by Gay Courter
“Yes, missy-sahib.”
“Could you please give this book to my brother Jonah?” I gave him one rupee along with my request.
The bony Bengali man grinned, revealing his betel-stained gums.
Jonah, who had been very upset that he did not have his spelling book, was delighted with my ingenuity.
A week later I copied out a Latin verse from the Satires of Juvenal I thought Gabriel would find amusing:
Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.
If nature denies the power, indignation would give birth to verses.
“Do you deliver to Gabriel Judah?” I asked the tiffin-wallah.
“Yes, missy-sahib.”
“Might I put something in his tiffin-carrier?”
He bent over, and with a free hand he pointed out Gabriel's tiffin-carrier on his board. I slipped my message on top of the bananas and biscuits.
Gabriel's reply, something he discovered in Horace's Odes, arrived with the pickup late that afternoon.
Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas.
Pray, ask not, such knowledge is not for us.
I scurried to see what other nuggets Horace might have written and was thrilled to find amorous tidbits I had never known existed. Somehow I mustered the courage to respond with:
Persicos odi, puer, apparatus,
displicent nexae philyra coronae;
mitte sectari, rosa quo locorum sera moretur.
Boy, I detest the Persian style
Of elaboration. Garlands bore me
Laced up with lime-bark. Don't run a mile
To find the last rose of summer for me.
Gabriel's next find in Horace was even more daring:
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
perfusus liquidis urget odoribus grato, Pyrrha, sub antral
What slim youngster, his hair dripping with fragrant oil,
Makes hot love to you now, Pyrrha, ensconced in a Snug cave curtained with roses?
Makes hot love to you! The words burned in my mind for days. I could think of nothing else. I could not send back anything so wicked. Just knowing we were perusing the same passages was enough to stir feelings that were terribly new and wonderfully thrilling. How I adored the boy! I started to dream that we would find a way to be together forever and ever.
Gabriel sent me quotations about “Diana, keeper of the sacred hilltops” and I began to understand the meaning of translations like “By all the gods, why are you making him weak at the knees with love?” and “Come now, leave your Mother: you're ready to know a man.”
Our game would have lost its amusement if we had not escalated the double entendres and hidden meanings. My gleanings through the steamier passages of Horace, Catullus, and Ovid had the added benefit of increasing my proficiency in Latin to the point that my teacher sent home a commendation for my diligence.
Proudly my father read her note to the entire family, concluding with, “It honors the family when you honor yourself at school.” He bowed to me.
Even Zilpah congratulated me with unqualified praise. “Yes, Dinah, keep up the fine work.”
Then I discovered the poems of Catullus. Even I did not have the nerve to copy the most titillating passages. “See XXXII and XXXVI” was all I dared.
Gabriel and I had not seen each other since the beginning of this correspondence. When we finally met, at Grandmother Helene's Purim party, he sought me out as soon as he could get away from his mother and sister.
“I am having difficulty with a translation. Would you be so kind as to assist me?”
I looked around furtively. “What seems to be giving you trouble?”
“The first and last lines of number thirty-six.”
“It can mean only one thing,” I giggled.
“No! It has to be something else.”
“Why? Do you think men didn't have the same needs then as they do now?”
“But 'cacata carta'?” He grimaced.
“Well, I think it means 'toilet paper.' What else could it be?”
Gabriel flushed a violet hue. I was laughing so hard I could not stop.
“What is so funny?” Masuda wondered when she saw us. “Tell me . . .” she begged.
“My Aunt Bellore . . .” I improvised quickly. “Isn't her dress hideous?”
“Yes,” Masuda agreed, and joined in the laughter.
Relieved, Gabriel rushed off to be with the other boys.
“You like my brother, don't you?” Masuda asked after he had gone.
I shrugged. “He's nice.”
“He likes you,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.
“He just likes to beat me at games.”
“You win at least half the time.” She became more somber. “My mother thinks that is for the best. She believes a girl should be a boy's equal.”
What was Masuda hinting? Were our parents considering a match? I wanted to ask more, but there were too many people nearby.
Just when I began to hope our parents might speak to each other, the tiffin-wallah slipped up. How did it happen? Did my meddling with his system, cause him to deliver the wrong tiffin-carrier to the wrong person, or did I inadvertently move Gabriel's tiffin-carrier to the position on the board reserved for Pinhas Tassie's? Whatever the reason, it could not have fallen into worse hands.
Pinhas Tassie was as tall as I was, lean but surprisingly weak. Clothing, no matter how well-tailored, hung on him in awkward drapes. His feet were huge, as large as my father's, and he tripped often, walked into walls—in short, he was the clumsiest young person I had ever met. In sports, he invariably came in last or fell on his face. I suppose I laughed at him—we all did—but I do not think that was what formed the kernel of his resentment. There was something else, something about his character which distrusted me as much as I distrusted him. His cheeks were sunken and his heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be able to look two directions at once. Silent much of the time, he seemed to be observing everyone rather than participating. Just as his mother rarely responded to a situation, preferring to take action out of our sight, often days or weeks after the occurrence, I sensed that Pinhas toted up his score of inequities and slights, spilling them to his mother when they were alone. He had reason to be wary of me. I hardly had welcomed his mother into our household. My fasting, my coldness, my loyalty to my grandmother, had created rifts that had never healed. While I thought I treated Zilpah respectfully, my sullenness in her presence could have been interpreted differently, especially by her devoted son.
Most of the time Pinhas and I had the good sense to avoid each other. My brother Jonah was not so fortunate. Because the boys were almost the same age, it was expected they would do everything together, from sharing a rickshaw on the way to school, to studying, to sleeping side by side. Asher was a gregarious child who preferred to go along with a group's decision rather than invoke conflict by insisting on his own way, and thankfully for family harmony, Simon Tassie was almost as tractable as Asher. However, Jonah, who was accustomed to being first among the boys, resented Pinhas' interference. They frequently exchanged blows, with Pinhas receiving more than his share of the wounds. I always sided with my brother, which caused a further wedge between the two factions of the family, so it was my bad luck to have the most saucy of my tiffin notes fall directly into Pinhas' conniving hands. Even then, as I look back, I don't know how I could have risked writing:
Quern nunc amabis? Cuius esse diceris?
Quern basiabis? Cui lobelia mordebis?
Et tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.
Where's the man that you love and who will call you his,
and when you fall to kissing, whose lips will you devour?
But always, your Catullus will be as firm as rock is.
When the tiffin-wallah did not deliver a reply that afternoon, I was unconcerned. I had searched for several hours before settling on this gem, and I expected it would take Gabriel a while before he located anything as audacious.
On Saturday I saw
Gabriel for a few minutes outside the synagogue.
“What did you think?” I asked, smirking.
“About what?”
“Gabriel . . .” I tilted my head playfully. “You know what I mean . . .”
He was perplexed. “What?”
We had so little time alone, I was becoming impatient. “You know . . .”
Shaking his head, he said, “Why haven't you answered me since last week? Didn't you like the one I sent you on Monday?”
“I wrote to you Wednesday!”
“I did not receive anything.”
The back of my neck began to prickle with fear. “Weren't you in school?”
“I haven't missed a day this term. Don't tell me that ignorant tiffin-wallah put it in the wrong carrier?”
“I always place it on the top myself!”
“They look alike.” Gabriel's voice rose in pitch. “Could you have put it in the wrong one?”
“Somebody else must have . . .” I gasped.
“Was it a mild one?”
“Not a good choice,” I groaned.
“Don't worry. I never sign my name. Neither do you.”
“Good, then nobody will know who wrote it or where it was destined,” I nodded hopefully.
Gabriel was still agitated. “We eat in the courtyard. If somebody opened his tiffin-carrier and found a note, most likely he would have held it aloft and asked for its owner, especially if he knew any Latin.”
“Somebody is keeping this a secret, maybe a friend of yours.” I didn't sound optimistic.
“What if someone showed it to one of the teachers?”
“We would have heard by now. There would have been some sort of inquiry.”
Pinhas strolled by and we naturally stopped talking. “What sort of inquiry? A Latin query?” he punned boldly. The smug expression on his face made me feel faint.
Gabriel saw my knees buckle. I would have fallen backward on the stone walk if he had not lunged for me, one hand clasping my shoulder, the other my waist. The sudden movement brought me upright, then flopped me against him. For a second or two I leaned on him, my head next to his, his arms supporting me. At that moment Zilpah came around the corner, holding Ruby's hand.
“This game must stop at once.” Zilpah was not shouting. Her voice was soft, calm, controlled, but vehemence penetrated every syllable.
I faced her squarely. The two of us stood in the room my grand-mother had once occupied, which now was a downstairs sitting room Zilpah used for working on the household accounts.
“A harmless exercise,” I offered weakly.
“Harmless?” Her voice lowered an octave. The tight ball of black hair at the back of her neck seemed to pull her mouth into an obstinate line. The muscles in her gooselike neck lengthened until she towered over me. “Have you forgotten your position?”
“Nobody knows about it, except you . . . and Pinhas.”
“You are fortunate somebody less discreet than my son did not find this.” She waved the note in front of my face.
“Only a sneak like Pinhas would have shown it to you and told you what it meant.”
Her nostrils flared. “For someone who is supposed to be a very intelligent girl, you are incredibly forgetful. Of course, we prefer to push past unpleasantness aside. Since I have come to the house, I have tried to establish order, peacefulness. I have been successful, at least with the younger ones and with your father.” She paused. “I would think, for his sake alone, you would have wished to spare him anxiety by doing your duty at home, as well as in school. Frankly, I think it is possible the influence of your education has not been a healthy one. While I believe that girls must learn to read, do sums, to be educated so they can assume their proper roles in the Jewish community, after a point there is often a negative effect. I warned Benu that something like this might happen.”
I felt close to despair. Zilpah was going to ruin everything. “What do you mean?”
“A girl who goes off to a fancy school every day is duped into believing she will go out into the world every day. At your age you should be home preparing for marriage. I have told this to your father, but since you have dazzled him with your good reports, he has taken your side.”
I quaked under her scrutiny, but remained silent.
“Considering the past, considering what you—what you both—have suffered, I have acceded to him. Now he will see the wisdom of my words. I am only sorry it took so drastic an incident for his blinders to be removed.”
“Are you saying I cannot finish school?”
“When a girl begins to behave as you have, the dangers are everywhere, especially a girl with your background. We can no longer trust you. We must watch you more closely or your reputation will be ruined.”
“What do you mean, 'a girl with my background'? What’s wrong with my background? You are the one everybody talks about. If they think badly of me, it is because my father married so low. The name Sassoon will never whiten your skin or give you a Jewish birthright!”
Zilpah did not seem to be provoked further. If anything, she was more quiescent. “Must I say it again? Must I speak even more plainly?”
“Yes, please do. I'm tired of your silences. You and Pinhas are alike. He tells you everything. You tattle to my father.”
“All right, then.” She stood and began to pace in front of me, the swish of her sari on the bare floor punctuating her Words. “The time is coming, Dinah, when you must marry. This year would not be too early. I was betrothed before I was fifteen. Many of your friends will be married within the next few months.”
She reached the end of the long, narrow room, spun around, and marched back, directly facing me. As she turned, the silk hem whooshed like a spill of water. “One of the reasons for having young girls marry is to protect them from themselves. No good family wants a girl who has any questionable character traits or who is thought to have compromised herself with a young man. Your indecent notes to Gabriel, your unseemly conduct at the synagogue, constitute the sort of behavior that give a girl a bad reputation and ruin her chances. Fortunately, nothing has come of this—yet.”
Again she reached the boundary of the room. As she curved back, the sound—like a dragon's foul breath—warned she was coming closer. “Keeping you at home is the most prudent course. This will prove you have conscientious parents. Then, as quickly as possible, we will find you a suitable match. At least your dowry will be so extravagant you will have your pick, or at least that is what your father claims. Then there are other concerns . . .” I could see her deciding whether to check her tongue. My surly expression decided for her. “We still do not know if anyone will have you, no matter the dowry.”
I froze, incapable of speech. A terrible unnamed feeling set my heart to beating wildly. On the far side of the room, Zilpah waited more than a minute before waving me to sit on a hassock. As she slid into the wing chair, her iridescent green sari draped into an obedient puddle at her feet. “You are the daughter of a woman who brought other men into this house while her husband was away. You are the daughter of a woman who could not control her need for opium. You are the daughter of a woman who neglected her family duties. You are the daughter of a woman of loose morals who was murdered in her bed by a jealous lover. Nobody has forgotten this. In this society, children are the products of their parents. Luckily, your father has an estimable reputation, so a case for you might be made, but only if no other taint touches you.”
I felt as though a knife was being twisted between my shoulder blades. A sickness welled up inside me, causing me to bend over. Zilpah must have noticed my distress, but she pressed on. “Your beloved Baghdadi Jews are a superstitious clan. You and I know there is nothing wrong with walking under a tree after dusk—the spirits won't find us. You and I know cats and dogs are not going to bring demons into the house. You and I know this nonsense about the evil eye is ridiculous. But others do not. Even if they are not really believers, they see less harm in following the old ways than in th
e consequences that could befall them if they failed to do so. Do you understand me, Dinah?”
I lifted my head, but did not meet her gaze.
“Among these same ignorant people are the mothers of the men you might marry. They cannot forget you are the child who was carried out of her mother's bedroom bathed in her traitorous blood. They hold you no grudge. Indeed, they pity you, Dinah. But they do not want you to marry their precious sons. If I have been harsh to you in the past, if I am being harsh to you now, it is only to protect you, to keep you above suspicion to avoid any problems that might arise as your father and I attempt to secure your future.”
At first I was furious she had dared to speak to me so forcefully, but then a fresh feeling welled up and diffused my anger. I was grateful for the clarity of my position. I saw what I now must do. I knew to whom I must speak. There was nothing more to say to her. Besides, I would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she had, in the queerest sense, done me a favor.
A chick-chick, a mosquito-eating lizard, skittered between us. I lifted it in my lap and stroked its knobby spine. It froze under my touch. I waited. I knew Zilpah was repulsed by the creatures. Eventually, I am not certain when, Zilpah left me alone. The chick-chick's tail twitched, its eyes caught the afternoon sun and glowed as if it too were on fire from the inside out.
12
Your mother's speech may have been unnecessarily abrasive, but I cannot disagree with her,” Nani said in a breathless voice I had not heard before.
I was stunned. Where were the words of consolation I had sought?
I concentrated on the banyan tree that curtained the Lower Chitpur Road courtyard in an embrace of shade. Once monstrous to me, the tree seemed diminished in size. Nani also appeared to have shrunk. So many things had changed. Dr. Hyam and his wife now lived here. My grandmother was more a boarder than the lady of the house. She would have been more comfortable at Theatre Road—that is, if Zilpah had not been in command. To have her defend the woman who had made it impossible for her to keep her place was a travesty.