The Sleeping Dictionary (43 page)

“Is there a problem with the new ladder? Not the bookcases!” Mr. Chun’s face tightened with worry.

“Not at all,” I reassured him. “It’s Mr. Lewes’s desk. He has misplaced the key to the central drawer and is beside himself wanting to have whatever is inside.”

“I know the desk—walnut, two sides for sitting, from England, isn’t it? A partners desk.”

“Surely you can fix the drawer—I’ve heard you can fix anything!” Woman’s intuition told me not to give him a siren’s look but that of a hopeful daughter.

Mr. Chun tilted his head, considering things. “I can remove the lock plate and put on a new one. But I have no copy of the key, because I did not make it.”

“Mr. Lewes insists on keeping the original lock plate. Isn’t there something you can try?”

“I cannot promise to fix it; but I promise to come.” Mr. Chun looked unhappy; clearly this was a prospect of some trouble, and little financial gain.

“I will be most grateful if you try,” I said softly. “And we’re also considering a dining table for the garden and several chairs to go around. I don’t know if you have time for that.”

“A new order, you say? Dining set?” The carpenter’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps—perhaps I can come this very evening. I’ll solve every problem and build every thing.”

THERE WAS A solution, after all. Mr. Chun knew a skilled metalsmith who could make a new key, but he would need the whole lock plate in order to cut the key to fit it. I agreed, and Mr. Chun removed the lock plate itself and wrapped it in cotton to take to his metalsmith.

“The key will not have the same patina as the old brass,” he said, rubbing his finger against it. “But this brass of the lock plate can be polished to match like new.”

“Please do not,” I said. “Mr. Lewes likes the original finish and it makes the desk more valuable. But tell me, how quickly can the metalsmith work?”

“I will bring it to him tomorrow morning. And Memsaheb, do not worry. I shall tell him that it is an important job to do right away.”

LATER ON, WHEN Manik, Jatin, and Shombhu had said good night, I barred the door and went into the library. The desk’s thin middle drawer looked the same as always, save for the graceful gap where the lock plate had once been. I had some feelings of guilt to be doing this to a man who trusted me implicitly. Then I shook myself. Netaji had said every Indian citizen should work bravely for freedom. It was my turn.

With a protesting squeak, the old drawer pulled out. Inside, I saw layers of papers and telegrams. Slowly, I sifted through all the papers in the drawer, trying to be mindful of the order in which they lay. Mostly they were blurred copies of typed pages on the thin, tissue-like paper that was called onionskin. The pages were reports of various crimes as they were reported in newspapers, including the editorial reaction and letters to the editor about the stories.

I sorted through copies of letters from Bengal’s last two governors to the viceroy in Delhi dated each fortnight from January 1935 onward. The letters gave reports of strikes, elections, and other notable situations. The theme of each letter was that the governor was well
aware of all events in Bengal and was carefully overseeing industry and hunting terrorists. Accompanying these letters were note cards and papers scrawled in Mr. Lewes’s handwriting that dealt with the topics in the letters. So he was the true writer—not the governor.

When I was through with the desk drawer, I moved on to search the unlocked drawers on the left side of the desk, and then, the shelves of the library itself. But I couldn’t find the list of names. I imagined that Mr. Lewes had already filed a report with the Communist names and discarded Mr. Pal’s original list.

I closed up the study and went to my room, but I could not sleep. After tossing and turning for a while, I turned on my small electric lamp and reached for
India’s Struggle for Freedom
, which was still in my bedside drawer. Then I was hit with the idea that perhaps Mr. Lewes read in bed, too; and his room could be a place where he stored his lists and other secret information.

One o’clock. With a battery-powered torch, I went downstairs and turned the knob to his bedroom. I had never been in this spacious, pleasant room with a four-poster bed made from mahogany. The same polished wood was used for large cabinets for his clothing, a desk, and two easy chairs. The windows were shut and long linen curtains drawn.

I intended to search the room from top to bottom. Under the small, bouncing circle of light, I saw framed photographs of people in England, including a school with many boys standing in front of it and young men moving a boat with long poles. Mr. Lewes was in the center of this laughing, happy group, a handsome, dark-haired boy barely out of his teens. In the background, I glimpsed the building’s spire and guessed it might have been Cambridge. Did he know then what he would become—a suppressor of people’s freedom?

I crossed the Agra carpet to investigate a tall dresser. As I slid the first drawer open to find stacks of handkerchiefs, I remembered what Nancy had called me: a snoop. What an ugly word! I moved on to the next drawer, which held his underclothes. I couldn’t bring
myself to touch such personal items, so I closed that drawer quickly. I carefully checked the other drawers holding his shirts, collars and stays, suspenders, and the like. No papers or anything other than clothing. Then I searched the desk and bookcases and even looked under the bed.

I sank down on the edge of his four-poster, thinking. My eyes drifted over the area I’d originally meant to search: two marble-topped nightstands that flanked his bed. The nightstand nearest to me was empty on top and inside. The farther nightstand was topped by a geography of Uttar Pradesh, a clean ashtray, and a drinking glass. In the cupboard-style compartment below, I found a leather-bound photograph album. I opened it, expecting more scenes of his old life in England, but as I turned the pages, I found the streets and train stations of India. For every picture of scenery, there was a companion picture taken of the same scene, but with a man in it. Some of the men wore Congress caps, or carried Muslim League banners, or had flags bearing the Communists’ hammer and sickle. It was apparent by the way these men were looking off to the side that they did not know they were being photographed.

Gently, I lifted the pictures out of the little black edges that held them against the page. On the back, Mr. Lewes had written the date and location and sometimes a name, but more often a question mark. I did not wonder why he’d put these pictures into an album. My only question was whether the men pictured in these political gatherings had already been arrested. The initial shame I’d had at entering Mr. Lewes’s room was gone, as was any doubt that I was betraying his trust in me. India mattered more than anything. In terms of gathering intelligence, I’d had a very successful search.

And finally, something to tell Pankaj.

CHAPTER

27

PRIVILEGE:
 . . . 2. A right, advantage, or immunity, belonging to or enjoyed by a person, or a body or class of persons, beyond the common advantage of others; an exemption in a particular case from certain burdens or liabilities.

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 8, 1933

A
t ten in the morning, I walked at a leisurely pace through Ballygunge, dressed in a purple-and-white-striped sari and carrying a shopping bag in my left hand. The Bandopadhyay home looked as solidly established as it had months before, with the same darwan sleeping in his chair. But this time around, I was not afraid to approach. I tapped my umbrella on the path; the darwan jumped to his feet and escorted me to the large wrought iron door that was answered by a young bearer who ushered me into a parlor to wait.

I perched on a prickly settee and looked around. On the wall directly across me, several of Pankaj’s ancestors regarded me with sober, sepia-tinged faces. Lace curtains swayed at the long, open windows
that overlooked the street. A large electric ceiling fan stirred the stacks of newspapers on the table, near a framed photograph of Gandhiji standing beside a tall, solemn-looking man. It took me a moment to recognize him as Pankaj’s late father. Now I noticed on the far wall, the senior Bandopadhyay’s portrait was draped with a fresh jasmine garland. I wondered how recently he’d expired, and how that must have grieved Pankaj.

Because Pankaj’s father was gone, I did not have to worry about his recognizing me, but his mother remained. I prayed that four years’ time and my fine new clothes and elegant bun were enough differences to disguise me.

I heard a light footstep and saw that Pankaj had entered wearing a kurta and dhoti in fine, cream-colored muslin. Just seeing him quickened my pulse, but the good feeling turned to anxiety when a short, stout woman wearing a plain white widow’s sari appeared at his side. His mother’s expression was just as measuring as it had been at Lockwood School.

“I have come for legal consultation.” I kept my eyes down, pretending to be a shy client desiring privacy. Although Mukherjee was a very common Bengali Brahmin name, I didn’t want to speak it aloud in front of her.

“Ma, this is Kamala Mukherjee, from the Chhatri Sangha group.” Pankaj smiled at me. So he recalled me only as a well-dressed lady; the servant girl of four years earlier must have vanished entirely from his consciousness.

“You are a Mukherjee?” Mrs. Bandopadhyay came closer, as if to examine my face. “Who is your father? From which town?”

I wished Pankaj had not given me the name. Now my stomach roiled in fear. I opened my mouth to speak, but words would not come.

“There are many Mukherjees in Bengal, Ma,” Pankaj said, taking his mother’s hand and gently pulling her away. “Miss Kamala Mukherjee is a student friend of Lata Menon’s and the Sen girls.”

“Oh, the Sens! Such a good family. You are a shy one, Kamala.” His mother’s face relaxed but only slightly. I was relieved when Pankaj asked her to please return to her room, because this legal consultation, like all others, was private. Mrs. Bandopadhyay went out clutching a shawl around her shoulders but turned her head to give a last searching look.

Pankaj shut the door to the hallway and came to sit in the chair nearest me. “I’m very sorry. Because my mother is a widow, she has little activity and becomes too engaged in my life.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! I found something in my bungalow. Do you have time to look?” I handed Pankaj the album. As he saw the first page of photographs, his eyes widened. He turned another page and then said, “Just a moment. I will fetch gloves to prevent fingerprints.”

“I didn’t think of fingerprints!” I put my hand to my mouth. “I touched everything.”

“Don’t worry. I’m guessing that you have not been arrested before and your prints have not been recorded by the Bengal police.”

As Pankaj examined each picture, I wondered what tortures he had undergone in the Andaman Islands. And what sort of a person would keep working for his movement when he could easily be arrested again? The answer came to me: the same kind of man as Gandhiji and Netaji and Jawaharlal Nehru. I gazed at Pankaj, and as each second passed, he seemed to be even more impressive. Still, I could not understand why he hadn’t recognized me from the garden at Lockwood; Mr. Lewes had been able to recognize me easily that day at the bookstore, although I’d been masquerading as an Anglo-Indian the first time. Well, perhaps that was because Mr. Lewes was a spy by training.