The Temple Dancer (34 page)

In Goa one hot summer afternoon, Lucinda had watched a fighting kite fly
off across the ocean.

Kite fighting was popular among the poorer children. Kites were small
and cheap. You twisted the string with rubber glue and bits of glass, Lucinda had been told. Then you looped your kite around your opponent's
string and then began to saw. The loser's kite then fell to earth.

The kite that crossed the ocean had been parrot green, the Goan sky a
hazy turquoise. Lucinda had noticed the contest when she rose from her
siesta. The cheering of street children drew her attention. She came to the
window just in time to see a red kite cut the green kite's string.

But the green kite did not fall.

Without a string, the kite had a will of its own. For more than an hour
it swooped and whorled, sometimes so close to her window that Lucinda
almost caught it.

Below her window, a small crowd formed-a common occurrence in
Goa. Men started betting on when the kite would fall. But whenever the
kite stalled and began a plummet to the street, an updraft would catch it.
Dancing away from the jumping, snatching children, soaring again into the
brilliant, hazy sky.

Finally as the sun set, a westerly breeze blew the kite across the seaweed waves of the ocean, never to touch earth again.

Here in Belgaum Lucinda felt like that kite, untethered, buffeted by
every breeze.

At home flowers had long stems and servants placed them in vases.
Here loose rose petals were strewn over the cushions of her bed. Who
brought them before she woke each day she never found out nor who swept
up the petals each night before she slept. She braided tuberoses in her long
dark hair.

Her feet grew sensitive. Her toes could wiggle in her curl-toed slippers; she felt the roughness of the tiles through the thin flat soles. She took
off her shoes to enter a room, and her bare feet pressed against the cool, smooth stone floors, the scratchy warmth of the carpets. Her bare thighs
rubbed each other as she walked.

Here in Belgaum she sat cross-legged on the floor and ate with her fingertips, resting a banana leaf and not a plate upon her knees. It had taken
her no time to discover that she liked the taste of rice. For dessert, instead
of cake, she followed Maya's example, mixing a little rice and dahi with her
hand, and slurping the cool, soured milk from her fingers.

Goa, she realized, was a noisy place; but the lake palace of Belgaum
was quieter than a Goan park before sunrise. Perhaps the lake damped the
sounds. Only the singing of birds and the caws of crows disturbed the
quiet, and the raucous peacocks strutting for the hens. Rarely did Lucinda
hear a servant, and more rarely even see one. At first the silence made her
uneasy, and she found it difficult to sleep, but once asleep often it was
nearly noon before she woke.

Somehow, moments after her eyes opened, her own servant would appear, Lakshmi's auntie, a fat old aya called Ambika. Lucinda assumed that
Lakshmi was spying on her, but she never found out where.

Ambika had only three teeth left, but she loved to show them. Once
she'd spoken her name, Lucinda had never heard Ambika's voice again.
Using her eyes, her eyebrows, a tilt of her head, Ambika expressed every
thought. For the first two days, every time she saw her, Lucinda peppered
Ambika with questions, chattering away despite the woman's silence. Ambika's fat cheeks glowed with amusement, but she never answered.

Finally Lucinda grew used to her silence, and began not only to accept
it, but to treasure it. She too grew quiet. For the first time she heard the
music of her heart.

The day after Pathan returned, after Ambika had helped her dress and then
vanished without a word, Lucinda wandered through the empty palace. She
strolled the garden; she sat on the cold stone rail of the pavilion and
watched the bustle of the town on the other shore. Maya wasn't in her
room. Aldo's room was empty; Lady Chitra and Lakshmi were nowhere to
be found.

At last she passed Pathan's room. Through his door, she saw the captain leaning comfortably against the columns of his balcony. He wore no turban; his black hair hung in a long queue, tied now with a piece of string.

Pathan bowed when he saw her, but his face was frozen. His eyes were
cold again, as distant and haughty as the first time Lucinda had seen him.
Had that only been a few days ago?

"You're feeling better, Captain," Lucinda said.

"Madam, please let us go elsewhere. It is not right for you, to be alone
here." Swirling a shawl around his shoulders, he strode past her. "Let us go
to the pavilion," he said with scarcely a glance, and without waiting for a
reply walked off.

He's just as bad as ever, Lucinda thought as she followed a few steps
behind. At the pavilion he sat on the stone railing and motioned for her to
sit on the cushions at his feet. Only then did his face soften, and even then,
only a little.

"Maya has gone to some temple with the blind mistress, madam," he
explained. "Senhor Geraldo has crossed the bridge to town. He hopes to
find some sport."

"Gambling." Lucinda shook her head. "Why didn't he tell me he was
going?"

"You slept, madam. He asked me to give you word." He paused.
"Farang women do not gamble?"

"Some do."

A faint light came to Pathan's eyes. "But not you, madam?" He looked
out over the hazy valley. "I have not expressed my gratitude for your
help." Lucinda felt her face grow hot. "The hakim told me he'd given me
up for dead. You and the nautch girl worked some magic to keep me alive."

"It was Maya, only Maya," she answered. "I just kept her company."

"Your company was a treasure, madam." His voice was almost sad.
"At the road, when I was struck, I felt the soul leave my body." Pathan then
told her how he rose to a great height above his body, toward a far-off light
that drew him.

Lucinda was silent for a long time. "Maybe that was God, Captain."

"Maybe. I don't think so. Maybe that is your idea of God, madam, but
it is not mine."

So it started, innocently enough, a conversation that lasted all the afternoon, as bit by bit Pathan unfolded for her the mysteries of his faith.

Sometimes what he said seemed so obvious, Lucinda almost giggled; or so implausible, she nearly choked. Occasionally she argued with some point,
which seemed to surprise him. But then he would answer with a precision
and subtlety of thought that quite astonished her.

Twice as they talked the muezzin called from the distant minaret, and
Pathan kneeled in prayer, bowing to the west. He explained the significance
of Mecca, and the Qaaba, the black stone that Allah had sent from the sky
as a sign to Abram.

"Not Abraham from the Bible?" Lucinda asked, incredulous.

"That same man, madam. The grandfather of Issa, who you call Jesus,
the scion of the Jews." As he said this, she saw him smile for the first time
that day, that smile so open, so rare. She felt herself uncovered by it. Without wanting to, she turned away, trembling. "You arc cold, madam," he
said, placing his shawl around her shoulders. The smell of him lingered on
it like spice.

Later Geraldo joined them on the pavilion. There overlooking the shimmering lake the three of them ate supper. Geraldo barely spoke to her, but
she felt his stare like a dark heat. He told her goodbye so strangely that
Pathan looked up at him, his brow furrowed.

After Geraldo left, Pathan waited several minutes before speaking. "Is
there some trouble between you and your cousin, madam? Can I offer any
help?"

She studied his face before she answered. Maybe he couldn't help the
look of disdain that seemed his constant expression. "Are you married,
Captain?" She was surprised by her question; she had simply blurted it
out. She nearly apologized but then realized that he wished to answer.

"Married? Yes, but when I was but a child. She had been my playmate.
A few months after we were married, she died."

"I'm sorry, Captain." He shrugged in reply, his eyes looking into the
darkness. "You loved her."

"I was learning to love. We were children, but even the heart of a child
is full of mysteries. But you know how love is, madam. Are you not to be
married?"

"Only pledged for marriage," Lucinda explained. "And I have never seen him, Captain. He is in Portugal." She looked at the town lights twinkling in the distance. "He's an old man."

"It has been arranged? I thought farangs believed in love marriage."

"In my case a fortune is involved."

"Ahcha," Pathan sighed. Fluttering moths danced around the flickering butter lamps. His dark eyes reflected the flames.

"Do you ever hope to find someone else, Captain? Someone new?
Someone who loves you and you love back?"

Pathan's eyes shifted to the courtyard where Geraldo had walked off,
then bored into hers. Lucinda raised her face defiantly, as if answering an
unspoken question. He looked suddenly uncomfortable and rose, saying as
he bowed, "I will pray for your happiness, madam," and then wished her
good night.

She could not sleep that night. With Pathan's shawl wrapped around her,
she crossed the moon-silvered courtyard. At the stairs that led to the pavilion she hid in the shadows. Pathan was there; he sat on the stone rail, gazing
across the lake. For a long time, she watched him, then she returned to her
room and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

The next day she found him once more alone at the pavilion. Today his turban was wound tight, and he wore crisp white robes. His eyes lit up when
he saw her. He deflected most of her questions, but asked her many, particularly focusing on her faith. He was fascinated by her descriptions of the
mass, though Lucinda, as she answered him, winced at her own ignorance.
From time to time he compared some element she'd mentioned to the
teachings of Islam. His observations were often so subtle that Lucinda
would frown as she tried to follow them. When Pathan saw this, he would
change the subject for a while, which annoyed her.

After his noon prayer, he looked as though he'd finally made up his
mind about something. "Shall we take a walk?" he asked.