The Temple Dancer (38 page)

Lucinda had formed the impression that Chitra was ancient. Here,
alone with her, with time to reflect, Lucinda saw that in truth Chitra was
younger than she thought. Her face, though soft, was not that wrinkled,
and her hands when she gestured appeared vibrant and young. Maybe her
blindness had made her steps appear infirm. And although Chitra liked to
assume the haughty authority of a matriarch, Lucinda now saw that she
was just another woman, no longer young maybe, but not yet very old.

She held some tidbit to the birdcage, and the parrot snapped at it. "You
are wearing a fine sari of heavy silk, light taupe in color, embroidered with
gold and silver thread. Stolen from me."

Lucinda was silent for a long time. "I assumed you lent it to me." She
said at last.

"Apparently I've made you uncomfortable." Lady Chitra sounded
very bored. "Keep it. I like you. Besides, what good is it to me? My life has
ended. Why does a corpse need another sari?" Lucinda waited uncomfortably. "I would know more about the farang. He troubles me."

"You mean Geraldo? How, lady?"

"It was he who expelled the hijra from my palace. I despise the hijra, so
I thought he had done me a good turn. You know that a hijra stole my
baby?"

"You have often said so, lady."

Chitra sighed, and for a moment Lucinda thought that she might cry.
"I have found out that the hijra he expelled was the demon Slipper himself,
that very hijra who took my baby from me nine years ago. I should have
killed him! I might have torn out his eyes. Had I known, I would have
strangled him with these hands!" Lucinda watched Chitra squeeze her
hands, and then drop them to her lap. "Does he mean to marry you?"

"Who, lady?"

"Who? That farang, Geraldo, of course. Whoever did you think I
meant?"

Lucinda gulped. "The man is my cousin."

"Then why does he look at you so?" Chitra demanded, holding another tidbit for her bird.

"How?" Lucinda asked.

But the woman's thoughts seemed elsewhere. "The lengthening shadows, the brown leaves on the rosebushes, the air so cold at morning that
one needs a blanket," she said, her eyes drifting again. "Soon the summer
ends. Do farangs marry their cousins?"

What business is that of yours, Lucinda thought. "I'm betrothed to another."

"And where is he?" asked the woman.

"Far away."

"Ahcha. " The woman raised her sightless eyes to Lucinda. She lifted
another tidbit and for a moment, Lucinda thought that the woman meant
to feed her with it. "Listen to me first, then leave me as one leaves a corpse.
Is that too much to ask?" The woman held the tidbit just outside the parrot's reach, and was quiet for a long time.

At last she said, "A young woman far from home, a young woman
alone among strangers, a young woman in a different world. A young
woman who has looked at death and knows now how fleeting life may be.
A young woman, beautiful, curious, and trusting."

Lucinda's face grew hotter. "You think I am a fool?"

"You see my parrot? Suppose I left the cage door open and the bird
flew off. Which of us would be the greater fool? How long would he last outside his cage? He would fly into the open sky and fall to earth, blinded
by the sun."

Lucinda drew herself up stiffly, feeling as stern as when she'd argue
with Helene. "If you think to tell me how I should..."

"Oh," the woman sighed. "Forgive me. I did not speak of you."

"You don't pretend that you were speaking of your parrot?"

"No," the Chitra said, lowering her head. "I spoke of my sister, Maya."

"Of course anyone could tell," Pathan told Lucinda later. "She is mad for
him. You alone did not notice because you are too pure, dear Lucy."

Lucinda had just told him about her conversation with Lady Chitra.
His long fingers twirled a raisin, which he examined so minutely that
Lucinda knew he wished to avoid her gaze.

"I'm not so pure," she answered.

Pathan lifted his dark eyes to hers and she felt the power of his searching look, as though he squeezed her heart with those elegant fingers. "Do
you think this time will last forever?" The look between them deepened.
"For Maya, I mean?"

But they both knew. "Maybe it will last," she answered.

"You know it cannot. Here in this old palace, untouched by the winds
of change, here maybe some magic happens, for a little while. But the day
must come when she will walk the road across that lake, and on that day, in
the sad, heartless world on the other shore, you know it cannot last. She is
a slave." Pathan looked away sadly. "Maybe she has forgotten."

"Maybe she makes it her purpose to forget."

Pathan was silent for a while, examining the raisin as one might examine a pearl. "Maybe you should remind her, Lucy." He popped the raisin in
his mouth, and gave her an offhand smile. But Pathan's eyes were troubled
when Lucy looked at him; he was trying to display that foolish courage
men hope to show when their hearts are breaking, Lucinda saw, but like all
men, he only ended up looking callous.

She could not bear to see him so, and turned her face away. "My heart
is not yet so dry as yours, Munna. I think that she should be happy while
she can. Even if it is only for a moment."

"Lucy, I would make her happy forever if it was in my power. But so
much stands in the way."

"What?" Lucy looked at him with that defiant, open vulnerability that
Pathan had seen on no other woman's face. For all her apparent softness,
Lucy was as keen as a knife's edge. "What stands in the way of her happiness?"

"A fortress, Lucy, dear." He had been using that softer name for days,
and it seemed to him it suited her ... just as Lucy had begun to call him
Munna, baby brother, the name his family had called him years ago. "A
fortress built to stand against an unsuitable love."

"And whenever is love unsuitable?"

The sun reflected off the lake like a shower of diamonds. They stood at
the far end of the balcony, two shadows framed against the endless sky,
standing apart from everyone except each other, with only the sounds of
the peacocks in the distance, and the soft clang of a far-off cowbell, and the
lonesome barking of an unseen dog. Their heads leaned so close that
Pathan could feel Lucy's breath against his ear. His hand stole to her arm;
he found her hand; his dark fingers pressed hers, so small and golden.

"All I meant to say, dear Lucy, is that her heart's wish is unattainable."

"What about Aldo? Do his wishes mean nothing?"

Pathan answered with a sigh. "Maybe he loves her. Maybe he wishes to
have her forever, maybe he wishes that she could be his bride. Even then he
might lose much to be with her-his properties, his position. But next to
his love for her, what meaning do they have? He would be a fool to treasure
dead gold more than a live heart."

Lucy looked hard at Pathan, at the face of the man she now called
Munna. Aldo had no property, no position, no treasure-they both knew
this well. If Lucy had had any doubts, she now knew certainly that Pathan
was not speaking of Maya and Geraldo.

"But what can that poor man do, Lucy? She belongs to another, not to
him. He may only borrow his time with her, or steal it. She can never be his
truly."

"She can give her heart to him. That no one else can take from her. That
is hers alone to give. And her body, too. If he does but ask." Her fingers
stroked his hand, and then the length of his arm.

"You say this, Lucy? Can you know her heart so well?"

"I know her heart, Munna." Her trembling hand lifted his and placed it on her breast, she could feel its warmth through the silk. "We are not so different. Her heart beats like mine."

"Lucy, this is not right," Pathan whispered hoarsely, his eyes burning
into hers.

"I no longer care."

At the end of the balcony, framed against the endless sky, two shadows
merged into a single form.

That afternoon, Lucinda swayed, reclining against a velvet cushion on the
platform swing in the ladies' garden. Her thoughts flowed in wordless
shapes, formless as the shadows of the leaves that flickered on her halfclosed eyes.

The sound of approaching footsteps roused her. Lady Chitra, guided
as always by Lakshmi, had come to the edge of the platform without her
noticing. "Well?" Chitra said. "What did she say?"

Lucinda turned aside guiltily, and fiddled with the pleats of her sari. "I
have not yet spoken to her, lady."

Chitra's eyelids lifted so wide they revealed the misshapen whites of
her blind eyes. "Not yet? When, pray, do you mean to?"

After a moment's hesitation, Lucinda answered. "I do not mean to,
lady. It is the movement of her heart. I cannot presume to guide it." She
smiled, but realized how useless this gesture was with one who had no
sight. "Maybe you will speak to her yourself."

Chitra's face was taut. "I tried. Did you think I would not try? She
hears but does not listen. It is the folly of the young." Chitra grasped Lakshmi's shoulder. "You will betray me, too," she said sadly. Lakshmi pulled
away, and rolled her eyes to Lucinda like they shared a secret. But Lucinda
realized that Chitra spoke the truth. "It is in the Goddess's hands now. So.
Never mind," Chitra sighed. Then she nodded to the girl, and Lucinda saw
that Lakshmi carried a small cloth bag, which she now handed to Chitra.
"Some people of mine found these things in the river. I showed them to the
young farang. He said that they belonged to you."

The woman held the bag in the vague direction of Lucinda, who took
it from her and set it in her lap. It was, she discovered, a big kerchief of dun-colored cloth, tied at the corners. When she undid the knot, she said
nothing for a moment. Tossed in disarray on the dull cloth lay a set of
vaguely familiar shapes. Then she gasped.

There were pieces of her blue glass bottle, which had held her belladonna. There was her golden locket, the cover bent on its hinge, which
held the miniature portrait of her fiance, Marques Oliveira. His nose was
black, eaten away by water.

And last, a little silver box that she had by now almost forgotten. It
seemed to vibrate in her hand.

She touched the latch, and the fine lid snapped open, revealing the red
paste inside, glistening as fresh as the day she left Goa. It seemed less full
than she remembered. Before she realized what she had done, Lucinda
swept her finger over it and touched a tiny dab to her tongue. The familiar
feeling spread through her, a coldness on her heart and a dullness in her
limbs.

"That box with the snapping lid. What is in it?" Chitra asked.

"A medicine that farang ladies take, lady."

"Hmmph. Your cousin kept some for himself. He seemed very pleased
about it."

Although she was surprised to hear this, Lucinda didn't feel like answering any more of Chitra's questions about her arsenico, and decided to
change the subject. "I never expected to see these things again, lady."

"They are a sign." Chitra's black, ever-roaming eyes rested once again
on Lucinda. "The yellowing leaves of the rose in drought, the well so low
the bucket brings up mud, the grain jar filled with maggots. A sign, sister,
of troubles, and of worse to come." With that she and Lakshmi moved
away, leaving Lucinda with her shadowed, wordless thoughts.