The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  “Jee hann,” says Ravi, which I take to mean yes. “Right this way.”

  We shortly find ourselves in a very hot, close shop, with a smiling, middle-aged woman very much in attendance. She quickly shoos Ravi off to a side room and divests both Mairead and me of our outer clothing. Soon we are encased in the most wonderfully colored saris. Where do they get these beautiful dyes? I could surely sell cloth like this in Charleston, if not stuffy old Boston . . . Further study is required . . .

  After my bottom is well wrapped in a light orange and white sari with little green flowers all over it and a light chemise has been put on my top, the end of the sari cloth is placed over my right shoulder for me to use as head covering or veil, whichever I choose. My midriff is bare and I long for my old emerald to stick in my belly button, but hey, maybe I’ll find something later that will serve. I look in the mirror and put on what I think is a sultry look. I like it a lot, but it is not quite perfect, yet . . .

  I gesture to the woman by running my forefinger around my eyes.

  “Ah, kohl! Jee haan!” she exclaims and reaches for a brush and jar.

  When I look again in the mirror, my eyes have been ringed in dark, rich brown . . . Now, that’s more like it!

  I dance around the room as Mairead is outfitted in similar fashion. When she is done and all kohled up in the eyes, I exult, “Oh, your Ian should see his little houri now!”

  Her face falls a bit at that, but I will have none of it.

  “You will see your Ian again, I promise it! Now come, we will have some fun! Ian would want it, I know!” And Jaimy, too, I hope . . .

  She nods, lifts her chin, and smiles . . . Oh, Lord, those big green eyes ringed with darkest brown, against that red shock of hair . . . How perfectly beautiful.

  Back on the street again, gloriously decked out, we visit the market stalls to buy some cheap jewelry to festoon our necks and foreheads as well as our arms and ankles. Each purchase is carefully bargained for by our faithful Ravi, who carries the bundle of our former clothing and new purchases under his skinny arm. We buy ornate bottles of jasmine perfume and splash it liberally about ourselves, and for a few cents, I find a nice smoky green stone—Yes, Memsahib, is fine jade, yes finest—just the size for my belly button to complete my couture. Ah, yes, this rig is just right for sashaying about in this tropical clime, which I plan to do with gay abandon.

  After a bit of this, Ravi wearily inquires, just as any male in the world who must accompany female shoppers would ask, “What Missies want to do now? Perhaps something to eat?”

  I consider for a moment and then say with firmness, “We Missies want to ride an elly-phant.”

  Mairead jerks her bejeweled head around and looks at me funny. “We Missies do?”

  “Yes, we do, Mairead,” I say. “We may never get another chance. There are only kangaroos in Australia—and wallabies and koalas and wombats and such—but no elephants. Would you not want to be able to tell your child that he or she was once rocked in the womb by the gentle sway of an Indian elephant?”

  “Well, if you put it that way . . .”

  Ravi himself is taken a little aback—but not for long. He puts chin in hand and does some quick calculations. Then he says, “There will be a great procession this afternoon. Will cost two hundred rupees for ladies to ride earthly manifestation of Ganesh. Ravi can fix. You still want?”

  “Do I have that much?” I ask, thinking about the fistful of coins I got from the moneychangers.

  “Yes, Missy Memsahib.”

  “Then, we shall do it.”

  “Jacky, you’re spending all your money,” warns Mairead.

  “That’s what it’s for, dear Sister,” I retort. “I’ll dive again tomorrow and make some more. Now let’s get something to eat. I smell delicious smells. Ravi?”

  “Yes, Missy?”

  “Find us something to eat.”

  “Oh, yes. What would Missies like?”

  I look about and spy a large cow big as life, ambling down the street.

  “There is a cow standing over there. Surely we can find a nice steak in some fine pub. I smell cooking fires,” I say, lifting my nose and sniffing the air, catching a whiff of what smells like meat being roasted. The cow is white, very clean, and covered with braided tassels. There is a painted design on its forehead, and the horns are sheathed in bright embroidery. Quite handsome overall, there, bossy. Our Jersey cows should get a look at you. They would be most jealous.

  “Steak?”

  “Yes. Meat of that,” says I, pointing at the cow.

  The skin of Ravi’s nut-brown face turns several shades paler.

  “Oh, no, Missy Memsahib. Must not say, must not even think that horrible thing. Oh . . .” He shudders at my blasphemy and takes a moment to recover, his trembling hands clasped and clutched to his thin chest. “Sweet cows sacred to Brahma. She is called gau mata, Mother Cow. Never harmed. She give her milk and cheeses for us peoples to eat and her dung for fires and her urine for medicine. Much loved. She wanders where she will and people take good care of her, yes.”

  Hmmm . . . Be that as it may, all ye holy cows, but the Faber belly is still growling.

  “Well, you Indians must eat something. And my throat is dry. Where’s the nearest decent tavern? I’m buying.”

  Again he looks blank.

  “Taverns. You know, beer, ale, wine,” says Mairead. She lifts her hand and makes the universal tipping-glass gesture at her lips.

  Comprehension comes and he shakes his head. “Oh, no, Missies, whiskies and gins not allowed . . . tsk, tsk . . . bad Missy . . . but come . . .”

  Once again, he leads us on, and soon we find ourselves in a cozy little dive with people sitting cross-legged on the ground around low tables, eating out of big bowls. There is a fireplace in the corner where the food is being cooked. It all smells very good.

  Ravi seats us at a vacant table and signals for the landlady. When she comes, he jabbers something at her, and she smiles at us—but not at him—and a big bowl full of food is brought and placed before us. A steaming pot of tea is also brought, with cups; it is poured and we drink. It is strong and very good, with overtones of vanilla.

  “Ummm . . .” I say, putting down the cup. “Let’s eat.”

  I look about for utensils, but see none.

  Ravi motions that we should scoop up the contents of the bowl with our fingers. I look into it and see brown rice to one side and noodles across from that and a pile of cooked vegetables in the middle. I dig in.

  Ummm . . .

  “That is so good,” I enthuse.

  Mairead’s fingers reach in to scoop up some for herself. She brings it to her lips and then licks off her fingers.

  “Mmmmmm . . .” she says, and her eyes almost cross in the enjoyment of the food. “What is that strange flavor? I’m hopin’ it’s not something vile.”

  “Nay, Sister, it is but a spice called curry. I have tasted it before. Come, Ravi, have some yourself.”

  “Oh, no, Missies. Not allowed to touch.”

  I reach out and tap him lightly on the back of his head. “Eat or I shall not pay.”

  He surreptitiously reaches out and scoops up a handful of the food, keeping an eye on the landlady. I know that feeling, too, because when I was a penniless, dirty urchin on the streets of London, I, too, was not allowed in even the meanest of inns. Well, that doesn’t go with me, now that I’m the one with the money.

  I notice that we are watched closely, and that money talks, as it always does, in any language.

  When we have eaten our fill, we lean back and notice that—surprise, surprise—entertainment is offered as part of the bill-of-fare. A man seated in the back begins to play a twangy kind of stringed instrument and two young girls arise and begin to dance. There is a tip bowl in front of them.

  Their hips swing back and forth and their shoulders go up and down while their arms go out to their sides and describe sinuous arcs in the air. Their kohl-rimmed eyes look out all sen
suous and inviting—inviting to what I don’t know, but it sure is convincing. Glad Davy and Tink ain’t here. At the tips of their fingers they have tiny cymbals that keep time with the music. I am reminded of that song those boys of the Brotherhood used to sing when they wanted to sound exotic—“There’s a place in France where the women wear no pants. And the dance they do is called the hoochi-coochi-coo.” All we need here is a snake charmer with his asp in a basket.

  When the girls conclude and bow, I get up to place a coin in the tip jar and step between them, holding up yet another coin. A sailor and his tin is soon parted comes into my mind, but I banish the thought. I look to the player of the stringed instrument and nod, and he commences yet again.

  The girls lift their arms and I do the same, and we begin. Hey, I can do this dance. Did I not do something similar on that tabletop in Marrakesh? That dive in Algiers? Yes, I did, and yes I do.

  We do the moves together for a bit and then I motion for Mairead to come up to join us. She does and does a fine turn herself—no shyness in that girl, no.

  The music ends, I drop the coin in the bowl, and all four of us bow. The patrons in the place nod in appreciation. I prefer outright applause, but I’ll settle for that.

  We pay the tab and head back out into the sun.

  “Is time, Memsahibs,” says Ravi. “We must go down to get in line for the procession.”

  “Very well,” I agree. “Lead on, larka Ravi.”

  As we walk along, I recall again the sailors back at the Admiral Benbow in Cheapside, when I was but a street urchin, singing about Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats, and I wondered if I would ever see any of those wonders of which they sang. Not bloody likely, I had thought, but here I am in Bombay, after all.

  “What is this karma stuff you talk about, Ravi?” I ask as we stroll along the bustling street. Ravi goes ahead, shooing people out of our way.

  “Is way of living your life, Memsahib. You do good things, you get good karma. You do bad things, bad karma. Good karma is like Ravi helping Missies, bad karma is like Ravi trying to cheat Missy of money back at moneychangers. If Ravi get lots of good karma, he come back as something better when he die. You see?”

  Hmmm . . . Not a bad concept for the conduct of one’s life, I’m thinkin’—gold stars when you are good, demerits when you are bad.

  “Sort of like us Catholics when we offer up some suffering here on Earth to lessen our time in Purgatory,” murmurs Mairead.

  “I suppose,” I say, and then leave the field of religious discussion and head off into more mundane things.

  “Tell me, Ravi,” I ask, “have you heard of the Bombay Rat?”

  He looks at me, perplexed.

  “Rat, like big mousie, Memsahib? Many of those . . .” he says, crouching down and looking under a building to see if he can spot one of the little buggers and then point him out to me. Ah, yes, rats—Universal Citizens of the World—I’ve never been in a place where they were not found in great abundance and, unlike the rest of us, all speaking the same language.

  “Never mind,” I say. “It was only a line in a song.”

  “Missy sing pretty, I am sure, but perhaps you thinking of the Bombay ghat, Memsahib. Sounds alike to Ravi’s stupid ears. We are going there now. Parade start there.”

  “The ghat?” I ask.

  “Yes, Missy Memsahib. Steps that go down to the river Ulhas. The peoples wash clothes and themselves there. Ravi bathe daily in holy waters of Mother Ulhas. Him not dirty like that man say.”

  Hmmm . . . Do I sense some pride . . . and some resentment in our little lad?

  “Here is ghat,” he announces. “Parade will start over there.”

  We have come out of the teeming city onto a wide open space of steps—terraces, really—leading down to a wide, very brown, river. There are many women kneeling at the edge, washing, pounding, and wringing clothes. I see a line of elephants being readied for the procession, and I also see . . . Oh, Lord . . . That smell I had noticed before was not from some kitchen fires, as I had supposed . . . Oh no, it was not. There are racks of wood, some stacked up and ready, some burned out and smoldering . . .

  Ravi notices my shocked look as I gaze out over the smoking funeral pyres.

  “Yes, Missy Memsahib. Is also place to burn the dead. Good Mister Elphy give me money to burn my mommy right over there. Very sad, but she have much good karma, so she is all right I know.”

  And I thought the smell was of roasting pigs . . .

  I look to Mairead, and she is a bit green about the gills, but she has seen worse, and she shrugs, then says, “Let us see to these elly-phants, Sister.”

  We draw near the line of the huge beasts and Ravi says, “Missies stay here. Ravi must fix with mahout. Missy give purse?” I flip him my purse and he catches it and bounds off.

  “That’s probably the last you’ll see of him . . . and your purse,” says Mairead. “Hope we’ll be able to find our way back without him.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” says I, basking in the sunshine and the wonder of the day and of the place. “Somehow I trust the little fellow.”

  Ravi goes over to a small, turbaned man standing next to one of the elephants and holding a long hook. We see Ravi talking to the man and then see the man shaking his head. Again Ravi speaks, gesturing toward us. The man looks over and holds up two fingers. Ravi nods and then opens my purse and carefully deals out coins into the man’s open palm. The man closes his hand over the money and places a ladder against the side of his beast. Ravi puts his knuckles to his forehead, bows to the mahout, and runs back to us.

  “Ladies, ladies, is all set! Come with Ravi!” and we dutifully follow, with me saying, “I told you so,” to Mairead, who I can sense is still withholding judgment on the lad as well as the plan for this afternoon’s entertainment.

  She looks even more dubious when we get up next to the elephant. The sheer hugeness of the creature is a bit intimidating, I must admit, but . . .

  “Come on, Mairead,” I say, putting a foot on the ladder. “Never let it be said that either Jacky Faber or Mairead Delaney McConnaughey ever quailed before a fine adventure!”

  She laughs as she follows me up to climb into a boxlike thing, gaily decorated, of course, like everything else in this glorious land.

  “Missies be good now,” warns Ravi, who climbs up to sit on the animal’s rump, behind our box. “Sit in palanquin and wave nice to the peoples.”

  He doesn’t know me very well, does he?

  There is a great fanfare of trumpets and cymbals and who knows what else and we are off!

  The great beast ambles down the street, followed by at least twenty others, all covered in bright tapestries and carrying men and women dressed in their best—and their best is very, very fine. I wave at the crowd and the people wave back. There are people on the street, there are people hanging over balconies, people everywhere. I love it! Hooray!

  As we progress, I take it into my mind that I would like to ride up with the mahout, who sits forward with his knees between the elephant’s big floppy ears, and so I climb over the edge of the palanquin and step onto the animal’s back.

  “Missy! Be so careful! Is long way down! And if you fall, the next earthly manifestation of Ganesh might step on you, squashing poor Missy’s body to something unsightly!”

  “Don’t worry, Ravi, I shall be all right!” Geez, compared to walking along the fore t’ gallant spar in a living gale, this is nothing. And I do love being the center of attention, and this sure gets me there.

  I drop down to sit and I can feel the elephant’s shoulders working beneath my legs and hands. Such a wonderful thing . . .

  We round a corner and up ahead I see that a stage has been set up off to the right, and I suspect some nobs will be on it and—Oh, my God, I am absolutely right!

  There, in all his naval glory, sits Captain Augustus Laughton, resplendent in navy blue and gold, and standing behind him—oh, glory!—is none other than my good Higgins, looking splendi
d in white jacket with gold buttons and braid. He seems to be scanning the crowd, probably for me. Never fear, Higgins, you shall see me very shortly.

  Next to the Captain sits an Englishman, also finely dressed, who has to be the Governor of Bombay, and next to him an Indian man, with turban, jewels, a big mustache, and a forbidding glare . . . the Maharajah, perhaps?

  Well, stand by, gents, you’re about to have a show.

  I jump back into the palanquin, squealing, “Come on, Mairead, stand up! It’s the Captain and Higgins up there! Let’s give ’em a treat!”

  Mairead leaps up, ready to go.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. When we get up in front of them, I’ll face them and you’ll stand behind me. I’ll begin to dance that Indian dance with the arms and all, and you’ll put your arms out in the same way and we’ll look like that many-armed Kali! It’ll be great, and everybody will laugh and be gay!”

  Our elephant pulls in front of the reviewing platform, and I stand with the end of my sari across my face as a veil. I can feel Mairead up against me, behind, laughing in anticipation of the coming stunt.

  I start to move my hands in that sinuous way, snapping my finger cymbals as I do it. Mairead’s hands at my sides weave about in the same way.

  We must look just like that statue of Kali back there in that temple, I just know it!

  When all the eyes on the reviewing stand are well fixed upon us as the incarnation of an Indian goddess, I whip off the veil and give ’em all my best open-mouthed grin.

  “Ahoy, Captain Laughton!” I shout, throwing my arm around Mairead. “How do you like your little minstrels now?”

  The Captain’s jaw drops open, and when he recognizes us, he roars with laughter. “Capital! Oh, just capital!”

  Higgins looks a bit relieved to see me, and then his look turns to one of concern. The Governor looks baffled, and the Maharajah looks positively steamed.

  Uh-oh . . .

  “Missies, oh, missies, you should not have done that thing! Kali’s thuggees mad now!” pleads Ravi, jumping to the ground. “You must run, Missies! Quickly now, follow Ravi!”