by Gay Courter
His eyelids twitched. “Yes?”
“I admire the ring and the brooch, as any woman would, but what astonished me more was the way the brooch was presented—the flower petals, the arrangement—and that something so beautiful had been created for me.”
“I am pleased you noticed.” His eyes widened and brightened.
“Who does such lovely work?”
“A friend of mine, but the idea was my own.”
Something stirred inside me. “Thank you,” I murmured.
We fell silent until we noticed we were being observed. Both sensing the need to breach the gap, we began again in unison. I deferred to Silas.
He cleared his throat. “However much I respect the tenets of our faith and traditions of our community, I also believe they can be modified to suit the individuals. I hope my saying so does not give offense.”
“Not at all, but would you mind if I wore a Baghdadi wedding dress? More and more of the girls are selecting European gowns, but I wanted to honor my grandmother,” I said, leaving out that I did not want to make the same mistake by wearing something frivolous that he might find displeasing.
“That is entirely your choice,” he said gallantly, then grinned. “But it is one that would gratify me, as I myself prefer the traditional to the fashionable.”
“I suppose everything else will be left to our parents.”
“Not quite everything. Since you have expressed your wish concerning your dress, I have one preference.” He looked around to be certain we were not overheard; then he made a quarter turn to the wall. I pivoted to match him. “After the ceremony and the celebration, I would like us to return to Darjeeling directly.”
The request puzzled me. Usually newlyweds observed a seven-day period in the home of the bridegroom's parents. During seven nights the couple joined, their families for sheva berakoth, special prayers. I had assumed that since the Luddys lived so far away, we would spend the first week at either their lodgings in Calcutta or possibly at Theatre Road. But wanting to accommodate Silas, I replied, “It is only proper that we return to the house of your father.”
“No, not my father's, nor your father's house. I wish to take you to my home. Your father will think I am asking this because I am not a boy of sixteen and I have lived alone for many years. However, that is not why. I am concerned for your feelings. They make the first night a nightmare of publicity. Do you know what a mashti is?”
I shook my head.
“She's the inspector of virgins, who waits with the family outside the door to collect the byadh el wech—the sheet that should be 'white with blood.' “ He shook his head with disgust. “Traditions that dishonor women should be discarded.”
I appreciated his sensitivity, but I was not certain how to respond. Probably he knew more about the embarrassments that merry wedding guests could inflict on a couple than I did. I knew my virginity was not in question, so he was not protecting me from disgrace. Besides, I was not afraid of leaving home—I welcomed it. Not having Zilpah preside over my postnuptial days would also be a relief.
I lowered my head demurely. “Does your father agree?” I asked, thinking this must have been what their earlier encounter had been about.
Silas nodded.
“Then ask him to discuss the matter with my father. I have no objections either way.” The last came out in a rapid burst, for I could see Aunt Bellore bearing down on us, her huge bosom bouncing with every step.
Ever since I had overheard the discussion of my dowry, I had become more and more unsure about the match. I knew brides went through a period of doubt, but this was something more. Perhaps the answer lay in the relationships between the members of the Luddy family. If I could discover why the father and son were alienated, maybe I would understand the undercurrents that were so worrisome.
“Tell me more about the Luddys, Papa,” I asked him as we waited for Aunt Bellore and Grandmother Helene to arrive on the day we were to make the final preparations.
“What do you want to know about them? Their family? Their homes?”
“No, their business.”
He lifted his eyebrows for a moment, then beamed. “Luddy is a clever man. Not only did he have the foresight to see the Darjeeling region as ideal for tea cultivation, but he developed his fields more effectively than most of the other growers. Even more important, he has organized his family's assets with superb foresight.”
“In what way?”
“As you know, he has two older daughters and Silas. He gave each of the daughters twenty-five percent of the holdings as a dowry. Both their husbands work in the enterprise. From what I have heard, it is an amicable situation, with the sons-in-law following Maurice's instructions. Wisely he realizes that eventually every family has its jealousies, rivalries, and feuds. To prevent these from crippling the firm, Silas was given a quarter of the business now, and will inherit his father's share. This means that Silas will retain control and will make settlements if disputes arise. Even more astute, Silas does not live on the plantation, nor does he participate in the daily operations. His responsibility is twofold: first, he manages the fiscal aspects of the family's wealth; second, he is in charge of developing new blends and markets for the tea. Both jobs give him a perspective the others do not have. This Luddy is a shrewd man.”
“Do you think they require my dowry?”
My father seemed vexed. “We have been through this before, Dinah.”
I repeated my question. “Do you think so?”
“No, I don't,” he said with finality, punctuating each syllable. He looked out across the glistening lawns. It was after the heaviest: period of the monsoon season, but rain poured in sheets, turning the paths into muddy streams. “The carriages will be late in this weather.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
I wanted to ask what he knew about any problems between the father and son, but felt unable to do so. An hour later, when the ladies finally arrived, there was little small talk. Aunt Bellore had lists. Grand-mother Helene rambled on and on with ideas for everything from food to flowers to the shoes I would wear with every outfit. Zilpah either agreed or disagreed with each point. My father refereed. I spoke my mind only once, in reference to my wedding dress.
“Are you certain?” Grandmother Helene asked. “Nobody has worn a Baghdadi gown in many a year.”
“Grandmother Flora wore one,” I said, “and so did my mother.”
Nobody spoke for a long moment, until Zilpah, who had long been criticized for her refusal to wear anything except a sari, said, “As you wish, Dinah.”
“What is this nonsense I hear about there being no full week of sheva berakoth prayers?” Aunt Bellore added to stir the stew.
“Mr. Luddy's only request,” my father said to curtail that discussion.
“I would not permit that with my daughters,” she said haughtily. Eliciting no response from Papa, she pressed on with a hint of annoyance in her tone. “So have you definitely set the date for Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of October?”
My father nodded. “It suits everyone.”
With a wave of her long arm, she presented the scene outside the window as though she was introducing a visitor. “Except the monsoon.”
Grandmother Helene spoke in the singsong voice she usually reserved for children. “It came early this year. Now it is running its course.”
The old enmity from the time when Aunt Bellore had removed Grandmother Helene from Theatre Road infested the room. “Well,” Bellore snapped, “I can remember many a ghastly day in November. That is why we never plan outdoor parties before December.”
“The Luddys want Dinah to enjoy the end of the Darjeeling season and to settle in before winter,” my father replied soothingly.
“Also, we had many calendars to consider,” Zilpah said, giving me a meaningful stare. I recalled how she had quizzed me about my monthly flow, counting forward and backward as she made her calculations.
“I think Zilpah has made an excellent choice
,” I chimed in, publicly taking my stepmother's side for the first time.
Zilpah's mouth trembled slightly, an indication that I had pleased her.
“The date is settled,” my father said to close the subject.
Zilpah opened a drawer in an inlaid table and pulled out a wooden box that held a stack of wedding invitations. “These arrived this morning.” She passed around copies, giving me the first one. The ivory-hued card was about eight inches long and three inches wide.
“Very lovely work,” Aunt Bellore said in a brittle voice.
“Yes, my dear, the color was a splendid choice,” complimented my father.
I fingered the glossy surface, repeating “Dinah Luddy” to myself.
For the next few weeks I found myself entangled in a coil of customs organized to prevent either the bride or the groom from thinking about what was soon to come.
The Thursday preceding the marriage ceremony, Silas' sisters, Gala and Gracia, and their husbands marched up our drive in a procession led by the traditional Baghdadi dakaka musicians plucking their kanuns; drumming their tablas, dimbahs, and zirnas; and shaking their tambourines. This was the night for the khadba, the “night of the red color” ritual. A chorus of women entertained with songs praising the bride and groom, lauding our families, and wishing us good luck, while Grandmother Helene and her daughters painted first my fingernails, then Silas' with green henna, which, when dry, turned a gruesome shade of orange that was supposed to repel the evil power of demons.
After our fingers were wrapped in silver paper, Silas' elder sister came forward to present me with a bracelet that matched the other pieces I had already received. The women danced about us and sang out choruses of Afaki-Afaki, concluding with a piercing round of kilililees.
Two days later, on the Sabbath, Silas was called to the Torah as Li'heyoth Hathan, the groom-to-be. From the women's balcony I listened to his gentle, melodic reading of the Scriptures, noting how much better his voice was in song than speech. In the interval following his reading, the women tossed sugar-coated almonds and caraway seeds down on him.
When we returned home from the service, Zilpah said, “Yali will give you your meal in your room this afternoon. You will need to gather your strength for tonight.”
“I wish everything was over already,” I moaned as I contemplated three more days of festivities.
“Your father and I are as exhausted as you are, but he is determined you shall not be denied a single celebration.”
“I hope I never have to go through this again,” I said, forgetting that Zilpah had been married twice, my father three times. At last I understood why he had opted for two quiet weddings far away from the drawing rooms of Calcutta.
That night came the toowafah. I received several more elaborate gift trays. The balance of the presents were the customary molasses and candies.
Dutifully, lacking enthusiasm, Silas and I went through the rituals. We both were tiring of the demands we had to follow for each rite. Obedience might not have been so difficult if family members had been in agreement about how each event should proceed. As it was, Silas and I were pushed here and there, told where to sit, when to stand, what to say by a variety of people who recalled their parents had done it a certain way and their instructions were the only ones to be followed. Although I never dared mention it to him, I was grateful Silas had insisted on leaving the city after the reception. Another week of being ordered about would have been unendurable. We shall have our way in the end, I repeated to myself, to make it through the last confusing days.
Since no activities were planned for my final Sunday in Calcutta, Grandmother Helene invited me to bring Ruby for a visit. I leapt at the opportunity to be away from the preparations at home, rushing my sluggish sister to be ready. At ten, Ruby was a sweet, chubby girl with shiny pink cheeks, long black curls, and huge round eyes fringed by sweeping lashes. She was the sort of child strangers could not help patting on the head and proclaiming, “What a pretty one!” She had learned to smile modestly in response, which was the sum of what she had managed to master. She had just begun at the Jewish Girls' School and was in the first year, at least three years behind the others her age. Even then, she struggled to learn to read and could not manage any sums.
“The difficult birth,” Grandmother Helene explained. “She'll catch up with herself in a few more years.”
In our household Ruby was lost in the shuffle between me, the four boisterous boys, and the demanding wiles of Seti, who at age four continued to absorb her mother's interest more than the rest of us combined. Quick and wiry, Seti had almost equaled Ruby in academic achievements and probably would surpass her older sister within the year. To prevent Ruby from being neglected by Zilpah or intimidated by Seti, Grandmother Helene had taken her motherless granddaughter under her wing, having her to visit as often as she could.
On that Sunday, we arrived in a downpour.
“How can it continue to rain every day?” she sniffed.
“Everybody thought the rains would have been over by now,” I replied, glancing out the window in the hope that a miracle might occur even as we spoke.
She ran her hands through the knot of gray curls that capped her wide head. “I am sorry to say that Bellore Sassoon may have been right.”
“If so, then it is for the first time.” I laughed gaily to let her know the weather was neither a concern of mine nor a responsibility of hers.
A servant took my cape and then bent to assist Ruby. Grandmother Helene tweaked one of her long sausage curls. “Just like mine when I was your age. Your Auntie Badra has a surprise for you,” she said, turning Ruby over to her eldest daughter. “Dinah, come up to my sitting room and I will show you what I am planning to wear to your wedding.”
Once there, she lay down on a loosely stuffed chaise covered in a flowery fabric and organized the pillows under her back and arms until I thought she would never be satisfied. There was no mention of dresses. I took the wing chair and waited for her to settle herself. At last she was comfortable, but her fingers continued to fondle the lacy trim on the pillow she clasped in her lap. “Are you going to leave for the train right after the reception?”
“That is what Silas wants.”
Her eyes sparkled merrily. “So, you will cheat the mashti out of her job.”
I turned my head so she would not see me coloring.
As she clasped her hands together and cracked her fingers, the sound jolted me to attention. “Good for you. The night I was married, my young husband—Bension was only fourteen—was not quite certain what to put where.” She threw her head back and laughed. Ripples of flesh wiggled on her arms and legs. “The mashti knocked on the door and asked what was taking so long. Without even waiting for us to reply, she burst in and”—she pressed the pillow to her abdomen to control her amusement—”and assisted Bension, if you follow my meaning.” She watched me closely. When I did not blink, she asked, “Has Zilpah spoken to you?”
“What about?”
“About the marriage bed.”
I shook my head.
“As I expected.” She flexed her neck from left to right, trying to shake out a kink. “The task is left to me.” She seemed more pleased than annoyed.
She thought I knew nothing of what went on between men and women, but hadn't I found my father in bed with a woman in Patna? Hadn't I seen Indian women massaging their infants' genitals to stimulate them? And hadn't I lived my life in India, where holy cows and bulls and stray dogs mated in the streets, where every aspect of life from birth to death could be viewed from a carriage seat?
Actually, the Indians themselves were modest in conduct. I had never seen a Calcutta boy and girl openly walking hand in hand or even married people kissing, yet Yali—without shame—had taken me to a shrine where young girls worshiped a phallus in order to get a good husband, thinking it would help my predicament. I had visited Hindu temples, which contained huge representations of the female pudenda with a penis penetrati
ng the center. Even so, I was more interested in—and furtive about—studying the temple friezes that depicted the union of those mortal lovers made divine: Krishna and Radha. In fact, any image of a couple in close embrace, even a man's hand touching a lady's cheek, caused queer sensations to shoot down my spine and created more of a longing for something I could not fulfill than any explicit view of disembodied genitalia.
As I matured, I compared my body to the physical ideal of the Hindu deities, who had thick thighs, broad hips, tiny waists, and large melon-shaped breasts. After I had grown taller than any other woman in my family, remaining slender with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and disappointingly small, pointed breasts, I knew I was never going to look like a goddess. I only hoped that Silas would find me to his taste.
Waiting for my reply, Grandmother Helene twisted the lace so forcefully that it ripped. “I know a little about it,” I answered to cover the gap.
She ran her tongue along her lower lip as she fashioned her words. When she was ready, she spoke in the most ordinary of tones. “I do not know exactly what you have discovered on your own, so let me just say that most women do their daughters a disservice—as my own mother did to me—by moaning that the union between a husband and wife is unpleasant. On the contrary, the whole process is meant to be pleasurable, but like most worthwhile activities, practice and patience must be brought to the task before the rewards may be reaped. Otherwise, why would anyone bother?” She chortled.
I leaned forward, anxious for more.
She grinned at my eagerness. “May I offer some practical advice?”
“Yes.” I nodded and gripped the arm of the chair and listened, entranced, as she made certain I understood the Jewish laws regarding clean and unclean days.
“. . . So this not only fulfills the sacred obligations but also separates the man and the woman so each will have increased hungers for the other. During the days when you must be apart, you may continue to enjoy each other's company. Look to those times to share your worries. More troubles come from hiding feelings than releasing them. And never, never go to sleep angry with one another.” She stared with softhearted, benevolent eyes. “Any questions?”