The Grammarian (18 page)

“K
ANAKADURGA
A
MMA
G
ARU
, they are—excuse my language—prostitutes?”

Kanakadurga laughed, “No, dear Dr. Lautens,
devadasis
are courtesans.” She leaned back, lounging in cushions, and Alexandre smiled to himself as he noticed that she looked, to his surprise, sensual, languorous. “They are artists, scholars, they write books and read poetry and learn languages. They sing and dance in the temples. They are part of kings’ courts. They are married to God, Alexandre . . . and they are their own mistresses.”

Alexandre smiled; he was unaccustomed to being viewed as a prude.

“
Devadasis
are servants of God,” she finished, smiling.

Alexandre had been reading the English-language newspapers and their scandal-tinged coverage of the obscenity trial of Bangalore Nagarathnamma, the scholar-musician
devadasi
who had edited and published the work of her fellow
devadasi
Muddupallani called
Radhika Santwanam
.

“The authorities are claiming it is obscene. Fools! My goodness, they are perverts and fools!” Kanakadurga gestured about dramatically, her eyes bright with anger, “Muddupallani’s work is—it is erotic poetry, it is about the joys of womanhood. Obscene? What ridiculousness.”

Nagarathnamma’s photograph was in the paper—she looked strong and intelligent and regal. Alluring though not beautiful. She boasted in the papers that she was the first woman in all of India to pay income taxes; she could play the violin and speak Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu and English. She loved poetry. The papers wrote, “Ms. Nagarathnamma has published the work of eighteenth century fellow devadasi Muddupalani, whose work of Telugu erotic poetry,
Radhika Santwanam
, has caused an uproar and Muddhupallani and Ms.
Nagarathnamma have been called whores, prostitutes and adulteresses by the authorities, who view the book as a pornographic work. We can only quote the following lines from the book: ‘She kept thinking. Tortured by love / she couldn’t close her eyes.’ Anyone in possession of this volume is asked to relinquish it to the local police authority under the direction of Police Chief Cunningham. Failure to do so will result in the offender being charged with a morals violation.”

I
N THE KITCHEN
, there were great stainless steel bowls filled with sweets and puris and rice. Preparations for that evening’s wedding were under way and even then, so early in the morning, there was a buzzing sense of urgency: the leisurely life of the Indian upper class temporarily suspended as an endless stream in a joyous panic. Saris were starched and ironed, jewels taken from locked cabinets, and heavy garlands of flowers were strung up in the garden where the wedding would take place. Relatives were everywhere, offering help and creating chaos—the maids interrupting the seemingly endless cooking only to make coffee or tea for the guests.

Amid all the chaos, Alexandre sought out Anjali. “I hope you wouldn’t mind accompanying me this morning on an errand; I would quite enjoy your company. I was speaking to the cook this morning as she made me some coffee—I discussed this trip with her and she has assured me your father would not mind,” Dr. Lautens said.

“Of course, Dr. Lautens,” Anjali said. Her father would not mind, of course. His protectiveness was reserved for Mohini and it came so often to her aid that there seemed to be none of it left for Anjali. Moreover, he was busy that morning in town, making last-minute bank transferals for Mohini’s dowry.

No proper Indian unmarried girl would be seen in public in the sole company of an unrelated man, but it did not occur to Anjali that she was doing anything wrong.

Nothing at all occurred to her; she was nearly trembling with joy. Lautens was perhaps the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and upon seeing him that first time she felt a great desire to know him and to be in his presence, a feeling that she had not, in the closed doors of her childhood home, ever felt before. Anjali could not contain her excitement—to be alone with the beautiful, exotic scholar. She fancied herself a person of a degree of substance, not one to be moved uniquely by the magnetic power of physical beauty, no matter how great. Only having known Dr. Lautens some few moments that first day he arrived, however, she knew little more about him to find appealing. But still, she could not then take her eyes from him. She noticed at dinner his manner was reserved. He had an air of quiet, observational seriousness, as if all of life was part of his study, and not just the character of speech. Since then, she had found that he had gentle good humor, neither a comedian nor a stoic. His manner was intelligent, his words thoughtfully chosen and carefully delivered. He did not seem given over to the arrogance so common in Europeans, and lacking this conceit, and the bravado that so often seemed to come with it, he had instead a quiet and calm self-assurance. But sometimes Anjali was confused by him—he seemed to be sympathetic to the poor outside the home’s gates but also wary of them. He believed strongly in the education of women but thought they should stay in the home and leave money earning to their husbands. Perhaps most of all, greater even than the plain fact of his beauty—there was a great world in his eyes. Anjali gazed at his eyes: they were larger than solar systems and galaxies. In light of the first
sensations of desire in Anjali, the assurance of impending spinsterdom seemed especially cruel.

She drank her coffee quickly, anxious to be with Dr. Lautens in the wide world. She went to her room, smiling in a way she never had before, a wild smile that she could not control. With so many guests in the home, she could move surreptitiously. She put sandalwood-scented powder on her shoulders and collarbone and pinned jasmines to her hair, thinking briefly of that time when Dr. Lautens had told her about Aimé Guerlain, who re-created the fragrance of his first love’s skin and could capture the scent of a melancholy Paris twilight: he could make the smell of the silver mist in the purple sky, or the smell of wet flowers after a rain shower: that one was called Après l’Ondée. She had written the name down in her diary after he told her, and she wrote down too the story he had told her about Marie Antoinette being discovered in her coach by the French revolutionaries because the scent of her perfume had betrayed her: no one but royalty could afford the fragrance.

Anjali then went to her grandmother’s room, knocking timidly in the early morning. “Nainamma! Nainamma!” she whispered, urgently. She heard a weak grunt of acknowledgment; she pushed the door through, beaming. “Nainamma! Dr. Lautens is taking me out! He wants me to go into the city with him.”

“What for?” the old woman asked drowsily, her brow furrowed.

“I don’t know. He says he has an errand to run—maybe to the news agents or the tailor . . . I’ll be back soon.” She turned to leave.

“Anjali!” the old woman said in warning, her voice raspy, grabbing the girl’s wrist. But seeing so strong and rare an expression of joy on her granddaughter’s face, she said only, “Be careful.”

They would be beyond the confines of this estate and all its stifling, all its spying, all its gossip. As she walked out of the house, she saw her mother in the kitchen. Lalita’s hair was ever-so-slightly disheveled, and she was talking to the servants about the wedding menu.

Anjali continued on, and thought twice, before turning and saying, “Mummy, Dr. Lautens has asked me to—”

Lalita turned, her face red with irritation. She put a ladle down and rubbed her eyes, “My God Anjali. Can’t you see I’m very busy right now? My goodness.” Lalita clutched her head, “
Naaku cheppalenantha pani undi!
” I have so much work.

Turning, Anjali ran outside to meet the doctor.

“I have called the carriage. Rajiv is waiting outside for us,” Dr. Lautens said, and as they rose up, he crooked his arm toward Anjali. It was a strange gesture, and as she steadied herself upon her cane, she looked at him quizzically.

He smiled and taking the cane from her, offered her his arm. He beamed. She could see from his expression that he liked who he was in this moment.

Anjali smiled, flattered and frightened at once. She was never without her cane. But she did not want to offend him. And she did want to touch him. She rested the cane against a chair, tentatively. She clutched the chair’s back as Alexandre moved nearer to her, and she imbibed the scent of musk and soap. He reached for her hand and looped her arm through his. She held to it tightly and fearfully, unstable upon her feet as she found a new balance. His arm was heavy and strong, his body warm and solid.

Alexandre nodded to the guard to unlatch the gates. Anjali clutched Alexandre’s arm for life as he led her outside the great gates.
The morning guard, Peter, was a man of the darkest skin with a bushy mustache. There were cracks in the skin of his hands. He was one of the lower-caste men who had converted to Christianity when the white missionaries went through the slums of the untouchables. He nodded to them, muttering in acknowledgment, “Miss Anjali, Dr. Lautens.”

As they walked outside the gates, she delighted in feeling the burn of the eyes all around them, even those of the driver, who had known her for years as a proper girl. Their unvoiced accusations angered her, but she felt a great surge of pride at feeling the embarrassment unique to women. Never before had she been able to give the suggestion of impropriety.

Outside, a thin fish vendor wearing only a
lunghi
was returning from the early morning market. Under his arm, three silvery fish wrapped in newspaper—taking home what he couldn’t sell. A blond street dog was trailing him, whining and whimpering, his ribs and hips jutting out of his skin and thin coat. The fishmonger waved at the dog dismissively, shouting, “Po!” Go, get out of here. But then Anjali saw him turn around and throw a fish at the starving dog, which attacked it with his snout and teeth, laying waste to it in minutes. And Anjali felt inexplicably light, as if a heavy hand had been lifted from her chest, so glad to see such goodness.

As they sat in the carriage, Alexandre wore again his strange smile.

“I hope you enjoy what I have planned, Anjali.”

“I am sure I will, Dr. Lautens.”

She did not recognize the curve of the road as they wove through the streets, but she lifted her face, imbibing the salt in the air.

Before her, an expanse of blues and golds came into view, fairly sparkling. And Anjali smelled that ocean air, saw little plumes of sand rise up in the wind.

Alexandre asked the driver to wait in the carriage. He kicked his shoes off, exited the carriage and came around to her side.

Anjali followed his example and slid her sandals off. She leaned toward him and took his arm as before.

They walked along the long stretch of sand, and she felt the sand against her feet, grainy between her toes and against the dry skin of her heels. The morning was cool, but the rising sun warmed them, and she could feel it bear down on the earth. She shuddered in the early morning breeze and held Alexandre’s arm as if it were more dear now.

They stood for a moment, gazing out at the great, roaring blue and green and white ocean. He sighed deeply, and for a moment, she lost his gaze and saw that his mind was far away. For a moment she could not feel the strength of his body and thought she might fall as the waterline rushed up around her ankles. She felt fear in her stomach, and in the next moment, her vision was filled with the sky. Alexandre lifted her into his arms. She screamed even though she was smiling.

He marched out swiftly in the sea. Alexandre laughed, and looking down at her exclaimed, “Anjali, today you will swim.”

A cold, clear pool rose around Dr. Lautens’s legs, his pant legs pooling around his body as they moved deeper and deeper into the water. Anjali closed her eyes as the water washed over her again and again. She continued to scream in fear and joy and disbelief. They moved deeper and farther into the water, and Alexandre continued to laugh with such unbridled joy, in such hysterics, that he seemed a much younger man than he was, the cool water lapping at his chest, the fishermen in their boats laughing and pointing and yelling at them.

The water was deep. It was rising up past his waist and up to his chest; he laughed, giddy from of the shock of the coldness of the water. She did too—it took her breath away and she gasped and sputtered and flailed, clutching Alexandre’s body for dear life, her legs and arms flailing.

“Don’t worry, Anjali,” he laughed, “I’m here!” He yelled over the roar of the waves, laughing at the fear, panic and happiness in her face. “I’ll hold onto you! I’ll hold onto you!” She felt the warmth of his body as wave after wave crashed over them. Her skirts pooled out in the water, rising up to her knees, and she felt her skin tighten in the cold. Alexandre caught a brief glimpse of her deformed leg. Anjali’s hair came loose from its bun and spread like a dark cloud around her face.

Dr. Lautens continued to hold her up. “Don’t struggle against the water, relax, let your body float,” he instructed her, remembering teaching his own children how to swim. “The water will support you—it will hold you up. And I am holding you also.”

The gentle and amused expression on his face caused her fear to subside, and she could feel her muscles begin to relax, to move with the waves. She felt his large hands clutching her body, pressing his warmth into her through her wet clothes. She pressed down into his palms and closed her eyes and shouted and shouted again with joy. The water washed over her once and again and again, every time cleansing her as she floated as if sinless.