Flowers in the Blood (32 page)

“No, I cannot ask you to make that choice.”

“I make it freely.”

“Next time Euclid might actually kill himself. Then how would you feel?”

“He cannot intimidate me with threats to harm himself.”

“Silas, I don't want to coerce you to stay with me either.”

“It is my decision.”

“No, you are merely accepting your duty.”

“I already know the horror of living a life on the fringes. If we do not stay together, we both will suffer. Is that what you want?”

“No, but I do not want to live with a man who does not want a woman.”

“Dinah, we could make a decent life together. We could travel. We could have friends to visit. Besides, there are fewer alternatives for you than for me.”

Yes, I know!
I wanted to scream at him, but I marshaled my emotions as I began to realize that if I returned to Calcutta, my worst fears would come true. The gossips would be vindicated. “Her mother's daughter!” they would shout from the rooftops.

“You say that if I stayed here I could have my freedom. You meant with other men, didn't you?”

“Yes. We could both be discreet.”

“There are always complications . . .” I omitted saying “like Euclid.” I took a long breath and continued, “Do you know the Indian proverb about the profligacy of Calcutta women?”

He shook his head.

“They say that if you put a bag of Calcutta dust under the bed of a good woman, she will be corrupted. Can't you see that is what they will say about me?”

“Who cares? I would protect you. Your position as my wife would armor you further.”

I closed my mind to his arguments. How could I live out a charade for the rest of my life? Even if Euclid did not return, there would be others like him who would complicate our lives. And even if I could not imagine the men who might tempt me, I could see the futility of loving another under these odd circumstances.

Yet Silas was accurate about one point: what other choices were there? Nobody else would marry a woman who had lasted less than a month with a perfectly respectable man. My father would want my dowry back. I would be a prisoner in his—and Zilpah's—house. My stepmother's graciousness to me in the past months had been predicated on the fact I would soon be married. And her response was likely to be benign compared with the vitriolic tongue of Aunt Bellore.

These terrible thoughts churned and fermented until I could not think sensibly another moment. “I cannot stay with you!” I burst out. “I don't want to live like that for the rest of my life!” I fell upon him, and he did not resist as I pummeled pillows and flesh in a blind fury that soon dissolved into heaving, exhausted sobs.

When my rage was spent, we lay side by side in the darkness. Somehow my head found its way to his chest and I slept for a few hours. I woke when he got up and left the room. I heard a scraping and banging as he himself removed the storm protection. The winds had settled into a modest blow. An icy patina covered the valleys. In the early light the world sparkled with the glow of pearlescence.

Silas brought me a cup of tea. I started to get out of bed. “Not yet. The mountains are asleep, but the atmosphere is so clear they will show themselves today.” He took a seat by the window, keeping watch.

We were lost in our private deliberations. All I had ever wanted was to be a virtuous wife and not to tread the path the society ladies of Calcutta expected me to take. No matter how I tried, I had failed. Had Grandmother Flora's advice been right? Was no marriage at all better than a bad marriage?

“Come see,” Silas called in a faraway voice.

I stood beside him and saw that massive Kanchenjunga was haloed in purple light. Now at last I understood his obsession with the flowering of the snows. Each day at dawn he had the vision to look up and far away, his mind cleansing itself of petty details, daily conceits, the banality of everyday life, even the serious difficulties such as those we faced that day. Compared to the heights, our concerns were minuscule. No wonder he lived in the world of his mind, always striving toward nobler thoughts. Why did I always look down and across the enticing spaces of blue sky? Why did I prefer the wide and distant plain? Why did I long to return to the riverbank, to a passage to the sea?

What would my mother have done? She would have stayed here and led her own life. But hadn't I determined not to be like my mother?

“Silas,” I said as gently as possible, “I cannot remain here.”

“I wish I could persuade you,” he said morosely. “I feel like someone who sees a person he cares about setting out on a perilous journey on an uncertain ocean. At the same time, I realize why you must do so. You are far too young, too intelligent to waste your life with me.”

“No, that's not it. It's because of what happened to my mother—”

He touched his hand to my lips. “Hush. Listen to me. I will go to Calcutta with you. I will assume the entire responsibility for the failure. I will explain my inadequacies to the leaders of our community so they will dissolve the marriage.”

“Your reputation will be ruined.”

“My reputation is nothing. How can they hurt me? I live perched on this hilltop. I will have the majority interest in the Luddy gardens. I care nothing for society. Certainly I shall never again attempt to marry. I will dedicate myself to clearing your name, no matter the expense to me. To the best of my ability I must protect you. You are the one who was deceived. You are flawless. You are intact. Your reputation must be restored.”

Poor Silas had never before stormed the bastions of Calcutta's tight Baghdadi society. “What you suggest is chivalrous, but impossible. I have been here almost a month. No matter what we say, they will never believe us.”

Instead of responding, he pointed to the mountains. “I told you the haze would lift.” I watched with him as the invisible hand of twilight peeled away the gloomy mist. “All the peaks are out. Rang, Jannu, Kabru, Dome, Talung, Kanchenjunga, Pandim, Jubonu, and Narsing are anointed by new day's light. They bore into the sky, those emperors of the earth. Here, from this room, we are as close as any mortal to the top of the world. Here we can forget so much of the baseness of this life. Wherever you go, Dinah, I hope you will, remember the eternal snows that were here before we came and will be here long after we have left.”

I shivered in the draft. As he placed his arm around me, I encircled his waist. Ironically, we were joined in a common purpose at last. I lifted my eyes as the sun illuminated Kanchenjunga. As a final blessing, the pinnacle of the world, the great goddess, the all-seeing mother— Everest—glowed golden as she rejoiced in the dazzling newness of the day.

20

 

H
ow did word reach you so quickly?” Yali asked when she greeted us in the vestibule at Theatre Road. “What do you mean?” I stammered. Silas placed his arms around my shoulders as he saw Yali's expression change from confusion to fear. “You do not know? Then why have you come?”

“To visit with the family,” he replied evenly. “Who is here now?” Yali shook her head. “Nobody is in?” He turned to me.

I shrugged. “Zilpah always insisted the family gather for Sabbath prayers. By this time on a Friday we would always be together . . .” I had ignored Yali's mournful eyes as long as I could. “Papa!” I cried. “Has something happened to him?”

“No.” Yali opened her arms and gathered me in. “Everyone is in Lower Chitpur Road.”

“Nani!” I sobbed as Silas and Yali supported me. “How bad is it? Maybe I am not too late—”

Then my ayah whispered the sad truth. Grandmother Flora's frail heart had faltered sometime between Wednesday night and Thursday morning. Nobody knew the time for certain.

“Have they buried her already?” Silas asked.

“Late yesterday.” She bowed her head.

Yesterday, while Silas and I had been working on how to break our news and trying to anticipate the various reactions. I had been steeling myself to face Zilpah, Aunt Bellore, Cousin Sultana, not to mention Papa, and now all my anxieties were sucked into a void in the pit of my stomach. Nani was gone.

On the way to Lower Chitpur Road, Silas spoke in a monotone that he hoped would penetrate the fog of pain that had enveloped me. “We cannot tell anyone why we are here, at least until the mourning period is over.”

“A charade will make it worse in the end.”

“What charade?” He held up our clasped hands. “Nobody is watching us and we are still friends. Friends care for each other during times of loss.”

“If only my grandmother were here. I wanted her advice.”

“If you wish to change your mind, my offer stands.”

I shook my head.

“Dinah, your grandmother had been ill for a long time. I do not mean to sound unsympathetic, but people we love do die. The legacy they give us is the strength to go on and make our own choices. They did not lead blameless lives and neither can we. Even though I may disagree with you, I admire your courage to try for a better life than I could offer. Part of that courage must have come from your grandmother.”

“Oh, Silas, what if nobody believes our story? What if we cannot get a divorce?”

He closed his heavy eyelids and lowered his head. “Leave that to me.”

 

After the period of mourning passed, Silas wanted to speak to my father alone. Thinking he would be more understanding if I were present, I insisted on being by his side. However, I had not anticipated the roar that accompanied Silas' initial utterance.

“You have not what?” Papa shouted so loud the brass tables in the hall vibrated.

Silas hung his head.

“I do not understand what you are saying.” My father's voice deepened and he strung his words out in long, menacing syllables. “The marriage took place more than a month ago. What have you two been doing this whole time? Playing backgammon?”

“Only a few games,” Silas said with a shaky laugh. Seeing this only infuriated my father further, he continued earnestly, “You must believe me. I have not been able to apply my conjugal rights.”

Papa stared at me darkly. “Dinah, what do you have to say about this? Have you refused him? Is that what this is about?”

“It is not her fault,” Silas interrupted.

“Of course it's her fault! You are two perfectly healthy and capable people. Or, Mr. Luddy, have I overlooked something obvious? With all your high-and-mighty book learning, have you too many brains and not enough balls?”

I felt a wobble in my knees as my father's eyes burned into me. “Papa, it won't ever work out. We have tried, honestly we have.” I hated my squeaky voice. “The last thing I ever wanted was to return to Calcutta, but this is a matter of life or death.”

My father cocked his head. “Life or death?” he said with disbelief. “Has this man beaten you?” I shook my head. “Or harmed you in any manner?”

“N-no. Someone else—”

“Someone else has threatened you?”

I looked beseechingly in Silas' direction, but his eyes were riveted on a spot on the Kashmir carpet. After a long interval he gasped, “There is another man . . .”

Like a spring released of an enormous pressure, my father leapt forward and grasped my shoulders. “You little hussy!” He shook me so violently I thought my neck might snap. “The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?”

I almost welcomed the pain as his fingers dug into my flesh. With enormous effort Silas pulled him back. “No, you are not listening to us,” he gasped. “I am in love with someone else. I was living with this person before I met Dinah, and continued the relationship afterward. Because of his jealousy, he almost killed himself and—”

“
He
almost killed
himself
?” My father's eyes began to twitch uncontrollably as he backed away from both of us.

Silas plunged on. “Since I was quite young, I have preferred the company of men. I thought I could change, I
wanted
to change, but even with your daughter's kindness and patience we could not . . . I could not—”

“You are one of those,” Papa said with sneering contempt. “And knowing this, you married my daughter!” His face twisted into an ugly leer. “You money-grubbing perverted coward! Get out of my sight! Both of you! Leave my house at once!”

Somehow Silas and I found ourselves on the portico. No carriage was in sight. We stumbled down Theatre Road to Chowringhee Road and waved down the first rickshaw-wallah we saw.

“Where to, sahib?”

“I don't know, the Maidan, I suppose.”

“Where in the Maidan?”

“Anywhere. Just get on with it.” The two of us were not as heavy as a corpulent man, but the rickshaw-wallah could not pull us rapidly. No matter. The sound of the wheels grinding out their protest against the uneven tarmac in concert with the wheezing regularity of the rickshaw-wallah's tubercular chest drowned out the roar of our wildly beating hearts.

After an hour of wandering the Maidan's roads, we decided to go to Grandmother Helene's out of pity for the rickshaw-wallah. The exhausted man spit a red clot—was it blood or betel juice?—and grinned at receiving triple the number of rupees he had requested. “Lovers,” he muttered as he jerked his rickshaw into an alley where he could rest.

Grandmother Helene listened more calmly as we described our predicament. There was a long pause. Then, without expression, she began to ask a series of sensible questions. “Where will you live while arrangements are being made for a divorce?”

Silas shrugged.

“Should we live apart?” I asked.

“It depends. If you do, the whole community will start talking. If you don't, they will later question the validity of your claims.”

“We are damned no matter what we do,” I sighed.

“Not necessarily. I propose you both should come to live with me. You can trust I will not gossip about who slept where or when.”

Suddenly she noticed that I was shivering in the light dress I had worn that morning. December often brought a swift change of temperature when the sun went down, but my anxiety was probably more responsible for my shakes than the weather.

“Poor child,” Grandmother Helene said under her breath, and handed me her shawl. She took my hands in hers and rubbed them. “So it is settled, then. There's no need to return to Theatre Road tonight. I'll send for your things. Tomorrow, when your father has thought this over—or rather, when he has talked it over with Zilpah—he will come around. He's more sensible than you think, unless he feels he has been double-crossed.” She stopped abruptly and gave Silas a piercing glance. “About the dowry . . .”

Silas rubbed his hands as though nothing would ever warm them. “Yes?”

“Have you touched it?”

“Not a single anna. Dinah and I agreed she would administer her own funds.”

Grandmother Helene made a clucking sound, as though she either did not believe him or thought that his modern ideas on this matter were no longer of any consequence. “Then Benu Sassoon will stand by your decision. In the past he has always been reasonable where you were concerned, Dinah. Remember when others thought you should have been married off long ago?” Her words hung in the air for several seconds.

Without warning I began to cry. My grandmother did not attempt to calm me, and when Silas started in my direction, she waved him away. “Let her be. She needs to mourn.”

“Her grandmother . . .” he agreed with tenderness.

“Yes, that too, but also the death of her expectations. You have defeated her.”

“I did not know we were in combat.”

“Dinah had such high hopes—we all did. You should have known better than to marry her.”

“I tried. I thought if only—”

“You have done an injustice to this girl, Silas. How deep the scars from this will be, I cannot predict.”

“Dinah knows how dreadful I feel.”

“Your repentance will not protect her future.”

“What can I do for her?”

“A payment would not be out of the question.”

“No! I don't want Silas' money. I have plenty of my own.”

“I am not certain of the terms of your marriage settlement, but surely your dowry will be returned to your father.” Grandmother Helene gave Silas a meaningful stare. He nodded his assent. “It may never revert to you, Dinah. Even if you remarry, your father is under no obligation to offer the same amount again. Remember, he has two other daughters to provide for as well. And if you never remarry, you might need to have some security that does not depend on the goodwill of your father . . . or his heirs.”

Silas cleared his throat. “I would be willing to assist Dinah. Although I do not control any capital right now, I could make a regular contribution.”

I stared at them both numbly. “This is not a financial issue! Why does everything come down to ounces of silver?”

Grandmother Helene stared at me as though I were the most ignorant girl in Calcutta. “At least your husband has not lost his senses. Take it from a woman who is alone in the world, you need to protect yourself.”

I felt numb. “You do not think I will ever have another chance to marry.”

She ran her hands through the tight curls in her hair, but did not reply directly. “I can't blame only you two poor lambs. Benu and Zilpah must accept their part in this. Your father was so anxious to see you settled that he did not examine the facts more closely. Surely others in Darjeeling might have hinted at Silas' . . . tastes.” She gave him a steely stare. “How did you hide this from your own father?”

I studied his tragic face and wished he would not reply. “I was so unhappy with how miserable I made him,” he began with surprising dignity, “I told him the other times had been boyish mistakes. I promised him I had reformed. My father wanted so much to believe me that he never said anything to the Sassoons.” He sighed wearily. “If only I could make everything right again.”

Grandmother Helene turned from us and studied a portrait of her late husband on the mantel. When she rotated back, her face glowed with a renewed serenity. “I have no logical reason for saying this, my children, but I have a sense the future is nowhere near as dark as it seems at this moment. So let us not waste energy on blame and fretting. There are too many practical problems to surmount.” Somehow she managed a conspiratorial grin. “The first of which is, what shall we have for supper?”

 

The next afternoon Grandmother Helene arranged to have one of the elders of Calcutta's Jewish community explain divorce law to us.

“Are these children certain they cannot be reconciled? You are more fortunate than you think,” began Hayeem Elazar Barook, who was wearing the same sort of dagla, the long Baghdadi gown, that my Grandfather Raymond had.

The four of us sat in Grandmother Helene's drawing room. Most of the space was given over to tables groaning under Grandmother Helene's generous version of tea. The visitor and Grandmother Helene were the only ones who partook.