She told me she knew for certain the right thing for me to do.—Now that I am sure, you can act with a pure heart.
—She wants you to sleep again with the brides. Mya sat silently, while Win spoke Italian slowly, reading from a piece of paper he held in his hand.—Who better than you? She knows you will say that she has known no others, but that doesn’t matter. It is what you do. Mya looked straight into my eyes, as if she were drawing a line under the words he spoke. It doesn’t matter if others could do it better. She isn’t talking of pleasure, though you have pleased her even more since that first night.
I waved my hand for him to stop. How could she speak to him and he to me of things so intimate?—Whose words are these?
—Mine, Mya said. I rose quickly and walked toward the front door and out onto the verandah.—There is more. I didn’t turn around. I had raised my voice and must have turned red like the Europeans I had pledged myself I wouldn’t become. I had spoken harshly to a woman I loved like I had never spoken to Ruth, whom I only honored but never loved. Joseph, what a strange game our passions play, that we snap and bite at those who mean the most to us.
Win followed me out onto the verandah.—Ab…ra…ham, let us walk for a bit. Win guided me down the road, afraid that Mya would hear my angry words.
—Abraham, I did try to convince her. But there was no threat on my part. It was her choice, her choice alone. Abraham, I am an average worldling, but she is a pious follower of the Buddha—she is a good worldling. Don’t be angry with her.
My words came quickly, words that I had never spoken, even to myself.—It’s not her. It’s me. I’m afraid. Sometimes I have thought only of my own pleasure. I’m afraid I will lust after another woman. What if in a moment of desire, I think of my own pleasure and forget the reason for lying with these women? What if I forget Mya in the moment of my pleasure?
—You are not the Buddha. You are a man. These brides are supplicants in need of gifts. Even with your imperfections, you are a better gift giver than most. If you find their bodies pleasurable, think of the impure and the unpleasant—the rotting flesh of corpses strewn outside the city walls, the mud-covered swine your god tells you not to consume.
—How could I do that and still treat them with the gentleness and reverence their bodies deserve? If I did that, I become nothing more than my soulless member. That is an even worse thought than being consumed by lust. If it is just a body, there is no gift. If it is just a body, then I am an adulterer and these innocent brides are unwitting whores.
—Then think of Mya and the merit she is gaining.
—That seems more lustful—to lie in another’s arms and think of the woman you love.
—Ab…ra…ham, you think too much. My head is spinning. It’s just one night. It’s just one body. Don’t worry; you aren’t a man overwhelmed by desires of the flesh. You will not be reborn a woman.
That was far from my worry. The truth I now couldn’t deny was that Mya had made me a man and, I was afraid, too much of one.
Win saw that my anger had dampened, and he turned and headed back to my house. Mya had not moved. Her eyes were red. My heart ached at the pain I had caused her. I told her I was wrong to raise my voice, to have lost my temper.
—I will speak with my own voice, she said. If you don’t understand, Win can help you in the language of your people. My soul contrite, I shook my head and said nothing.—When I came to this house, I knew I had no name. I was just another bride who would leave in the morning. I entered this house because I had to, not to find love. I expected the pain—women in the village had warned me. But they didn’t tell me the wind would stop blowing through the palms when you touched me, and the animals of the night would turn silent. You could have been rough with me, as I know other men are; you could have entered me quickly and been done, your task complete. But when you touched me, I felt I was your first woman. I felt I was the only woman in the world. That night, and every night you hold me in your arms, is like our last night on earth together. She looked down at the floor for a moment, made shy by the words she had spoken or was about to speak.—I knew that you had done an act of great merit, but Mara, who tried to seduce the Buddha, blinded me—I wanted to possess you for myself. Monks seek enlightenment alone in the forest, chanting the Buddha’s name until they run out of breath. I have learned wisdom in your arms. Love is a great teacher. I came here a girl sleepwalking. Now I am awake. I am a poor woman—I can give you nothing but the chance to gain merit. What you did for me you should do for others. I can give them one night—what is one night to the countless nights of affection that lie before us? Please let me do this for you.
I sat speechless in the embrace of her words. I was moved by what she said and even more by the words not spoken. Joseph, she did not say, “Do this for me.” She did not beg on her behalf in some simpering womanly way as I have heard our women do for some trifle. It was as if the silver hand that hangs from my neck had fallen into the fire, and she had thrust her hand into the flames to save it without thought or hesitation. Stifling my tears, I forgot Win was sitting there and touched her cheek, not having the words to repay hers.
I don’t believe I will be reborn—my soul passes only once through this world of flesh and matter—but Mya believes it and will do all in her power to make my next life a better one. Do I repay her selflessness with my refusal? If I don’t refuse but make a bride a whore in my bed, can there be merit for anyone in that? I haven’t shared my fears with Mya—she will think less of me. It would pain me to see my tarnished self in her eyes. If I cross the line between love and lust, in that moment of desire I become the adulterer she believes I could never be. I told her that I will pray to the Holy One, blessed be He, for guidance. Whatever decision I make, no one but she will share my heart.
Why is the path to righteousness unmarked? Why do the law and one’s heart not always point in the same direction? No brides wait outside my door. I am safe, but only until Win comes again. Easy to be a moral man sitting safely within the four walls of your room, but when you go through the door into the world, you must choose. No path, I am learning, may lead you through the forest unscathed.
Maybe Win is right. Maybe it is better to wander solitary as a rhinoceros.
Your cousin,
Abraham
13 June 1599
Dear Joseph,
Stones come into the city in a trickle compared with the stream when I arrived, but though few, I was able to secure six quality rubies today. With some more stones of this quality, when the winds shift, I will be ready to return with all my treasure. Win doesn’t believe me when I say I will take Mya with me. No European has ever left with his wife—it is forbidden. Only my action will convince him, so I simply tell him to wait.
Antonio has revealed himself to be of our blood, as I had thought, though he has turned his back on our faith and all faiths. The cross around his neck means nothing to him—it is only an amulet to keep the Gentiles at bay. I have never met a man who claims to be so far from God, yet seems in his words and actions a good man. Strange to say that of a man who makes his living teaching men to kill other men. For all his bluntness and rough appearance, he treats all with personal kindness, no matter brown, yellow, or white. That Jesuit with the soul of a serpent reaches down from his high perch to save the infidels floundering in the muck his mind fashions, while Antonio, who believes in nothing, acts as brother to all. He heard me speak of Mya as my wife and knew that I meant it as a man should and not like other traders who rent them like whores. He, and only he, brought Mya a gift to mark my words. He came calling last night with a small silver bowl wrapped in a piece of red silk and finely etched all over with lotus flowers. He speaks the language well. He told her it was a wedding gift, though he joked he hadn’t been invited to the ceremony; the bowl’s beauty and his words moved her. She bowed her head and said he would always be welcome in her home. I added “our home.” He stayed, we talked, and he revealed himself.
When oth
ers fled to escape the flames, his father’s father stayed in Porto and played well the New Christian.—Survival, Abraham, is the song to sing. His father kept the Sabbath light inside a pitcher of olive oil in the cellar. The flame flickered in his father’s heart and went out in his own.—I am, he laughed, vinegar to my father’s wine—the wicked son of a righteous man.
—When I was a boy, I saw acts that the devil has not dreamed of. I saw Israelites hanged by their feet from the gallows, babies tossed from balconies onto a sea of bayonets, old men trussed like pigs and their beards shaved with torches before being thrown into the flames. These infidels have nothing on my countrymen—a word hissed more than spoken—you needn’t sail halfway round the world to visit the land of the barbarians.
Antonio remembers only a few words of Hebrew. He had a quick temper, and his father thought it best he not learn the language, for fear in a moment of anger he would blurt out words that would send all the family to the stake. Hushed prayers and secret rites were games he grew to mock. One of his uncles feigned a weak stomach and ate unleavened bread all year round to make sure he ate it on Passover. When Yom Kippur approached, he sent out his servants on frivolous errands and greased the plates to pretend he had eaten while they were out. Antonio had no time for such playacting. No hidden flames burned for him, not even in the cellar.
—Survival, he said again, and then paused. But there is something more: doing something well. I’m a good soldier. I’ve walked across battlefields puddled with blood, where the fiery air was so heavy with cannonballs they smashed into each other and burst in midair. I’ve seen good men jump down wells out of fear, dive into rivers red with blood and thick with corpses. I never let my fellows down and have the scars to prove it. I am a good man with guns and can make a decent shot a better one. Israelite, Christian, infidel—we’re all here to do something well, he said. That, my friend, is the meaning of life.
—Did not the Holy One, blessed be He, guide your actions? I asked.
—I’m not a tinker, I’m a soldier. I have seen enough to know God has left the battlefield. I only pray to a cobbler to make sure my boots take me to the next paymaster. I have faith only in what I can hold in my hands and aim at another man’s heart.
He is a brother who has lost his way, and I feel free to press him about his faith more than I do with Win, who was born surrounded by idols and false beliefs.—If you have no God, what is to stop you from being a thief, a lecher, or a sinner without bounds?
—The brotherhood of pain. If I stick my hand in the fire, I pull it back because of the pain—a pain we all feel. There may be no God, but there is pain. War is necessary. Pain off the battlefield isn’t. He paused. His face had the expression of a man who was rummaging through a chest for a long-buried keepsake. Hillel—I have not spoken that name since my father whispered it softly for fear passersby on the street could hear through stone walls. A heathen challenged Hillel that he would convert, if Hillel could teach him all the Torah while the heathen stood on one leg. Hillel said to him, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is all the Torah. The rest is commentary.” I remember little of the Torah anymore; but I know the world, and these words are enough guide for me.
Too bad all those who pound their chests in praise of their gods don’t have this compass tied to their waist.
Who am I, poor student that I was, reprobate in the eyes of my brethren for the life I now lead, to stand in judgment of this man? I came on this journey to do our business and return. I thought the journey might sharpen my eye to separate the dull stone from the intense and find the inclusions beneath a stone’s surface sparkle. I was too comfortable in my certitudes to think the world could teach me anything else. I write you now a man humbled and slow to pass judgment on those whose legs are tattooed with birds and beasts and whose cheeks are scarred with war. Joseph, here is a man who our Assembly would surely excommunicate for his words and deeds, but he opens his heart to me and the woman I love, who others walk by without a cordial tip of their hats. Antonio is more a brother than my old self would have claimed.
—Abraham, don’t be too disappointed in me. My time on the battlefield is coming to a close. He turned solemn, his gravelly voice even rougher, deeper.—I am the angel of progress, the destroyer of war. This is the end of war and the beginning of slaughter. No more elephants, no more jeweled swords parried with skill, no more pikes and short swords. No more courage, just men standing too far away to see the faces of their enemy. Some of my men grind rubies to powder and mix it with palm wine and think this potion will protect them from harm. Bullets have no eyes: they can’t see what courses through a man’s blood—they only aim to spill it.
He sat in the light of the flickering oil lamp, the shadows slashing across his lined face.—I leave the slaughter to others. This is my last post. I came here with only cloak and sword. I will settle in Goa, and one trip to Lisbon and back with a ship full of goods and I will be rich enough to live like a grandee for life. He raised his cup of palm wine.
—In my palace, there will always be a room for you and Mya, facing the ocean and the orange sunset sky.
As he made ready to leave, I offered him my future home, with a view that would be more dark walls than blue skies, though I promised a comfortable bed for two.—A narrow bed will do, he said. Some nights I need a woman in my bed, but there is no room in my heart for her to stay. What starts out as a convenience ends in attachment and tears—these believers in Buddha are no fools. He looked at Mya as she padded in to take away our cups and plates, and said in words she could understand—But you two will sing us a new song.
We lay in each other’s arms that night, our bodies one prayer that his words would be so.
Your cousin,
Abraham
I took out the gold pins from her hair and laid them on a piece of folded cotton. I ran my hands through her perfumed hair to smooth away the curls and knots. I brushed the oiled and scented hair with long, steady strokes of a sandalwood comb my aunt gave me before I left home. The fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine and the scent of perfumed oils filled the room. I think the brushing calmed her. I took deep breaths and exhaled loudly enough to get her attention; she quieted herself with her own deep, steady breathing. We breathed as one; and when I felt her body relax, I took her to the bridal bed. She was a gentle, quiet girl, fit it seemed more for the nun’s way than the life of a merchant’s wife. Her beauty graced this house, and I felt good that Abraham would perform his service for such an angel.
When silence filled the house, I retreated into the back to sleep. I rose before dawn and waited for her to awake and seek me out. I had prepared warm water to pour over her and soft cloths dipped in fragrant oils to wash away the dried blood and Abraham’s fluid. I wrapped her in clean cotton and rubbed her back and shoulders dry. I shared with her my oils, perfumes, and powder and combed her hair once again. I was her mirror to make sure her chignon was tight and no stray hairs dangled to mar the beauty of her face.
While she sipped coconut water and Khaing humored her with idle talk, I went into the bedroom to fetch the bridal sheet. I folded it neatly so the red stains showed. Abraham had gone onto the verandah, and I inhaled the smell of his sex that hovered in the room.
I tried to comfort her anxious heart, to give her the gentle embrace of a sister. I am part of the gift she received. I readied her for my husband, so he would receive her without fear or shame as a full bride in his bed. My husband touched her, entered her, and loved her with his body, but only for one night and only with his body. What pain she may have suffered was erased by his touch that told her she is a woman worthy of love. I saw it in her face. Forgive me for the pride I felt when she presented the bridal sheet to her husband.
If there are more, I will treat them with respect and kindness. I don’t want to dishonor my husband. Last night I lay down without jealousy or worry and fell asleep enfolding him into the depths of my heart. Like lovers in the highest of heavens, being tog
ether in the same place is enough.
2 July 1599
Dear Joseph,
There is only one bride in this house. There will be no others. If Mya asks, Win will tell her that there are no brides in need of my services. The truth is too confusing: I am not sure why myself, but I know in my heart I can give my body only to one. It was for Mya that I agreed to deflower another bride, and it is for her that I have stopped. I will have to find other opportunities to gain merit for her and myself; but in these darkening times, this shouldn’t be difficult.
The bride left this morning. When Mya came into the bedroom, knelt, and touched her forehead to the floor to thank me for the act of merit she believed I had performed, I knew that was the last bride. She is the woman I love. I cannot hold another in my arms and not think of her. Her asking only deepened my love; and though out of love I tried, my love makes my obedience to her wishes impossible. I drank from one cup with my mind on another, and that is a sin.
I had prayed that the first bride would have crooked teeth, dragon’s breath, and the clumping gait of an awkward child. I prayed for a test that I could pass. God sent me instead a bride more beautiful than any I have deflowered. Peguans pray to saints that have the gentle, quiet countenance of a woman, and the face of this bride shone with the same calm innocence. She had a beauty that makes even the roughest of men bow their heads in shame at the lives they have lived. Mya had combed her hair until it hung glistening like black silk at her shoulders and had rubbed fragrant oils about her neck and breasts. Mya summoned me to the room where the bride lay haloed in candlelight.
Never have I seen a woman so untouched by the wear of the world—her skin was as smooth and unblemished as the finest Chinese silk. Forgive me, even a tzaddik would have been aroused by her soft flesh. I lay at the edge of the mat, teetering on the precipice of desire. Mara, the god of desire, whispered in my ear and I listened. I ran my hand over the small of her back, the smooth curve of her buttocks, for the pure pleasure of the feel of her skin. I took her virginity for the sensual pleasure her body offered. The woman I loved slept under the same roof, and I betrayed her. I lay inside this bride and thought of Mya in hopes of pulling back from the depths of desire onto the level ground of duty, and that was a second betrayal.
The Jewel Trader of Pegu Page 12