The night sky above the courtyard was afire, an overturned
jewel box strewn about an ivory moon. They passed through a gateway of
carved columns and ornate brackets, into a smaller plaza. The mosque
was left behind: around them low were empty pavilions, several stories
high, decorated with whimsical carvings, railings, cornices. Now they
were alone in the abandoned palace, surrounded by silence and
moonlight. Only then did she speak, her voice opening through the
stillness.
"I promised to think of you, and I have, more than you can know.
Tonight I want to share this with you. The private palace of the Great
Akman. The most beautiful place in all India." She paused and pointed
to a wide marble pond in the middle of the plaza. In its center was a
platform, surrounded by a railing and joined to the banks by delicate
bridges. "They say when Akman's court musician, the revered Tansen, sat
there and sang a raga for the rainy season, the clouds themselves would
come to listen, and bless the earth with their tears. Once all this was
covered by one magnificent canopy. Tonight we have only the stars."
"How did you arrange this?" He still was lost in astonishment.
"Don't ask me to tell you now. Can we just share this moment?"
She took his arm and motioned ahead. There, glistening in the
moonlight, were the open arcades of a palace pavilion. I've prepared
something especially for us." She guided him through a wide-open
archway and into a large arcade, illuminated by a single oil lamp atop
a stone table. In front of them, on the walls, were brilliantly colored
renderings of elephants, horses, birds. She picked up the lamp and led
him past the paintings and into the next room, a vast red chamber whose
floor was a fragrant standing pool of water. In the flickering light he
could see a marble stairway leading to a red sandstone platform
projecting out over the water, supported by square stone columns topped
by ornate brackets.
"This is where Akman spent the hot summer nights. Up there, on the
platform, above a cooling pool of rosewater. From there he would summon
his women to come to him from the _zenana_."
Hawksworth dipped his fingers into the water and brought it to his
lips. It was like perfume. He turned to he and she smiled.
"Yes, the Sufis still keep rosewater here, in memory of Akman." She
urged him forward, up the stairs. "Come and together we'll try to
imagine how it must have felt to be the Great Moghul of India."
As they emerged onto the platform, the vaulted ceiling above them
glowed a ruby red from the lamp. Under their feet was a thick carpet,
strewn with small velvet bolsters. At the farthest edge was a large
sleeping couch, fashioned from red marble, its dark velvet canopy held
aloft by four finely worked stone columns. The covering of the couch
was a patterned blue velvet, bordered in gold lace.
"Just for tonight I've made this room like it was when Akman slept
here, with his chosen from the _zenana_." She slipped the gauze wrap
from her shoulders. He looked at her dark hair, secured with a
transparent scarf and a strand of pearls, and realized it contrasted
perfectly with the green emerald brooch that swung gently against her
forehead. She wore a necklace of pearl strands and about each upper arm
was a band ringed with pearl drops. Her eyes and eyebrows were painted
dark with kohl and her lips were a brilliant red
Without a word she took a garland of yellow flowers from the bed and
gently slipped it over his head. Next to the couch was a round rosewood
table holding several small brass vials of perfume and incense.
"Tonight this room is like a bridal chamber. For us."
A second garland of flowers lay on the bed next to the one she had
taken. Without thinking, he reached and took it and slipped it around
her neck. Then he drew his fingertips slowly down her arm, sending a
small shiver through them both. Seeing her in the lamplight, he
realized again how he had ached for her.
"A wedding? For us?"
"Not a wedding. Can we just call it a new beginning? The end of one
journey and the beginning of another."
Hawksworth heard a sudden rustling behind him and then a sound. He
turned and searched the gloom, where two eyes peered out of the
darkness, reflecting the lamplight. He was reaching for his pistol when
she stopped his arm.
"That's one of the little green parrots who live here. They've never
been harmed, and they've never been caged. So they're unafraid." She
turned and called to it. "If they're caught and imprisoned, their
spirit dies and their beauty starts to fade."
The bird ruffled its wings again and flew to the top of the bolster
beside Shirin. Hawksworth watched her for a moment, still incredulous,
then settled himself on the carpet next to a chalice of wine that sat
waiting. She reached and touched his arm. "I never asked you what your
lovers call you. You're so important, nobody in India knows your first
name, just your titles."
"My only other name is Brian." He found her touch had already begun to
stir him.
"Brian. Will you tell me everything about you, what you like and what
you don't?" She began to pour the wine for them. "Did I ever tell you
what I like most about you?"
"In Surat you said you liked the fact I was a European. Who always had
to be master of worldly things."
"Well, I've thought about you a lot since then." Her expression grew
pensive. "I've decided it's not so simple. There's a directness about
you, and an openness, an honesty, that's very appealing."
"That's European. We're not very good at intrigue. What we're thinking
always shows on our face."
She laughed. "And I think I know what you're thinking right now. But
let me finish. I feel I must tell you this. There's something else
about you that may also be European, but think it's just your special
quality. You're always ready to watch and learn from what you see.
Looking for new things and new ideas. Is that also European?"
"I think it probably is."
"It's rare here. Most Indians think everything they have and everything
they do is absolutely perfect, exactly the way it is. They might take
something foreign and use it, or copy it but they always have to appear
disdainful of anything not Indian."
"You're right. I'm always being told everything here is better." He
reached for her. "Sometimes it's even true."
"Won't you let me tell you the rest?" She took his hand and held it. "I
also think you have more concern for those around you than most Indians
do. You respect the dignity of others, regardless of their station,
something you'll seldom see here, particularly among the high castes.
And there's a kindness about you too. I feel it when you're with me."
She laughed again. "You know, it's a tragic thing about Muslim men.
They claim to honor women; they write poems to their beauty; but I
don't think they could ever truly love a woman. They believe she's a
willful thing whom it's their duty to contain."
She paused, then continued. "But you're so very different. It's hard to
comprehend you sometimes. You love your European music, but now I think
you're starting to understand and love the music of India. I even heard
you're learning the sitar. You're sensitive to all beauty, almost the
way Samad is. It makes me feel very comfortable with you. But you're
also a lot like Prince Jadar. You're not afraid of risks. You guide
your own destiny. Instead of just accepting whatever happens, the way
most Indians do." She smiled and traced her fingers down his chest.
"That part makes you very exciting."
She hesitated again. "And do you know what I like least about you? It's
the _feringhi _clothes you wear."