‘If he likes it, I told her, then that’s two treats she’ll have given him, and they can take it from there. A mouthful shared is a mouthful halved, I think. But, if he doesn’t, then she shouldn’t worry herself on that score any longer. Because why should she do something for him, that he would not willingly do back to her?’
She looked at Bessie thoughtfully; the woman was obviously trying to compose a response, but her mind was clearly dragging her elsewhere – to the bedroom she shared with her new husband, Randolph, and the delight she now had in store for him. It was time, maybe, to hurry her along. ‘And on that note, I’m afraid I must be awfully rude, and busy myself with some other duties,’ Lady H_____ lied. ‘But do give my fondest regards to dear Randolph.’
‘And mine to Mr Horne,’ Bessie replied archly. ‘Yes, I really should be going. Randolph will be home soon.’ She rose and left the room; mere seconds later, the door opened again and Lady H_____’s butler entered. ‘Your Ladyship? The gentleman has returned.’
Goffman. Lady H_____ suppressed an inward groan. Although the remainder of their interview had passed off satisfactorily enough, still the man took his leave unbowed in his conviction that Horne alone had an answer for his dilemma; an insistence, of course, that only strengthened Lady H_____’s insistence that she was quite as capable as her partner (and she emphasised that word, so there could be no further misunderstandings). Nevertheless, it was only the half-true assurance that Lady H_____ was, even now, awaiting a telegraph from the detective that prevented Goffman from returning to his faraway estate; instead, he agreed to remain in London for a few days more.
There was no telegraph, and Lady H_____ spent the remainder of that day, and much of the following morning too, drifting around Horne’s own rooms, browsing through the immense library that consumed every inch of wall. Only the knowledge that Bessie would be arriving soon pulled her away from her studies; she had found nothing that looked like it might aid poor Goffman, but much else that did divert her attentions. She had intended to continue her reading this evening. And now this.
Goffman stood in the doorway; shifted slightly to allow the butler to pass, and then entered the room. ‘Your Ladyship. Ma’am. I have reconsidered my somewhat precipitous response of yesterday, and I would very much like to accept your offer of assistance. In Mr Horne’s absence.’ Then; ‘Did you receive his telegraph today?’
Lady H_____ waved him to a seat. ‘No, regrettably not. But no matter.’ She deliberately brightened her tones. ‘I have devoted much of the last 24 hours to further research and, although I can offer nothing conclusive just yet, I do believe we are on the cusp of a breakthrough.’ Or the cusp of something; ‘Damn you, Ambrose,’ she said to herself. The look of excited anticipation that brightened Bessie’s face as she departed had left Lady H_____, too, in the mood for a certain kind of kissing.
The mood was clearly contagious, too. Goffman shifted in his chair. ‘I’m sorry, but I could not help but overhear your conversation with your last visitor,’ he said softly. ‘While I was seated outside. Perhaps if my own wife had ever taken the same passionate initiatives as you espouse, I would not be in this position now.’
Lady H_____ drew her chair closer to his. ‘I think you had better explain.’
* * *
Pattabhi Gokhale viewed the Englishman with all the suspicion of a man whose entire life had been spent at the beck-and-call of one self-righteous Sahib or another. A child of the 1857 Mutiny – that is, his father had fought in the great uprising, and Gokhale was born as its last embers were extinguished – the book-collector dreamed of a day when India should be free to determine her own destiny.
As this newcomer talked, however, he could not help but warm to him. Not only did Ambrose Horne speak Gokhale’s own native tongue, he did so with the casual ease and warmth that bespoke a love for the words themselves, and not merely the dutiful parroting that so many foreigners dreamed would suffice. He was even more impressed when he learned that Horne was no stranger to the ancient texts; that it was he whose English translation of the Randama Satrani, or The Ballads of the Questing Tongue, was now regarded among the truest of all Hindu-English texts. The volume that Horne now sought, however; that was another matter entirely.
Traditionally, the Kama Sutra, Vatsyayana’s Aphorisms on Love, has seven parts, 36 chapters and 64 paragraphs, each dedicated to a different ‘art’ of love. Certainly that was the form in which it had travelled abroad, to become possibly the best-known erotic text in the world. There was, however, more, the so-called Lost Aphorisms that first enlarged upon the themes that danced through the earlier verses, and then spun off in myriad wildly different directions, encompassing superstition, folklore and magic. It was that, a thousand years before, which led to their suppression.
But copies still existed to be passed between a handful of experts; and one, but only one, had travelled further still, into the collection of Pattabhi Gokhale. What he needed to know, as he took tea with his visitor, was how word of his possession had found its way to London?
‘It was essentially a process of elimination,’ Horne replied. ‘Very few men, in India or elsewhere, possess the knowledge, the appreciation and, most of all, the money to have purchased the manuscript. And, in my mind, you were the first of the few.’
Gokhale accepted the compliment. ‘And, may I ask, Mr Horne, what you hope to do with the verses, should your supposition be proved correct?’
‘I would like to study them, of course; translate them and, ultimately, to publish them.’
Gokhale studied the detective’s face for a moment. ‘My niece speaks very highly of you, Mr Horne. Of course I would not have agreed to see you without her recommendation. Tell me, are you her lover?’
Horne placed his teacup back on the silver tray. ‘Do we speak as friends, face to face across this table?’ he asked. ‘Or as mere acquaintances, straining for our opinions to be heard across the vast cultural and social divide that separates our two nations?’
‘As friends, Mr Horne. I rarely offer acquaintances tea.’
‘In that case ...’ he paused for a moment. His buttocks were still tender from the beating she had dispensed the previous afternoon, and his ears still rang to the melody she’d crooned. ‘I would be honoured were she to consider me her lover.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Gokhale replied softly. ‘I believe I may be able to fulfil the first of your ambitions. You shall have the opportunity to study the verses. Translation, however, I cannot permit, and publication is absolutely out of the question. There is great power within the Lost Aphorisms, Mr Horne, power that belongs to India alone. If that is acceptable to you, I can have the manuscript brought here within the hour.’
‘It is most acceptable,’ Horne smiled. ‘Perhaps I may peruse your library while I wait?’
Gokhale embraced him. ‘You do not know how long I have waited for an opportunity such as this. To discuss the Lost Aphorisms with a man who cares for their content, as opposed to the style and language that obsesses other scholars. To a man such as I, your presence here is almost worth the subjugation of my country by yours.’ Horne affected to ignore his words. In the current climate, such sentiments were often more dangerous to the listener than to the speaker.
He remained uninterrupted as he browsed Gokhale’s library, but could not help but notice that the little man did not take his eyes off him for a moment, not even when the Englishman turned away from the truly precious works that filled one shelf of the bookcase, and inspected the lesser-valued, and more obviously browsed books that consumed the others.
‘You have a redoubtable collection,’ Horne flattered the man although, in truth, the gaps in Gokhale’s library struck him as more noteworthy than the inclusions. Few of the great French texts were here, none of the ancient Latin and Greek treatises, and the English volumes tended to be those that one could readily purchase from any number of backstreet booksellers in certain parts of London. There were, perhaps, no more than a
dozen manuscripts here that could truly quicken the pulse of the average connoisseur, and Horne himself already owned most of them. In terms of quantity, there was no doubting Gokhale’s reputation as one of India’s greatest collectors of erotic literature. But one could certainly question the quality.
The arrival of the Lost Aphorisms relieved Horne of the continued chore of appearing impressed by the resolutely unimpressive, a sheath of papers that, having clearly been torn from a larger volume at some point, were now so ragged as to be on the point of decay. Even handling them caused the parchment to crumble between the fingers; and, spreading the pages out across the table, Horne wondered how much longer they would even survive. Again, he marvelled at the strength of Gokhale’s reputation. The man collected books. But he did not care for them.
The text was tiny, the Sanskrit archaic, the light poor. An hour or more passed, and Horne was still studying the first of the eight pages, and he wondered how long he could hope to prevail upon Gokhale’s hospitality. A glance in the man’s direction set his mind at rest. Still watching Horne like a hawk, Gokhale’s expression was nevertheless that of a Christian child on Christmas Eve, scarcely able to control his excitement, but aware that he had no choice but to do so.
Occasionally, Horne would murmur something, a phrase that caught his eye, or simply a barely-conscious expression of delight. Every time, Gokhale started forward and beamed, as though Horne’s very ruminations were nuggets of learning that must be absorbed before they were gone forever. But, only when Horne finally sat back in his chair, the final page read and absorbed, did Gokhale dare to speak.
‘Your journey here was fruitful? The texts were all that you hoped they would be?’
Horne took the glass of cordial that a hovering wallah offered him, and drained it in a single draught. ‘Fascinating,’ he breathed. ‘Truly fascinating. But, I have to ask this, can even a fraction of it be more than mere folklore and legend?’
‘That is the question that torments the scholars,’ Gokhale replied. ‘Certain elements are definitely possible; I have witnessed them myself as I have travelled this land, and even encountered one or two.’ As though he was seated in a Gentlemen’s Club, recounting past conquests over a snifter of brandy, Gokhale related the events of the night that he experienced the Cobra’s Caress, a state in which all the force of an erection is concentrated in the glans alone, until it spreads out like the hood of that most venomous serpent.
He spoke, too, of the Daughters of Kamala, women who had abandoned the conventions of society in order to devote their lives and, by extension, their bodies, solely to the pursuit of their own pleasures and intentions. Then he laughed. ‘But there, of course, I am telling you nothing that you do not already know. Did my niece sing to you?’
Horne nodded. ‘I’d never heard the ballad before, and was surprised by it. I thought I was au fait with all the great epics. Now I understand why.’ Padmaja’s song was drawn verbatim from among the Lost Aphorisms.
Gokhale continued. ‘Those are the elements I know to be true. Others, I believe, were once practised and, who knows, a combination of science and enlightenment might some day return mankind to a state where they may be enjoyed again. But I will confess to you, that there are situations described in those verses that can only be distortions of some long-forgotten ability, for even convoluted allegory cannot truly explain their appearance here.’
‘Into which of those categories,’ Horne asked, ‘would you place the Curse of the Mofussil?’
‘The Curse of the Rural Backwaters,’ Gokhale translated loosely. ‘A state of mind in which a neglected and frustrated lover, usually a man, literally loses his penis, so that it can no longer torment him with its incessant reminders of all that he is deprived of. It was named for those far-flung communities that, perceiving themselves ignored by the centres of government and progress, deliberately cut themselves off from all further contact with the authorities, regardless of the hardships it might cause them.’
‘I know the state of mind. In England, we call it “cutting off your nose to spite your face”.’
Gokhale laughed. ‘A far more sensible solution. But you know India. We would rather do nothing than accept a half-measure. Within just the last few years, an entire village in Maratha state starved itself to death, rather than accept food from a local Rajah whom the villagers believed held them in the greatest contempt.’
‘And the human angle?’ asked Horne. ‘Do you believe that man retains the ability, subconsciously or otherwise, to will his very sexuality to vanish?’
‘What a question,’ Gokhale responded. ‘You know as well as I, Mr Horne, that the human mind is capable of many things, and the despairing human mind many more.’
Horne nodded. ‘I need to send a telegraph to London. How soon can I do that?’
‘As soon as you have composed it. My cousin operates the nearest office. I will send a wallah to rouse him immediately.’
* * *
The house was silent, dark and sleeping, as Lady H_____, swathed only in her dressing gown, crept across the hallway and mounted the stairs that led to the guest suite. She and Goffman had spent the entire evening talking; and so engrossing was their conversation that, even had Lady H_____ not surreptitiously stopped the clock on the mantel, they might not have realised the lateness of the hour. Now, it was much more convenient for Goffman to spend the night at Her Ladyship’s home, rather than attempt to flag down a carriage back to his hotel.
Only part of the conversation concerned itself directly with Goffman’s misfortune. Far more fascinating, Lady H_____ discovered, was his account of his marriage to the daughter of a local Squire, a fiery, passionate woman who filled his every need bar one. They had made love just once in five years, and that was only because convention and the law demanded that they consummate their union.
Since that time, Millicent had made it plain that sex had no part to play in their life together, either for pleasure or procreation, and her husband had meekly acceded to her wishes; so meekly that, after a time, he hadn’t simply stopped missing sex, he didn’t even think about it any longer. In fact, he admitted, his penis had already been absent several weeks before he even thought of contacting Ambrose Horne, so little attention did it demand.
Lady H_____ was tempted to ask him what all the fuss was about, then? If he didn’t use it and didn’t need it, then surely he could scarcely be missing it; rather, she mused, he should regard its absence as though it were a once-troublesome appendix. Such levity, however, scarcely seemed appropriate, even though Goffman’s temper markedly lightened as the evening wore on; until, by the time they retired to their separate beds, Lady H_____ was actually enjoying his company. Now, however, it was time to discover to what extent he might enjoy hers.
By the light filtering in through the undrawn curtains of his room (she really needed to speak to the footman about that), she could see Goffman asleep on his side. Slipping off her dressing gown, she slid naked beneath the blankets alongside him and, moving stealthily so as not to disturb him, angled her arm towards the man’s loins.
A set of Lord H_____’s pyjamas had been laid out for Goffman; he had chosen, for whatever reason, to sleep in the jacket alone. (Perhaps because he has nothing to hide, the mischievous thought leaped unbidden to mind.) Extending the palm of her hand, she encountered the coarse scrape of his pubic hair. But nothing else. It felt so strange to place one’s hand in such an intimate spot, and encounter nothing more than if she were inspecting his back, but that was the case. Just as her eyes had told her the previous afternoon, the man’s body remained featureless from stomach to scrotum.
She withdrew her arm. In her mind, as she schemed this moment through the evening, she imagined that somehow, the missing member would miraculously return, perhaps while he slept, perhaps through the proximity of another human body. She was wrong and, temporarily bemused, lay on her back, thinking back to her conversation with Bessie this afternoon. ‘Awaken him in the night, keep the l
ights out ....’ She wondered if the woman had taken her advice, if – perhaps at this very moment – Randolph was discovering the delights of the tenderest kiss of them all. Whereas she, Lady H_____ ... oh, the whole affair really was so confounding.
She moved back onto her side, and allowed her fingertips once again to graze in the wiry fuzz between Goffman’s legs. Did he feel no sensations there whatsoever? No stirrings at all? He was sleeping deeply; her fingers drifted down a little, to stroke at the flesh where his flesh should have been. Even in a sleeper, such actions were guaranteed to provoke some kind of physical stirring, but she aroused nothing. Her hand cupped his balls. They, too, hung loose and relaxed, as though nothing on earth could interrupt their libido-less slumber.
Goffman shifted in his sleep. For a moment, Lady H_____ thought he was going to roll over onto his stomach, and put an end to all her explorations. Instead, he moved in the other direction, onto his back.
She thought again of Bessie. ‘Take him gently between your lips.’ The night was warm, the bedclothes were few. Inching slowly down the bed, turning herself around as she did so, Lady H_____ positioned herself carefully and comfortably. Then raising Goffman’s scrotum gently in one hand, she slipped a single egg into her mouth.
She sucked for a moment; released it, then treated its neighbour to the same warm treatment. She felt a thrill as she perceived the skin begin to tighten a little, as though his balls were trying to recall the last time they’d enjoyed such sensations, and what they ought to do about it. If the man had possessed a penis, it would already be rising now, and Lady H_____ suppressed the fission of disappointment that shivered down her spine. She would have to make the most of what she had here, and trust in her instinct as to what might transpire.
His balls were large; she could take just one in her mouth at a time, although sometimes she compromised by devoting her attentions to that so sensitive point in the very centre of the scrotum. Above her, she heard Goffman groan a little, as though his brain was finally registering his situation; opening her mouth as wide as it would stretch, she drew as much of his bag into her mouth as she could, using her tongue and her jaw to jolt fresh pleasures through his body.
The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne Page 3