The Temple Dancer (60 page)

The bridge was set only a few feet from the falls' edge. Da Gama could
look over the drop. Mists swirled like ghosts in the moonlight. Below he
made out the pool where Pathan's horse dove, and past that, the listing
tower of the crumbling temple.

Suddenly Da Gama thought of Lucy. He wanted desperately to reach
out to her, to wish her well, to give her his blessing and embrace. She had
been a brightness, but she was gone forever now. He thought of the life
ahead of him-of days spent on the move, of nights spent sleeping on the
damp ground, of the company of men like Geraldo, Victorio, men who
made his stomach churn.

Da Gama shook his head. These thoughts came from exhaustion, he
told himself. He looked around, and was considering a chat with the eunuch guard when he saw across the lawn of the zenana a moonlit figure
floating toward him like a sylph.

Maya.

She drifted toward the bridge. The eunuch guard stopped her, but she
spoke soft words to him, and at last he let her pass. She came next to Da
Gama, gentle as a whisper, in a sari more sheer than a moth's wing. Her
face shown delicate in the brilliant moon.

"You're up early, Deoga," she breathed.

"I couldn't sleep."

At the end of the bridge, the eunuch guard watched suspiciously. "He
thinks we're here for romance, Deoga," she laughed. The sound pierced Da
Gama. She seemed utterly without a care, a living jewel, desirable and impossible for one like him to grasp. Even more than usual, he regretted his
clumsiness, his gruff voice and thick body, his stiff whiskers, and his heavy
thoughts. Like Lucy, Maya made him think of perfumes, and of the things
that women keep around them; the delicate things they wear against their
skin; the fragile things they hold in slender fingers and soft hands. Every
moment with her heightened his despairing emptiness, yet he found himself longing for that despair. In that despair was his last joy.

Then Maya said something that caught him by surprise. "This is my
last day of freedom, Deoga. The Sultana says I will be in purdah by the evening, in the harem, nevermore to walk again through the world of men."

Da Gama blinked as if newly wakened. "What did you say?"

"Purdah, Deoga. We all knew it would happen sometime. The time
comes tonight."

"But, it can't.... When will I see you?"

She laughed at him. She was so beautiful when she laughed, he could
almost bear the sting. "You silly. I'm just a nautch girl, a slave. Soon I shall
be a whore-but whether for the grand vizier or the Khaswajara, the Sultana has not yet said."

He'd never seen her so open. Perhaps the final resolution of her fate
brought relief. But his mind raced. "Listen, Maya," he whispered in a rush,
interrupting whatever the hell she was saying. "We can get out of here. I can
steal some horses. We can go into the forest, like Lucy and Pathan...."

Her silence was her answer, and her lowered head, and her fingers, hidden from the guard, that crept across his hand where he gripped the flimsy
railing of the bridge. She squeezed his hand, and her eyes drifted over the
falling foam. Then she took her hand away. It felt cold now where her fingers had just been.

"It's impossible anyway," Da Gama said, suddenly hoarse. "That's a
young man's fantasy. Time I act my age." He tried to force a laugh. He
stared at the emptiness where the waters spilled away, and at the pool below, dark and impenetrable. The falls roared.

Maybe he was drowsy after all. His eyes grew fascinated by the sweeping river. Suddenly it felt as if the water were standing still, and that the
bridge itself rushed forward like a ship racing on the wind, a ship flying toward the edge of the earth.

It would be so easy.

"Deoga!" Maya said, grasping his arm. "You were falling!"

The eunuch guard moved forward, but Da Gama waved him away. "I
must have nodded off."

"But did you not hear what I was saying? The heir. . ." she lowered her
voice. "I think he is the child stolen from Lady Chitra." This information
made no difference to Da Gama. "Deoga, promise me you'll get word to
her. She must be told. You must give me your word." But Da Gama made
no sign that he had heard. "Deoga, promise me."

"Of course." He glanced at the falls, then away, forcing his mind to
work. "There's something I have to give to you. How can I ..."

"I'm supposed to dance at the audience later. That's when the queen
will announce her decision about me. My last appearance in public before
I'm sent to purdah. Give it to me then." A worried look flashed across her
face for just an instant. "The Sultana gave me good advice. I must cultivate
my own resources. I should have done this long ago. Oh, Deoga, I have
been so very foolish! I must be hard as diamonds, and as cold." She then
moved away, backward, her eyes on his. "Do not forget me, Deoga.
Remember me as I was!"

She walked slowly to the end of the bridge. Da Gama watched until he
could no longer see her shadow, and kept watching until the first pink light
of dawn peeked over the horizon, and the river glistened. He turned to see
the moon setting behind the ancient temple near the falls, where the
swirling mists, now silver from the moon, now gold from the sun, churned
endlessly over the roaring void.

It was nearly noon when Shahji woke Da Gama. "Turn out, soldier. Your
presence is required by the queen. And anyway, we've got to strike the
tents. We break camp after the audience."

Da Gama grunted and got up. New clothes had been laid out for himsome of Shahji's jamas-and he dressed quickly. "Do you go back to Bijapur, General?"

"No, to Belgaum for a few days. What about you?"

"I have no idea." Da Gama drew on a long robe of tawny silk. "Perhaps
you would do me one more favor, sir? I have a message to deliver to Lady
Chitra." He told Shahji of Maya's discovery about the heir.

Shahji's eyes grew wide. "Is this true?"

"She has never lied to me, General."

Shahji's eyes darted nervously, like a soldier assessing a battle. "Deoga,
if she's right ... This could be the key for me."

Da Gama wrapped the wide brown sash around his waist. "Perhaps I'm
missing something."

Shahji gave Da Gama a shrewd look. "I doubt it. I think you know exactly what this information means. Why you would pretend otherwise, I
don't understand. This information gives me the power to deal with Whisper and the Brotherhood." Da Gama bowed as if confused, and again Shahji
searched his face for a sign that he realized the import of his words. "The
Sultana admired your subtlety, Deoga. So do I."

"Don't mistake my ignorance for cleverness, General," Da Gama answered.

Outside, tentwallahs scurried to pack the grand tents into a train of
bullock carts. "Mine is the last to be taken down, you see? A favor for you,
Deoga. I thought you'd need your rest." Despite Shahji's mocking smile,
Da Gama lowered his head to acknowledge the courtesy.

Courtiers hurriedly made their way to the Flying Palace. Nearby, mahouts directed the placing of the huge yokes and harnesses on their enormous elephants. Large men tied the thick lifting ropes through the massive
iron rings at the corners of the palace. "The Sultana's whim changes with
the breeze," Shahji explained. "At dawn, she commanded that the camp return to Bijapur. Everyone's been hurrying since. It will take an effort to
reach the gates by nightfall."

Da Gama glanced across the river. The muslin screens were gone, and
only one harem tent remained. A few more men stood at the river bridge.
"That bridge will be the last to go. The queen always takes one last look at
the falls, and throws roses in the river in memory of the sultan," Shahji explained as they mounted the palace steps.

The audience hall teemed with courtiers, many more than yesterday,
standing in small groups as they awaited the arrival of the queen. Wall
Khan stood already behind the silver railing, speaking with a group of
smiling men.

"Everyone is here, you see. With the tents being struck, there's nowhere
else to go. You'll wish to join those fellows, I expect?" Shahji said, nodding
to a cluster of men across the room. Whisper was among them, stroking his
long chin, and talking earnestly with Geraldo-whose farang clothes were
at last freshly pressed-Da Gama saw the eunuch Slipper.

"I'd prefer to stay with you, sir, if that's convenient."

"My dear fellow," Shahji answered.

They moved toward the place that Shahji seemed to prefer, near the
right-hand corner of the dais, when Wall Khan rapped the floor with his
silver-tipped staff of office. Once, twice, thrice the staff banged, and the hollow beneath the dais boomed through the hall. Conversations stopped,
men straightened their robes and pressed their turbans into place. Whisper
hurried to the highest step of the dais just as the queen glided in.

As before, she wore such a profusion of robes that no sign of her could
be seen. She'd altered the color of her outfit, to a bright leaflike green; its
gold embroidery glittered when the hill of cloth passed beneath the sunbeams streaming from one of the small, high windows. As the queen's form
moved along the dais, all the courtiers in the room bowed at the waist,
sweeping the backs of their hands along the wood floor.

Behind the queen, Da Gama noted not only the usual guards and eunuch boy attendants, but also Maya, wearing a brilliant sari of bright red
and gold. As she turned through the door, Da Gama caught a glimpse of a
boy behind her, maybe eight or nine, he guessed. He held Maya's hand, not
as a child might, but with the formality of a royal escort. "That is the
Heir," Shahji murmured into Da Gama's ear.

When they caught sight of the boy, the courtiers began again to bow,
and some to cheer: Jai, Jai, sultan. Jai, Jai Add! Whisper glowered at the
noise, but it took Wall Khan, banging his staff once again, to bring it to a
halt. The boy brought Maya to the Sultana's side, and then sat at her feet,
not far from Whisper.

The queen, beneath her many veils, gave a barely visible nod, and
Whisper spoke, so softly that the crowd had to struggle to hear. After a
dozen flowery preambles, Whisper said, "At the request of the heir, Adil,
our sultan, may he live forever, the queen brings to us today Prabha, the famous devadasi from the Orissa temple. Before she joins the women in purdah and takes her nautch name, Maya, she has graciously agreed to dance
for us."

"This is unusual," Shahji said softly to Da Gama. "Why bring a nautch
girl out in public?"

But before Da Gama could reply, he heard music. For the first time he
noticed tall screens of wood and silver set near the dais; behind them unseen musicians played. Women, Da Gama guessed, nautch girls in purdah,
and soon Maya would join them in the shadows.

But now she stepped forward, glorious in her brilliant sari and borrowed jewels. Over her bare feet, ankle bells jingled as she walked down the
dais steps to the palace floor. She had wrapped her sari skirts to cover each
leg separately, so instead of being hidden, her bare calves showed when she moved. Her skin glowed like rich cream, her black hair gleamed like polished ebony. She passed only a few arms' lengths from Da Gama, and the
light that glistened in her gold-flecked eyes was as brilliant as diamonds,
and as cold. She gave no sign that she had even seen him.

The courtiers pushed back to the edges of the hall to give her room.
The boy sultan rose from his mother's feet and slipped beneath the golden
rail as a child ducks under a fence. He stood next to Wali Khan, who placed
a big hand on his small shoulder-neither said a word, but only watched.

Maya came at last to the very center of the hall. Every eye was on her.
She held her folded hands before her heart, and then stood still, more still
than Da Gama had ever seen a person stand, the way a tree is still, or a
statue, or a stone. Her stillness filled the hall. Da Gama became aware of his
own heartbeat, and the river's roar, and the grunts of elephants and shouts
of men outside. Meanwhile the music curled through her silence: a flute,
and the endless buzzing of the tamboura's drone.

Even after all this time in Hindustan, Da Gama could make no sense of
the music. From simple notes that hung like clouds at first, the melody
progressed to flow in intricate randomness, suggesting a pattern sometimes, but never a simple theme or rhythm.

A drum then joined the music. The time for dancing had begun.

At first Maya made small, simple movements, from her current place
into a new posture. She held each in stillness for a moment before switching to the next.

Her face, which had been void of all expression, suddenly came into
bright relief. The tilt of her head and hips, her eyes, her hands, her feet
combined with each new pose. Each attitude gave voice to an emotion:
happiness, alarm, and some that Da Gama recognized, but for which he
had no name. With each trill of the flute and slap of the drum, Maya added
another step, another move. It was as though she flipped through a book of
paintings, revealing with each beat another page.