Journey to Ithaca

by Anita Desai

  ‘Your turn has come,’ she said.

  After the rehearsal Laila was in her room, removing the jewellery, carefully unpinning and unfastening it, when Chandra came in, dishevelled from the dance, and said, ‘Vijaya wants you.’ In answer to Laila’s questioning look, she tossed her head in the direction of the older woman’s room. Laila took up the jewellery, thinking that was what was wanted, and went in.

  Both the women were seated on the bed, wrapped in their shawls. They were looking down at their laps and did not glance at Laila when she entered. It seemed that they had called her to look upon their bitterness and hostility: these were posed and presented as in a tableau.

  Laila was still breathing heavily from her dancing. She was also heated from it in a way that made her bold. She thrust out the jewellery at them, returning it.

  But that was not what was wanted from her. Vijaya gave her a look and said with both authority and bitterness, ‘You think you are Indian dancer now. No. Indian dancer must practise from childhood. Must have training. Must know our language, understand our music. Not everybody can be Indian dancer.’

  Laila stood with her hands placed to one side of her waist, listening intently in order to catch all the nuances buried in those few harshly spoken words. She heard the resentment and the jealousy as well as the hate. She stood with her eyes lowered but her toe traced a fanciful pattern on the floor. As if to herself, in a low voice, she said, ‘Krishna-ji himself has trained me.’

  ‘Trained you! In just one, two months you can be trained?’ Vijaya laughed derisively. ‘We – Sonali and myself – we have trained for twenty, thirty years –’

  Mischievously, Laila glanced up at them, not quite suppressing a smile. It was clear what she thought of their age.

  Infuriated, the woman cried, ‘And you think you are ready to perform?’ Laila nodded, smiling openly now. ‘And he is taking you to America also?’

  Laila nodded. She could not have known how enormous her eyes were within their painted outlines, and how brilliant.

  ‘He asked you?’ the old woman pursued.

  Laila nodded again, still more affirmatively, even proudly.

  That made the old woman explode. Suddenly she spat out the words, ‘Go home. Go back home.’

  Laila was so startled that she gave a gasp that became a laugh. Looking at the old woman from whose mouth spit had sprayed and was now hanging on her lips, and whose eyes were as if they had been smudged with coal, and whose teeth were old and discoloured, and on whose head the hairs were thin and few so that bare patches showed, Laila could not refrain from laughing. Jealousy from such as her? ‘No,’ she said very clearly, ‘I will go with Krishna-ji,’ and turned around to leave them, shaking a bit with her own bravado, and cruelty.

  Krishna declared he had choreographed a solo dance for Laila. It was called The Peacock. He urged Signora Durante to design the costume. When Laila hesitated, fluttering, murmuring that she had never seen a peacock, he gazed upon her with the radiance of his love, assuring her, ‘The bird is beautiful, as beautiful as you, rani.’ He called her rani, queen.

  The tale that he had invented was that a raja’s favourite dancing girl was cursed by his wife and doomed to dwell in the body of a peacock. ‘The peacock is always calling, “Peeo, Peeo,” – beloved, beloved,’ he explained to Laila, and taught her the Hindi word for a peacock – mohr.

  The Signora, rushing all over Venice for the components, designed a costume for her made up of a headdress of plumes, a brief bodice of gold brocade, and a skirt of green lamé with a jewelled train. ‘It is not bright enough,’ he complained, and swore he would have an aquamarine spotlight trained on her when she danced, and he himself searched through all the jewellers’ shops in Venice for stones that would glitter in such lighting.

  Having helped her into the splendid costume, the Signora clasped her hands on seeing the effect. ‘An Indian peacock in Venice!’ she exclaimed, awed by the strange combination that had come about in the floating city and in which they, all three, had taken part. Surely that had some meaning?

  She ordered a gondola to take them down the Grand Canal. Gianni himself handed her in, smiling a small tight smile that gave her a pang and made her squeeze his hand in appeal before lowering herself onto the seat. He stood aside as Krishna followed her into the gondola. Krishna was heavy, unused to boats or water, and it dipped and rocked under him. The gondolier whistled sharply, sprang about to set the balance right, then plunged his pole into the glassy depths of the water and the boat shot forwards, with Gianni standing on the stone steps to watch it go.

  When he turned and went back into the courtyard, he saw Laila whirling around in the doorway and vanishing up the stairs – she was the only one of the dancers who was so slim and moved so swiftly. ‘You think I would follow?’ he snarled, and went into the kitchen to start work on the dinner. For some reason, the troupe had not taken it over as they had been doing in recent weeks, insisting on cooking their own meals, complaining they could not eat what he had prepared, they could not be sure it was not tainted by meat. He had been furious to begin with – at their insinuation that he was unclean, as well as the sight of his kitchen turned upside down and spattered with oil and spices which to him stank rankly. But the Signora had soothed him and placated him – her gifts so lavish, her generosity so great – he had retreated sulkily to the pantry to make himself the meals he liked, pacified by the thought she would share his meals, not theirs, as much as by her gifts. Today he found the vast kitchen empty – they had all disappeared into their rooms as if making a space for Krishna and the Signora to have their idyll together.

  For the Signora the dream had been to be seated beside her Krishna in a gondola that glided out of the shadows of the narrow canals between tall houses into the sunlit Grand Canal where the water turned to an opaque jade, a colour fresh and young, with herself and Krishna reclining on black and scarlet cushions while she feasted her eyes upon his golden skin and undulant black hair and the hugely enlarged and elongated eyes that shifted with such subtlety. Krishna’s delight lay openly in the scene itself: after a cursory smile thrown at her sideways, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of lying back upon the cushions and smiling past the gondolier who bent and twisted at the waist, threw up his arms and manoeuvred the pole with a wonderful athleticism and theatricality. In the background, the palazzi slipped by, a little sombre when in the shadows but in the sunlight transformed into fantasies of gold and rose and ivory that the reflections of the water stroked and set to rippling and trembling like silk tapestries. Then there were all the other gondole out in the spring sunshine, and the passengers who celebrated the beginning of summer. Krishna turned to watch a young couple, pale with intensity, locked together on the seat of a boat under the benign guardianship of the gondolier obligingly singing a Verdi aria. His smile and look made them start and tremble as if a god had passed and blessed them. Then there was the old Contessa Daniella whom all Venice knew, taken out in her shawls and capes and hats and scarves like a doll lifted out of its box in the attic for an airing; Krishna waved to her blithely and saw her, too, start and then respond with a smile that displayed her ageing features altering miraculously to their earliest youth.

  Timidly, the Signora tapped him on his knee. ‘Krishna,’ she said, reminding him of her presence, ‘you are so well known in Venice!’ As if to corroborate her words, voices rang out from yet another gondola speeding by on its way to the Lido, crying ‘Krishna! Krishna!’ in youthfully ringing voices.

  ‘Ah, the Mazzinis and their friends from Rome,’ he acknowledged, graciously waving. ‘So friendly! They love me,’ he added, settling the silk folds of his shawl about him complacently.

  ‘They do,’ she sighed and looked down at her feet in their sandals beside his. ‘You could stay here, in Venice, my Krishna, and dine out every night.’

  He threw back his head, for a moment glancing up to see a gull swoop low over the waves, but then craning around to see who it was that
fluttered a piece of pink and purple silk in a gondola quickly slipping by. Thinking he knew the owner, he waved, and said carelessly to the Signora, ‘True, true. But that is not the life of a dancer, Gabriella. For these ballet dancers you have here, maybe – drinking and parties and all that. But in India, you know, dance is worship, it belongs to the temple . . .’

  At another time he might have gone on, inspired by his lofty vision. She had often heard him on the subject: devotion to the gods, discipline, respect for the guru, the waking before dawn, the long hours of exercise, the fatigue, exhaustion, dedication, bliss . . . but today his mind was not on it. Venice caught at it, distracted him, and the day was exquisite, so exquisite.

  The Signora, suddenly remembering a line from somewhere in her Austrian heritage, blurted out: ‘Verweile doch, du bist so schön!’

  ‘Hmm?’ he enquired, but immediately turned away from her to yet another gorgeous aspect floating by.

  She recalled herself. Settling the folds of her silk dress – she had put it on especially for this outing, a new one of taupe silk, soft as moleskin, and stamped all over with gold triangles, knowing how fond Krishna was of the colour gold – she could not keep the pleading out of her voice as she spoke the rehearsed words: ‘Then why not stay, my Krishna? Why not make Venice the base for your company? You have friends here, and I –’

  He seemed scarcely to stop scanning the lively scene for a moment – they were out in the open water before the Salute now, steamships loomed, barges floated, making everything tilt and rock. ‘No, no,’ he said quite impatiently, brushing aside the suggestion. ‘It is time for the tour now. We must begin.’

  ‘Why, Krishna? You know Italy will once again be the home of music and dance. The War is over, it will prosper again –’

  But he seemed uninterested in her arguments.

  Perhaps it was the sight of a steamship, all white and gleaming with brass and paint, its passengers lined up on the top deck, looking out on the city they were leaving, crying out their farewells, that made Krishna brush aside the suggestion of staying on, and say, ‘Ah, but think of America, they had no war there at all and Mrs du Best will arrange our tour. We will visit New York, Chicago, San Francisco –’

  It was true what he said – America had not suffered as Europe had, and there were riches to be won that she could not provide. Still she said, miserably, ‘I don’t know.’

  He gave her a strangely cold look before glancing away. ‘I told you we would leave as soon as we finished rehearsing and Mrs du Best sent for us.’

  ‘And have you? And has she?’

  But the gondola was turning around now in an arc, against the pressure of the waves and the turbulence created by the water traffic at San Marco, and Krishna’s face was turned to the new scene, all its rushing, fluid lights and changes. He was not going to pay attention to tiresome details now.

  They were making their way back to the Grand Canal and were once more in the shadow of the palazzi. They would soon be at the Casa Rosa again, her time with him would be over. Signora Durante doubled over as if in pain. ‘And the little one,’ she asked, ‘that little Laila, you are taking her?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘She will be the leading dancer on this tour.’

  ‘Ahh!’ the Signora cried out. ‘And Sonali? What will Sonali –’

  ‘Sonali is returning to India.’

  ‘To India?’ the Signora repeated. She had known Sonali for so long now – in Paris, Rome, Lausanne – aware that Sonali did not care for her, but accepting the long acquaintance. ‘So,’ she said sombrely, and then something quite unrehearsed, something she knew she ought not to say: ‘Why not take me with you, my Krishna? You know, I can – can help, I can do things for you –’

  ‘No, no,’ he said at once, smoothly, giving her a small smile that was the merest movement of his lip muscles. ‘Not in America. What can you do for me in America? Mrs du Best will take care of us there, don’t worry.’ His eyes travelled down to her dress, and as the gondola bumped against the stone steps of the Casa Rosa, he said, ‘Why grey, Gabriella? Why not pink, red, orange – the colours of the sun? The colours of India? You know, I do not like this grey.’

  Laila, slipping into the kitchen as she grew hungry, and finding Gianni there alone, was just giving him the same information that Krishna had given the Signora.

  The soup was simmering in a pot, making his face glisten. ‘You are eating all the peas raw,’ he accused her. ‘They are meant for the soup. But you will be gone soon, eh?’

  She laughed, tossing peas into her mouth, and nodded.

  ‘America? All of you?’ he shook his head, marvelling: America; he would not mind that himself. He had heard of its glories: jazz, black musicians, the foxtrot, the Charleston . . . while over here the people seemed unable to shake off their experience of war and their fears. Some said Mussolini would surely put all in order again, was already undertaking great reforms, but others spoke of the reprisals and atrocities carried out by his blackshirts. Anyone who doubted or dissented simply disappeared, or so it was said. And it was true, his friend Dino had fled over the border to France rather than to submit to their rule, and now lived in exile. Exile would not be so bad if only he could find himself another patron. He brooded, watching Laila, who seemed to have no such worries.

  She, munching peas meanwhile, was saying, ‘No, not all. Madame Sonali, she is going back to India.’

  ‘Eh?’ Gianni turned to her again. ‘That one?’ He imitated the wooden-faced one whose jaws worked perpetually on a small hard nut she fished out of a pouch.

  Laila laughed. ‘Yes. She is too old.’

  ‘Heh, too old for what?’ Gianni exploded. ‘Eh, for what?’

  ‘For dancing,’ Laila replied coolly, opening her eyes very wide as she stared back at him. ‘A dancer must be – young.’

  ‘And when they get old – then?’

  ‘Then,’ she shrugged, ‘retire.’

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘the old retire, eh?’ He looked at her perching on the edge of the table, scraping peas out of the pods, quite composed. ‘Good news for the young, eh? But not so good for the old, no.’

  Laila shrugged. ‘Have you bread?’ she asked. ‘I will not eat that.’ She wrinkled her nose at the rich soup bubbling.

  He seized a loaf, broke off a piece and tossed it at her. ‘For the Principessa Laila,’ he mocked.

  Then the bell at the great door in the courtyard rang and they both leapt to their feet.

  Now that the word had gone out about their readiness to leave, the Signora’s efforts as their hostess and benefactress reached their peak. She could not do enough for them. She had been placed in charge of getting the costumes ready long ago, along with Vijaya and Sonali, and she rushed about to tailors and seamstresses, buying materials, having models copied, going back tirelessly to see if they were done and the least mistake corrected. In addition she helped her guests with little attentions – getting their trunks mended, buying them medicines for possible aches or colds, choosing gifts for each, urging Gianni to bake cakes and ice pastries to please them, light more candles at table, play music while they ate – as if she wished to pour upon them every last drop of her hospitality and generosity. Yet her face was drawn, her hair straggled, her eyes watered, and she seemed never to have time to change her silk pyjamas or brush her hair or even find a camellia to pin to her blouse any more.

  Then – a final, extravagant gesture – she threw a party for them. ‘So Venice can bid you buon viaggio!’ she declared expansively, and did not add what else was on her mind: that it was a farewell to the past, to the Italy they knew, which she felt would never be the same again.

  Gianni dressed in black dancer’s tights and one of Signora Durante’s shawls, a piece of orange silk with gold thread woven through it, tied about his middle in a great bow, as if he were a parcel, or a gift. In that festive costume, he received the guests who stepped out of their gondole onto the waterlogged steps and led them into the courty
ard that he had lit earlier that evening with torches. These flared in the dusk, driving away the stars, and lit up his gold and orange trimmings. He glittered with welcome and led them up the stairs at the top of which the Signora stood in a purple Fortuny gown that she had inherited from her mother and the sapphires that had been her mother-in-law’s, and her face was tinted pink with powder so that on that day it bloomed again like a rose or a camellia.

  Under the great bronze chandelier in the salon Krishna stood in his finest white silk dhoti, wrapped in a shawl of Pashmina wool from Kashmir, and on his feet were pointed gold slippers with curling ends. He stood with his arms folded, bronzed and statuesque, and when the dowagers came to him, crying out, ‘Oh, you are not leaving Venice? Gabriella says you will go to America but please say it is not true,’ he smiled at them with the triumph of one who knows he will be missed but has no intention of changing his plans to suit them.

  The dancers and musicians of the troupe played a different role. Seizing the platters of hors d’oeuvres, they circulated amongst the guests and offered them, although Gianni, now stripped of his butterfly bow and wearing a chefs hat instead, gnashed his teeth and cried, ‘They will drop them, my little canapés. Why can they not leave them on the table where I arranged them around the pineapples and grapes? That was my design!’ The Signora murmured, ‘Ah, what does it matter, my Gianni, when it makes them look so beautiful? See Signora Celli take one from Shanta – how pretty!’

  ‘Now she has spilt her champagne, poor thing, over her saffron gown,’ Gianni pointed out.

  ‘Never mind, never mind,’ cried the Signora, darting up to the scene of the mishap with a napkin extended. ‘Oh, Magdalena, Magdalena, your dress! Come, let me wash it out for you –’

  The good-tempered Signora Celli merely patted the hand that held out the napkin. Her mouth was full of crumbs and through them she murmured, ‘Lovely, lovely, Gabriella. How splendid he looks, like an Oriental prince. I see him pass on his way down the Canalezzo in a gondola, a wonderful shawl thrown about his shoulders, lounging there on the cushions like a Prince de l’Inde. Yes, a Prince de l’Inde!’