by Gay Courter
“Or to see his tailor at Ranken's.”
“Exactly.”
“My father saw value in his social interests. 'Somebody's got to kiss the viceroy's boots and fortunately Ezra has volunteered' was how he put it.”
Edwin laughed for the first time that evening. “He didn't really say that, did he?”
“Absolutely. My uncle is not the first Sassoon to be seduced by the glitter of royalty and privilege. Before his death, Great-Uncle Abdullah—excuse me, Sir Albert Sassoon, the first Baronet of Kensington Gore—was happily ensconced at his 'ancestral' home halfway around the world from steamy India.”
“Nobody realizes the advantages—as well as the dangers—of having friends in high places better than I do,” Edwin said with a self-deprecating laugh. “The point is: where does that leave matters at Sassoon and Company? In a muddle, there's where. When your father is here, he runs the show, but he spends half his time in China. For a few months after his departure, everyone stays in his proper channel, until slowly they begin to alter his orders, confusing the staff. You can't imagine what it is like to have three or four people giving me conflicting assignments. Then, when everything is murky, your Uncle Samuel leaps in and supposedly sorts matters out.”
“At least somebody takes the helm,” I said in a conciliatory voice, even though I was reluctant to commend Bellore's officious husband.
“It is not his place to do that, and everyone knows it!” Edwin's face turned dusky with rage. “Some comply; others rebel. That is how the problem of too many children comes in. Thus far, none of our generation has any power. As you know, each of the sons of the brothers takes his compensation from his father's shares. The sons-in-law have salaries that cannot compare With what the other men get, even divided four or five ways. I am not complaining, but Gabriel makes his displeasure obvious. And I admit he has a point, since he does ten times the work of someone like Reuben's son, Nathaniel, who rarely shows his face except at auction time. And Samuel, who has devoted his whole life to the company, makes less than Yedid will when he starts.”
While he was talking, I counted up the male Sassoons who divided the spoils. Saul had two sons, Adam and Nathan, who were in the company. Reuben had Nathaniel and Noah. Ezra had only Sayeed, who was more interested in horse racing than business, but took his share anyway. That was five. Of Jacob's ten children, only his eldest son, Mir, was a part of the company, but counting Yedid—who soon would be—that made seven. Bellore had only girls, and for some unexplained reason twenty-one-year-old Lulu had refused every suitor and was unmarried. The prettiest, Abigail, had wedded a distant cousin of the Rothschilds' and moved to France. And Sultana's Gabriel was part of the problem. My father had already added Jonah to his side of the firm, and Asher would certainly follow. Zilpah's sons were being groomed for the law, since Benu could never give them a share and Zilpah did not want them to be in an inferior position to any Sassoon. That left at least nine young Sassoon men pushing into the fray. Samuel had every reason to feel threatened.
Before I could formulate a solution, Yali appeared at the door. Aaron wore a sailor shirt and short pants. The twins, who were learning to walk, held on to her sari. Zachariah fell down. Jeremiah ran to Edwin.
“Time to go,” I said. “Let’s talk about this later. There must be a way to settle it.”
“That I doubt,” Edwin replied. He sounded grim, but his face had already puckered into a funny expression that made Jeremiah giggle with glee.
Even though Edwin's days may have been unpleasant, he withstood the tensions stoically. Many evenings when he returned from Clive Street, he went to the small bedroom on the top floor that had become his study. After a quiet hour to himself, he would join the family, mellowed from the time alone. I suspected he chafed at working under Samuel Lanyado and Gabriel Judah, but his resentment was muffled because of his chagrin at having lost the fifty thousand rupees. I tried to let him know there were other options, even if he felt he had none.
“Opium is not the only business in the world,” I began one evening when he seemed especially relaxed. “When you traded with your uncle, you exported gunny and rope, coriander and beeswax to Singapore. What's more, the Sassoons of Bombay deal almost exclusively in products manufactured in their own mills, and they have prospered.”
Edwin squinted at me. “What is this about?”
“I can see you are miserable.”
“Who says I am?”
“Edwin . . .” I sighed in frustration.
He was quiet for a time before he spoke again. “Do you know what your trouble is? You are not content unless you have something to worry about. You must not let your mind wander into dark corners that you easily could avoid.”
“Now, darling,” I replied smoothly, “some housekeepers may be able to ignore the corners, but a good one makes certain to dust them before the spiders and their nasty webs take over.”
“What do you expect me to do?” he snapped. “Shall I say to your father, 'Thank you very much, but I have decided to seek my fortune elsewhere'?”
“Why not? With your experience you could get a position with any number of Jewish firms.”
“That's true, but then we could not continue to stay in this house. In fact, we shouldn't be here now that poor Sumra is gone, since it rightfully belongs to her son, Mir. With what I could earn we could find some place on Harrison Road or Bow Bazaar, but never anything nearly as large as we have and certainly never anything south of Park Street.”
“I don't care where we live, darling.”
“That is not true,” he said, restraining his ire.
“We are not exactly paupers living on Sassoon crumbs. I have my small legacy from Grandmother Flora, and your mother's estate has provided a cushion. Anyway, that is not what I had in mind to discuss.”
“Well?” he asked wearily.
“I know you pretend to be content for my sake, but the time is coming when you will have to go on your own before my brothers and cousins push you aside.”
“That won't happen. They may receive more money, but my place is secure.”
“Is it? Look at the Lanyados. Aunt Bellore might not have become such a monster if she had had more prestige.”
“You are being melodramatic, Dinah. Their lofty perch in Kyd Street is hardly a stinking bustee. If anything, Samuel has become the biggest fish of them all. With his wheedling and conniving, everyone defers to him. Besides, when your father returns, he will sort everything out.”
“And if he doesn't?”
“Dinah, the company has been going strong since before you were born. A few conflicts between brothers and sisters will hardly sink the ship.” He gulped at the unfortunate choice of words, giving me a chance to make my final point.
“Nothing lasts forever,” I said firmly. “The Chinese used to think they had a monopoly on tea until Robert Fortune and his friends brought the plants to India. Now that the Chinese are growing their own opium, we have seen a decline in the price. One of these days that market may dwindle as well.”
“The whole world buys opium.”
“They do this year, but what if the laws change? Many people of high moral character want to outlaw it entirely.”
“That will never occur. Too many people would revolt if denied their daily pipe. India supplies more than two million Chinese smokers, and even the most exaggerated estimates say that native opium supplies less than four percent of them. Anyway, too many people of power have a vested interest.”
“People have a way of losing power.” I groaned in frustration. “Edwin, couldn't you consider expanding your horizons? If the opium market changes, you would be ahead of the others in finding a new situation.” I winced as Edwin closed his eyes. Perhaps I had pushed him too far after a tiring day.
“Theories are entertaining, but there is no practical way to implement them. If we had any capital left, I could open a trading company of my own. Nothing could stop us from bidding on anything from tea to opium if we had
the wherewithal to cover the auction prices.”
“We might be able to borrow the money.”
“No! I'll be damned if I'll ever ask anyone in your family for a single anna.”
“What about your friends?” I suggested hesitantly.
“It is difficult enough being in business with one's family,” he said obliquely.
“What do you mean?”
“That's enough for now,” he said with a firmness that silenced me. “When your father returns, things will right themselves.”
I let the matter drop for a while. At least Edwin enjoyed the trips to Patna. In fact, the less he was around the Sassoons, the happier he seemed to be. When he was in Calcutta he joined friends for a game of billiards and conversation over cheroots and port. I was pleased he had renewed friendships with boys he had known during his brief stay at St. Xavier's: Howard Farrell, Abdul Moquith, and Ahmed Majid, men of different faiths whom we never entertained at home. There was also a group of Bengali friends including Shyamdas. Chauduri and Krishna Mukerji. Perhaps one of these contacts might be his avenue out of the opium business, I decided, and reminded myself to keep encouraging
Edwin in that direction. In any case, since I was exhausted by my domestic routines, Edwin's absences were sometimes a relief. Time for myself was precious: to read, to keep my journal, to sleep an extra hour. I knew that a household filled with demanding babies was no place to unwind after a day with formidable in-laws. Unlike many a wife, I never worried that other women might tempt Edwin. When we were alone together, the magic embraced us like an impervious veil. No husband had ever been as ardent, as attentive, as superb a lover as Edwin. Maybe he was right. Maybe this simple life was what happiness was about.
A matter more profound than the problems of leadership at Sassoon and Company occupied Edwin's mind. When, we received word that my father and Jonah's return would be delayed a month, his agitation was more acute, but he did not share his concerns with me. Unaware as yet that the consequences of my uncle's dissatisfaction were soon to propel me into the center of the family arena, I did my best not to provoke Edwin.
When my father did arrive, we were relieved to learn that business had gone well: the price of opium had stabilized at a record high. Illness had kept my father in Hong Kong for several extra weeks, a malady he described as a monsoon fever. He looked tired, but that was to be expected after a sea journey. I thought his skin seemed more ashen than usual, his voice shakier, but Edwin reminded me these voyages were strenuous and the man was not getting younger. Jonah, who was flushed with success, had escaped the ailment.
“When the fever first struck, we had to postpone the journey, but once it broke, I kept after Father to start home. There was an awful stench to Hong Kong and I thought the sea air would do him good. I was right, as it turned out. Except for one relapse during the crossing, he's been looking better and better.”
“That's true,” my father said to console everyone, especially Zilpah. “All I need is a few bowls of marag to set me right.”
With several nights of rest, we did see a change for the better in my father. And after a week back at his desk in Clive Street, Edwin reported the pecking order was becoming reestablished and the churning seas of discontent were subsiding to postmonsoon levels. Unfortunately, the relief we experienced at my father's revival was short-lived. His chills and fever returned. Without hesitation Dr. Hyam made the diagnosis: malaria.
“Are you certain?” Zilpah asked outside the door to the sickroom.
“Every sign is positive. His spleen is enlarged, the periodic attacks come at the expected intervals, and he has been in a malarious region lately.”
“Can he be cured or . . . ?” Zilpah pursed her lips, letting the unfinished question hang in the air.
“We can treat the febrile spells, but they probably will return.”
“People live for many years with malaria. If they didn't, the British Empire would have faded away long ago.” I forced a weak laugh.
“What can I do?” Zilpah asked the doctor.
“During an attack he must rest in a cool, darkened room. First we'll try this prescription.” He made certain we understood the correct proportions of the dosage, consisting of strychnine, arsenious acid, iron by hydrogen, quinine, and aloe. “That should be made up into twenty tablets and Benu should take one pill every three hours.”
“When will he be well enough to return to work?” I wondered, thinking of the chaos at Clive Street that would ensue in his absence.
“In a week or two. He will know when he is able, but he must not travel to areas where the disease is endemic.”
“You mean China?”
“Yes, I do.”
Zilpah paled. “Never again?”
“At least not until he has been free of the acute state of the illness for a year, probably two.”
“He won't obey,” Zilpah said helplessly.
The doctor shrugged. “A reinfection could be fatal.”
My father did not visit his office for a week, nor two, nor even after a month had passed. Frequent malarial bouts racked his body. Between them he gathered strength for the next onslaught. Either Zilpah or I had to be in the house to medicate the various stages. Cinchona was to be administered at the first signs. If he had not rallied after twelve hours, ipecacuanha had to be offered. In the early morning, when the cold state racked his bones, arnica was taken. Veratrum was substituted when he felt icy on the outside but feverish internally. If the sweating became profuse, somebody had to force him to drink drafts laced with sambucus. During the worst periods, when he would have two or more attacks within twenty-four hours, belladonna alternated with hyoscyamus was required to prevent seizures.
In the brief periods of relief, my father tried to cheer us. “I don't know why you are making a fuss. Just a touch of malaria. Most fellows live with it quite peacefully, accepting it as a visit from an old, if not entirely congenial, friend.” In a few hours, or if he was fortunate, a few days, it would start again. Each time, the fever broke as suddenly as it came, leaving him soaking wet and weaker than when it had begun.
“A terrible case. One of the worst in my career,” Dr. Hyam said, as though that were consolation for my father's inability to respond to the treatments.
One evening nothing helped my father's misery. The night was hot and damp, he was surrounded by hot-water bottles, but still he shivered. “I can't take it!” he shouted. “Every bone feels as if. it is being twisted by some malevolent hand.”
“Dr. Hyam said this would pass, but it only gets worse,” I said, feeling desperate. “Can't we do something?” I begged Zilpah, but she had no answers, either.
While tending to my father occupied all my time away from my children, Edwin toiled harder at the office, since matters there had deteriorated. One day when it seemed my father was on the mend at last, Edwin approached me at Theatre Road as I assisted Seti with her Hebrew. “I need to talk to you, Dinah.”
“Of course, darling. Is something wrong?” His grim expression made me think he had some news about my father's condition that I had not yet been told. “Seti, copy the next three lines. I'll check your work later.”
I followed Edwin out to the terrace. We stood a few feet from the spot where we had discovered how much we had in common. Nothing had changed; and yet everything had changed.
“I need your help,” he began.
“What can I do? All the doctors haven't—”
“The problem concerns a matter at Clive Street.” At first I thought he meant the usual discontent, but his look was far too pained for that. “For a long time now I have been suspicious. Since I don't have access to any of the books except those from the ryots, I decided to wait for your father's return and match up his figures. His first days back didn't give me enough time, and now . . .”
“What is it?”
“There are discrepancies. I confirmed the matter with Jonah. He told me some of the figures on his side, and they don't balance with mine.
”
“What can I do?”
“You've worked with these ledgers before. Maybe you can detect what I cannot.”
“How would we get hold of them? I can't ask my father. We wouldn't want to worry him now, not when he is finally improving. Perhaps in a few weeks—”
“I've waited too long already. We could go to Clive Street together late some afternoon. The durwan would let us in. I know where everything is kept. We could say we were getting papers for your father.”
“When?” I asked with a mixture of excitement and dread.
“Saturday evening, just after sundown.”
This seemed like a prudent time. Family members often stopped by for a few hours' work on Sunday, especially during busy seasons, but it was rare for anyone to come in on the Sabbath, except a few of the non-Jewish employees, and they would be gone by one o'clock. To set the stage, Edwin worked right up until sundown on Friday. When he left, he complained to Ram Singh, the evening durwan, about how much work was yet undone and how he might have to return to complete it before Monday morning. “Besides,” he had said, “with all this rain, the children are out of sorts and it isn't always serene at home.”
The durwan readily nodded, for it had poured for two days and nights. Everyone was anxious for the monsoon to break. The following evening, the clouds had blown out to sea, and the quiet streets of the commercial section gleamed in the glow of the setting sun.
“Sahib, this is a surprise,” Ram Singh said to Edwin when he opened the door to our office jaun. “When the rain stopped, I thought you would stay at home.”
“The rain from above may have ceased, but the storm on my desk remains,” Edwin said as he helped me out of the carriage.
“Memsahib!” the durwan said with a bright smile when he saw me alight. “A pleasure to see you again. How is your father?”
“Better every day, Ram Singh.”
As the Indian put his hands together and bowed, I followed Edwin to his office on the third floor.