Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  I mustered my energies for the attack. “She is not my mother!”

  Nani's expression—eyes rolling back, a snap of her head—was a rebuke meaning: Don't I know that better than you?

  My expectation of a miracle crumbled. The indignation in my face dissolved. Unlike Zilpah, I knew my grandmother took no pleasure in my misery.

  “How old are you now? Fourteen, isn't it?”

  I nodded.

  “My mother was married at thirteen. I was also married at thirteen, the first time.”

  “First time?”

  “You may not have known your grandfather was my second husband. A few days after the marriage my groom took to his bed, and died within three months. I didn't marry again for sixteen more years. Why? Because of our superstitions. His family thought I had brought the evil eye to our union, which was nonsense. He was a weakling from the start. His parents thought marriage would strengthen him, make him more of a man.” She pounded her bony fist on the arm of the chair. “Afterward, I lived in his parents' house almost as their slave, which is why they were not interested in seeing me married again, and my first dowry had been so generous my family could afford nothing more.”

  “How could they—?”

  She waved her hand to stifle my question. “That was a long time ago. Your mother—” She caught herself and began again. “Zilpah is only protecting your interests. If she spoke too plainly, it was because she believed that was the only way to reach you. You have not been easy to talk to, have you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Marriage offers advantages.” Nani gave me a few seconds to think about this. “You leave the house of your father and move into the house of your husband's family, or, if you are fortunate, one of your own. In your case, either might be welcome.” She stared, her light blue eyes glinting. “You will have so generous a dowry you might be able to build a house, although maybe not one as grand as Theatre Road. And—”

  “And maybe you could live with me!” I filled in.

  She closed her eyes. “That is a lovely, if impractical, idea.”

  “Why?”

  “The Hyams take excellent care of me.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. I'm an old woman with few years left. Let's talk about your future.”

  “I do not want to marry.”

  “Never?”

  “Not so soon.”

  “When might it suit you?”

  “Two years from now I will be in the first graduating class of the Jewish Girls' School.”

  “It is that important to you?”

  “Yes.”

  As she rubbed her chin thoughtfully, a breeze blew across the courtyard, scattering leaves. “The monsoon is early this year. It will rain all night.” She sucked in a long breath. “What else haven't you told me?”

  “About the Latin notes?”

  She shooed my question away as the wind ruffled her long skirt, billowing up to reveal ankles that seemed too fragile to support her frame. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing.” My hair blew into my eyes, stinging them.

  She leaned close and smoothed my hair back. “You are afraid. Most girls are afraid of men; why shouldn't you be? After all, a man killed your mother.”

  “Why does everyone keep reminding me? It was a long time ago and she was different from me.”

  “A man killed Mozelle.”

  “Mozelle?” My voice sounded tinny, distant, as though I was not actually there.

  “If she had not had a baby . . .” My grandmother's hand on my cheek was my only link with stability. “Stand up.” I did not comprehend what she wanted. “Stand!” With surprising strength she pulled me to my feet. “Look, already you are taller than me, much taller than your mother when she was fully grown.” She placed her thin hand on top of mine. “Your bones are more like a man's.” She encircled my waist before moving her fingers down to rest on my hips. “You could safely have a baby tomorrow.”

  “I don't want a baby.” I thought about Zilpah, who was expecting a child in less than a month. Unlike Mozelle, the pregnancy had hardly affected her. She was so tall the baby rode invisibly under her loose sari, not announcing her condition until the past few weeks. Even now she kept up with her duties, proving she could have a baby with little fuss.

  “Eventually you might.” Nani took my hand and led me into the house, where tea was laid out in the drawing room. Mordecai Hyam and his wife, Farha, were already seated.

  I answered their initial questions about school and family; then, while Dr. Hyam started to tell Grandmother Flora about a recent case, I thought over my position. Marriage had never been a concern of mine until my gruesome interview with Zilpah. I was beginning to see that if I did not participate in the plans for my future, the adults would settle the issue between themselves. Not that a girl could choose the boy. Only a rare few like my mother and father had ever done so. And they were poor examples.

  While I sipped my tea, I contemplated the possibilities. Gabriel Judah headed the list. More than ever I admired his pink, round face and his well-formed lips and especially his light hair, which most other Baghdadi Jews prized as well. I adored being with him, although since the tiffin-carrier escapade both sets of parents had made a point to keep us apart. We only glimpsed each other at the synagogue. I expected he would make me a good companion for life because he was more intellectual than most boys, but not so serious that he could not find jokes in Horace and Catullus. Thinking about how we had been embarrassed by the notes, I winced. I hoped the adults eventually would forget about it. Aunt Bellore was having a garden party in a few weeks. Surely Gabriel would be there, and we might be able to have a few words privately. Anticipating that day, I repressed a smile.

  “Is something wrong with that pastry?” Farha Hyam asked when she saw the odd expression on my face.

  “Oh, no,” I stammered. “Just a sensitive tooth.”

  Reaching over, she poured cooler water into my cup and told me to drink it slowly. I went along with the charade, nodding that I felt better; then I went back to my musings of Gabriel. He was the first son from a jute-trading family that was not as prominent as the Sassoons, yet respectable. Zilpah and my father could hardly object.

  An ayah was at the door. Farha Hyam waved her in and lifted her sleeping baby boy into her lap. As she stared at her infant with undisguised admiration, I thought about my grandmother's discussion, imagining myself in Mrs. Hyam's place. She was nineteen, just five years older than I was. Short, heavyset, Mordecai Hyam wore glasses and was already balding, even though he was only in his thirties. He had been too busy—first with his studies, later with my grandfather's practice—to marry sooner. I stared at Dr. Hyam, who always had been so concerned about me, and wondered what it might be like to be married to him. With some astonishment, I decided the idea did not repel me.

  Soon the bearer announced the gharry had come to collect me. I stood to say good-bye to the Hyams. On my way past, I patted the baby's bald head.

  Grandmother Flora struggled to her feet and followed me to the door. “Try to avoid upsetting Zilpah as her time nears. After the child arrives, I will speak to your father on your behalf, asking him to put off making a match until after you have completed your schooling.”

  Gratitude bubbled in my voice. “Oh, would you, Nani?”

  Her voice lowered. “Remember, a betrothal might be arranged sooner. Only the wedding date would be delayed.”

  Feeling as though I had been rescued from an abyss, I kissed her forehead.

  “Go, go home. This new baby will absorb them for at least half a year. Finding a partner will take twice that, the negotiations another six to nine months. There's plenty of time,” she muttered as she pushed me out the door.

  Seti Sassoon was born while I was at school. The morning I left, there was no indication that Zilpah was feeling unwell. When I returned, Yali showed me to the nursery, where the honey-skinned infant rested peacefully. That a child could arri
ve with so little commotion was a revelation that perplexed me.

  As Grandmother Flora had predicted, the baby turned Zilpah's attentions elsewhere. My father went to China for more than six months and I enjoyed whatever freedoms I was allowed, but since the disastrous tiffin note incident, I was circumspect, especially around young men.

  For the next several years I immersed myself in my studies to the exclusion of everything else. When I wanted unconditional love, I visited Grandmother Flora. When I wanted a house filled with people and confusion, I went to Grandmother Helene. I kept my part of the bargain by behaving myself, so Zilpah had few complaints. Fortunately, there were no further mentions of marriage prospects, so I was content.

  One afternoon shortly after my seventeenth birthday, Zilpah made an unusual request. “Dinah, would you accompany me on a walk in the Maidan?” She looked at me with her candid black eyes that offered me no chance of refusal.

  I kept up with her fast pace down Theatre Road, along Queens Way, to the edge of the racecourse. When we arrived at the broad gravel lane—for some reason called Secretary's Walk—she slowed. Perspiration had formed a glassy patina on her face.

  “Shall we sit?” I offered.

  “No, no.” She kept walking with a determined stride. “I did not want you to hear this news from somebody at school,” she said without missing a step. I was curious, but not alarmed. “Your Aunt Bellore has kept me apprised of the negotiations. I promised not to say anything until they were final; she agreed not to make an announcement until you had. been informed.” She halted so quickly, the stones crunched under her heels. She spun to face me. With a sudden tender gesture she touched my shoulder. “Your Cousin Sultana is betrothed to Gabriel Judah.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled loudly. Gabriel? No! How could he? And to scrawny little Sultana, who, even though she was nine months younger than I was, had hardly developed. He, by contrast, had become more attractive than ever. The sun had tinged his hair with bronze streaks, his brows and lashes had darkened, and his face had taken on a handsome definition. Even though I was almost his height, my figure was slim, and I thought that most boys would have agreed I was more alluring—and unquestionably brighter—than Sultana. How could Gabriel accept this situation? He abhorred girls as illogical and shallow as my cousin. In the years since our flirtatious correspondence, our friendship had deepened. I had always been led to expect we would be considered for each other, and now he was snapped up before I was ready, by my greedy aunt for her puny, mediocre daughter.

  “But how—I thought—” I sputtered.

  “Don't you think your father made inquiries there first?”

  “Weren't they interested?”

  Zilpah shook her head sadly.

  “Why?” I watched her mouth twitch as she deliberated her reply.

  “What did they say?” I begged.

  “Mrs. Judah said, 'We would not consider Dinah if she were the last Jewish girl in Calcutta.' “

  “The dowry, wasn't it sufficient?”

  “Sufficient for a maharajah's daughter, I would think.” She took my arm and led me along much more slowly than before.

  “You are thinking how stupid I was to object to an early marriage, aren't you?” I choked.

  “No, in this case it would not have made a difference.”

  “Aunt Bellore would never have considered Gabriel Judah—his family is far beneath hers—if it hadn't been for the rumors about us. It is only because she thinks she is taking something from me that she has agreed.”

  “Dinah, Gabriel Judah is not the last fish in the sea.”

  “When will the wedding be?”

  “In three months. Your aunt wants a very big show for her first daughter.” Tears sparkled in her eyes as she turned for home. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

  I did not yet realize the seriousness of my predicament. I wept for weeks, not just for Gabriel, but at the terrible truth of Aunt Bellore's perfidy. In the end, the bitter gall at losing him to Sultana was dissipated by Gabriel himself. A few days after the engagement was announced, his sister, Masuda, brought me a letter from him.

  “Gabriel was going to tell you the news himself, but our mother wouldn't let him,” she said sullenly. “I wanted you for a sister, not her!”

  “We will still be friends, and now you will be part of the family,” I said with more civility than I felt.

  As soon as I was alone I read Gabriel's quotations from Horace:

  Delicta maiorum immeritus lues.

  For the sins of your sires, albeit you had no hand in them, you must suffer.

  His message made me feel vindicated. I wished him well and wanted him to know this. Masuda was more than willing to give him my reply, a gem I found in Virgil's Eclogue:

  Non equidem invideo, miror magis.

  As for me I grudge thee not—rather I marvel!

  This should have been the end of our private communication, but to my surprise, I found one last missive tucked under my door the morning of his marriage. Catullus was to have the last word:

  Sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti,

  In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.

  What a woman says to her ardent lover

  ought to be written in wind and running water.

  As Gabriel, flanked by his parents, made his way toward the huppah to consecrate his union, he caught my eye. With the slightest of gestures I acknowledged him, thrilled to be reminded I had been his first choice.

  I was able to hold my head high through the agonizingly long festivities until late in the day. I remained on the outskirts of the circle of Sultana's friends, thinking if she did not see me, she could not gloat. All the same, I heard exclamations as Sultana showed off her wedding band and the solitary diamond at her throat that had been a gift from Gabriel's family. Then she held up her arm, and I caught sight of a double strand of pearls which formed a bracelet.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” Masuda murmured.

  “My mother saved it for my wedding day,” Sultana gushed.

  I tried to get closer for a better look, but Sultana moved on to another group. My head began to pound. I was seething with curiosity about the bracelet's origin, for something in that flash of a wrist had triggered a memory.

  My last year at school was fairly dull. As the eldest student, I taught more than I studied. I began looking forward to the school's Prize Day. How proud I expected my family to be when they saw I would be honored with every top award.

  The Sunday before school ended, a special luncheon was planned, to which both Grandmother Helene and Grandmother Flora were invited. After the meal, the other children—even Jonah and Pinhas—were sent away. My father and Zilpah had spoken little to each other across the table, but as soon as they were side by side on the way to the hall, they began whispering to each other. I saw nothing unusual in that; the intensity of their relationship had never altered.

  Abdul brought everyone a brandy and soda, and nobody refused one, not even Grandmother Flora, who rarely took hard spirits.

  “Would you care to try one, Dinah?” my father offered for the first time.

  Reveling in my new adult status, I accepted immediately. The taste tickled, then burnt, but I determined I would finish it. Just then my father took his seat beside his wife—opposite me—and looked so grim my stomach contracted, almost rejecting the brandy. What was wrong? Then I thought I knew: they had discovered my last communications with Gabriel and were going to chastise me en masse. I clutched the stem of the glass and decided against drinking any more until the dreadful sensations subsided.

  “As you know, your mother and I, your grandmother, and the others who care about your welfare have kept our word not to make plans for your future until you completed your studies. However, preliminary inquiries on your behalf were made, and the most influential dilallas—matchmakers—were consulted.”

  I watched Zilpah's face for a signal. When she dropped her eyes as he said the last words, I began to tremble.
Whom had they chosen? Someone who would put Sultana's match to shame? I did not care; I only prayed it would be someone I could love.

  “And so . . .” My father faltered.

  My heart beat with happy expectation. I realized this was the moment I had been waiting for—that every girl waits for—my entire life.

  Zilpah looked at him beseechingly. I could see they were both bursting with the news, but she was allowing him to be the bearer. When he could not continue, she looked up and said, “There are no prospects.” Her face was blank. “None at all.”

  “Not exactly true—” my father started in a shaky tone.

  “Please, Benu, those were insults, not offers,” she spat.

  “Well . . .” I began, thinking they were probably much too particular. “Who are they?”

  Grandmother Flora shook her head, warning my father not to reply.

  “Dinah has a right to know.” He took a long swallow from his glass.

  Before he could begin, Zilpah interrupted him. “Your father and I thought the most appropriate match for you, because of your maturity and your—shall we say—strong character, might have been a man somewhat older than yourself, a man of experience and substance. Not an easy category, since most men in our community marry young, but we thought we might find someone who had been educated abroad, or someone active in his trade, or even a widower. Unfortunately, nobody met our requirements,” she said, lying, since I would soon discover these eligible men had rejected me flatly. “Next we looked at the young men your age, boys like Gabriel Judah and his friends.”

  My father shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

  I put down my glass and gripped the sides of, the armchair. Nobody would have me? How could this be true? Wasn't I head girl at school? Wasn't I rich, with a dowry that would eclipse that of any girl of my generation? I thought of those boys they might have overlooked: the less attractive, the ones from poorer homes, the ones I would never have considered two years or even two hours ago. I listed the least desirable boys at St. Xavier's. “What about Aboodi Belilios, Ellis Silman, Immanuel Duek, Hayeem Arzooni?” After each name, my father shook his head pathetically.