The Temple Dancer (49 page)

Pathan looked at him, and his mouth worked before he spoke, as if the
words were hard to say. "I did. I was ... I was fond of her."

"How do you feel now, sir?" Geraldo asked. "Hateful perhaps? Hostile?"

Pathan's eyes flashed. "I feel"-he struggled to find the word"indifferent. What is it to you?"

"Because I bring you a message, sir. From Lucinda. I wanted to understand your feelings first."

"Tell me!"

Geraldo gave Pathan a long, searching look that he hoped appeared sincere. "Remember, these are her words to you, sir. I promised I would tell
them exactly as she told me. She says: tell Pathan that my feelings are the
same as his. She says: tell Pathan that I regret that he ever thought differently." Geraldo lifted his hands and shrugged. "Cruel words, I thought at
first-but now I see that you too are indifferent toward her. So maybe it is
all for the best, sir?"

But Pathan turned to the swirling mists and stared silently into their
depths until Geraldo slipped away.

The storm moved off in the afternoon, leaving the air thick and cold
with moisture, that dank cold that takes away all warmth and chills the
soul.

Lucinda still had the shawl Pathan had lent her. That day now seemed far away. She pulled it round her shoulders, and sat on the low divan, and
waited.

Maya, once more in a corner with the Gita on her lap, watched her.
"But what are you waiting for?"

"Good news. Or bad," Lucinda answered.

When the knock came, Lucinda leaped to her feet, nearly tripping on
her heavy skirts. But she stopped before she opened the door, to breathe,
and pat her hair, and set her face.

Neither woman wanted to see the man that stood there. "This could
make a fellow lose his confidence," Geraldo said, glancing at their faces. "I
gave him your message," he then said softly to Lucinda. "As I promised
you, I used your very words."

"And?"

"He gave no answer."

Time changed for Lucinda. Perhaps she waited only for an eyeblink,
perhaps an hour before her thoughts began to work again. At last she managed to speak. "He said nothing?"

"Nothing, my dear cousin. He seemed ... perturbed." Geraldo
glanced at Maya, who had carefully buried her eyes in her book, and then
took Lucinda's hand and kissed it. "He does not realize what treasure he
has cast aside."

"Men are fools." It was Maya who spoke, without lifting her face.

"Yes," Geraldo said, looking uncomfortable. "Yes, we are fools." He
nodded to Lucinda, and stepped out the door.

That night instead of sleeping, Maya and Lucinda lay on their low rope
beds and talked in the dark. Shaheen, along with supper, had brought news
for them: they would leave Konnur tomorrow, and would likely meet Da
Gama, Victorio, and Slipper by sunset. So in the dark, they talked, like sisters who would soon be parted.

They spoke of seeing one another in the howdah for the first time, of
meeting Da Gama and Geraldo, of Slipper. They remembered Silvia, and
Brother Fernando's long embraces. They remembered the bandits, and Da
Gama's bravery and Pathan's. Lucy cried a little then.

They spoke of Belgaum, and the strange magic of the place-Maya's
dreams, and blind Chitra, and Lakshmi, and the palace by the lake. And
when they spoke of Geraldo, Maya wept.

They wondered what would happen to them now, and those thoughts
were dark. Maya wondered what the eunuchs meant to do with her. She
could not bear to say what she expected.

For her part, Lucinda tried to imagine Tio Victorio ten years older than
the last time she had seen him. Then, aloud, she wondered what it would
mean to be his bride.

It was hard to think such things, and they felt sleep call to them. In the
dark cold air of night they could hear the sound of a lone voice singing a
qwali. "That's coming from the graveyard," Lucinda said. The song poured
out like the sound of a heart breaking, the far-off voice alternately quavering and strong, full of grief and triumph. Death seemed close, like an uninvited guest.

Finally one of them mentioned the word. And then they could not sleep.

Then they whispered, those two women, so young and full of life, for
they spoke dreadful thoughts: Did it hurt to die by arsenico? How long
would one suffer? To poison another, or to kill oneself-which brought the
greater comfort?

And if another was to die, then who deserved it most?

At last they fell asleep, their dreams full of poison and of death.

They awoke to find that Da Gama had come.

Shaheen brought the news with breakfast. After she set down the tray,
she opened the shutters. Bright morning sun streamed through. She hurried them out of bed, saying Da Gama was waiting in the courtyard. She
clearly liked him, even though he was a farang, and though she had never
met him before. Maybe Pathan had given her some sign of his affection for
old Deoga. As she left, she urged them to hurry.

Perhaps it was the way Shaheen's excitement lit up her sour face, or perhaps it was the brightness of the morning that dispelled last night's dread.
They rushed like children: washed, dressed, packed up their few belongings,
ate a bite of breakfast, and arm in arm hurried along the verandah.

"My dear daughters!" Da Gama called out when he saw them. He held
out his arms as a father might, and they ran to him and embraced him.
Then he stepped back and looked them over, shaking his head.

"Why, Deoga, whatever's wrong?" Maya asked. She had never seen his
face so troubled; in truth she had rarely seen a man whose face showed so
much anguish.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Deoga said, turning away. "I am so happy to
see you.

"We know why you cry," Lucinda answered. Maya looked at her, and
was surprised to see how Lucinda's face grew taut and her eyes narrowed.
"We have wept as well."

Da Gama faced Lucinda, and his voice trembled. "You know nothing
about me, nor about my tears." Suddenly he turned gruff. "Get in the
palki. We'll be going."

"Is Pathan going with us?" Maya asked.

"I didn't think you'd care, daughter." Da Gama shook his head. "Not
with us. He says he'll follow later, on horseback. It seems he doesn't like
the company."

Pathan watched from the verandah. He only came forward when he saw
that the women settled in the palki. He approached from behind where
they could not see.

Da Gama realized his tactic, and went to join him. "What happened
between you?"

"It is nothing, Deoga. They have mixed feelings about departurewhy should I add more trouble?"

Da Gama stared at Pathan. Then he lifted his hands as if to show that
Pathan could have his secrets. "You are kind to lend me your palki and bearers. I thought to hire one in Belgaum. I didn't expect to meet you so soon."

"You need not explain again, sir. It is the least a friend may do. Treat
the bearers with kindness, as you would treat your own servants."

Da Gama laughed. "No, I'll have to treat them better than that!" Again
he looked quizzically at Pathan. "Are you sure you are well?"

For a long time Pathan did not answer, but stared at the palki, "I would have done anything, you know, Deoga. In the end, I was ready to take on
any burden, or to give up everything. My heart no longer cared for me. It
had become hers. In the end I would have sacrificed all, but she spurned
me. Why then do I still yearn for her?"

"What? Have you fallen in love? Not with the nautch girl?"

Pathan drew back his gaze from the palki. "You must be off, Deoga.
Here comes your man Geraldo."

"Are you sure you're well, Pathan? Come with us, why don't you? At
least say goodbye to the women?"

Pathan's face grew stern. "No. Let them go with no more intrusions."
Then he drew himself up stiffly. "I shall meet you in Bijapur for the settlement, Deoga. Wall Khan's concerns must be addressed, sir, and I still am
his burak. Until Wall Khan's interests are satisfied, I shall not be satisfied. If
your master, Victorio, tries to renege, I myself shall settle matters properly!" Though he raised his voice, all this while Pathan smiled broadly at
Da Gama as if business were now the only bond between them.

Da Gama felt suddenly weary. He shuffled his feet and at last looked
up. "Look, Pathan, you've told me often that you owe me a favor ..."

Pathan lifted his hand. "I love you, sir, but do not ask for what I cannot
give. Take what you will from me-I offer all my wealth to you, even my
life. But I cannot give what is not mine. Do not ask me to rob my master
for you. Do not take away my honor."

"Very well, sir. We'll sort things out in Bijapur. We should be there in
three days' time."

Pathan looked crushed. "Ask a different favor, Deoga. Let me repay
you.

"Never mind. I've always said it was a trifle. Not worth all this fuss."

"Someday I will repay you. Until that time, salaam." Pathan lowered
his head and raised his hands in deep formality, and then turned and
walked back to the long low stairs of the verandah. He did not turn, nor
wave.

"Aleichem salaam," Da Gama whispered after him, and then he turned
to the palki. Whatever pleasure his arrival had brought initially now had
faded: the women's faces were as grave as his own. Da Gama leaned in to
Lucinda and nodded toward the house. "Don't you want to say goodbye,
Lucy? He saved your life."

She took so long to answer, Da Gama began to wonder if she were well.
"No," Lucinda said at last. "He took it from me." She pulled the curtain of
the palki closed.

Da Gama's shadow appeared in the curtain as an unfocused silhouette.
Maya leaned across the cushions to Lucinda. "It was not Pathan who took
your life, sister. It was Vittorio," Maya whispered. "I have not yet even met
him, and he has taken mine as well."

Neither moved for a long time. Lucinda stared into Maya's goldflecked eyes. It was as if they no longer needed words, as though in silence
they had formed a pact.