Flowers in the Blood (15 page)

I attempted to break this trance. “Papa . . .” My voice choked.

He turned. “Dinah!”

The warmth in his voice thrilled me, and I approached hopefully.

“Why don't you take your new brothers to meet the rest of our little family?”

Having not seen him in almost two months, I did not want to leave yet. “But . . .” I looked for a reprieve. He did not waver and the woman's eyes were filled with a determination that unhinged me. I fled from the room, not even looking back to see if the children were at my heels.

I found my grandmother prostrate in the nursery. Selima was bathing her face with wet cloths.

“Nani, have you taken ill?”

“No, no, Dinah-baba, don't worry yourself,” Yali muttered.

Seeing the horrified expression on my face, Nani pushed herself upright. “Zilpah Tassie. I should have known. I should have remembered!”

“Why, Nani, is there something wrong with her?”

My grandmother started to speak, then stopped herself. She took the glass of coconut water Yali was holding and gulped it down.

“I hate her already!”

“No, no—don't talk like that—hush!” Nani gasped between each phrase.

I thought I had the answer to this new puzzle. Since the circumstances surrounding my mother's murder, I had kept my ears open to the secrets that adults barely concealed. To know that other people had strayed made my own mother's disgraces seem less horrifying. Why, even my father was imperfect. Hadn't I seen him in bed with an Indian lady in Patna? That was what this was! No wonder she was silent around my father. No wonder she made no comments on the house. Papa had not married this dark woman. And if he hadn't, she was not my mother. If she was not really my mother, she could not tell me what to do.

The tingling down my spine decreased. “Don't worry, Nani,” I said brightly, “they are not really married.”

“Pu!” She spat. “You heard your father. He said she was Zilpah Kehimkar Tassie”—she gagged on the last syllables—”Sassoon.”

“Oh.” I blanched. “What kind of a name is 'Zilpah' or 'Kehimkar'?” I bit my lip. “She's not Jewish!”

My grandmother shook her head. “I would agree, but some would not.”

“Why?”

“She calls herself a Jew, but
we
know that the Bene Israel are impostors.”

“I don't understand . . .”

Nani smoothed her dress. “After I see to the other children, I will try to explain.”

Once she had satisfied herself the nursery tea was proceeding under the ayahs' jurisdiction, Grandmother Flora had our tray set up on a low table in the far corner of the room. Before she could begin, though, I blurted, “What does Bene Israel mean?”

“Supposedly 'Children of Israel.' “ She twirled a spoon in her fingers, then dropped it with a clatter. “They only claim to be Jewish. There is no proof they are.”

I bit into the buttery bread to keep her talking.

“These people tell a tale that has never been proved, something about Galilean Jews who came to India via Egypt. They contend a group of traders was shipwrecked off the western coast of India. They claim most of the travelers, and their possessions—including their Scrolls of the Law—were lost at sea. The seven men and seven women who survived came ashore south of Bombay, where they settled and began to press oil, a task they had done in Galilee.”

“How long ago was this?”

Nani pursed her lips in scorn. “Supposedly before the Maccabean War and the rededication of the Temple. That's why they did not even know about the feast of Chanukah—something they only learned about from a Portuguese Jew from Cochin who tried to teach them something of their own faith.”

I did some quick calculations. “Why, that's more than two thousand years ago. Maybe they aren't really Jews. Maybe they just think they are. She looks like any Indian lady to me.”

“Exactly.” Nani's tone was triumphant.

Suddenly the butter tasted rancid in my mouth, and several sips of sweet tea did not purge the acrid flavor. Had my father married an Indian by mistake?

“She must have been the wife of Jacob Tassie,” Nani said, musing.

“There's a Deborah Tassie at school.”

“The same family.”

“She is not dark-skinned.”

“No, they are also Baghdadis. I had almost forgotten about Jacob Tassie. I can assure you
his
mother kept the situation as quiet as possible. Jacob was an odd one from the beginning, always in some sort of trouble. Nobody was surprised he came to a bad end.”

“What do you mean?”

“He went up to Darjeeling and met Miss Kehimkar there. We had heard that her father was a military man who had been killed in a skirmish with some hill tribes, leaving her mother a small house, which she opened to Jewish boarders. Jacob Tassie visited there, then stayed on to help turn it into an even larger guest house, which became very popular with the younger set and perfect for Jacob, I suppose, since he enjoyed drinking with his guests. They had some children”—her chin nodded toward Pinhas and Simon, guzzling their tea—”then one day he dropped dead in the street. Some say his heart failed; others said he was wasted from the drink.” Nani grimaced. “At least he had the decency to keep her up in the hills and not try to make her the mistress of a house in Calcutta.”

For a long while I thought about my abruptly changed status and the confusion my father had poured upon me. Ever since my mother's murder, we had lived on the fringes of the Calcutta Jewish community, hardly welcomed by even my father's own family. Now he had brought a new curse upon our heads, one my new friends would surely learn about. I squeezed my eyes shut. I hoped when I opened them I would find I was only dreaming.

Any chance of this was dashed when my father filled the doorway of the day nursery.

“My family,” he said, waving his hand as though he was introducing us to an audience. I followed his proud gaze to where the four little boys sat tossing grapes at one another. Selima was holding a sleepy Ruby on her lap nearby. “Do you think we will need another ayah?” he asked the woman who pressed against his side.

She spoke in a voice that was so different from what I expected, it shattered me further. “Benu, my darling, six are hardly more than four,” she said in a register almost as deep as a man's. “At least not when you have an almost grown girl who should serve her brothers and sisters, and four boys who will eat and sleep together.”

“And what do you think, Flora?” Papa asked respectfully.

Nani stood up slowly, avoiding my plaintive gaze. Making her way to the door, she spoke so close to my father's ear I could barely hear. “I think I shall not be needed in this house much longer.”

The woman in the sari stepped aside to let her pass.

 

“Don't leave us!” I begged Nani. “Besides, where will you go?”

“I have a home in Lower Chitpur Road.”

“I thought it belonged to Dr. Hyam now.” The doctor had married the previous year and had an infant son.

“I may stay there as long as I like.”

“What about us?”

“Zilpah can manage on her own.”

“You are leaving because you hate her too.”

“I most certainly do not, and neither do you. What you dislike are the changes. Children are like plants—they can weather any amount of sun or rain or drought as long as the seasons are consistent. One day of downpour, another of broiling heat, can kill the most hardy shoot.”

I pouted. “I'm not a child.”

“That is another point. Your new mother is expecting you to be helpful to her and the other children.”

I shrank from my attack position. “What should I do? She's ruining everything.”

“Talk to her, tell her how you feel,” Grandmother Flora offered weakly. “I cannot interfere.”

As soon as Nani moved out, the alterations began. I never heard Zilpah voice an opinion or give an order out loud. By some subtle influence, the woman was manipulating my father and the servants to reorganize the systems, rearrange the furniture, turn our schedules upside-down. She floated about the house in one of her gossamer saris, surveying everything with a feline's smug expression. Since Nani had understood that we were happiest in a house designed for active children rather than sedentary adults, much of Grandmother Helene's jumble had remained. The very first week, Zilpah realigned the chairs in the hall into conversational groups, eliminating the large spaces for running and playing tag. Dinners became formal, with only one main course. The buffets of tasty treats, a remainder from Grandmother Helene's time, were banished.

“A waste of food,” Zilpah declared, although anything the family did not consume went to the servants.

Even worse were her ideas about redoing the upstairs rooms. The bedroom where my mother had died was to be the boys' nursery. Mozelle's furnishings were removed at once. My father's dressing room, which had been enlarged to dispose of my mother's room after her death, was to be the new day nursery. My room was given over to Ruby, supposedly so she could have an ayah sleep with her, who also would tend the boys at night. Next came the second-best bath, which was reoutfitted for my father and his wife. The nursery bedrooms, although small, had the most beautiful vistas on the gardens, so they were combined into a new master suite. The guest bedroom became a small office and dressing area for my father. All that remained was a small room that had been used by servants and later for storage. This was to be mine. I was furious at being relegated to this far end of the house.

Never had I felt so alone. The four boys intermingled without difficulty. Jonah, the most daring and most likable, became their leader. Asher, a sweet boy who wanted to please everyone, refereed disagreements. Volatile Pinhas Tassie created the most disturbances, but his brother, Simon, wasn't a bad sort once away from Pinhas' conniving influence. I always felt odd-one-out, and the change in rooms did not help matters.

I told my father how I felt, which was a mistake, since he brought his wife in and asked me to repeat everything in front of her. I hung my head, but did not speak.

“Well, Dinah? Anything you can say to me you can say to Zilpah, especially anything about the house.”

Summoning my courage, I explained my feelings. “I don't want to be so far from everyone. I am lonely—and sometimes frightened.”

Zilpah pretended to listen, her mouth pursing and unpursing like a fish's. The rest of her face was immobile. Even her eyes hardly moved. With her usual economy of words she replied, “That is understandable. I will consider your concerns.”

The next afternoon I came home from school to find Ruby's bed moved in with mine.

“The memsahib requires a dressing area,” Yali explained nervously, “because when she is unwell, she needs a place to lie down so she will not disturb your father.”

“I don't want to sleep with Ruby. She still cries out at night!”

“I will sleep by her bed so she will not wake you.”

“I don't want to sleep with the baby!” Ruby was three, but barely spoke, and she did not toilet herself.

With my grandmother gone there was nobody who would stand up for me. Even after so short a time I knew it was useless to ask my father to support me against Zilpah.

That night I came to the dinner table in a grim mood. After the food was passed, I did not lift my fork. Nobody noticed for the longest time. My father wiped his chin and looked over at me. “Are you feeling ill, Dinah?”

I did not reply.

Zilpah waved to a servant, and my plate was removed. “Children must never be forced to eat. In time, the body will send a message of hunger that cannot be ignored.”

My father tapped his fingers on the table, then proceeded to discuss a matter that did not concern me.

The next morning I sat at the table in the nursery reading a book that lay across my empty plate when my father stopped in for his usual greeting.

“Is that volume tasty?” he teased.

“Not really,” I said without looking up.

He ruffled my hair. I softened in spite of myself and gave him a wide smile. He reached for some toast and offered it to me. I pushed it away. His nostrils flared. “What is this nonsense?”

“I'm not hungry, that's all.”

“Fine, then go back to your room. You cannot go to school on an empty stomach.”

I passed Zilpah in the corridor, but rushed by without speaking.

“Dinah!” my father called, seeing me ignore his wife. “Did you forget to say good morning to your mother?”

I held my head high. “She is
not
my mother,” I shouted before turning and running to my room.

“Dinah, come back this instant!”

“Benu, let me—” was the last I heard before I slammed my door.

There was a pitcher of water in my room and some jelabis I kept in a brass box. Other than that I don't believe I ate anything else for almost three days. Nor did I leave my room. My father stayed away. Ruby slept in her old room. Only Yali stopped by to check on me. “I cannot bring you food. You must come out if you wish to eat. Please do so, Dinah-baba.”

“I don't ever want to see either of them again.”

“You may have kaka or baba or dol-dol or—”

“No!”

“What is this about? What do you want?”