Flowers in the Blood (25 page)

“Just a bit. The air has changed.”

Zilpah stood to signal Grandmother Flora's servant. “Get her a shawl.”

“Thank you, Zilpah,” Nani said hoarsely.

Aunt Bellore remained beside her. “Don't you agree, Flora, the time has come for Dinah to cut her cake?”

“Well . . .” Nani did not want to upset either woman.

“Yes, yes,” Zilpah capitulated. She walked down the circle of chairs to the Luddy section, took Silas' hand, and led him to me. “Children, go to the wedding cake. Your fathers and I will meet you there.”

In the few minutes it took for everyone to comply, the sky blackened with alarming speed. Even I could smell the mossy promise of rain. Silas and I approached the seven-layer cake set into a horseshoe of chrysanthemums.

“It weighs more than a thousand pounds!” Grandmother Helene triumphantly displayed the masterpiece she had ordered—and paid for. “Look, each layer is in the shape of a Star of David.” The sides were decorated with an intricate latticework entwined with garlands. In order to reach the top layer, which we were to cut open for good luck, we had to climb a staircase lined with a Persian hall runner.

I mounted the first step, the silver cake knife in hand, and looked for Silas. The crowd pressed into a tight wedge, pushing him back. I could see his hand waving in the center of the group. “Go ahead, Dinah, I'm coming.”

Just then there was another gust of wind. The poles of the canopy jiggled, causing me to hesitate on the third step.

“Dinah, you'll have to climb to the top to cut the cake,” someone called.

I looked down in time to see Aunt Bellore push Silas away as he reached the bottom step. She pressed her bulk ahead of him and climbed up. Suddenly her hand was on my wrist, poking me toward the cake. I struggled free from her clasp, for I knew what I was to do. The cake's top layer was false. Beneath the icing was a box containing doves. The tip of the knife was to be used to rip the thin paper that held the birds in place.

I reached over, trying to figure a way to make the largest possible cut swiftly so the birds could escape at once. The complicated design of sugar icing looked too lovely to spoil. Unexpectedly she again clamped her hand on my wrist, forcing the knife straight into the center of the layer. I felt something resist the blade and jerked my hand upward. Her grip fell away as she cried in horror. Two inches of the blade had impaled the breast of a white bird. Its spasmodic screeches pierced the air. The other birds flew into the swirling wind. Blood spurted across the cake. Looking down at my chest, I found it splattered with tiny crimson dots as well. I looked up at Aunt Bellore. Her face was running with repulsive red streaks. Silas had sprinted up behind us and was easing her down. He grabbed the knife and, with a deft stroke, managed to get the twitching bird back into the cake before too many guests realized what had occurred.

Aunt Bellore turned.

Then everyone knew.

Exactly what happened next is uncertain. The wind snarled in sharp gusts and ripped the canopy in several places. Some frightened guests backed into the poles. In any case, the canopy was brought down on our heads, almost tumbling the cake, which managed to stay upright only because it was buffered by the floral horseshoe.

Silas and I ducked down and sat on the stairs until servants removed the mangled tent. All the while, we could hear Aunt Bellore's howling that this was surely a most inauspicious omen for a marriage.

The rain began with drops so large they could fill a teacup in a few minutes. The servants rushed about carrying carpets, furniture, food. Quicker than everyone could find cover, the plump tears melted together into sharp sheets like a vertical river. Wells of mud formed in every depression. Running feet churned it into vile slush that licked at the hems of the last sets of trousers and skirts to make it indoors. Even with Silas' attempt to shield me with his jacket, my beautiful gown became soaked.

Grandmother Helene followed me up the back stairs.

“Where is your brooch?” she asked as Yali rushed to undress me.

I reached for the spot at the cleft of my bosom where it had been pinned. “Oh, no!” I choked.

Yali wiped my tears and dressed me in my traveling clothes as though I were an injured child.

“Yali,” I mumbled, “I am leaving you.”

“Yes, missy-sahib.”

“Silas said I might take a servant, but I did not think you would want to live so far from your family.”

“You are my family, my first baby.”

“Would you have come with me?”

She lowered her eyes.

“Would you come to care for
my
baby?”

She looked up at me—I was more than a foot taller—her large black eyes becoming glassy. “If you wish it.”

There was a knock at the door. My father filled the doorframe.

“Come in, please.”

He waved his wife forward. Zilpah opened her clenched hand to reveal the peacock. “The servants went down on their hands and knees until they found it.”

“How can I ever thank you?” I looked from her to my father and back again. “For everything you have done for me, when I have—”

Zilpah raised her hand to silence me. “You must hurry. You have a train to catch and the roads will be slow in this downpour.”

The next minutes of farewells passed in a blur. Outside, the rain poured off the verandas like spools of gray silk. A closed landau rolled up, a black ribbon of water trailing each wheel. The torrent began to overrun the curb. Silas boosted me in so I would not get my shoes wet. The
syce
, or groom, was about to close the door when I realized I had not kissed Nani good-bye. I climbed over Silas, splashed down into a deep puddle, and ran to the door where my bent and tired grandmother stood quivering.

“Be . . . happy . . . Dinah,” she said, taking a shallow breath between each word.

Mindless of the ankle-deep water, I stepped back into the carriage. Silas took my hand in his. “Now I will take you home.”

16

 

Darjeeling, 1890

S
taring at each other as the train carrying us into the next phase of our lives pierced the twilight, we were two strangers with only the most surface knowledge of each other, who were thrust together from that moment onward. As I shivered in the dampness of the miserable afternoon, I looked to my new husband for solace.

“What I despise most about this trip is the dust,” Silas said. His tone was so serious I would have believed him if the glass of the rattling railroad car was not being battered with relentless rain.

Relief flooded through me: humor might be the key to getting to know him better. Fanning myself, I played along. “And this heat. I thought we would find relief in the hills.”

Grinning, he rotated to face me. “Perhaps we should have remained in Calcutta for a few days.” He tilted his head apologetically. “The storm has made us several hours behind schedule already. We can't possibly reach Darjeeling until late tomorrow.”

“Yes, you are absolutely right.” I put on my most imperious accent.

“Please
do
ask the train to turn around.” I shuddered in the draft.

“How have you managed to be such a good sport about everything?” Silas took my icy hands in his. “You are cold.”

“I soaked my feet leaving Theatre Road. They say if your feet are cold, the rest will never warm.”

“Who are 'they'?”

“Yali and Selima, my ayahs.”

“One doesn't argue with one's ayahs.”

“Never!” I giggled.

Silas was agreeable to be with, even under these uncomfortable circumstances. When we had arrived at Sealdah station, he had been furious that the lower berths he had reserved on the Eastern Bengal Railway had been filled. Our first-class day carriage might have been comfortable enough for a short journey, but after five hours of jolting on the hard benches, we both wished for a few more amenities.

After a few hours of trying to rest with my head upright, I longed to lie down, and drooped toward Silas. With the gentlest of touches he arranged my head on his shoulder, which was so bony it did not offer the most comfortable of perches. I dared not pull away lest he think I was rejecting his kindness, and somehow I drifted into an intermittent slumber as we rolled across the flat, melancholy stretches of the Bengal plain. Then the train halted rudely.

Silas tightened his grip on my hand. “The Ganges crossing. Follow me. My bearer will tend to everything else.”

Blinking, I stepped out on a muddy siding by a riverbank amid clamoring torch-bearers. Men carrying umbrellas guided us to a flat-bottomed stern-wheel river steamer that reminded me of the
Lord Bentinck
and that trip long ago—in fact, the last journey I had taken— upriver with my father.

Once we had settled inside and the boat wheezed toward the Sara Ghat on the opposite bank, Silas asked, “Dinah, are you more awake now?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Good, then listen to what I am going to do. After we land, I will leave you here with my bearer. Take your time and follow him up to the platform. I am going to bound ahead.”

He caught my startled expression. “Not a very civilized place. If our reservations did not get through in 'well-organized' Calcutta, surely my wire for a berth on this leg will have been mangled by the Anglo-Indian Railway clerks. So, my girl, possession is left to the swiftest. I shall race up the bank, over the railway ties, and stake our claim!”

“I'll come with you,” I offered limply.

“No, it would be most unseemly.” He looked at me sternly. “You would beat me up the hill and I would be the laughingstock of the coolies from here to Bombay.” He squeezed my hand. I felt my heart plummet. I did not want him to leave me, even for a few minutes. Not that I was afraid. The new sensation of being tied to him warmed me as though I had been plunged into a steaming bath. I smiled at him gratefully. He touched my cheek.

There was a change in the sound of the engines. Since it was too black and foggy to see anything, he took this for his signal. “Follow the bearer. I'll shout for you once I have secured our position.”

The rain had receded to a strangulating mist. The torchlights along the route up to the platform illuminated bronze faces with high cheekbones and flat Mongol features. A world of loose-sleeved coats and high cloth boots had replaced draping dhotis and bare feet.

“Dinah! Over here, Dinah!” I heard Silas shout, but the mist swirling amid the engine's clouds of steam hid him. His bearer led the way. Coolies, who hefted our trunks and cases, traipsed at my heels.

At last I recognized Silas' pale hands waving at me. “Silas!”

“There you are!” he cried, lifting me up to the compartment. The bearer had already prepared a tea tray, and Silas poured cups of sweet tea. “Have some buttered bread.” We sat on opposite upholstered benches and ate greedily. “Gulliver will make us eggs whenever you like. Until then, this should restore our strength.”

“Gulliver?” I asked. “What sort of a name is that?”

“From Swift. I rename my servants. 'Bearer' or 'mali' is so anonymous as to be disrespectful; the Indian names are too personal and invade privacy. I give each servant a name I think suits, and also one I choose to repeat—like Gulliver. The syllables roll off the tongue and have a summoning quality about them, don't you think?”

“Does he mind?”

Silas shrugged. “Would he say so if he did?”

“I suppose not, but—”

“You object?”

“No, if s only that the idea is . . . unusual. Why does he wear that curved sword?”

“Gulliver is a Gurkha from Nepal. He never is without his
kukri
in his scabbard. Perhaps you know that the British have trained many of them to be superior mountain soldiers? Well, they also make the most trustworthy guards and companions. He's as brave as a lion and he would not hesitate to sacrifice his life to protect me—or you.”

I stared at the short man in the blue cap. He had fine, almost feminine features that contrasted with his fierce, darting eyes. Although he was impassive, I sensed he heard and remembered everything.

Silas leaned his head back on the linen headrest. His lips curled pleasantly as the train lurched forward. We were on our way again. We both stretched out on the berths and slept for an hour or more. At the next stop—Haldibari Station—I sat up and looked out on ruddy-faced mountaineers in Tatar hats and unveiled women with necklaces of silver, turquoise, and coral.

After we pulled away, Silas moved from his window seat. “Sit here.”

“Why?”

“Because a wife must do as her husband says,” he said with mock sternness. I had been facing backward, so he took my hand and settled me in the seat he had relinquished. A while later he tapped my shoulder. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. “No, not yet. Wait, wait. . . we are going around a curve . . . not yet—Gulliver, wipe the window.” I sensed the servant leaning across and heard the swish of linen on glass. Gulliver backed away “Ready? Now!”

I blinked as I caught my first glimpse of a roseate line of parapets and battlements far above the lazy ridges of blue mountains. I pointed to the flashes of white at the very top of the landmass. “Clouds or snow?”

“Mirrors for the sun,” Silas replied. “Watch them change color as the sun rises higher.”

Entranced, I observed their transmutations from pale pink to burnished gold to silvery white as we sped toward that greatest of natural barriers: the Himalayas.

Silas allowed me to drink in the scenery in silence. At last he began in a husky voice, “They rise up twenty-nine thousand feet from the base of the Siliguri Plain. Some people think it is the end of the world, the highest, the coldest, the most inhospitable place for people to live. Others believe it is the beginning of the world—where streams and rivers and oceans are formed, where pure air is created into clouds which revolve around the planet, where the gods dwell, where the human spirit is refreshed and renewed.”

“Which do you believe?” I murmured.

He shook his head. “Each person decides for himself.”

At last we arrived at Siliguri—six hours later than expected. The rough grass of the foothills was sheeted in a glassy coating of water, but the shining sun made everything glimmer as though veiled in a decorative frost. The natives working in the fields wrapped scarves around their heads as if they had toothaches. On the other side of the platform was a dumpy little toy train that, compared with the monstrous iron engines across the way, did not appear as if it could manage a tour around a garden, let alone a climb of thousands of feet.

Suspiciously I eyed the open trucks covered with flimsy awnings. “Is that the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway?”

“The views are better without a glass barrier.” Silas guided me by the arm. “At least it has stopped raining.”

The difficult journey, the cold, the lack of sleep, had left me weakened, and I did not feel secure on my feet. Nor did the tiny train inspire confidence. The gauge of the track was a mere two feet, though it was said the engines could pull the train uphill four feet for every hundred as it ran through the foothills of the steepest mountains on earth.

A man with a gilt cast to his skin walked alongside the train banging a gong. The waiting passengers filed into the six easy chairs per section—three on each side, facing each other. A whistle screamed.

The little blue engine began to pant and sputter as it warily pulled us forward and upward and into the sky.

After the first hour, I became more confident the perambulator-size wheels could support the carriage. Then two men who sat on a small platform on either side of the engine's prow began throwing something onto the tracks. “What are they doing?”

“Spreading sand on the rails for better traction.”

“Will we ever speed up?”

“No. It chugs along at about ten miles per hour, but remember, we are gaining a thousand feet an hour.”

“How many miles will we travel?”

“Fifty.”

I calculated how long the trip would continue: three more hours. Sighing, I settled back and watched as the long views across the yellow plains to the shining Teesta River became lost in the hazy distance. Soon a jumble of paddies and palms and banana forests surrounded us.

“We are entering the Terai,” Silas said in an irreverent tone. “Here they grow inferior grades of tea.”

The higher we climbed, the more the vegetation became unfamiliar to me. There were the monstrous leaves described only in fairy tales, undisciplined bushes as high as trees, huge stalks of tufted grasses, stands of yellow straws that bent over the tracks and rudely flicked our arms as we passed by. Banks of ferns lurked in the crevices of the moist rocks. And over everything, luxuriant creepers knotted the jungle as though weavers had competed to cover every last inch of soil.

“The higher we climb, the smaller the leaves become,” Silas commented as we passed under a bower of purple bougainvillea and chugged along beside the scarlet blossoms of a tulip tree.

The sturdy train bored through the greenery like a resolute mole. Suddenly it lurched around a curve so tight I could look back into the next carriage. Silas reached out and plucked a fat pink hydrangea from an embankment. He handed it to me as the train stopped dead.

“What is happening?” We started to zigzag backward.

“Now you see why the wheels are so low.” Silas explained how the switchbacks enabled the train to gain height efficiently. “My mother never trusted the train,” he said softly.

Just then the train jerked and heaved. “I can see why,” I replied, thinking: This is the first time Silas has mentioned his mother. “You know something?” I struggled to control my voice. “I have no idea whether my mother ever was on a train.” I thought about this for a few seconds. “She must have been . . .” I swallowed. “But when?”

“Do you think people who have lost their mothers are different from others?” Silas asked in a thin voice.

“I do,” I responded without elaboration.

“Me too.” With a fingertip he touched the tear that formed on the inside corner of my eye, and in a most remarkable gesture, he pressed the moisture to his lips.

The train gave another tremulous shudder that echoed my jumbled emotions. We were clamoring across a bridge above a point we had passed half an hour earlier. I leaned against Silas while the train twisted, backed, circled, and dodged in a crazed attempt to inch higher and higher, as though it were unwinding a tangled skein whose beginning was lost somewhere between where the snows left off and the clouds began.

“Here it comes, the Batasia Loop, perhaps the most famous phase of the trip.” I held on tightly while the train appeared to be a snake tying itself into a knot, its engine whistling impatiently for its own guard's van to clear the track. After two complete spirals the train continued on the last leg into Darjeeling.

 

Sinking clouds shrouded the town. Vapors trailed into the valley as though they were flowing into a cup. Peeking through the veil, I could see scattered settlements perched on ridges enfolding a large basin. A slate sheet moved ominously in our direction, threatening to drench us.