The Temple Dancer (4 page)

Without waiting for the gangplank, Da Gama leaped to the pier. Nearby
a sailor eyed him icily-the gangplankwallah, no doubt, now realizing that Da Gama's jump had just cheated him of his baksheesh. He didn't think I'd
make it, Da Gama thought, pleased with himself.

On the dock a gaggle of boys mobbed Da Gama. They pointed to the
crosses hanging from strings on their necks. "Hello, brother! Hello,
Christian!" they shouted in Portuguese. They pointed to the palanquins,
whose bearers waited eagerly beside them. "Palki to city only three rials!
Christian!"

"Two rupees only!" Da Gama roared in Hindi. Some of the boys cowered
in surprise; others more insistent pressed closer, holding up their crucifixes.
Da Gama scowled, pushing through them. He strode down the pier, past
mounds of shiny green-skinned coconuts stacked like polished cannonballs, past gulls arguing with skinny cows over some scrap of garbage.
Thin, dark-faced men with fierce, determined eyes staggered past, backs
bent beneath huge gunnysacks holding twice their weight of cinnamon.

Da Gama frowned. The port was busy, to be sure, but not as busy as it
ought to be. If he needed further proof that the Dutch were strangling the
Portuguese trade, here it was: the dismal movement on the dock, far slower
than it should have been, particularly at this time of year, right after the
monsoons. The pier should be sagging with goods. But no.

Suddenly Da Gama found himself surrounded by the dock boys, who
swept him as in a wave toward the palanquins. As the palkiwallahs called
and gestured, Da Gama noticed a tall, turbaned Muslim watching the scene
with dry amusement from a few yards off. "Pathan!" Da Gama shouted,
spreading his arms with delight.

With the palkiwallahs and boys following, Da Gama strode over and
gave Pathan a bear hug. The Muslim was tall, and Da Gama's widebrimmed hat pushed into his face, which helped him disguise his pleasure.
"A salaam aleichem, " Pathan whispered.

"And what am I to say now? Aleichem salaam?" Da Gama laughed. Of
course he knew the answer.

The clamor of the boys and palki bearers around them grew unbearable. Pathan glared at the crowd. With just his look the turmoil stopped,
and one by one the boys and men stepped back.

"How do you do that? I can never make them go away!" Da Gama said.

"They think you are not dangerous, sir," Pathan replied. "If they knew
you as I do, you would have no difficulty."

Da Gama shrugged. "That explains it. When I was your age I was dangerous, maybe. Now I'm just an old man. They see right through
me ... while you are still blinded by excessive respect." Pathan bowed his
head politely. "I see you are too courteous even to laugh at my jokes. Now
tell me, friend, what brings you to this godless city?"

Pathan's face revealed little. "That which brings you, sir, brings me as
well," he answered.

Da Gama frowned. "I'm only here to do a settlement for the Dasanas."

"I am here for that same settlement," Pathan said quietly. He stared
blankly into Da Gama's frown.

"The settlement in Bijapur? You're the burak?"

"Yes. For the grand vizier, yes," Pathan answered. Da Gama nodded.
"Both you and I, sir, chosen for this same settlement." The Muslim
watched Da Gama for his reaction.

"The thought worries me."

"It worries me as well, sir. Though I lack your experience, I too have a
reputation, undeserved as it may be. And I did not expect to find you
here." He lowered his turbaned head. "But the journey may prove diverting. Perhaps I shall find some way to repay my debt to you."

Da Gama snorted. "That again? How long will you plague me with
your gratitude? I told you, it was nothing. A trifle. Any man would have
done the same." Pathan lifted his head. "Now tell me, what do you know
about the settlement?"

"Very little. The grand vizier said I was to be sure the goods arrived intact. He would say no more. He is cautious of spies."

Da Gama gave a low whistle. "Ah, my friend, my friend, my friend.
The wind has blown trouble your way." He nodded toward the dhow.
"Here comes our problem now."

A short, heavy ball of a man stumbled down the gangplank. Though he
reached out for help, none of the sailors offered a hand.

"What, him?" asked Pathan.

"No." Da Gama lifted his chin toward the deck. "Her."

She was small, but the sunlight glancing from her silver shawl gave her a regal
grandeur. As she turned, the sea breeze pressed against her silken garments, revealing for an instant each curve of her body. The sailors on the deck rose
as she passed. When she reached the gangplank, a half-dozen hands went out
to help, but she needed none. She smiled her thanks and stepped from the
dhow with stately grace.

The small fat man bounced down the pier in front of her, his clumsiness exaggerated by the woman's flowing steps. The cinnamon bearers
dropped their sacks and gaped; the cows lifted their sad eyes to watch; gulls
flapped into the air and hovered around her head like attendants.

Da Gama alone seemed unaffected. He strode toward the palkis-no one
now seemed to notice him-chose one at random and clapped its roof noisily, calling out, "Hey! Whose palki is this? Hey!" As if sleepwalking a halfdozen bearers stumbled toward him, eyes fixed all the while on the woman
dressed in silver. Near the end of the pier the fat man's turban came undone.
He stopped walking to rewind it, so now the woman came on alone.

As the glistening pulp of a ripe mango slips beneath its peel, her hips,
round and luscious, swayed against her skirts. The dock fell silent except
for the jingle of her ankle bells. She glanced into the eyes of every man she
passed, a look both haughty and beckoning. Her long-lashed eyes,
cinnamon-brown and flecked with gold, promised and teased.

When she reached Da Gama, she looked at him as if there were no other
man in all the world. The breeze carried a hint of her perfume. "Is this my
palki, sir?" Though her face was young she had a woman's voice: dark, suggestive, twining like the tendrils of a vine. Every man close enough to hear
could imagine her lips brushing his ear, whispering his name.

Da Gama reached out to her. Grasped by her hand so delicate, his fingers
looked swollen and enormous. She slid into the palanquin like liquid, and
tugged its curtains closed. As the palki bearers moved in a daze to take up
their burden, Pathan made his way to Da Gama. "Her? Is she the one, sir?"

"Oh yes," Da Gama answered. "That's our problem."

"But not Bijapur! You said we'd go to Lisbon, belie. Bijapur! Why would
anyone want to go to Bijapur? It is just like Goa, only uglier!"

"We're going, and that's that," Lucinda answered. "It is not your place
to give opinions, Helene."

"Such words! It was I who brought you up!"

"I am a woman now, Aya. You must be more respectful." But Lucinda's
voice was not too harsh, for from Helene's unending complaints she had
gleaned much about Bijapur-about the cannon at its gate, bigger than a
house; about the dome of Gol Gumbaz, largest in the world. These facts Lucinda would slip into her talk when in the company of Tio Carlos or cousin
Geraldo.

"You know quite a lot for a girl who's never left Goa," Geraldo whispered. But something in the way he said it, in the luster of his bright black
eyes, or the way the corner of his lip curled in a half smile, sent a tiny shiver
through her, like he was talking of another kind of knowledge altogether.
Often when they spoke she'd end up blushing.

But she had little time for socializing if she were to be ready in three
days. From the storage barn, servants humped dusty trunks up the narrow
staircase to her bedroom. "Only two, my dear cousin," Geraldo told her,
and despite her protests and her pleading, she ended up sending all the rest
back down, saving the two largest for the trip.

"I could fit my house in here," Helene complained, "and my brother
and his family could fit into this other." But Lucinda wondered how she'd
squeeze in everything she needed.

Petticoats, corsets, linens of all kinds-Helene took these folded from
the dresser, unfolded each one with a shake, then muttering in Hindi, refolded and packed them. The dresses were brushed and wrapped in yards
of muslin against the dust. Stockings and garters, and then shoes, shoes of
all kinds. And bed linens, and towels, and precious soaps from Lisbon.
"The Virgin knows what you will find in that heathen city, bebe," Helene
said. For Bijapur was a Muslim kingdom. Even so, Lucinda let out a little
hmmmph, as though she were too sophisticated to care.

In truth, she'd seen only a few Muslims-pilgrims mostly, loading
onto boats bound for Mecca, viewed from far away. Only three regularly
visited her uncle's office. They always stared at her, and one-only onebowed stiffly when he passed her in the hallway. It felt dangerous when
they were about, like when the snake charmers sat outside your house and
you worried that one of the cobras might escape. Lucinda would wait by
the window in her room, staring down into the street until she saw them
leave. They rode horses-muscular Bedouins with flaring nostrils and
bright, skittish eyes and coats that glistened like they had just won a race.

One day, after growing frustrated with Helene's impossibly slow packing,
Lucinda burst into her uncle's office. "But I can never be ready in time,
Tio!" she cried, managing to squeeze out an affecting tear.

"Don't go then! All the better!" Carlos had answered. He said it sincerely, of course, but stiffly. His table was neat today, his shirt starched,
and he sat upright in his seat. Lucinda looked around, suddenly aware that
he had guests.

One was a Portuguese soldado-middle-aged, paunchy, with ill-kept
clothing and an amused demeanor-who slouched casually in one of Carlos's big wooden chairs, a glass of brown wine balanced on the carved lion's
head of the arm. He twisted around for a better look at Lucinda, lifting
himself half-sideways with a nod and hearty grin, as though this were the
best courtesy he could manage. A half-dozen pistolas poked out from his
wide leather belt.

The other man was already on his feet: tall, slender with a face shaped
like an almond, and skin the color of polished teak. He wore a tightly
wound turban. His bright eyes and long, narrow nose made Lucinda think
of a hunting bird. Lucinda tried to hide her surprise. The man was Muslim.

"Lucinda, please greet my guests. This is Captain Pathan, of the court
of Bijapur." The Muslim lifted his folded hands to his chin. His face, Lucinda realized, had a self-important air that was really quite annoying. She
made him a very brief curtsy, but he didn't seem to comprehend its hinted
insult. Or if he did, he was too smug to care.

"You've met this other rascal before, though you probably were too
young to remember."

"I knew your father, Lucy," the soldier growled, finally managing to
place his well-worn boots on the floor, and approximate a gentleman's bow.
"You were a baby. He was a good man. A great man. I see you've turned out
well. Beautiful like your mother." She realized that his eyes, which had
seemed sleepy when she first saw them, were shrewd and full of life. His face
was so unguarded that she blinked and nearly forgot to curtsy in response.