by John Speed
"Must you stare?" Lucinda said.
"I have been thinking," Maya said. "Yesterday, we talked about being a slave."
The memory of that conversation made Lucinda feel cold. "Let us speak of something else," Lucinda said.
"Indulge me for a moment."
Lucinda closed her eyes, steeling herself for another insult. Maya seemed to find it difficult to speak, and when she did at last her voice sounded distant and sad. "I was rude. I hurt you under the guise of speaking truth. Maybe I spoke cleverly, but I did not speak truthfully, for truth does not injure." Lucinda's face softened at the unexpected words. "A month ago I danced for the gods; now I am a slave. My thoughts tangle like wet string. My mind is such a tumult that I scarcely know what next I'll say."
Lucinda grew very still and considered Maya's vacant face. At last she said, "I understand."
"Do you? Maybe you do. In any case, I of all persons should be capable of controlling my words."
"I forgive you," Lucinda answered.
Maya nodded, but when she looked up again, her face had an amused superior look. "Christians like to forgive, I think. This is what your god teaches you, yes?"
"It is a blessing to forgive. Don't Hindis forgive?"
"We apologize, of course, and accept apologies," Maya said. "Maybe it's not the same as Christians. The Gita teaches only by placing all our actions, good and bad, at the feet of the Lord can we hope to escape the neverending web of pain we feel and cause." She looked expectantly, but Lucinda did not know how to answer. "No, I see it is not the same," Maya said at last, and without another word returned to her book.
Lucinda framed a half-dozen replies, but all were in Portuguese. Apparently courtesy and polite conversation counted for little to a whore. She began to long for the prattle of Slipper, odd as the eunuch was. He at least seemed to share some sense of etiquette. But at that moment the eunuch stirred in his sleep and gave a long, trumpeting fart.
Maya rolled her eyes and threw open the curtain. "How typical of a hijra!"
"Well, he can't help it!" Lucinda's voice was harsh, and she realized that she was still disturbed by Maya's halfhearted apology.
"What can't he help?" Maya seemed ready for an argument.
"He can't help being a eunuch."
The fat of Slipper's cheeks spilled toward his pillow, so his face looked awkward and unbalanced. He breathed through his mouth like a child, and a dab of drool glistened at his lips. Maya shook her head. "No, I suppose he can't help that, can he?" She frowned and leaned back in her cushions.
What an impertinent woman, Lucinda thought. She ignores me for hours, but expects me to drop everything and talk with her whenever she wants. She opened her curtain.
The sky was clear blue, and the sun high and bright enough to cast dark, clear shadows. Black monsoon clouds hung in the far distance; someplace, probably, the monsoon rains still fell, but here the season was ending. Their road had been cut into the stone face of a long, eloping mountain. To the left the hillside inclined toward a broad river valley. Sunlight sparkled on the river's surface. Everywhere spread a carpet of vegetation in a thousand shades of green.
A moan interrupted her reverie. Lucinda turned to find Slipper sitting up. He made a few feeble attempts to retie his turban. "I'm so thirsty," he said to no one in particular.
The water pitcher was right beside Maya, but she did not move. Finally Lucinda leaned over to fetch him a cup, which he drained in a gasping gulp. He turned to Lucinda, but didn't thank her. "Can't you feel that the howdah sways differently now?" he said. "The elephant strains with each step."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Oh yes," he answered brightly. "We've been going uphill for the better part of an hour."
"I thought you were supposed to be asleep," Maya said without looking up.
Slipper ignored her. He sat with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. "I should never drink, never. Oh, I am a fool."
"You very much impressed me, Slipper." The eunuch looked up at Lucinda. "It took some courage to apologize as you did. I was touched."
"Oh, that," Slipper said, with a wave of his hand. "Mere playacting, I assure you. As if I would ever apologize to such a one as that. Neither Christian nor Hindi! He is the true hijra! And I should apologize to him? Let him apologize to me!"
"But I heard you!" Lucinda protested.
"Captain Pathan suggested it. He said that my behavior had made Deoga lose face. He was right, of course. So I made the drama. Did you like it?" He selected a piece of fruit-one of those same brown fruits that Lucinda had refused-and sucked noisily on its soft flesh through a hole he poked in its skin. He was starting to feel better, which meant, to Slipper, that it was time once more for pleasant conversation. He was good at this. In little time Lucinda had forgotten her irritation and had started chatting amiably once more.
She became aware of that he was leading the conversation somewhere. His direction was subtle but persistent. A dozen roundabout questions of Lucinda's clothing; about her shoes of brocade silk; about the lace that frilled her bodice.
Suddenly Lucinda understood. "You want to know about my corset, don't you?"
"One has so little opportunity to explore the question," Slipper replied, blushing.
"You needn't be embarrassed." She had learned that corsets were a source of endless fascination to most Hindis, but she had expected it would be Maya who asked her, not a man.
Lucinda explained the garment in some detail, to Slipper's obvious delight: how the linen tube laced front and back, ringed with channels round its length. "Some have their stays sewn in permanently, but in the one I'm wearing, the stays can be removed. Silvia and I removed half the stays this morning, for we couldn't manage to tighten it like my maid, Helene."
"Are they really made of bone?" Slipper asked.
"A sort of bone, from a great fish common near my homeland."
"I am an educated man. I know about whales," Slipper said, looking peeved.
"I am sure you do, senhor, but I regretfully forgot the Hindi word." Lucinda was pleased to see that Slipper at last looked a little embarrassed. "Some of the ladies of Goa use stays of twisted broomstraw, for they are both cooler and cheaper, but Helene insists that I wear whalebone."
"But doesn't it hurt when you breathe?" Slipper asked.
"It's quite comfortable; in fact. I feel strange without it."
"It presses you tightly . . ." Slipper seemed about to say more, but then delicacy overcame him. Lucinda lifted her arms to show the flatness of her bosom and the narrowness of her waist, the smallness emphasized by the fullness of her skirts.
"And your men? Is that the shape that they desire?" Slipper asked.
"I assume it must be. I doubt if anyone has ever asked them."
Slipper closed his eyes, as if trying to envision the garment Lucinda described. "Someday you must let me undress you, madam," he said at last.
This comment caused Lucinda to stop short. She'd gotten used to thinking of Slipper as a man-a strange man to be sure, beardless and ball-shaped, with a voice like a boy's. It occurred to her that Slipper did not think of himself so. Why hadn't she recognized earlier how much he acted like a woman, she thought. It's all so obvious: how he fusses over the curtains and the cushions, how he whines about the journey as though he were a hapless, helpless victim, how he lives for conversation, or more to the point, for gossip. Now his request to undress her-what man would say such a thing?
Not long after, the caravan stopped so the Muslims might pray. Slipper made a show of getting down from the howdah, demanding that the ladder be brought even though the mahout told him the elephant could lower him. "I've seen you riding on the trunk, sir. That is for mahouts and little boys, not for a mukhunni of the first rank."
With much puffing, he worked his way down the ladder, and after the mahout too had joined the prayer, Maya came over to Lucinda. Now she wants to talk, Lucinda thought bitterly, so I suppose I, of course, must listen.
Ma
ya glanced toward the clutch of men facing west toward Mecca, and sighed to Lucinda. "I wanted to speak with you alone., away from the presence of my captor."
Lucinda blinked. "Your servant, you mean? I thought you were his mistress."
"That monstrosity? He is my jailer, nothing less. I wanted to warn you. Do not trust him. He is wicked and treacherous. Hear me: do not trust him."
Lucinda frowned as though amused. "But he's such a silly ... so eager to please."
"So he tries to appear. But you must ask yourself-who is it that he seeks to please? I assure you, it is not me, and much less is it you."
Lucinda blinked, uncertain. "But to call him a monstrosity ..."
"Those like him, they are not persons anymore. You heard how we Hindis keep them apart.... Their souls are broken with their bodies. They cease to act like men."
Lucinda shook her head. "Your words are too harsh."
"My thoughts were gentle, not so long ago. I no longer have that luxury." Maya leaned forward, glancing round her. "You know about the Brotherhood?"
"Well, I've heard of it," Lucinda answered, looking doubtful.
"What you've heard is true, and more besides. Beware."
But at that moment a rustle of the curtains and the sound of huffing made it clear that Slipper had returned.
"Sharing secrets?" the eunuch asked when he regained his breath.
Before either could answer, however, Geraldo's face appeared at the curtains of the howdah. "How are you ladies faring?" He cast a long appraising look at Maya.
"Geraldo, hurry up," came Da Gama's voice in Portuguese. After hours of Hindi, the language sounded like music to Lucinda.
"I'll just ride here with my cousin for a while, if I might, Captain," Geraldo answered lightly. He winked at Lucinda.
"All right," Da Gama said, "ride there until we get to the dharmsala. I'll lead your horse." They could hear Da Gama cursing softly as he rode off, and the sound of the silver ladder being stowed.
"This seems a pleasant place to ride," Geraldo said in his flawless Hindi.
"How have you two learned to speak our language so well?" Slipper asked while they waited.
"My cousin, I think, speaks much better than I," Geraldo said. Lucinda pretended to hide her face and they all laughed. "My father's second wife, my stepmother, was a Christian Hindi woman. She was beautiful, but she spoke not a word of Portuguese, and my father spoke no Hindi. I was young then, and much more agreeable; so I learned Hindi at her very attractive knees. Of course, for the rest of my father's life, I had to translate for them both: arguments, love talk, everything."
"Your stepmother still lives?" Slipper asked politely. But Geraldo only shrugged as if the question were meaningless. "Well, what about you, madam?" the eunuch asked Lucinda, quickly changing the subject.
The howdah lurched as the caravan began to move, and everyone but Geraldo grabbed for something as the floor jostl°d into its rocking rhythm. Geraldo, who'd spent much time at sea, sat upright easily, smiling at the discomfort of the others.
"My mother died young," Lucinda said. "My father always hired Hindi governesses, and I must confess I won their affection by learning their language. But this knowledge has come in handy, as you see."
"All of us, orphans," Slipper remarked softly.
"So, does everyone know about where we're headed?" Geraldo asked amiably.
"Bijapur!" Slipper answered, like an eager pupil.
Geraldo laughed and Lucinda saw him steal another a glance at Maya. "I meant our route today.... We've been heading east, over the coastal plain. We're a few miles from a high mountain range called the Western Ghats. You probably saw the mountains in the distance yesterday."
"Do the mountains look like steps, sir?" Slipper asked-for "ghat" also meant stairway.
"Alas, senhor, if only the mountains were shaped like steps, our journey would be easier. Bijapur lies in the middle of a wide plateau-very much hotter than this part of Hindustan. To reach the city, we must climb those Ghats. But they are not steps; the roads are steep and treacherous. See how much slower we're travelling today than yesterday."
In truth none of them had noticed ... the road looked much the same as ever, though the hillside had grown much steeper of late. "There's an especially difficult road ahead, through a narrow pass. But Deoga says we will stay at a dharmsala tonight and face the pass tomorrow."
Slipper pursed his lips. "A dharmsala." His tone was disappointed.
"Why do you call him Deoga?" Lucinda whispered in Portuguese.
"It is what the Hindis call him; I don't know why. I've just picked it up in talking with them." Geraldo's teeth showed benea-:h his well-trimmed mustache. "This is the first I've spoken in Portuguese all day."
"Yes." Lucinda sighed, feeling the tension fade from her shoulders. "Speaking Hindi constantly is quite exhausting. It's a pleasure to talk with you.
"And with you, Lucy," Geraldo said. His eyes bored into hers and she turned away, wondering if she were blushing.
"What are you talking about?" Slipper demanded in Hindi.
By late afternoon, the caravan reached the dharmsala. Unlike inns, dharmasalas were provided by the government, free of charge. The dharmsalas of Bijapur were famous for their austerities, yet merchants travelling with goods preferred them to inns because of their safety. The gates were locked at night, and only opened in the morning after the guests had checked their possessions. Anyone found with someone else's goods would be arrested or even killed on the spot.
Da Gama and Pathan quickly got the caravan settled: the horses were stabled, women safely stowed in the plain guest houses, food cooked, dinner served.
The master of the dharmsala was just about to lock the gates when two well-armed horsemen rode up. After a little discussion and a little baksheesh, the master fetched Pathan. "Bring your purse, Deoga," Pathan said, and the two of them went to meet the riders.
Pathan hung back, letting Da Gama make the arrangements. Da Gama considered the faces of the riders, their rings and earrings, their richly liveried stallions, their shining weapons. "Can I trust you to guarantee our safe passage?"
The bandit with a dark scar across his flat nose had been doing most of the negotiating. His hand curled around the emerald-covered handle of his dagger. "The courtesy of the Three-Dot clan is well known. Some small token of your respect, that is only fitting. Do you think we have no honor?"
It took a quarter of an hour to haggle the precise size of that small token of respect.
"Ask for proof," Pathan whispered when a price had been set. The riders glanced at each other, and then the one with the scarred nose peeled back his sleeve and showed Da Gama three black dots tattooed in the crease of his elbow.
"What do you think?" Da Gama asked Pathan, who simply shrugged. At last, Da Gama counted out a pile of golden rials.
"Have a pleasant journey," the rider told him, rolling down his sleeve.
"You're not accompanying us?"
"Do we look like guards?" The rider snorted. "You'll be safe enough. We'll be watching."
"But you won't see us," his companion said. Without a bow, without another word, the riders wheeled their horses and rode off.
"Now do you see why I wanted to have our own guards, Deoga?"
Da Gama looked helplessly at Pathan. "Shall I tell you why we hired no guards? Dasana couldn't afford them. He gave me barely enough to cover this bribe. If it weren't for my family obligation to my cousins I should never have taken this job." Da Gama stalked off, leaving Patr.an staring speechless.
Finally the dharmsala master came and waved them both inside before he locked the gate. The sun set and the moon glowed behind great silver clouds.
"Tonight you sleep like a Hindi," Maya said as she and Lucinda looked at the small dharmsala room they were to share. Two quilted bedmats had been tucked into opposite corners of the room. "Hive you slept on the floor before?"
Does she mock me? Lucinda wondered. "This will be my first time."
<
br /> "So many first times. So many new experiences for both of us," Maya said, moving toward one of the mats without looking at Lucinda.
I wonder if I make her as uncomfortable as she makes me, Lucinda thought. She struggled with the brass latch of her large, leather-bound trunk. With a final grunt, the latch opened, the sound echoing like a gunshot from the high whitewashed walls. Maya meanwhile spread on her bedmat her few possessions from the cloth shoulder bag she carried. Lucinda compared them to the piles of clothing and linens heaping from her trunk. "I envy you, Maya," she said quietly.
"Do you?" Maya replied, just as softly, without looking up. She pulled a pair of roughly finished wooden boxes from her bag.
"What are those?" But Maya hid them underneath the quilted cotton coverlet without a word. "Aren't we friends?" Lucinda demanded.
"You are the daughter of my owner," Maya answered without looking up.
Lucinda looked up, shocked. "No, I'm not!"
"You deny it? It is your father who bought me!"
"My father's dead!" Lucinda sighed. "Who told you this?" The look in Maya's flashing eyes told Lucinda everything. "Slipper. . ." she said.
Maya muttered something under her breath. "Look, if you want," she said, pushing the wooden boxes toward Lucinda. Inside the smaller box was a cloth bag. Out of it spilled a sort of golden net, strung with beads. Lucinda held it up, spreading her hands. "A headdress?" Maya nodded. "How pretty. And so heavy!" The beads caught the flickering lamplight; some clear glass, others white.
"The person who gave it to me said it belonged to my mother."
"Ahcha," Lucinda said, gently setting it back. "And this?" Lucinda started to open the long box.
"My father's, that person said. Who knows? I like to think so, any„ way.
As Lucinda lifted the wooden cover, she saw a broken sword. "This is a farang blade."