by Gay Courter
What was wrong with me? What was wrong with him? I might have a quick, insensitive tongue, but at least I did not smoke opium, as did my husband . . . as had my mother. Images of Luna and Sadka and the hookah blurred together with those of Edwin lying on his bed sucking from his pipe and of Amar doing the same. Was I cursed with this problem for the rest of my days? Was there no way I could extricate myself from this world of opium?
I staggered into our bedroom. Without Edwin it was hollow and drab. I let my clothes lie where they fell. The long, treacherous day was finished. But something else had begun. There was Hong Kong to think about, and the subsequent management of the company. Maybe this was a time to begin again—in more ways than one. If I could salvage the money I had committed, I might find a way to diversify later investments. . . . There had to be a way out of this morass.
I fell across my bed, limp with terror at what the future might bring without Edwin beside me. A wave of apprehension crashed over me, dissolving any sense of satisfaction over my revenge. How could I have survived a day in which so many dreams had come true, only to discover I had not enjoyed it at all?
48
Only the servants knew. Did Yali and Hanif and Gulliver discuss our separate sleeping arrangements or that we hardly ever took meals together or spoke except when it was necessary to converse about strategic matters? Many marriages had rifts established by disagreements. Others, the result of arrangements that had not proved satisfactory over time, had agreements to respect mutual privacy. Then why did I feel ashamed of my predicament? Was it because it had happened without warning? One day Edwin and I had been the passionate pair servants sometimes espied in an unhurried embrace. The next we were singular icebergs floating in a common strait.
We were careful to hide our estrangement from everyone else. The children hardly sensed anything, for we tended them as before. Even more critical, the rest of the Sassoons were to have no doubts about our abilities to lead the company out from the murky management of Samuel into a new regime headed by our “partnership.” The natural course seemed for Edwin to move into Uncle Saul's corner office and to act as the senior man on a daily basis. Every few days I would arrive, hold meetings, sign documents, examine account books randomly, and finalize decisions, including the ones Edwin had made in my absence. “You are the Sassoon,” he had explained in a practical tone. “You are the person they will trust, especially after being defrauded by another in-law.”
Thus I was the one who sat in Uncle Saul's chair and I was the one to whom everyone deferred. My dream of seeing my father return to Clive Street was not to be realized.
Abner Raphael was jolted when I asked to take delivery of my twenty percent of the shares, but he agreed it was within my rights to do so. I softened the blow by sending a ten-thousand-rupee check for the restoration of the synagogue steeple and another in the same amount for classroom space for the Hebrew school in memory of Luna Sassoon. Neither payment was refused.
The major issue in the business was how to convince the Chinese merchants to accept higher prices. My father insisted he would have to go to China to handle the negotiations.
“Impossible,” replied the usually jolly Dr. Hyam. “Even if Benu defied us and booked passage, he would never return.”
This was the first statement of the hopelessness of my father's condition, although we had suspected he was dying after the hemorrhage. Initially we discussed Reuben's going in his stead, since he spoke Chinese and had handled the trade before Benu had taken over. Eight years older than my father and “sickly” by his own standards, Reuben vetoed the idea. “I have lost my contacts. The business is a personal one. Benu has the touch with the Chinese, knows what makes them tick. They always confounded me. Besides, the trade wants someone younger. Jonah can do it.”
But Jonah demurred. “I have been only once. I cannot speak the language yet. And while we were there, Father did everything. I merely looked on.”
Though disappointed by his lack of faith in himself, I realized that he did not want the fate of these difficult negotiations falling upon his shoulders.
“This is our doing,” I told Edwin, “and we must resolve it.”
“We could commission someone from Jardine, Matheson or the Raphael office to take it on,” my husband suggested.
“No! This is a point of pride for the Sassoons.”
“We won't feel very proud if we can't unload our crates at the higher rates and the season is an enormous loss.”
“That is why we must go to China, to cement old ties and forge new ones. Jonah also could go along, since he knows a few of the ropes.”
Edwin sighed with exhaustion. “Dinah, we cannot do everything ourselves. Already I am spending fourteen hours a day in Clive Street.”
“Your choice,” I reminded him pointedly.
“Hardly,” he sniffed. “When this family trade flourished, there were a father and five sons working together.”
“And one son-in-law,” I said with a rueful laugh.
“Exactly. Now four of the seven are out of the picture. Despite everything”—he was alluding to our rift—”together we have managed to keep matters afloat in Calcutta. If we both went to China, whom would we leave behind to run Clive Street?”
“You have provided the answer.”
“Have I?” He raised an eyebrow in the rakish way I once found so appealing. Now it irritated me. I did not want to play his games, not if he would not take the first step and throw away the toxic opium pipe that had come between us. How he could continue to justify—no, to flaunt!—his vice was as irksome a question as ever.
“Oh, stop being coy, Edwin. You know as well as I do that one of us must go to China. And if you won't do it, I suppose I must.”
His mouth dropped open. “You? Don't be ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous about it?”
“The Chinese won't deal with a woman. Anyway, I did not refuse to go.”
“You said you were engaged at the office.”
“I was going to suggest you take over there for the time being.”
“I don't suppose they will deal with a woman any better in Calcutta. In any case, you're the one who knows the day-to-day operations, not me. You should remain here.”
“But you are the Sassoon.”
“Exactly. And as such I suppose I must go in my father's stead. Jonah can travel with me—and Gulliver, of course. What could be wrong with that plan?”
“A thousand reasons come to mind, but what do I know?” he said, not masking his scorn.
“Name two.”
“How about three: Aaron, Jeremiah, and Zachariah?”
A clutch at my heart told me he was right, yet I felt compelled to disagree. “I would not choose to leave the children, but they would be well cared for.”
“Why don't you ask your father? If he can't dissuade you, nobody can.”
My father was appalled. “You cannot leave your husband, let alone your children. Besides, you have no idea of the conditions. No woman should be asked to tolerate them. I forbid it!” he sputtered, and began to cough.
Zilpah, who had been sitting with us in the small parlor, warned me with her eyes. Even though the day was warm, a fire had been set to help combat his shivering paroxysms, which had begun shortly before my arrival. Fearing he again might spit up blood, I sat quietly until he was in control.
Mopping my face in the overheated room, I continued softly, “All right, Papa, I only wanted your opinion. Do you think Edwin might be a better choice?”
“What does he know about China?”
“Nothing, but you could teach him.”
“I expected it would take five years at my side before Jonah could handle any negotiations on his own, so why should Edwin be able to take over after a few hours of discussion?” He halted until he could stop his teeth from chattering. “There are no formulae that can be employed. Everything is based on the situation of the moment. We drink tea, we talk about our families, we size each o
ther up, we trade points. One year I give in; the next year the other fellow does. This is where the tally is kept.” He pointed to his forehead.
“Then Edwin is right. We must hire someone from Jardine, Matheson or Raphael's company to sell our chests,” I said sadly. “A middleman's commission might be the difference between making or breaking this season. And what do we do next time?”
“I . . .” he started to say, then looked down at his wasted arms and bony hands. “I suppose I won't ever return.”
“No, Papa.” I looked to Zilpah for support.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she managed to speak crisply. “The time has come for the children to take over, Benu. Of course they will make mistakes, but look how wonderfully they have done already.”
Lost in some private torment, he hadn't heard her. “My God, it is hot in here!” he moaned.
Zilpah and I took his arms and led my father out to the shade of the terrace. He drank two glasses of lemonade laced with quinine before leaning back and closing his heavy eyelids.
“Very well,” he began slowly, “I will tell you everything. The truth is that I am too tired to worry about who goes where or does what.” His eyes shot open. They were bright with feverish excitement. “Zilpah is right. At least I have confidence that somehow, in some way, you and the others will get by, and yet . . .” Involuntarily he closed them again. “. . . I cannot fathom how. . . .”
For the next two weeks I spent every available moment at my father's side, taking notes on his ramblings. When I attempted to question him about specific names, locations, or previous dealings, he might answer one question lucidly, then drift off onto a tangent that seemed useless. Later, though, I would find that a seemingly disconnected thought was a vital link in the commercial chain. In the evenings I would rewrite my notes, cross-referencing them into folders. Soon a pattern began to emerge, though it was a pattern with pieces missing. If I attempted to question my father in an attempt to fill a hole, “Don't know . . . what are you talking about? . . . I never said that!” were common responses to my inquiries.
Even more frustrating were his lapses into Chinese. For a few days I tried to transliterate his husky digressions in the hope of later sorting them out. When time seemed to be running short, I brought in an interpreter, who took notes in Chinese.
Zilpah objected. “He's not up to these interrogations.”
“But, Zilpah, we may not have much more time,” I protested.
“That may be the case, but I can't have you robbing what few good hours he has left.”
I wanted to argue with her, but I constrained myself. “He wants to tell us everything.”
“Does he?” she inquired pointedly. “He could care less.”
“May I still come every day to see him?” I asked when I resigned myself to her wishes.
Zilpah nodded her head sadly. “Of course, Dinah.”
The next morning I arrived at the usual time—without the interpreter or my notebooks—and found Dr. Hyam and two nurses flanking my father's bed. His breathing was raspy and shallow. Zilpah stood next to the bed, as cold and inanimate as a statue.
“Send for the brothers and his other children,” Dr. Hyam said to me.
But before anyone else could get to his bedside, he died.
A loss expected is not necessarily a loss accepted. Zilpah went through the paces with a wooden stiffness. I shed enough tears for the two of us. Although Edwin treated me kindly, I could find no solace in his arms, and turned to Zilpah. My stepmother and I clung together, supporting each other. Asher was desolate. Ruby avoided the family because her husband did not want her to be upset. Seti, who was eleven, acted mature beyond her years. She dealt with servants and guests and pampered her mother. Fortunately, Jonah handled the necessities with admirable efficiency.
If we were going to manage the Chinese trade, Jonah said we must depart directly after the month of mourning for our father. At first I objected, but his logical arguments won me over. The two of us spent many hours with Uncle Reuben, trying to decipher my notes and planning our journey.
“We actually won't know how much we can command until we deliver the merchandise and see what the market will bear,” Jonah summarized after a long meeting.
“Very sensible,” Reuben complimented, then turned to Edwin. “Jonah could do quite well on his own,” he told Edwin pointedly, “if you can't see your way to convince Dinah you would be more suited to the trip than she would.”
Edwin laughed genially, saying, “Haven't we learned by now that my wife has a mind of her own?” The subject was not discussed again.
My father's will left Theatre Road and the bulk of his estate to Jonah, who graciously told Zilpah she might stay on as long as she wanted. Edwin and I had continued to live in Free School Street even though we had taken possession of Kyd Street when the Lanyados left for France. With the complications of reorganizing Sassoon and Company, the plans for traveling to China, my father's illness—not to mention the impossibility of our reaching any agreement on a domestic issue— moving had been an absurd consideration. Besides, I could not envision myself walking in Aunt Bellore's garden or eating from her dishes, let alone sleeping in her bedroom.
Jonah chided me for my bias. “Why not have the place redecorated to suit your fancy? Look what you did to brighten Free School Street. With half the attention, Kyd Street would be a palace.”
I was not about to admit anything about my personal confusion to my brother. Besides the obvious reason, I also did not want him to question the wisdom of matrimony. He should have been wedded already, but had resisted every match suggested to date.
“With Father's illness and the commotion, I can't take any steps in that direction,” he protested. “I'll consider the next round when we return from China, if you will pledge not to prod me until then.”
One afternoon when he was delivering some documents for our journey, Jonah looked around the crowded, shabby Free School Street parlor and clucked his tongue. “Why don't you have Edwin move while we are away? Wouldn't it be wonderful to come home to a new house without having to undertake the packing yourself?”
“I've told you before, I can't see myself as the mistress of Kyd Street,” I replied peevishly.
“Would you sell it?” he asked, shocked.
“Possibly,” I replied, although I had never before considered the idea.
“You can't do that,” my brother protested good-naturedly, “any more than I could sell Theatre Road.”
“Don't you want Theatre Road?”
“What would I do with such a large house?”
“Fill it with children!”
He wagged his finger at me. “You promised . . .”
“Jonah . . .”I began as an idea formed. “Wouldn't you rather have Kyd Street? It should have been handed down to a male Sassoon heir from the beginning.”
“Kyd Street is even larger. How many children do you suppose I will have?”
“Don't forget, there is a separate wing, which would be convenient if you had to take in any members of your wife's family.”
“What are you getting at, Dinah?”
My eyes twinkled impishly. “We could trade. I would much rather live in Theatre Road than anywhere else in the world. And if you were in Kyd Street, your position in the family would be solidified.”
“As second to you,” he replied flatly.
I shrugged. “You are a man. That will always make you superior in everyone's eyes. I have to fight for every ounce of respect, and frankly, I am finding it wearisome. After this trip I plan to sit back and let the others manage matters.”
“What about Edwin?” he asked uneasily.
Avoiding the issue of Edwin's position in the company, I replied, “Edwin will be as content at Theatre Road as anywhere else.”
Jonah backed off. “Do you really want to swap houses?”
“I believe it would be fair, as long as you agreed. Theatre Road is newer but smaller. Kyd Street is larger but
requires more renovation. If you want, I will pay you a premium.”
“Does it mean that much to you?”
“Why are you surprised?”
Jonah swallowed hard and spoke warily. “I thought you had some unpleasant memories . . .” He trailed off.
“And you don't?”
“I was much younger than you. I have no recollections of our mother.”
“There are happy memories also,” I mumbled softly.
Jonah shook his head. “Father always said women were more perplexing than the Chinese.”
I forced myself to smile. “Soon you will have substantial experience with both.”
My brother was quiet for several seconds, then brightened. “I believe I would prefer Kyd Street,” he replied slowly. “Just as you and Edwin don't want to appear like the next Bellore and Samuel, I do not want to live in the shadow of Benjamin Sassoon.”
To seal the matter, my brother and I shook hands formally. And without consulting Edwin or anyone else, Theatre Road was mine.
Everything was arranged. Zilpah agreed to stay on at Theatre Road until she determined where else she might go. She had ties in Darjeeling she wanted to renew, but she did not want to be apart from her children, who were settled in Calcutta.
“Why not consider living part of the year in each place?” I suggested. “You could follow the seasons.” It was too soon for her to decide, thus the temporary solution of assisting us while I was in Hong Kong seemed logical.
Before our departure I left a list of renovations for Theatre Road. None would inconvenience the family drastically, but were necessities if I were to claim the house as my own.
Edwin, however, was more difficult to rearrange. “I will stay on in Free School Street,” he announced shortly before the children were to make the transition with their ayahs.