rose Villa thought differently. Natty told me that the dai Mummy had talked about was very good at pulling out babies before they were born. Then Sakina warned me that a number of that midwife’s customers had perished, including her own cousin. Premlata thought I should give up the baby to a temple, because the priests would give me a little money and heavenly blessings. Remembering what Lucky had told me about the duties of temple maidens, I declined.

Bonnie suggested that I burst into tears in front of the Taster, describing my plight, and he might be worried enough about his reputation to set me up in a bungalow in another town that he could visit
when he wanted. I told Bonnie that I never wanted to see him again, and I was sickened to find out that Mummy did indeed speak to him about my condition when he was waiting for Natty to be ready. Premlata hid near the parlor door and reported to me that he had answered her with harsh language, saying nothing could ever be proven because I was known to serve half the cantonment.

I was glad not to have any further interest from the Taster, but I continued to feel desperate about the baby. Mummy’s rule was fast; she said that I must move out, but she had arranged for a place for me to stay. Wondering what was ahead of me, I packed up my silk moiré dresses, embroidered saris, and high-heeled chappals and pumps with rhinestone decorations. I had room for about a dozen books, so I packed only my favorites and sold the rest back to the bookseller, knowing that I’d need to live on my savings for several months, and maybe longer. In the back of my mind, I was thinking, perhaps this was the best thing. I had wanted to leave Rose Villa, hadn’t I?

Mummy had booked a room for me in a place she called a dancing girls’ house. She made it clear to the dancing house managers, a sour-looking couple called Tilak and Jayshree, that I must not have my body spoiled by working for them, although I could help by caring for the brothel’s young children. They seemed to spill out of every doorway on the day I arrived at the place that reeked of opium mixed with rotting food and human waste. Mummy gave candies to them and cooed that they would soon be getting a baby sister.

“It may be a boy,” I objected, because I didn’t like how Mummy seemed to think she knew everything.

“Don’t say it!” Mummy shook a finger at me. “A girl is what we want. Jayshree will keep her while she’s little, and if she’s pretty enough, she can shift to Rose Villa and follow in your footsteps. When she’s thirteen, you’ll be thirty: the perfect age for her debut and your retirement.”

Mummy looked so pleased with herself that I dared not contradict her. But the thought that I kept to myself was that I would never
allow any child of mine to participate in such a loathsome tradition. My feelings only magnified after spending my first night in the hot, filthy place. I could not believe any children were allowed to be on the premises, with people running around half-naked, smoking opium and cursing. The behavior within its rough clay walls made Rose Villa seem like a cathedral.