by Gay Courter
“How soon might I expect a baby?” I dared.
She shrugged. “Most girls who have attentive husbands receive one within the year.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes, especially the first birth, but when the pain ends, there is joy.”
I blanched. “I meant the other—what comes first.”
“From what I have seen, I believe Mr. Luddy will be a gentle, considerate man. You are well-mated physically and he should not overwhelm you. If anything displeases you, tell him and I am certain he will do his utmost to keep your comfort in mind.”
With a creak and a groan, she stood up and made her way to her dressing table. From a bottom drawer she removed a small brass chest. “A gift for you.” She opened the lid and showed me the three glass jars fitted inside. “To prevent babies, if that is your choice at first, use this one before and this one afterward”—she held up the last jar— “and this one for any soreness.” She unscrewed each top, took a dab, and wiped it on the back of my hand as she described the salves in more detail.
“What if . . . ?”
Patiently she waited for me to gather my thoughts.
“What if the man does not appeal to you?”
Her moon face glowed. “Dinah, my child, don't rush ahead with all sorts of assumptions. The attractions you are anticipating do exist between some, but hardly most men and some women when they first meet. Already you may have experienced that sensation with an acquaintance . . .” The words hung for a long moment. “Those are transitory glimpses into the powerful feelings that will be unleashed by a marriage. Today these sensations lie dormant, like sparks waiting to be ignited when touched to straw. Unless your partner is cruel, unpleasant, or unusually distasteful—and your Mr. Luddy is none of these—time together will stoke those fires.” She sniffed and straightened her skirts. “Now, is there anything further we should discuss?”
“There is another matter, not on the same subject, but . . .”
She came up behind me and rubbed my neck and shoulders. “Come, now, there are no secrets between us today.”
“For my wedding day, I have been wanting to wear my mother's jewelry. It cannot be found.”
“Have you spoken to Zilpah?”
“Yes, she says nothing was ever given to her.”
“And you don't believe her.”
“Well . . .”
“The fire . . .” Grandmother Helene prompted softly.
“No, I don't think so. The furniture and clothing were burnt, but I was in Mama's dressing room when everything was being removed. I saw Yali take the jewel boxes away for safekeeping.”
“Have you asked Yali what she did with them?”
“Yes.”
“And . . . ?”
“Because she did not want to anger my father or upset my grandmother, she—” I stumbled.
Grandmother Helene leapt to the wrong conclusion. “She sold them!”
“No! Yali would never—” I protested. “She gave them to Aunt Bellore.”
“What is missing?”
“I do not know exactly what my mother owned, but I remember a long necklace with pearls as big as marbles, and a matching bracelet with two strands, Grandmother Flora's ring with one huge pearl in the center surrounded by smaller ones, a gold tiger brooch—it had emeralds for eyes—and I might recognize some other pieces if I saw them.” I ground my teeth in frustration, then shouted, “Cousin Sultana was wearing the same bracelet on her wedding day. I am certain she was!”
“That doesn't surprise me.” Grandmother Helene began rearranging the pillows on her chaise.
“Can't you do something about this?” I wailed.
“I can't speak against anyone in your family when my half-witted granddaughter requires their protection.”
Her strong characterization of Ruby shocked me, and I almost rose to my sister's defense before I was hushed.
“Let's not deceive ourselves. Ruby will never be as clever as you or Seti. At least she's a pretty girl who can be trained to run a home.”
I swallowed past the rising lump in my throat. “What about Aunt Bellore?”
Grandmother Helene paced the room, now and then tugging the draperies to make them hang more evenly. “Everyone thinks your aunt is a pious woman.” She picked up a cloth and began to polish a silver candy dish vigorously, while I mulled over her reply.
“She was my mother's closest friend . . .” I offered in a voice that trailed off as I recalled a much earlier discussion with Nani. “No. She was not her friend. No friend is jealous of another's happiness.” I flushed with the fury that boiled up under the surface. “She hated Luna and she hates me!”
I must have looked as though I would explode, for Grandmother Helene held the silver dish against her chest like a shield. Trembling with rage, I realized the evidence surrounded me. From the hour of my mother's death, Aunt Bellore had led the group that treated me as an outsider. She refused to accept her role as the most appropriate maternal substitute. She made me feel unwelcome in her home. She protected her daughters from my company. She might even have been behind my father's initial distrust of Grandmother Flora, and she certainly had instigated Grandmother Helene's departure after Mozelle's death, leaving her brother's children adrift again. Her vehement prejudice against Zilpah had fueled the other women of the community. Worst of all, she had matched her daughter to the only boy in whom I had shown any interest. Why? I did not know enough of men and women, of passions and jealousies, to sort this out then, but the door to this sordid labyrinth had flung wide open.
And what of Zilpah, the woman I most resented? What proof did I have that she had ever tried to harm me? None! Since the first days, she had struggled to manage our untidy household. With firmness she had reined in my two unruly brothers and had achieved peace among the four disparate male siblings. She had coached the backward Ruby and had, as a parent should, adored her own Seti, but she had never neglected me. I had met each of Zilpah's attempts to win me with petulance at best, disobedience at worst. As though a curtain had opened, I saw that I had been covetous of my father's love in the same way as his sister, Bellore, had been envious of her brother's love for Luna. Zilpah's desire to find me a husband when I was younger derived from a fear—a very realistic one, as it turned out—that the task would not be easy. She must have sanctioned the lavishness of my dowry even though she knew it meant less for Ruby, less for her own Seti, and diminished her own fortune considerably. Yet when every man in Calcutta turned his back on me, she was the one who had found Mr. Luddy.
Shaking with the terrible truths that coursed through my mind, I held Grandmother Helene's firm hands until I could speak again. “I have been wrong about so much,” I gushed. “I should never have trusted Aunt Bellore. I was so awful to Zilpah.”
Grandmother Helene frowned. “This is supposed to be a happy time for you and the family, Dinah.”
I fought back a new volley of tears. “Bellore is a thief, isn't she?”
She pointed to my brooch, bracelet, and ring. “I realize you feel as though you have been cheated, but why not look at how much you already have? You are marrying into a fine family. You will have the dowry of a princess. You do not need your mother's unlucky baubles to weigh you down. I know a girl is sentimental at a time like this, but if you or I raise this question now, a tumult will break out and everyone will take sides.”
“But they are mine!”
“I am not certain about that. From what I understand, your mother did not have the most methodical of minds. She made decisions on the spur of the moment. Her necklaces and bracelets belong to whomever your mother promised them to. And she may very well have decided to give them to her 'best' friend.”
“Aunt Bellore did not really like my mother, not after she married her brother. I think she was jealous that Luna's match was better than hers.”
“So now she has the jewels and the last laugh.”
“Yes, and it is not fair.”
“Do you
want to know what my mother would have said?”
I waited with fists clenched.
“Khallil kaskeen yikser kirrabetu.” Grandmother Helene wrapped her arms around me. “That means 'strong vinegar will break in its jar,' or in other words, your Aunt Bellore will do the greatest harm to herself in the end.”
“B-but—”
She squeezed me harder. “You must put this out of your mind for the present. Maybe later, after you are settled, your husband could make a request through legal channels to acquire what rightly belongs to you—and to him.”
“I see.” I felt as though a mist was lifting. “Aunt Bellore would have to fight the Luddys then.”
Grandmother Helene nodded sagely. “In this world a woman lets a man fight her wars—at least on the front lines.” She winked. “You and I know women organize the battle plans.”
I hugged her back, hoping she could read my gratitude in the wordless salute.
15
At dawn of my wedding day the rains had ceased, but the humidity made even the doorknobs seem mushy. Across the lawns the vapors hovered about a foot off the ground in a static layer—an illusion children adored. I looked out to see Asher and Simon using small shovels to lift a “cloud” pile and carry it to a new place before any zephyr dissipated it.
“Do you think Aunt Bellore's weather predictions will come true?” I asked my father when I saw him downstairs.
“No. This wind will push the clouds out to sea by late morning,” he stated confidently as he selected the carpets to be laid outdoors. “You should try to rest now, if you can.”
“Wish I could.” I yawned. Because it was believed that it was bad luck for the bride and groom to sleep the night before their marriage, our friends had kept both Silas and me up all night. “I'm too excited, and too hungry!”
Everyone who had lasted the night—except me—was served a chota hazri. Zilpah ordered me to fast. While everyone ate, I went out on the terrace. The skies were the color of slate, with streaks of red that looked like wounds. Low clouds, like bloody bandages, hovered above in the manner of a threatening army.
Papa was now supervising the setting up of the marquee on the lawn. “By the time we return from the synagogue, the sun will be burning on this canvas,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. I thought we would be lucky to get through the day without at least one downpour, but I did not dash my father's hopes.
Yali came and led me upstairs for bathing and dressing. My gown followed the Baghdadi design that a bride of Shalom Cohen or Sheikh Sason might have worn, except the fabrics were more elegant. The inner layer was a gossamer white silk caftan with hundreds of sequins sewn into the bodice and rippling across the winglike sleeves, which were bordered with two inches of embroidery. Over this garment was a wrapper cut from a gold-purple-and-black-striped Chinese brocade. It laced down the front with golden braid. Underneath everything I wore baggy trousers of the finest gold silk. My headdress had a wide band of glittering stones that came down low on my forehead, covering my eyebrows. Grandmother Helene's clever dressmaker had managed to tailor the ordinarily shapeless costume to flatter me. The layers were cooler than I had expected and more comfortable than a European creation.
When I was almost ready, Zilpah came to my room. “You look very beautiful.” After a long pause she continued. “The time has come to speak to you as a mother to a daughter.” I expected she was going to launch into something about the physical side of marriage, a subject already covered by Grandmother Helene, but I did not stop her. “Dinah, you have a will of iron. It has not always been easy living with you. Considering everything, who am I to say you would have grown up strong and whole without that trait? These last years have been difficult—for everyone—but now the time has come to bend to another person's wishes. There is no place for obstinacy in a marriage.”
I felt a release, as though I had been tensed to protect myself from a blow and had managed to avoid it entirely, but no words would come.
She started to leave.
“Wait! Please, would you walk me down the stairs . . .” I paused to swallow my tears. “. . . like a mother would.”
On the way to the synagogue in the gaily decorated phaeton, I began to wonder what Silas would wear. Knowing I was in traditional dress, he might have selected a dagla, the Arabic long coat, but he looked so handsome in a cutaway that I thought that would be my preference. This and other mental diversions kept me calm until, rounding the bend in the road, I caught sight of the steeple of the Maghen David Synagogue. My face flushed. I gasped for air. Zilpah leaned toward me and fanned me as we pulled up to the building that was the pride of the Jewish community of Calcutta.
The synagogue, the largest Jewish house of worship in the East, was an enormous Italian Renaissance-style building with a massive facade of ornamental stonework. At the last moment, the architect had added an imposing steeple. Nobody in the Jewish community objected. In fact, they were pleased that the architect, in his ignorance, had managed to comply with the Talmudic injunction that a synagogue should tower above the other structures.
I felt too weak to step down from the carriage. “I cannot—”
“Take a few deep breaths,” Zilpah coaxed. “You will be fine in a moment.”
I could not comply. I felt as though submerged underwater, fighting my way to the surface. A breath would be fatal. Just before my head burst, I gasped, panted, gasped again. I was drowning, drowning with the knowledge that this was not a passing fright. All the preparations, all the parties, all the commotion had hidden the fact that I did not know this man. My absorption with the dress and Aunt Bellore and Zilpah had muted the truth that I did not care for him. All Grandmother Helene's promises that I would feel differently later, all the lies I had told myself to get me to this moment, crashed about me like waves, plunging me into the swirling depths. The humidity pressed from every side. My garments stuck to my skin; perspiration matted the hair under my headdress. Zilpah pumped my arms, bringing a gush of wind under my sleeves.
My father blotted my face with his handkerchief until my eyes seemed to focus.
“Can we go in?” he asked, trying to mask his impatience.
“I think so . . .”
After he helped me down, I felt rooted in place. Zilpah pushed me forward. I could not take a single step on my own. With each parent bracing an arm, they walked me up the stairs. I kept my eyes forward to prevent feeling dizzy. Crossing the entrance, the first person I saw waiting to greet me was Aunt Bellore. She wore a green silk dress with my mother's strand of matched pearls, each the size of a small onion, draped like a medal across her bosom. Like a fireball, the anger swelled inside me and propelled me without assistance. I felt as though a rod supported my spine. I determined not to do or to say anything that would give this woman the satisfaction of thinking me unhappy on my wedding day.
Zilpah and Aunt Bellore climbed to the balcony. Papa led me into the sanctuary. He helped me up onto the two-foot-high hekhal, or platform. Silas waited under the huppah, the nuptial canopy. I did not look directly at my groom until we stood together. Silas looked resplendent in a formal black frock coat and gray striped trousers.
The hazzan, Sholom Aaron, was not an ordained rabbi—there were none in India at that time—but a learned community member who acted as the mekkadesh who officiated at weddings. He had expressive eyes that riveted first on Silas and then on me, giving us each a silent promise that we were under the care of a friend. With a glass of wine in his hand to begin the betrothal, he said, “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, king of the universe, who has made us holy through thy commandments and has commanded us concerning marriages that are forbidden . . .” He droned on, but I could not follow him, for again my head was spinning. The time came for the ring. Silas placed a gold band on the index finger of my right hand. As he repeated the ancient words which consecrated me unto him according to the laws of Moses and Israel, his firm clasp minimized my trembling.
Next the
ketuba, the marriage contract, was read out to the assembly. This marital settlement included the amount of my dowry, plus what the Luddys offered us, with the addition of the biblical “two hundred zuzeem for a virgin,” which, when said aloud, was mortifying. Our witnesses came forward and signed the ketuba, as did Silas, before it was handed to me for safekeeping. My first view of this beautifully illuminated version of the marriage contract written in Hebrew cheered me. The border was a trellis of leaves interspersed with red poppies. In the center, between the pledge of the bride and the pledge of the groom, were a peacock and peahen with beaks pressed together. I suspected Silas had seen to this detail.
Further benedictions were read over a cup of wine, from which we both took sips. The hazzan, his merry eyes crinkling at the edges, took a small china cup and held it aloft. He reminded us this would serve as a recollection of our grief at the destruction of the Temple, adding, “You are about to commit an irrevocable act. Once the cup is smashed, it is gone forever. So, too, may this marriage be permanent for infinity.”
He handed it to Silas.
With as much force as he could muster, Silas dashed it to the floor, shattering it at once—a good omen at last! The women in the balcony rained a chorus of kilililees on us as we were led to the Ark chamber where the Scrolls of Law were kept. There we made zoor, respectfully kissing each Sepher Torah and privately dedicating ourselves to follow God's laws. Finally Silas and I emerged to the congratulations of the assembled guests.
We rode alone back to my house in the ornate open victoria his father had hired for the occasion. “You were so right to choose that gown,” he said as we drove away, waving to our family and friends.
“Thank you, Silas.” I smiled uneasily, adding with an exaggerated sigh, “The commotion is over. Well, almost.”