Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  Something wavered in front of my eyes. I was becoming transfixed on the ruby streak of light that played across the maharajah's white robes and illuminated his diamond buttons with a rosy hue.

  “Yes, very refreshing,” Amar said. He gestured for me to drink. Mechanically I took one sip. Amar's face was pink, his dark eyes like melting chocolate, his mouth moist and fleshy. “What do you think, Madam Salem? What do you think of my pleasure dome?” Not concentrating on his speech, he had slurred “Shalem” and “pleshure.”

  My swirling mind recalled Silas and “the stately pleasure dome of Xanadu.” I stared into my chalky glass of coconut water and thought of “the milk of Paradise.”

  The maharajah's head tilted. “Well . . .”

  “I wish Edwin could see this room.”

  “Oh, Winner has been here with me. He's the one who first suggested I open it more often. When we were young the two of us used to—” He halted as the maharani approached. “Ah, here is my mother. Mrs. Salem was telling me that her husband would have enjoyed our little gathering.”

  “He shall return soon,” the maharani said firmly. “Until then I would like you to visit me from time to time.”

  “I would be honored.”

  “You will come for tea tomorrow.” It was a statement, not a question. With the barest flicker of her feline eyes, she concluded our encounter and drifted off, much as a swan turns and skims across a lake.

  “My mother likes you,” Amar replied.

  I could think of no response as he edged closer.

  “She always liked Winner too. For centuries our family has felt an affinity for the Jews of the region.” Amar was standing with less than an inch of space between his crossed arms and my breasts. He spoke in his softest, mushiest voice. “There has always been a sympathetic bond with your people, which transcends the boundaries of our caste system and our fear of foreigners.”

  Again no retort could find its way through my muffled mind.

  “I have never seen you so silent, Sassy,” he said into my ear. “Are you unwell?”

  My knees shook. “It's late . . .” I blinked to stop the lights from threatening to immolate me. There was a commotion, an echoing sound, and the high ping of metal strings vibrating against hollow wood. I crumpled into a heap at the maharajah's feet.

  I heard the maharani speaking softly from a long way off. “Do you think she might be . . . ?”

  Jemima gently sat me up. “No, I am fairly positive she is not.”

  “She had a large glass of the punch.” Professor Dent’s voice echoed hauntingly.

  I opened my eyes, ready to close them to the glitter if necessary, but found I was in a darkened room lying on something cool and slippery. “Where am I?” I asked as I searched for Jemima in the gloom.

  “In the place where my wife and her friends were listening to the music,” the maharajah explained.

  “Jemima?”

  “I am here, don't worry,” came her reply from a shadowy corner.

  “I have ordered a palanquin to take you back to the Orchid House. Mrs. Clifford, would you be so kind as to direct it here?”

  I heard a shuffling and reopened my eyes. In the spilled river of light from the doorway I could see that for the moment Amar and I were alone. I was too apprehensive to think to ask why his wife had not been invited into the public room or wonder where she had gone.

  “Almost everyone enjoys a taste of my toddy, which is fermented from our palms, but obviously you are unaccustomed to spirits.”

  I managed to sit up and slide away from him, but his hands had reached behind me as if to give support, then lingered on my back and kneaded my shoulders.

  “I didn't know what was in it . . . I had two.”

  “Two?” he roared. “No wonder.” I heard a sucking, then a gurgling sound. “I prefer a pipe myself.”

  For a moment I did not follow his meaning. “If I can sleep, I shall be—”

  His hands pressed against my forehead. “You are cold. You may be ill. I shall send my physicians and—”

  “No, please.” In trying to stand, I was relieved to find my balance restored. Turning around, I realized he was taking puffs from his hookah. His eyes squinted at me in the darkness. My stomach churned. Now I knew whom Amar reminded me of: Nissim Sadka.

  Amar lurched toward me. “I feel sick,” I said, holding him off. The doorway framed a familiar silhouette. “Jemima!” I called.

  As she came forward, I waited for the maharajah to back away. Instead he moved closer, his hands supporting my sides so it seemed he was holding me upright. Only he and I knew the edges of my breasts were being squeezed.

  “She requires assistance.” Once we were out in the lighted hall, his hands guided the small of my back. “She should lie down.” Amar allowed Jemima to guide me into the gilded palanquin, and then he spoke close to the lattice slats. “Good evening, Mrs. Salem, I hope you will recover quickly.” His hot breath felt like a fog on my face, and his smell—a combination of the sulfur of a burnt match and something cloyingly familiar—lingered even as I was carried out from the sparkling world of mirrors and under the welcome canopy of the misty, moonless night.

  Other than my mortification at having become inebriated and having given the maharajah the opportunity to touch me, I suffered no ill effects from the evening. Perhaps he had been trying to assist me and in my confused state I had imagined the intimacies. As a precaution, I vowed to avoid any opportunity to be alone with him again. At first I thought to excuse myself from tea with the maharani—after the previous night, it would have been a simple matter to send regrets because of illness—but then I decided my best protection might lie with her.

  Soldiers wearing scarlet tunics guarded the entrance to the maharani's quarters in the central section of the palace. I passed through a hibiscus garden into a reception room where the maharajah's mother waited in front of a carved ivory panel. Her black hair, shot through with silver streaks, was entwined so intricately I wondered how long it took to arrange it. She wore a white silk robe draped under her breasts, with the thinnest gold cape covering the upper part of her torso, out of deference to my sensibilities. Even so, I could discern her large brown nipples. Since breasts were never concealed here, I wondered if Amar had thought touching mine was as natural as shaking my hand. Or did the fact that mine were hidden pose an irresistible temptation for a man accustomed to seeing women's chests bared?

  The maharani's musical voice brought me back from my musings. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mrs. Salem. I trust you are. feeling better.”

  “Only my pride stings today.”

  “I was told you had too much of the toddy.”

  “I had two glasses before anyone warned me. I hardly ever drink spirits.”

  “No one has criticized you. We were concerned.”

  “Thank you.”

  The maharani took a seat on a padded stool and waved for me to do the same. In the sunlit room, her arms gleamed with bands of diamonds and rubies. “There is a time in a woman's life when she is apt to be more sensitive,” she noted, giving me an appraising stare.

  I felt I should reply, although I resented being forced into an intimate confession. “I am not that fortunate yet.”

  “One of these days you will be,” she replied with the smoothness of warmed honey. “I myself am one of the most fortunate women. I have given birth not only to boys who were next in line for the musnud but also to girls who will rule after me. I have survived to see my son become the maharajah. And I have lived to see my daughters give birth to boys. This ensures that one of my grandsons will also become maharajah, although it would be no blessing for me to live for that day.”

  Sipping my tea, I was perplexed by this remark until I realized she was saying that she would have to see Amar dead before his nephew could reign. That would mean she would have buried all three of her sons. “What happens if no sister or aunt of the maharajah had given birth to sons? Would the maharajah's own son then i
nherit the throne?”

  “No, the musnud can pass only through a woman. Your question is most interesting, however, since this situation happened in recent times. The sister of one maharajah died in childbirth, which also took the life of her only daughter. There were no other women heirs. Application was made to the British government for permission to adopt a princess from a branch of the family in which maharajahs usually find their spouses. Her caste was impeccable and the community accepted the adoption. I am descended from that line.”

  I put down my cup. “Do you think the women of Travancore fare better than women elsewhere in India?”

  “Yes, we can pick our husbands and we can rid ourselves of them, yet that rarely happens. Don't you find it interesting that with the woman in control, there is apt to be less friction in a marriage? And if there is, well, we have a way for the man and woman to separate so each may find a more suitable companion without anyone feeling wronged or having to do an unkindness to the other.”

  “What if only one wishes to leave?” I asked, hoping the question was not impertinent.

  The maharani did not seem offended. “It is my experience that if one is unhappy, he or she has a way of making the other person miserable. But again, the woman has the last say. If she leaves, the children go with her so they are not uprooted. Here, where women are taught and teach, they are more responsible for the welfare of the people than the men.”

  Surely life was not as idealistic as her pretty portrait, but I was in no position to challenge her. I thought of a way to turn the conversation. Looking around the room, which was mostly filled with Indian pieces inlaid with ivory and silver, I asked if the professor was to purchase anything for her.

  “Yes. I want fewer chests and tables, softer chairs in hues of yellow and gold, more color and light.”

  “Until last night I never realized there was such a thing as too much light,” I said with a laugh. “My eyes must be too sensitive.”

  Two aides simultaneously replaced our cooled teacups with steaming ones. “Did Amar have an opportunity to speak with you last night?” she asked with a sudden change of mood.

  I froze in the motion of reaching for my next cup. “About what?” Could she have known about our moments alone in the darkened room?

  “Anything about elephants?” she hinted coyly.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Good. I was to invite you, but when I saw him approach you, I supposed he had decided to do it himself.” My puzzled expression spurred her on. “We both know you are lonely with your husband away. We decided you might benefit from a diversion. That is, if you are well enough . . .” She paused to give me an opportunity to fill in an explanation. “. . . for this is apt to be a strenuous journey.”

  Intrigued, I reassured her I was in the best of health. “What sort of trip is this?”

  “Amar is arranging an elephant hunt. He has wanted to have one for some time and has had his scouts out searching for a herd ever since the coronation.”

  “Who else will attend?”

  “His retinue and the honored guests of the state.”

  “Will you also be going?”

  “Certainly. In my brother's reign, we had hunts infrequently. He much preferred a life of what he called 'contemplation.' His predecessor, the. uncle who had no sisters or aunts, was quite a sportsman.”

  “Do they kill the elephants?”

  “Oh, never! Or at least not unless somebody's life is endangered. The purpose is to capture a wild herd and bring them in for taming. Without elephant labor, much of the forestry and building around the state could not be accomplished.”

  “And Mrs. Clifford, will she receive an invitation also?”

  “Of course. Sir Mortimer has declined. His weak back cannot tolerate the rough terrain. Mr. Clifford will take his place on the second howdah.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “That depends on the elephants. We should be away for a week or more. May I tell Amar you will join us?”

  The idea of leaving the confines of the court and the cloister of the Orchid House appealed to me immensely. “Yes, I will, but how I wish Edwin was here!”

  36

  I rode to the hunt with Professor Dent. We sat side by side on a swaying howdah shaded by white umbrellas. The long journey was uncomfortable, but I found the professor's explanations distracting.

  “If we don't thin the herds, they multiply rapidly. The last hunt was more than five years ago; therefore we are overdue, for already there are reports of the destruction of sugarcane crops in the south.”

  “Can't fencing or walls control them?”

  “My dear Mrs. Salem, no field can be fenced against a herd of determined pachyderms.”

  “Determined pachyderms? I like that.”

  The professor puffed with the compliment. “A curious thing about the elephant is that he seems unaware of his strength when working with humans. We coexist because of their tractable nature. Once captured, an elephant seems to thrive as man's muscular assistant, felling trees, hauling logs, lifting timbers.” The professor trilled the R in “thrive,” then glanced at me for approval. I gave a little laugh at having caught him in his mock pomposity.

  He chuckled in return. “Soon, my dear lady, you will experience a kheddah, the roundup in which they capture the beasts. The shikarris located a wild herd months ago and by now have provoked the beasts in our direction.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “During the day they stalk the herds, and at night they maneuver them with torches. Fire is one of the few things elephants fear.”

  “How do they capture them?”

  “Geography assists this endeavor. There is a wide waterway on one margin of the territory, and the high cliffs of the Western Ghats on another, which narrow the elephants' choices.”

  We had reached a bluff from where I could view the long line of trained elephants, followed by more than fifty carts laden with supplies. The professor explained that many more had gone to set up before us. “Do you see that bend in the river?” He pointed to the horizon. “That is where we are heading. You'll find the camp comfortable enough.”

  After more than ten hours of traveling, with a brief stop for tiffin, we arrived at a lakeside clearing. More than a hundred tents were already in place. A large marquee in the center was garlanded in flowers and lined with thick Persian carpets. Shelves cleverly rigged from bamboo and wire housed a small library. Desks around the perimeter were available for the maharajah's staff, and in the center, soft armchairs formed circles around a platform topped with a silver-and-ivory throne. Amar was nowhere around, but his musicians were already playing raga after raga. The sweet sounds of the strings trailed into the blustery wind and were quickly dispersed by the commotion of the arrivals.

  I was taken to my tent, where Yali awaited me with a basin of tepid water and a fresh frock. I washed away the dust, sipped my favorite tea, ate a few pastries, then lay down for a short rest.

  My ayah woke me after dark. “Dinah-baba, you must be ready for dinner soon.”

  Disoriented, I sat up. Candles in silver holders cast long shadows on the undulating surface of the tent. Stiff with aches from the journey, I dressed with Yali's assistance. Outside, a guard in a white turban escorted me to the maharajah's marquee. Hundreds of fluttering lamps lit paths and demarcated doorways. Beyond the perimeter of the encampment, blackness loomed. We could have been on an island in the midst of a vast sea.

  My seat at the long table was next to Dennis Clifford and across from his wife. Fortunately, Amar was more than ten places removed. The most prominent positions were given to the men who were jockeying to become the next dewan, or prime minister. The current dewan had remained in Trivandrum to handle the affairs of state. The maharani sat on the ruler's right. To the soothing strains of the music and the tinkling of fine crystal, a meal with more than a dozen courses was served. In the palace such luxury was taken for granted. In this wilderness it was astonishing
.

  Afterward we were escorted into a smaller pavilion, where chessboards were set up on camp tables. Cheroots and Madeira were served around as Amar greeted each of his guests. When Jemima stepped forward, he asked after her children, then turned to me. “What do you think of my little diversion? I realize it hardly makes up for not having Winner by your side, but perhaps it will return the bloom to your cheeks?” While he had made every attempt to be precise with his words, they came out stilted.

  “You know as well as I do how disappointed Edwin will be to have missed this,” I responded formally.

  The maharajah drew his mouth into a thin line. His heavy lids were half-closed. He did not seem to have heard me. The trip must have exhausted him as much as me. “Do you play chess?” he slurred.

  “Only a few games with my first husband.”

  The maharajah's eyes snapped open. He stared at me for a long moment, then spoke with elaborate politeness: “A refresher course must be in order.” He gestured to the chess table set up on a platform.

  I cringed at the idea of having to play in front of the courtiers and guests, but there was no chance of escape. I had made no claims to proficiency at the game, so I could not be embarrassed by my playing. In fact, my naive moves should lead to a game so boring, I expected that Amar would release me after the first defeat. I took a long breath and moved my white king-pawn forward. The maharajah moved his matching black pawn.

  “The game of chess is a battle; the chessboard is the battlefield,” Amar began to pontificate. “Diagrams for combat, like Hannibal's plan for the Battle of Cannae, could have been represented on a chessboard.” He prattled on while I made predictable moves to his gentle leads. “Good development of that knight,” he complimented.

  Nodding absently, I concentrated on the game. Amar's physical presence no longer worried me, since observers surrounded us. I had no hope of winning, but perhaps I would avoid looking foolish.

  “Ah, an aggressive move!” He lowered his voice. “You are showing real promise, Sassy.”