A Beggar at the Gate
Page 14
Mariana pictured Safiya in the upstairs room overlooking the courtyard outside, presiding over the score of women of all sizes and ages who sat, shrouded in their soft, loose clothing, waiting for her.
When she had left that upstairs room two years earlier, Mariana had failed to say good-bye. Ordered to kiss the silk-wrapped Qur'an, she had felt it pressed against her lips, and then had started down the stone staircase without a backward glance. The ladies had begun their waiting then. Now, the force of their expectation seemed to reach into the sitting room and wrap itself around Mariana's body, drawing her invisibly toward them.
Surely Safiya would see her passion for Saboor and her desire to understand them all. Surely, after the divorce, Safiya would give her the few days she needed, would allow her the time to say a proper good-bye
Mariana drew her shawls closer and pushed her hands into the sleeves of her gown. Be resolute, her uncle had said over his shoulder as the Shaikh led him away. If you do not escape now, it will be too late.
A sound at the door made her start. A tall man stepped into the room on bare feet and stopped short, studying her, his back to the light, a child bouncing in his arms.
“Peace,” the man offered.
“An-nah, Abba is here!” Saboor struggled to get down, then rushed to Mariana and threw himself against her knees. Her eyes closed, she gathered him to her breast, but in a moment he had galloped away again and wrapped his arms about his father's leg with a child's fierce, rediscovered love.
“My father says you have something to tell me.” Hassan again picked up his son and moved to the dais, his embroidered coat moving gracefully about his ankles. As he drew the child onto his lap his scent reached her, sweet, mysterious, different from the one she remembered.
He had changed. The broad, neatly bearded face she remembered had thinned. Beneath a crocheted skullcap, his eyes seemed wary and tired. He wore a distracted air, as if he had abandoned important work to meet her. His eyes drifted toward the open doorway as if he were waiting for someone.
It would be best to speak plainly. “I have come,” she announced, “to ask for the dissolution of our marriage.”
Hassan stiffened under his elegant clothes. “And?” he asked, frowning over his son's head, his tone as impersonal as the letter he had sent her.
Saboor's animated body had gone still. An instant later he climbed down from his father's lap and ran out through the doorway. She caught her breath, afraid he had understood her words.
“We do not know each other.” Her uncle's urgent voice still rang in her ears. She forced her words out rapidly, schooling herself not to run after Saboor. “Our lives are different. My food, my customs, my language are all unlike yours. I ride a horse. I go out dressed like this.” She pointed to her unveiled, bonneted self, her tight bodice, her English stripes, the shoes she should have taken off outside the doorway. “How could I be happy, living here with your family?”
Hassan shrugged. “You should have thought of all that before you accepted our proposal in front of the Maharajah's court two years ago. People are still laughing at the way you thrust yourself on us.”
Thrust yourself on us. So much for the supposed honor of having a white wife. “But your father sent a letter proposing our marriage,” she insisted. “I saw it myself.”
“That was a private matter, not something to be announced in public by the prospective bride.” He sighed. “But you did it, and it cannot be changed now.”
He had rested his elbows on his knees. Gold gleamed on brown, smoothly tapered fingers. She had forgotten the extraordinary beauty of his hands.
She took her eyes from his hands and drew herself up. “I'm sorry if I offended you,” she said, “and I'm sorry to have changed my mind. It's not that I do not like your family. I hope to be able to come back again and visit later on. But for now, please, just agree to divorce me.”
He seemed scarcely to be listening. “And Saboor? What of him? Have you forgotten that you were seen in a dream, that you are his guardian for life?”
“Please.” She closed her eyes. “Do not speak of Saboor.”
“I married you for his sake. It is your duty to protect him, and my duty to be your husband. How can you not understand this after two years?”
There was no deception in his tired, brown gaze.
“But that dream came from your side,” she argued, “not from mine. My people do not act upon dreams. How can I be held to a promise I never made?”
“But you did promise. You agreed to marry me. It is your kismet, your destiny to be here in the Punjab, with us.”
Your path lies to the northwest, the soothsayer had told her. Invisible coils seemed to tighten about her. But Kabul was also to the northwest—Harry Fitzgerald was there, with his fine profile, his crooked, knowing smile. He would take her back, wouldn't he? He would give her children, wouldn't he? They would take Saboor's place in her heart, wouldn't they?
“Your clothes don't matter,” Hassan went on, changing the subject. “My aunt Safiya has made you twenty-one changes of clothing. And please,” he added, flatly, frowning at her, “do something about your clothes and attend to your skin. Your hair has fallen out of that thing you're wearing on your head, and I can see that it needs oiling. You were perfectly all right when I married you. I cannot imagine how you could have let yourself go so badly. I hardly recognized you.”
“My appearance has nothing to do with it,” she replied, stung by his words. “I am only trying to—”
“Hassan Sahib-Ji,” called a voice from behind the canvas wall, “Faqeer Azizuddin Sahib is calling for you.”
“I must ask your leave to go.” Without waiting for her reply, Hassan gathered his fine coat around him and rose to his feet.
“But we haven't decided about—”
“You will stay here, of course.” He waved upward, toward the row of filigreed windows overlooking the courtyard. “My aunts have been waiting all morning for you,” he added as he stepped over the sitting-room threshold and into a pair of embroidered slippers with upturned toes.
Unexpectedly, he offered her a half-smile. “We will discuss this nonsense of yours later, when I can find the time.”
As he disappeared around the corner of the canvas barrier, Mariana heard Saboor's excited voice. “Where are we going now, Abba,” he cried, “where are we going?”
As Saboor's voice faded, the call to prayer floated into the sitting room from Wazir Khan's Mosque. “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” cried the muezzin from his minaret. “God is great! God is great!”
* * *
“BUT HOW did you fail to make Hassan understand?” demanded Uncle Adrian fifteen minutes later, after he and the Vulture had come to fetch her from the sitting room. “Did you not speak clearly? Have you forgotten your Urdu?”
“I was quite clear, Uncle Adrian,” Mariana replied. “Hassan did understand, but he scarcely listened to what I was saying. Then someone called to him from outside, and he went away.”
“Did he show any sign of agreeing to the divorce?”
“I do not know, Uncle Adrian. He said I must stay here with his family, and that we can talk more about it when we meet again. He seems very busy at the Citadel.”
The realization struck her all at once: here was the perfect solution to her dilemma! If she stayed at the haveli now, she would have time to learn from the Shaikh and his sister, time to spend with Saboor, before the divorce. Then, having gained all she could from the Waliullah family, she would be able to bear it if they refused to let her return.
“May I get my things and come back, Uncle Adrian?” Please, please, let him allow her to stay! Her eyes on his face, she ignored the Vulture, who twitched impatiently at her uncle's side.
“Do not be ridiculous, Mariana.” Her uncle's tone brooked no argument. “You have no idea of the perils you would face, left alone with those people.”
“Wait.” His face brightening, the Vulture held up a bony hand. “The Shaikh's son i
s assistant to the Foreign Minister, is he not? And he was called away in the middle of an important interview with Miss Givens? Hah! I knew it. There must be news of Sher Singh. He must be coming to seize the city. Why else would Hassan have left in the middle of that conversation?”
Uncle Adrian stared. “But what has—”
“Since the attack may be quite soon,” the Vulture went on, “then Miss Givens's divorce should be accomplished as rapidly as possible. If staying a night or two among the Shaikh's ladies is required for her to gain another interview with her husband, I see no harm in it. And,” he added meaningfully, “any information Miss Givens might come upon whilst she visits the natives of this house would be of immeasurable value to us. We are, of course, most interested in the fate of the Punjab.”
Of all the unexpected people to have taken her side! Mariana beamed at him.
“You may see no harm in her staying here, Mr. Clerk,” her uncle put in sharply, “but her aunt will, I am sure, take a very different view of that idea.”
January 12, 1841
You must be mad,” Aunt Claire cried from her folding chair the next morning. “I will not allow Mariana to stay for one moment in a native city full of filth and disgusting diseases!” She glared at her husband from beneath her parasol. “If you send her there, Adrian, I shall never speak to you again.”
“Yes, my dear,” he soothed, while Mariana fidgeted desperately beside him. “I do not much like the idea myself, but in order to be divorced, Mariana must stay for a day or two with the child's family. We cannot give up now, after coming all this way. She has been there before, you know, and they have never done her any harm. Mr. Clerk is very much in favor of the idea.”
“And what of the attack on the city that everyone is talking about? Mariana could be trapped in the fighting. She might be—”
“Sher Singh has not yet arrived in Lahore.” Uncle Adrian's basket chair creaked under him as he brushed an ant from his sleeve. “Even after he comes, it will be some time before he is ready to storm the Citadel. Mariana must escape her marriage now, before the attack, if there is to be one. No one can guess what will happen to Lahore in future. For all we know, a month from now it may be impossible even to enter the city.”
“If I do not go to Qamar Haveli now,” Mariana blurted out, “I shall never, ever be divorced.”
It was unfair to be short with Aunt Claire, but she was too heartbroken and anxious to stop herself. Since she had stepped out of her palanquin at Shalimar, she had thought of nothing but Saboor.
Uncle Adrian's “There, there, my dear, it is for the best,” was all the sympathy she had received. Aunt Claire had not even acknowledged her grief, choosing instead to tell her an interminable story about a lost lace handkerchief.
No one at Shalimar understood her. Dittoo had refused to speak to her since she had told him the truth of her plan. Ghulam Ali had vanished without a word, back to his employment at the Shaikh's house, presumably too disgusted to say good-bye.
“Do not take your temper out on me, Mariana,” returned her aunt. “If you must sit and scowl, then sit on a horse and scowl at the natives.”
“Yes, go on, Mariana,” agreed her uncle. “It is a nice, bright day. A ride will do you good.”
Ten minutes later, Mariana approached her tent cautiously, on the lookout for Dittoo, but found him gone. Saboor's bedding was gone. His small trunk of clothes and the little bullock cart with real wheels, carved for him by Ghulam Ali, were both missing, confiscated, presumably, by Dittoo. Mariana's tent, for all its pleasant furnishings, looked comfortless and bare.
What was Saboor doing now? Did he miss her? Had he gone easily to sleep last night without her songs and nonsense rhymes? She must see him again. Otherwise, the cruel abruptness of this ending would poison the rest of her life.
Fighting tears, she struggled into her riding habit and top hat. When Dittoo still did not appear, she shouted, her voice breaking, for the sweeper to go and call for a horse and groom.
How would she bear it if Aunt Claire forbade her to go to Qamar Haveli? What would happen if Sher Singh attacked the city before she was able to get to the Shaikh's house?
She raised her chin. She must not entertain such thoughts. Surely Aunt Claire would give in under pressure from Uncle Adrian and the Vulture, and allow her to return to the walled city. Surely Sher Singh would not appear with his army before that decision had been taken….
She opened her door blind and nodded to the frail young groom who had brought her mare. One thing was certain. If she were allowed to return to Qamar Haveli, she would stay there more than one or two days. In fact, she would remain in the walled city as long as she possibly could.
As she rode toward the garden's main entrance, she saw the Vulture sitting outside his tent, deep in conversation with two coarsely turbaned men who squatted on the ground by his chair, long-barreled jezails slung across their backs. A heavily loaded camel knelt nearby. The men looked like tribesmen of some kind, Afghans perhaps. The Vulture glanced up from his visitors and offered her a conspiratorial nod. Ignored by the tribesmen, she replied with a solemn little nod of her own.
Without his support she would never go back to Qamar Haveli. It seemed the least she could do.
If God willed, she would leave for Qamar Haveli the next morning. An hour after that, she would again hold Saboor in her arms
The road west of Shalimar was quiet. A herd of bleating goats, a file of women with baskets on their heads, and a group of mounted soldiers wearing chain mail vests over their ordinary clothes were all the traffic Mariana saw as she followed the old road past a deserted walled garden and several small mud villages. A well creaked in the distance, powered by a pair of oxen. The air smelled of dust and dung fires.
An interesting-looking ruin, a house perhaps, or a tomb, lay a quarter of a mile off, between two large stands of thorn trees. Intrigued, Mariana rode toward it, but before she had reached its outer wall the sound of hoofbeats and shouting arose behind her.
A runaway horse galloped toward her across a stretch of open ground, its rider swaying dangerously on its back. Far behind, two men, presumably the horse's grooms, pelted along on foot, losing ground with every step. Such a large cloud of dust enveloped the runaway animal that it took Mariana a moment to realize that the horse was Ali Baba and his imperiled rider was Lady Macnaghten.
He seemed to be coming straight for Mariana. Intending to get out of the way, she kicked her own mount, but before her horse had time to move, Ali Baba had thundered past, foaming at the mouth, too close for safety. An instant later, he was gone, with Lady Macnaghten flopping blindly on his back, her top hat fallen over her eyes, the reins lost, her arms about his neck.
The grooms were too far behind to be of any use. Mariana kicked her mare again and gave chase.
Her own mount would be no match, even for a tiring Ali Baba. Mariana urged the mare to a gallop, but before she had time to despair of catching the Arab, he changed direction and careened toward a mud village whose entire population seemed to have emerged from inside to watch the show. A hundred yards from its walls Ali Baba halted abruptly and stood still, his head hanging, as if he wanted someone to tell him what to do next.
This last was too much for his tottering passenger. As he came to a stop, Lady Macnaghten toppled slowly to the ground and lay un-moving in a heap of expensive gray worsted.
The villagers and Mariana all arrived simultaneously upon the scene. She glanced behind her, to see Lady Macnaghten's two grooms sloping toward them, in no hurry, it seemed, to learn the outcome of this disaster.
Without being asked, a square, barefooted man took hold of Ali Baba's bridle and led him a little way off, while the others gathered in a silent circle about Lady Macnaghten, their brown faces intent.
Lady Macnaghten stirred, rose painfully to her feet and took in the villagers standing shoulder to shoulder around her.
“My horse!” she cried out in English. “Where is my horse?”
She did not see Mariana dismount and hand the mare's reins to a second bystander. “Make way,” Mariana ordered quietly.
The crowd parted obligingly, revealing Lady Macnaghten dancing with rage and fright in its center.
“I'll have you all hanged,” she shouted, still in English, her face contorted. “Hanged, I say! I'll teach you to steal an Englishwoman's horse!”
At the sight of Mariana, she blinked as if she had seen a mirage.
“The villagers mean you no harm,” Mariana offered, as she bent to rescue Lady Macnaghten's sadly dented top hat. “They are only curious. Ali Baba is here,” she added, taking Lady Macnaghten's arm. “He seems quiet enough now, but I think you should get onto my mare. I shall ride Ali Baba back to Shalimar.”
Lady Macnaghten's grooms arrived and helped her onto Mariana's mare, where she sat shakily, kneading her right arm. Still holding the crushed top hat, Mariana climbed onto the drooping, sweat-covered Ali Baba and clucked encouragingly. Without another word they set off at a walk for the camp.
The road in front of them was quiet. A bullock cart creaked along, piled high with straw. The armed soldiers rode past again, this time going the other way, guarding a quick-moving donkey cart in which two bareheaded prisoners, their arms tied behind their backs, struggled to keep their balance. A man followed them on foot, leading a loaded camel.
Mariana pointed to a stand of trees. “Shall we stop there?” she asked politely, not certain how to treat this new, weakened version of Lady Macnaghten. “We can get off some of the dust.”
“It was a cobra,” Lady Macnaghten offered a little querulously, when they reached the trees. “I had expected to go for only a short ride, but when we passed some thorn trees, it reared up unexpectedly. Ali Baba saw it first. He bolted before I even took in what it was.”