The Sleeping Dictionary (41 page)

“Sonali and I can help,” Supriya said, spooning sugar into a second cup of coffee. “We are always taking rickshaws here and there because of our colleges and schools. And our parents won’t bother us about anything. If they found out, they would only be proud!”

“My parents are far away in Travancore,” Lata said. “Of course I’ll participate.”

“That is wonderful. And what about Kamala? She seems to have the ability to travel anywhere without so much as a raindrop touching her.” Pankaj looked at me with a warm smile in his eyes.

I felt pleased by the attention but regretful of what my answer would be. Reluctantly, I said, “I can’t because I live in the White Town. There are so many English neighbors, always watching from their windows—”

Pankaj’s
eyebrows went up in surprise. “Is your father in the ICS, then? Where does he stand on independence?”

“Oh, she doesn’t dare ask him!” Supriya said with a humorous grimace before I could concoct a stammering reply. I was grateful to Supriya, who must have also realized it was better for Pankaj to move on to another topic than find out I was employed by an Englishman.

Not knowing any of the truth, Pankaj leaned forward eagerly. “Kamala, don’t worry, you can still help. You might someday overhear something about the government’s plans that could help the independence movement. If you have some information, please come to me.”

From his pocket, he brought forward a white card printed on one side in Hindi and the other side in Bengali. The card showed his name, his legal credentials, telephone number, and the address I knew so well. He added, “Don’t ever call on the telephone—just come in person. The privacy of telephone connections cannot be guaranteed.”

To see him in person. The way he’d said it made me want to faint. To do so meant a terrible risk, not just for the sake of politics—but also my heart.

CHAPTER

25

“How awfully good of you to come!” she said, and she meant it—it was odd how standing there one felt them going on, going on, some quite old, some . . .

—Virginia Woolf,
Mrs. Dalloway
, 1925

I
had Pankaj’s calling card!

The ivory card engraved in Hindi on one side, and Bengali on the other, meant Pankaj wanted to see me again. But unfortunately, I did not have anything to say. I knew very little about Mr. Lewes’s work except that his office was on Lord Sinha Lane, in a towering building that also housed the police. He also went frequently to Government House, and every few months to Bombay or New Delhi. But I didn’t know who he saw in these places, or what they talked about, and I did not want to raise his suspicion by asking.

I felt frustrated that the only type of news I could relate were things like: “Mr. Lewes is having a party and some English people are coming.” And that was the truth. My employer had decided to hold an
open house to show off his library, which was now fully air-conditioned and filled with books on handsome mahogany shelves, a beautiful Agra carpet on the floor, and plush velvet lounging furniture. As I’d directed Shombhu and Jatin in setting the last furniture in place, I’d feared that my position would end. After all, Mr. Lewes had once told me it was a year’s work. But at dinner that week, he told me how he wanted me to expand the card catalog listings, continue overseeing book repairs, and write to bookshops around India to seek titles he was looking for. My work would be mostly self-directed and involve short, special projects.

But this special project—planning a cocktail party—was beyond my knowledge. I quizzed him, Manik, and other cooks in the neighborhood about what the British expected to eat at such affairs; I was surprised to learn the whole event would involve eating small plates of foods while standing, and drinking many alcoholic beverages. Mr. Lewes approved the dishes I suggested and told me what the drinks should be. He gave extra money for me to send Manik and Choton shopping, and then a separate envelope to me with fifty rupees.

“And what is this for?” I asked when I saw its contents.

“A sari suitable for the evening. And a necklace and bangles—whatever you need to complete the picture.”

I was taken aback, both by the personal nature of the gift and by the obvious importance of my carrying off the right appearance. Mr. Lewes’s insistence that everything be of the highest standard reminded me of a Virginia Woolf novel about Clarissa Dalloway preparing for her own grand house party. Yet this was a straightforward ICS party in Calcutta, unlike Mrs. Dalloway’s celebrity-filled one in London. And unlike Mrs. Dalloway, I hadn’t invited an ex-lover.

Using the flat’s telephone, I rang Mr. Lewes’s secretary for updates of names of the growing list; when it passed thirty, Shombhu confirmed my suspicion that Mr. Lewes did not have enough matching porcelain, so I located the same pattern in a small shop in Burra Bazar. New cushions were stitched for the sofas from soft green velvet, and I walked to Good Companions in Cornwallis Street to buy
an embroidered linen cloth for the dining table. I supervised floor-to-ceiling cleaning of all the first-floor rooms and showed the gardener, Promod, where to place the prettiest potted trees and flowers from the garden.

On the next-to-last day, I suddenly realized I had not yet bought a sari. I searched Hogg Market until I found a gossamer black silk embroidered with exquisite designs of moons and stars. And then I bought my first items of gold: a series of delicate filigreed gold chains with a cascading bridge of moonstones that settled just about my collarbone, with matching earrings. But enjoying my appearance made me feel guilty; it reminded me of preparing myself for the evenings at Rose Villa and all that came afterward. And this naturally led me to think about the daughter I’d left. With the few rupees left over, I bought chappals for Kabita to grow into and posted them on my way home.

HALF AN HOUR before the party, Mr. Lewes appeared in a white sharkskin jacket with his black dinner trousers, but instead of the usual bow tie that English gentlemen wore at night, he had a silk scarf tucked into the neck of his shirt. He looked so dashing I felt that I had to look away.

“After everyone arrives, I will go upstairs,” I told him. I was nervous about being amid so many English. They would overtake the flat with their muddy footprints and stinking cigarettes; they would pull out books willy-nilly and spill their drinks. They would laugh and scold and bray until I could not take another moment.

“But I need you to clearly explain the vision and scope of the library. You’re the one who knows where everything is. And why are you wearing your specs?”

“To see.” Actually, I was trying to be plainer, to be overlooked as I once had at Lockwood School.

“Those are only meant for reading.” He reached forward and gently lifted them off. I felt a shiver run through me, although his fingers had not even grazed my skin.

“Much better,” he said, smiling at me. “And why don’t you put them somewhere you might need to use them, like the library desk? But come back quickly; our party starts in five minutes.”

He didn’t want me to wear the glasses because he wanted me to look pretty. And he had said
our party
, as if I were his hostess. All this hit me like a mistimed thunderclap as the guests arrived: gentlemen in pressed dinner suits and ladies in flowing tea-length and long dresses with puffed sleeves and sweetheart necklines. Of the dozen or so Indian guests, just three were women, all wives of senior Indians in the ICS. They moved slowly with the weight of their ages and their heavily embroidered saris, making me feel like a wallflower in my quiet black silk.

“Kamala—please socialize,” Mr. Lewes said under his breath as he passed by with a redheaded girl on one side and a blonde on the other. But the Indian matrons did not break their conversation or even look at me, as if they understood I was only an exalted servant.

Shombhu passed and gave me a sympathetic look. I lifted a glass of sweet lime from his tray; only after I’d tasted it did I realize that I’d mistakenly taken a gin-lime. I sipped it slowly and walked on, trying to seem as if I had a right to be at the party.

“And which babu’s wife are you?” The speaker was a very tall, middle-aged Englishman with a narrow rat’s face.

“Nobody’s. My name is Kamala Mukherjee.” I was trying to be politely social, the way that Mr. Lewes would like.

His bloodshot eyes seemed to water. “Then why are you here, Camilla?”

“I work for Mr. Lewes,” I answered, noticing the guest had spoken the name I’d put on my résumé that Mr. White had rejected a year earlier in the Writers’ Building. Was it a matter of having a bad ear for Indian names or something else? “May I be so bold, sir, as to ask who you are?”

“Wilbur Weatherington.” He raised an eyebrow, as if it were audacious for me to ask. “And what is it you do for Mr. Lewes?”

“I organized his library. It was all in boxes a year ago, and now, you should go in and see it for yourself!” I inclined my head toward the library door, wishing him away.

Mr. Weatherington laughed, exposing several rotted teeth. “You can’t seriously be a professional librarian. Where in God’s name did you come from?”

“I used to work as a tutor at a girls’ school—”

“Yes, your accent’s all right.” His voice was grudging. “Which school was it?”

“Lockwood,” I said rashly, for the gin had gotten to me before I could be more careful. “It’s quite far; you wouldn’t know it.”

“A minor school, hmm? I suppose that’s why they admit Indians.”

What a thing to say! I was so taken aback that as a couple brushed past, I almost lost my balance.

Mr. Weatherington caught my arm, righting me. “You aren’t well; you need some air. Come with me to the veranda, Camilla.”

“There is plenty of cool air in the library! That is the reason for the party, Mr. Lewes said, to demonstrate the air-conditioning.” I spoke fast, because as loathsome as Weatherington was, I could not cause a scene fighting a gentleman guest.

“There are a few houses in Alipore with air-conditioning.” Mr. Weatherington’s rank breath came near my ear. “I don’t think it’s healthy for people.”

“But it’s excellent for books. And that’s what Mr. Lewes cares about most!” I was searching about with my eyes, willing him to be nearby.

“Actually, his life mission is the same as mine: to protect the empire.” The wheedling tone in Mr. Weatherington’s voice was gone, as if he’d realized he would get nowhere with me. “Fetch two more of the potato chops, will you?”

But I did not walk to the buffet table; instead, I slid the plate he’d given me onto a corner table and walked straight into the library. But there I stopped dead in my tracks.

Nobody was in the room except for Mr. Lewes and one of the women he’d been speaking with earlier. His back was to me, but I could clearly see the blond lady had perched herself atop the desk in front of him.

“Darling, remember Bombay!” she said, leaning forward so the deep neckline of her gown became even more revealing. “You know it can happen again.”

Mr. Lewes stepped back. “That was years ago when I was newly arrived and you hadn’t yet married—”

“And you still are without a girl,” she said, laughingly. “Don’t tell me you’re all work and no play, Simon. I must change that.”

Mr. Lewes coughed and said, “Please, Nancy, won’t you come off the desk before you stain yourself with ink? That’s a blotter you’re sitting on.”

The place where I laid fine books was being desecrated. I fumed at both the woman’s insolence and the fury I felt at her being so close to my employer. I heard blood pounding in my ears as she suddenly opened the front of her dress, exposing full breasts barely covered by a lace brassiere.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” she murmured huskily, holding her breasts toward him like a fruit seller offering fat mangoes. It was an act befitting the red-light district, not Middleton Mansions; so vulgar that I gasped aloud.

Mr. Lewes turned and his hands flew up, as if he’d been caught stealing. Blinking rapidly, he said, “Kamala, just in time! Miss Graham has lost a button to her gown and needs help getting it fixed.”