"The book also tells of the bodies of women. Foolish men often do not
know these things, my love, but I think you are beginning to learn. It
tells that in the upper cleft of the _yoni _there's a small organ it
likens to a plantain-shoot sprouting from the ground. This is the seat
of pleasure in a woman, and when it is excited, her_ kama salila _flows
in profusion."
"And then?"
"When the woman is ready, you may both enjoy the act of union to its
fullest. And there are many, many ways this may be done. The book tells
of thirty-two. It is the great wisdom of Kalyana Mai that a woman must
have variety in her love couch. If she does not find this with one man,
she will seek others. It is the same with men, I think."
Hawksworth nodded noncommittally, not wishing to appear overly
enthusiastic.
"Finally, he tells the importance of a woman reaching her moment of
enjoyment. If she does not, she will be unsatisfied and may seek
pleasure elsewhere. In India, a woman is taught to signify this moment
by the _sitkrita_, the drawing in of breath between the closed teeth.
There are many different ways a woman may do this, but you will know,
my love."
"Enough of the book." He took it and replaced it in the box. "Somehow I
think I've already had a lot of its lessons."
"That was merely my duty to you. To be a new woman for you each night.
And I think you've learned well." She took the box and settled it
beside the couch. Then she laughed lightly. "But you still have a few
things to learn. Tonight, for our last time together, I will show you
the most erotic embrace I know." She examined him with her half-closed
eyes, and drew one last burst of smoke from the hookah. Then she
carefully positioned the large velvet bolster in the center of the
couch. "Are you capable of it?"
"Try me."
"Very well. But I must be deeply aroused to enjoy this fully. Come and
let me show you all the places you must bite."
The sun was directly overhead when Vasant Rao reined his iron-gray
stallion to a halt at the Abidjan Gate. Behind him, beyond the grove of
mango and tamarind trees, lay the stone reservoir of Surat. It was
almost a mile in circumference, and he had chosen its far bank as
campground for his Rajput guard. Accommodations in Surat were
nonexistent during the season, and although he could have cleared a
guest house with a single name, Prince Jadar, he had chosen to remain
inconspicuous.
Through the dark bamboo slats of the gate he could now see the
Englishman riding toward him, holding his Arabian mare at an easy pace.
Vasant Rao studied the gait carefully. He had learned he could always
judge the character of a man by observing that man's handling of a
mount. He casually stroked his moustache and judged Brian Hawksworth.
The Englishman is unpracticed, yet there's an unmistakable sense of
command about him. Not unlike the control the prince holds over a
horse. He handles the mare almost without her knowing it, forcing
discipline onto her natural gait. Perhaps our treacherous friend Mirza
Nuruddin was right. Perhaps the Englishman will suit our requirements.
Vasant Rao remembered that Jadar had been insistent on the point.
"The English captain must be a man of character and nerve, or he must
never reach Burhanpur. You need only be seen providing his guard as you
depart Surat. If he's weak, like a Christian, he will not serve our
needs."
The times ahead will be difficult enough, Vasant Rao told himself,
without having to worry about the Englishman. The prince has been
trapped in the south, and now there's news Inayat Latif and his troops
are being recalled to Agra from Bengal. The queen will soon have at her
right hand the most able general in the Moghul's army.
Vasant Rao turned his eyes from the Englishman to look again at his own
Rajput guard, and his pride in them restored his spirit. Only Rajputs
would have the courage to one day face the numerically superior troops
of Inayat Latif.
The origin of the warrior clans who called themselves Rajputs, "sons of
kings," was lost in legend. They had appeared mysteriously in western
India over half a millennium before the arrival of the Moghuls, and
they had royalty, and honor, in their blood. They had always demanded
to be known as Kshatriya, the ancient Hindu warrior caste.
The men, and women, of the warrior Kshatriya clans lived and died by
the sword, and maintained a timeless tradition of personal honor.
Theirs was a profession of arms, and they lived by rules of conduct
unvaried since India's epic age. A member of the warrior caste must
never turn his back in battle, must never strike with concealed
weapons. No warrior could strike a foe who was fleeing, who asked for
mercy, whose own sword was broken, who slept, who had lost his armor,
who was merely an onlooker, who was facing another foe. Surrender was
unthinkable. A Rajput defeated in battle need not return home, since
his wife would turn him out in dishonor for not having given his life.
But if a Rajput perished with a sword in his hand, the highest honor,
his wife would proudly follow him in death, joining his body on the
funeral pyre. And many times, in centuries past, Rajput women
themselves had taken up swords to defend the honor of their clain.
When they had no external foes, the Rajput clans warred among
themselves, since they knew no other life. For convenience, each clan
decreed its immediate neighboring clans its enemies, and an elaborate
code was devised to justify war over even the smallest slight. Their
martial skills were never allowed to gather rust, even if the cost was
perpetual slaughter of each other.
Though they were divided among themselves, the Rajput clans had for
centuries defended their lands from the Muslim invaders of India. Only
with the coming of the great Moghul genius Akman was there a Muslim
ruler with the wisdom to understand the Rajputs could be more valuable
as allies than as foes. He abandoned attempts to subdue them, instead
making them partners in his empire. He married Rajput princesses; and
he used Rajput fighting prowess to extend Moghul control south and west
in India.
The men with Vasant Rao were the elite of the dominant Chauhan clan,
and all claimed descent from royal blood. They held strong loyalties,
powerful beliefs, and absolutely no fear of what lay beyond death. They
also were men from the northwest mountains of India, who had never
before seen Surat, never before seen the sea, never before seen a
_feringhi_.
But Vasant Rao had seen _feringhi_, when he had stood by the side of
Prince Jadar in Agra, when Jesuit fathers had been called to dispute
with Muslim mullahs before Arangbar. He had seen their tight, assured
faces, and heard their narrow, intolerant views. Could this _feringhi
_be any different?
Already he had witnessed the Englishman's nerve, and it had reminded
him, curiously, of Jadar. The Englishman had refused to come to their
camp, claiming this demeaned his office of ambassador. And Vasant Rao,
representative of Prince Jadar, had refused to meet the Englishman
inside Surat. Finally it was agreed that they would meet at the wall of
the city, at the Abidjan Gate.
"Nimaste, Ambassador Hawksworth. His Highness, Prince Jadar, conveys
his most respectful greetings to you and to the English king." Vasant
Rao's Turki had been excellent since his boyhood, and he tried to
remember the phrases Mirza Nuruddin had coached. Then he watched
through the bamboo poles of the gate as Hawksworth performed a lordly
salaam from horseback.
The gate opened.
"I am pleased to offer my good offices to you and your king," Vasant
Rao continued, "in the name of His Highness, the prince. It is his
pleasure, and my honor, to provide you escort for your journey east to
Burhanpur. From there His Highness will arrange a further escort for
the trip north to Agra."
"His Majesty, King James, is honored by His Highness' concern."
Hawksworth examined the waiting Rajputs, his apprehension mounting.
Their eyes were expressionless beneath their leather helmets, but their
horses pawed impatiently. He found himself wondering if Mirza Nuruddin
had contrived to provide more "help," and yet another surprise. "But my
route is not yet decided. Although I'm grateful for His Highness'
offer, I'm not certain traveling east on the Burhanpur road is best.
His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan, has offered to provide an escort if I
take the Udaipur road, north past Cambay and then east."
Vasant Rao examined Hawksworth, choosing his words carefully. "We have
orders to remain here for three days, Captain, and then to return to
Burhanpur. It would be considered appropriate by the prince, who has
full authority to administer this province, if we rode escort for you."
Hawksworth shifted in the saddle.
This isn't an offer. It's an ultimatum.
"Is His Highness aware I have with me a large sea chest? It will
require a cart, which I plan to hire. Perhaps the delay this will
impose would inconvenience you and your men, since you surely prefer to
ride swiftly."
"On the contrary, Captain. We will have with us a small convoy of
supplies, lead for molding shot. We will travel at a pace that best
suits us all. Your chest presents no difficulty."
But there will be many difficulties, he told himself. And he thought
again about Mirza Nuruddin and the terms he had demanded. Twenty
percent interest on the loan, and only a hundred and eighty days to
repay both the new silver coin and the interest.
But why, Vasant Rao asked himself again, did the Shahbandar agree to
the plan at all? Is this Mirza Nuruddin's final wager? That Jadar will
win?
"Will three days be sufficient for your preparations, Captain
Hawksworth?"
"It will. If I decide to use the Burhanpur road." Hawksworth wondered
how long he could taunt the Raput.
"Perhaps I should tell you something about travel in India, Ambassador.
There are, as you say, two possible routes between Surat and Agra. Both
present certain risks. The northern route, through Udaipur and
Rajputana, is at first appearance faster, since the roads are drier and
the rivers there have already subsided from the monsoon. But it is not
a part of India where travelers are always welcomed by the local Rajput
clans. You may well find yourself in the middle of a local war, or the
reluctant guest of a petty raja who judges you worth a ransom.
"On the other hand, if you travel east, through Burhanpur, you may find
that some rivers are still heavy from the monsoon, at least for another
month. But the clans there are loyal to Prince Jadar, and only near
Chopda, halfway to Burhanpur, will you encounter any local brigands.
Theirs, however, is an honorable profession, and they are always
willing to accept bribes in return for safe passage. We ordinarily do
not kill them, though we easily could, since petty robbery--they view it
as a toll--is their livelihood and their tradition. They are weak and
they make weak demands. Such is not true of the rajas in Rajputana. The
choice is yours, but if you value your goods, and your life, you will
join us as we make our way east to Burhanpur."
Hawksworth studied the bearded Rajput guards as Vasant Rao spoke.
I'm either a captive of the prince or of Mukarrab Khan, regardless of
what I do. Which one wants me dead more?
"My frigate sails tomorrow. I can leave the following day."
"Good, it's agreed then. Our convoy will leave in three days. It will
be my pleasure to travel with you, Captain Hawksworth. Your reputation
has already reached His Highness. We will meet you here at the
beginning of the second _pahar_. I believe that's your hour of nine in
the morning." He smiled with a warmth that was almost genuine. "You
should consider yourself fortunate. Few _feringhi_ have ever traveled
inland. You will find the interior far different from Surat. Until
then."
He bowed lightly and snapped a command to the waiting horsemen. In
moments they were lost among the trees.
"This evening must be a time of farewell for us both, Captain
Hawksworth. You know, the Hindus believe life and death are an endless
cycle that dooms them to repeat their miserable existence over and over
again. I myself prefer to think that this one life is itself cyclical,
ever renewing. What was new, exciting, yesterday is today tedious and
tiresome. So tomorrow brings us both rebirth. For you it is Agra, for
me Goa. But I expect to see Surat again, as no doubt do you. Who knows
when our paths will cross once more?" Mukarrab Khan watched as a eunuch
shoved wide the door leading onto the torchlit garden. "You have been a
most gracious visitor, tolerating with exemplary forbearance my
unworthy hospitality. Tonight perhaps you will endure one last evening
of my company, even if I have little else left to offer."
The courtyard was a confused jumble of packing cases and household
goods. Servants were everywhere, wrapping and crating rolled carpets,
bolsters, furniture, vases, and women's clothing. Elephants stood near
the back of the courtyard, howdahs on their backs, waiting to be
loaded. Goods would be transferred to barks for the trip downriver to
the bar, where they would be loaded aboard a waiting Portuguese
frigate.
"My dining hall has been dismantled, its carpet rolled. We have no
choice but to dine this evening in the open air, like soldiers on the
march."
Hawksworth was no longer hearing Mukarrab Khan. He was staring past
him, through the smoke, not quite believing what he saw. But it was all
too real. Standing in the corner of the courtyard were two Europeans in
black cassocks. Portuguese Jesuits.
Mukarrab Khan noticed Hawksworth's diplomatic smile suddenly freeze on
his face, and turned to follow his gaze.
"Ah, I must introduce you. You do understand the Portuguese language,
Captain?"
"Enough."
"I should have thought so. I personally find it abominable and refuse
to study it. But both the fathers here have studied Persian in Goa, and
I think one of them knows a bit of Turki, from his time in Agra."
"What are they doing here?" Hawksworth tried to maintain his composure.
"They returned to Surat just today from Goa, where they've been these
past few weeks. I understand they're en route to the Jesuit mission in
Lahore, a city in the Punjab, well to the north of Agra. They
specifically asked to meet you." He laughed. "They're carrying no
cannon, Captain, and I assumed you had no objection."
"You assumed wrong. I have nothing to say to a Jesuit."
"You'll meet Jesuits enough in Agra, Captain, at the Moghul's court.
Consider this evening a foretaste." Mukarrab Khan tried to smile
politely, but there was a strained look in his eyes and he fingered his
jeweled ring uncomfortably. "You would favor me by speaking to them."
The two Europeans were now moving toward them, working their way
through the swarm of servants and crates in the courtyard. The ruby-
studded crucifixes they wore against their black cassocks seemed to
shoot red sparks into the evening air. Mukarrab Khan urged Hawksworth
forward apprehensively.
"May I have the pleasure to present Ambassador Brian Hawksworth, who
represents His Majesty, King James of England, and is also, I believe,
an official of England's East India Company.
"And to you, Ambassador, I have the honor to introduce Father Alvarez
Sarmento, Superior for the Society of Jesus' mission in Lahore, and
Father Francisco da Silva."
Hawksworth nodded lightly and examined them. Although Sarmento was
aged, his face remained strong and purposeful, with hard cheeks and
eyes that might burn through marble. The younger priest could not have
been more different. His ruddy neck bulged from the tight collar of his
cassock, and his eyes shifted uncomfortably behind his puffed cheeks.
Hawksworth wondered absently how long his bloat--too much capon and port
wine--would last if Mackintosh had him on the third watch for a month.
"You are a celebrated man, Captain Hawksworth." Father Sarmento spoke
in flawless Turki, but his voice was like ice. "There is much talk of
you in Goa. The new Viceroy himself requested that we meet you, and
convey a message."
"His last message was to order an unlawful attack on my merchantmen. I
think he still remembers my reply. Is he now offering to abide by the
treaty your Spanish king signed with King James?"
"That treaty has no force in Asia, Captain. His Excellency has asked us
to inform you that your mission to Agra will not succeed. Our fathers
have already informed the Moghul that England is a lawless nation
living outside the grace of the Church. Perhaps you are unaware of the
esteem he now holds for our Agra mission. We have a church there now,
and through it we have led many carnal-minded Moors to God. We have
refuted the Islamic mullahs in His Majesty's very presence, and shown
him the falsity of their Prophet and his laws. Indeed, it is only
because of the esteem we have earned that he now sends an ambassador to
the Portuguese Viceroy."
Before Hawksworth could respond, Father Sarmento suddenly reached out
and touched his arm imploringly. "Captain, let me speak now not for the
Viceroy, but for the Holy Church." Hawksworth realized with a shock
that he was speaking English. "Do you understand the importance of
God's work in this sea of damned souls? For decades we have toiled in
this vineyard, teaching the Grace of God and His Holy Church, and now
at last our prayers are near to answer. When Arangbar became Moghul,
our Third Mission had already been here for ten long, fruitless years.
We strove to teach the Grace of God to his father, Akman, but his
damnation was he could never accept a single True Church. He would
harken to a heathen fakir as readily as to a disciple of God. At first
Arangbar seemed like him, save his failing was not ecumenicity. It was
indifference, and suspicion. Now, after years of ignominy, we have
secured his trust. And with that trust will soon come his soul."
Sarmento paused to cross himself. "When at last a Christian holds the
throne of India, there will be rejoicing at the Throne of Heaven. You
may choose to live outside the Mystery of the Most Holy Sacrament, my
son, but surely you would not wish to undo God's great work. I implore
you not to go before the Moghul now, not to sow unrest in his believing
mind with stories of the quarrels and hatreds of Europe. England was
once in the bosom of the Holy Church, until your heretic King Henry;
and England had returned again, before your last, heretic queen led you
once more to damnation. Know the Church always stands with open heart
to receive you, or any apostate Lutheran, who wishes to repent and save
his immortal soul."
"I see now why Jesuits are made diplomats. Is your concern the loss of
the Moghul's soul, or the loss of his trade revenues in Goa?"
Hawksworth deliberately answered in Turki. "Tell your pope to stop
trying to meddle in England's politics, and tell your Viceroy to honor
our treaty and there'll be no 'quarrels' between us here."
"Will you believe my word, sworn before God, that I have told His
Excellency that very thing? That this new war could destroy our years
of work and prayer." Sarmento still spoke in English. "But he is a man
with a personal vendetta toward the English. It is our great tragedy.
The Viceroy of Goa, His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is a man
nourished by hatred. May God forgive him."
Hawksworth stood speechless as Father Sarmento crossed himself.
"What did you say his name was?"
"Miguel Vaijantes. He was in Goa as a young captain, and now he has
returned as Viceroy. We must endure him for three more years. The
Antichrist himself could not have made our cup more bitter, could not
have given us a greater test of our Christian love. Do you understand
now why I beg you in God's name to halt this war between us?"
Hawksworth felt suddenly numb. He stumbled past the aged priest and
blindly stared into the torchlit courtyard, trying to remember
precisely what Roger Symmes had said that day so many years ago in the
offices of the Levant Company. One of the few things he had never
forgotten from Symmes's monologue of hallucinations and dreams was the
name Miguel Vaijantes.
Hawksworth slowly turned to face Father Sarmento and switched to
English.
"I will promise you this, Father. If I reach Agra, I will
never speak of popery unless asked. It honestly doesn't interest me.
I'm here on a mission, not a crusade. And in return I would ask one
favor of you. I would like you to send a message to Miguel Vaijantes.
Tell him that twenty years ago in Goa he once ordered the death of an
English captain named Hawksworth on the _strappado_. Tell him . . ."
The crash of shattering glass from the hallway of the palace severed
the air between them. Then the heavy bronze door swung wide and Shirin
emerged, grasping the broken base of a Chinese vase. Her eyes blazed
and her disheveled hair streamed out behind her. Hawksworth thought he
saw a stain on one cheek where a tear had trailed, but now that trail
was dry. She strode directly to Mukarrab Khan and dashed the remainder
of the vase at his feet, where it shattered to powder on the marble
tiles of the veranda.
"That is my gift to the queen. You may send it with a message in your
next dispatch. Tell her that I too am Persian, that I too know the name
of my father's father, of his father's father, of his father's father,
for ten generations. But unlike her, I was born in India. And it is in
India that I will stay. She can banish me to the remotest village of
the Punjab, but she will never send me to Goa. To live among unwashed
Portuguese. Never. She does not have the power. And if you were a man,
you would divorce me. Here. Tonight. For all to see. And I will return
to my father, or go where I wish. Or you may kill me, as you have
already tried to do. But you must decide."
Mukarrab Khan's face was lost in shock. The courtyard stood lifeless,
caught in a silence more powerful than any Hawksworth had ever known.
He looked in confusion at Father Sarmento, and the old Jesuit quietly
whispered a translation of the Persian, his own eyes wide in disbelief.
Never before had he seen a Muslim woman defy her husband publicly. The
humiliation was unthinkable. Mukarrab Khan had no power to order her
death. He had no choice but to divorce her as she demanded. But
everyone knew why she was his wife. What would a divorce mean?
"You will proceed to Goa as my wife, or you will spend the rest of your
days, and what little remains of your fading beauty, as a _nautch_ girl
at the port. Your price will be one copper _pice_. I will order it in
the morning."
"His Majesty will know of it within a week. I have friends enough in
Agra."
"As do I. And mine have the power to act."
"Then divorce me."
Mukarrab Khan paused painfully, then glanced down and absently whisked
a fleck of lint from his brocade sleeve. "Which form do you wish?"
An audible gasp passed through the servants, and not one breathed as
they waited for the answer. There were three forms of divorce for
Muslims. The first, called a revocable divorce, was performed when a
man said "I have divorced you" only once. He had three months to
reconsider and reconcile before it became final. The second form,
called irrevocable, required the phrase be repeated twice, after which
she could only become his wife again through a second marriage
ceremony. The third, absolute, required three repetitions of the phrase
and became effective the day her next reproductive cycle ended. There
could be no remarriage unless she had, in the interim, been married to
another.
"Absolute."
"Do you 'insist'?"
"I do."
"Then by law you must return the entire marriage settlement."
"You took it from me and squandered it long ago on _affion_ and pretty
boys. What is left to return?"
"Then it is done."
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as Mukarrab Khan repeated three times
the Arabic phrase from the Quran that cast her out. The two Jesuits
also stood silently, their faces horrified.
Shirin listened impassively as his voice echoed across the stunned
courtyard. Then without a word she ripped the strands of pearls from
her neck and threw them at his feet. Before Mukarrab Khan could speak
again, she had turned and disappeared through the doorway of the
palace.
"In the eyes of God, Excellency, you will always be man and wife,"
Father Sarmento broke the silence. "What He has joined, man cannot
rend."
A look of great weariness seemed to flood Mukarrab Khan's face as he
groped to find the facade of calm that protected him. Then, with an
almost visible act of will, it came again.
"Perhaps you understand now, Father, why the Prophet's laws grant us
more than one wife. Allah allows for certain . . . mistakes." He forced
a smile, then whirled on a wide-eyed eunuch. "Will the packing be
finished by morning?"
"As ordered, Khan Sahib." The eunuch snapped to formality.
"Then see dinner is served my guests, or put my kitchen _wallahs_ to
the lash." He turned back to Hawksworth. "I'm told you met her once,
Ambassador. I trust she was more pleasant then."
"Merely by accident, Excellency. While I was at the . . . in the
garden."
"She does very little by accident. You should mark her well."
"Your counsel is always welcome, Excellency." Hawksworth felt his pulse
surge. "What will she do now?"
"I think she will have all her wishes granted." He turned wearily
toward the marble columns of the veranda. "You will forgive me if I
must leave you now for a while. You understand I have further
dispatches to prepare."
He turned and was gone. After a moment's pause, the despairing Jesuits
trailed after.
And suddenly the courtyard seemed empty.
The waves curled gently against the shore, breaking iridescent over the
staves of a half-buried keg. Before him the sea spread wide and empty.
Only a single sail broke the horizon. His mare pawed impatiently, but
Hawksworth could not bring himself to turn her back toward the road.
Not yet. Only when the sail's white had blended with the sea did he
rein her around and, with one last glance at the empty blue, give her
the spur.
He rode briskly past the nodding palms along the shore, then turned
inland toward Surat, through villages of thatch- roofed houses on low
stilts. Women watched from the wide porches, sewing, nursing infants.
After a time he no longer saw them, no longer urged the mare. His
thoughts were filled with images from the tumultuous evening past.
He had paced the vacant rooms of the palace till the early hours of
morning, his mind in turmoil. Sleep was never a possibility. When the
courtyard at last grew still, he had slipped back into the garden,
wanting its openness, the feel of its order. In the moonlight it lay
deserted, and as he strolled alongside the bubbling fountain, he felt
himself even more lost in this alien place, this alien land. The pilot
Karim had been right. India had already unsettled him more than he
thought he could bear.
In time he found himself wandering once more through the orchard, amid
the wistful calls of night birds. The trees formed a roof of leafy
shadows, cold and joyless as the moon above. Even then, all he could
see was Shirin, poised defiant in the stark torchlight, taunting the
queen. She had offered herself up to almost certain death, for reasons
he scarcely comprehended.
Before he fully realized where he was, he looked up and saw the
observatory. A tiny blinking owl perched atop the staircase, studying
him critically as he approached. Around him the marble instruments
glistened like silver, while ahead stood the stone hut, forlorn now,
more ramshackle than he had ever remembered, more abandoned. He
reflected sadly that it probably would soon be forgotten entirely. Who
would ever come here again?
The door of the hut was sealed tightly and for a time he stood simply
looking at it, trying to recall all that had passed inside. Finally he
reached with a determined hand and pulled it wide.
Shirin stared up from the table in shock, grabbing the lamp as though
to extinguish it. Then she recognized him in the flickering light.
"Why . . . why are you here?"
Before he could answer, she moved in front of the table, masking it
from his view. "You should not have come. If you're seen . . ."
As his own surprise passed, he felt himself suddenly wanting to take
her in his arms. "What does it matter now? You're divorced." The words
filled him with momentary exhilaration, till he remembered the rest.
"You're also in danger, whether I'm seen or not."
"That's my concern."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Leave. But I still have friends."
He reached out and took the lamp from her, to feel the touch of her
hand. It was soft and warm. "Will I ever see you again?"
"Who knows what will happen now?" The wildness in her eyes was
beginning to gentle. She moved back from the table and dropped into a
chair. He realized it was the same chair she had sat in when telling
him about the queen. On the table before her were piles of papers, tied
into small, neat bundles. She examined him for a few moments in
silence, then reached to brush the hair back from her eyes. "Did you
come here just to see me?"
"Not really . . ." He stopped, then laughed. "I think maybe I did. I
think I somehow knew you would be here, without realizing I knew. I've
been thinking about you all night."
"Why?" Her voice quickened just enough for him to notice.
"I'm not sure. I do know I'm very worried about what may happen to
you."
"No one else seems to be. No one will talk to me now, not even the
servants. Suddenly I don't exist." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. Thank
you for coming. It means you're not afraid. I'm glad."
"Why do you care whether I came or not?" He asked almost before
realizing what he was saying.
She hesitated, and unconsciously ran her glance down his frame. "To see
you one more time." He thought he saw something enter her eyes, rising
up unbidden. "Don't you realize you've become very special for me?"
"Tell me." He studied her eyes in the lamplight, watching them soften
even more.
"You're not like anyone I've ever known. You're part of something
that's very strange to me. I sometimes find myself dreaming of you.
You're . . . you're very powerful. Something about you." She caught
herself, then laughed. "But maybe it's not really you I dream about at
all. Maybe it's what you are."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a man, from the West. There's a strength about you I can't
fully understand." He watched her holding herself in check.
"Go on."
"Maybe it's partly the way you touch and master the things around you."
She looked at him directly. "Let me try to explain what I mean. For
most people in India, the world that matters most is the world within.
We explore the seas inside our own mind. And so we wait, we wait for
the world outside to be brought to us. But for you the inner world
seems secondary." She laughed again, and now her voice was controlled
and even. "Perhaps I'm not explaining it well. Let me try again. Do you
remember the first thing you did on your very first morning in the
palace?"
"I walked out here, to the observatory."
"But why did you?"
"Because I'm a seaman, and I thought . . ."
"No, that's only partly the reason." She smiled. "I think you came to
see it because it belongs to the world of things. Like a good European,
you felt you must first and always be the master of things. Of ships,
of guns, even of the stars. Maybe that's why I find you so strong." She
paused, then reached out and touched his hand. The gesture had been
impulsive, and when she realized what she'd done, she moved to pull it
back, then stopped herself.
He looked at her in the lamplight, then gently placed his other hand
over hers and held it firm. "Then let me tell you something. I find you
just as hard to understand. I find myself drawn to something about you,
and it troubles me."
"Why should it trouble you?"
"Because I don't know who you are. What you are. Even what you're
doing, or why. You've risked everything for principles that are
completely outside me." He looked into her eyes, trying to find words.
"And regardless of what you say, I think you somehow know everything
there is to know about me. I don't even have to tell you."
"Things pass between a man and woman that go beyond words. Not
everything has to be said." She shifted her gaze away. "You've had
great sadness in your life. And I think it's killed some part of you.
You no longer allow yourself to trust or to love."
"I've had some bad experiences with trust."
"But don't let it die." Her eyes met his. "It's the thing most
worthwhile."
He looked at her a long moment, feeling the tenderness beneath her
strength, and he knew he wanted her more than anything. Before he
thought, he had slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her up to
him. He later remembered his amazement at her softness, her warmth as
he pulled her body against his own. Before she could speak, he had
kissed her, bringing her mouth full to his lips. He had thought for an
instant she would resist, and he meant to draw her closer. Only then
did he realize it was she who had come to him, pressing her body
against his. They clung together in the lamplight, neither wanting the
moment to end. At last, with an act of will, she pulled herself away.
"No." Her breath was coming almost faster than his own. "It's
impossible."
"Nothing's impossible." He suddenly knew, with an absolute certainty,
that he had to make her his own. "Come with me to Agra. Together . . ."
"Don't say it." She stopped his lips with her finger. "Not yet." She
glanced at the papers on the table, then reached for his hand, bringing
it to her moist cheek. "Not yet."
"You're leaving. So am I. We'll leave together."
"I can't." She was slipping from him. He felt it. "I'll think of you
when you're in Agra. And when we're ready, we'll find each other, I
promise it."
Before he knew, she had turned and gathered the bundles. When she
reached for the lamp, suddenly her hand stopped.
"Let's leave it." She looked toward him. "Still burning." Then she
reached out and brushed his lips with her fingertips one last time. He
watched in dismay as she passed on through the doorway. In moments she
was lost among the shadows of the orchard.