Flowers in the Blood (24 page)

15

 

A
t dawn of my wedding day the rains had ceased, but the humidity made even the doorknobs seem mushy. Across the lawns the vapors hovered about a foot off the ground in a static layer—an illusion children adored. I looked out to see Asher and Simon using small shovels to lift a “cloud” pile and carry it to a new place before any zephyr dissipated it.

“Do you think Aunt Bellore's weather predictions will come true?” I asked my father when I saw him downstairs.

“No. This wind will push the clouds out to sea by late morning,” he stated confidently as he selected the carpets to be laid outdoors. “You should try to rest now, if you can.”

“Wish I could.” I yawned. Because it was believed that it was bad luck for the bride and groom to sleep the night before their marriage, our friends had kept both Silas and me up all night. “I'm too excited, and too hungry!”

Everyone who had lasted the night—except me—was served a chota hazri. Zilpah ordered me to fast. While everyone ate, I went out on the terrace. The skies were the color of slate, with streaks of red that looked like wounds. Low clouds, like bloody bandages, hovered above in the manner of a threatening army.

Papa was now supervising the setting up of the marquee on the lawn. “By the time we return from the synagogue, the sun will be burning on this canvas,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. I thought we would be lucky to get through the day without at least one downpour, but I did not dash my father's hopes.

Yali came and led me upstairs for bathing and dressing. My gown followed the Baghdadi design that a bride of Shalom Cohen or Sheikh Sason might have worn, except the fabrics were more elegant. The inner layer was a gossamer white silk caftan with hundreds of sequins sewn into the bodice and rippling across the winglike sleeves, which were bordered with two inches of embroidery. Over this garment was a wrapper cut from a gold-purple-and-black-striped Chinese brocade. It laced down the front with golden braid. Underneath everything I wore baggy trousers of the finest gold silk. My headdress had a wide band of glittering stones that came down low on my forehead, covering my eyebrows. Grandmother Helene's clever dressmaker had managed to tailor the ordinarily shapeless costume to flatter me. The layers were cooler than I had expected and more comfortable than a European creation.

When I was almost ready, Zilpah came to my room. “You look very beautiful.” After a long pause she continued. “The time has come to speak to you as a mother to a daughter.” I expected she was going to launch into something about the physical side of marriage, a subject already covered by Grandmother Helene, but I did not stop her. “Dinah, you have a will of iron. It has not always been easy living with you. Considering everything, who am I to say you would have grown up strong and whole without that trait? These last years have been difficult—for everyone—but now the time has come to bend to another person's wishes. There is no place for obstinacy in a marriage.”

I felt a release, as though I had been tensed to protect myself from a blow and had managed to avoid it entirely, but no words would come.

She started to leave.

“Wait! Please, would you walk me down the stairs . . .” I paused to swallow my tears. “. . . like a mother would.”

 

On the way to the synagogue in the gaily decorated phaeton, I began to wonder what Silas would wear. Knowing I was in traditional dress, he might have selected a
dagla
, the Arabic long coat, but he looked so handsome in a cutaway that I thought that would be my preference. This and other mental diversions kept me calm until, rounding the bend in the road, I caught sight of the steeple of the Maghen David Synagogue. My face flushed. I gasped for air. Zilpah leaned toward me and fanned me as we pulled up to the building that was the pride of the Jewish community of Calcutta.

The synagogue, the largest Jewish house of worship in the East, was an enormous Italian Renaissance-style building with a massive facade of ornamental stonework. At the last moment, the architect had added an imposing steeple. Nobody in the Jewish community objected. In fact, they were pleased that the architect, in his ignorance, had managed to comply with the Talmudic injunction that a synagogue should tower above the other structures.

I felt too weak to step down from the carriage. “I cannot—”

“Take a few deep breaths,” Zilpah coaxed. “You will be fine in a moment.”

I could not comply. I felt as though submerged underwater, fighting my way to the surface. A breath would be fatal. Just before my head burst, I gasped, panted, gasped again. I was drowning, drowning with the knowledge that this was not a passing fright. All the preparations, all the parties, all the commotion had hidden the fact that I did not know this man. My absorption with the dress and Aunt Bellore and Zilpah had muted the truth that I did not care for him. All Grandmother Helene's promises that I would feel differently later, all the lies I had told myself to get me to this moment, crashed about me like waves, plunging me into the swirling depths. The humidity pressed from every side. My garments stuck to my skin; perspiration matted the hair under my headdress. Zilpah pumped my arms, bringing a gush of wind under my sleeves.

My father blotted my face with his handkerchief until my eyes seemed to focus.

“Can we go in?” he asked, trying to mask his impatience.

“I think so . . .”

After he helped me down, I felt rooted in place. Zilpah pushed me forward. I could not take a single step on my own. With each parent bracing an arm, they walked me up the stairs. I kept my eyes forward to prevent feeling dizzy. Crossing the entrance, the first person I saw waiting to greet me was Aunt Bellore. She wore a green silk dress with my mother's strand of matched pearls, each the size of a small onion, draped like a medal across her bosom. Like a fireball, the anger swelled inside me and propelled me without assistance. I felt as though a rod supported my spine. I determined not to do or to say anything that would give this woman the satisfaction of thinking me unhappy on my wedding day.

Zilpah and Aunt Bellore climbed to the balcony. Papa led me into the sanctuary. He helped me up onto the two-foot-high
hekhal
, or platform. Silas waited under the
huppah
, the nuptial canopy. I did not look directly at my groom until we stood together. Silas looked resplendent in a formal black frock coat and gray striped trousers.

The
hazzan
, Sholom Aaron, was not an ordained rabbi—there were none in India at that time—but a learned community member who acted as the
mekkadesh
who officiated at weddings. He had expressive eyes that riveted first on Silas and then on me, giving us each a silent promise that we were under the care of a friend. With a glass of wine in his hand to begin the betrothal, he said, “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, king of the universe, who has made us holy through thy commandments and has commanded us concerning marriages that are forbidden . . .” He droned on, but I could not follow him, for again my head was spinning. The time came for the ring. Silas placed a gold band on the index finger of my right hand. As he repeated the ancient words which consecrated me unto him according to the laws of Moses and Israel, his firm clasp minimized my trembling.

Next the
ketuba
, the marriage contract, was read out to the assembly. This marital settlement included the amount of my dowry, plus what the Luddys offered us, with the addition of the biblical “two hundred
zuzeem
for a virgin,” which, when said aloud, was mortifying. Our witnesses came forward and signed the ketuba, as did Silas, before it was handed to me for safekeeping. My first view of this beautifully illuminated version of the marriage contract written in Hebrew cheered me. The border was a trellis of leaves interspersed with red poppies. In the center, between the pledge of the bride and the pledge of the groom, were a peacock and peahen with beaks pressed together. I suspected Silas had seen to this detail.

Further benedictions were read over a cup of wine, from which we both took sips. The hazzan, his merry eyes crinkling at the edges, took a small china cup and held it aloft. He reminded us this would serve as a recollection of our grief at the destruction of the Temple, adding, “You are about to commit an irrevocable act. Once the cup is smashed, it is gone forever. So, too, may this marriage be permanent for infinity.”

He handed it to Silas.

With as much force as he could muster, Silas dashed it to the floor, shattering it at once—a good omen at last! The women in the balcony rained a chorus of kilililees on us as we were led to the Ark chamber where the Scrolls of Law were kept. There we made
zoor
, respectfully kissing each Sepher Torah and privately dedicating ourselves to follow God's laws. Finally Silas and I emerged to the congratulations of the assembled guests.

We rode alone back to my house in the ornate open victoria his father had hired for the occasion. “You were so right to choose that gown,” he said as we drove away, waving to our family and friends.

“Thank you, Silas.” I smiled uneasily, adding with an exaggerated sigh, “The commotion is over. Well, almost.”

“What a relief,” he agreed. “I was so worried about breaking the cup the first try, I told my father to be certain it was made of the finest porcelain.”

“You didn't break it, you pulverized it,” I said, making him laugh much harder and much more naturally. “I was lucky to remain standing. They kept me up all night, and Zilpah made me fast today.”

“I managed a short nap this morning, but I have also fasted. In fact, I am starving.”

“Me too,” I said, thinking: This is the first thing we have in common.

 

The carriage took a circuitous route back to Theatre Road to give our guests time to assemble and greet us. Together Silas and I entered the house and inspected the breathtaking flower arrangements. A platter of delicacies was waiting for a servant to carry it outside. Silas took two sandwich points, popped one in his mouth, and handed me the other. “Quick, nobody is looking.”

I pointed to the horizon. “We had better join everyone before it rains.”

As he looked out at the fast-moving clouds, the wind rustled the canvas of the marquee. “We can always have the party in here,” he said uneasily as he led me to the transformed garden.

“Oh, no!” I pointed to the center of the lawn, near the fountain, where a canopy supported by poles sheltered the wedding cake. “It's wobbling!”

“Bearer! Bring some men,” Silas shouted to the nearest servants. In a few minutes the workers who had set up the canopies were at work securing the ropes and stakes.

When we stepped forward with our parents, the seven blessings over the wine were recited and the food was served. Silas and I took our places in the area demarcated by Oriental rugs, where the immediate family was to receive the guests. Everybody milled around admiring my dress, my ring, and chattering about how splendidly everything had gone. With several hundred people to greet, Silas and I had only a few moments to eat and drink. I was happy we had taken the chance to steal a few bites earlier.

Before we had chatted with even half the crowd, Aunt Bellore came up behind Zilpah's chair. “This weather will not hold off much longer. You had better get Dinah to cut her cake.”

Zilpah pretended to take no notice of the breeze that whipped Aunt Bellore's taffeta skirts. Her own silver-and-white sari was firmly tucked in place while she remained seated. “Not everyone has had the opportunity to help himself at the refreshment table,” she said crisply before turning to say a few words to the next person in line.

Aunt Bellore moved behind Grandmother Flora, who was propped with cushions so discreetly she seemed to be managing to sit upright on her own. By nodding her head and saying little, her shortness of breath was not noticeable to any but those who knew her intimately. At Bellore's touch on her shoulder, Nani shivered.

“Flora, are you cold? Your lips are blue,” my aunt bellowed so everyone could hear.