Flowers in the Blood (29 page)

“Why are you shocked? What do you suppose supports your father and his entire family?” He held up his glass. “A vice, to be sure, but so is this brandy or a pipe of tobacco or the betel or
pahn
the natives take.” He threw his head back and gave a throaty laugh. “Not to mention the addictive allure of delicately brewed tea leaves.”

I raised my voice and asked, “Have you?”

“Drunk tea?” He made a crooked grin, then sobered. “From time to time, as a means of relaxation, but not as a routine. Would you like to puff a pipe with me one of these days?”

“Of course not. And—” I caught myself.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”' I hung my head.

“I would prefer if you wouldn't keep your concerns from me,” he said gently.

“And I would prefer it if you would not take opium either.” My heart beat wildly as I waited for his response.

Silas was quiet for a long time. At; last he spoke in the same measured way as before. “You are sensible. A clear mind and a good book are more to my taste in any case.”

The tingling in my spine subsided. At least that was one worry I would not have.

Silas paced the perimeter of the carpet in front of the fire. “However, there is one point neither of us can afford to disregard. Men of commerce look to control commodities the rest of the world cannot do without. Men of art, who sometimes are dependent on those same commodities, offer visions and dreams, images and stories to enlighten, glorify, nullify the grim tedium of trade. Ideally, one can play both sides, as I do. The tea business supports my artistic and literary interests.” He blinked several times and added as an afterthought, “And the opium business supports my lovely wife.”

Supported.
I emphasized the past tense in my mind. I could not renounce the origin of my dowry, but I would not be dependent on the poppy enterprise any longer. Relief that I was married and away from that part of my past suffused, me.

Silas must have sensed that he had pressed the point too hard.

“Shall we try a round of chess?” he asked.

 

A banging sound woke me. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I threw off the comforter, my heart pounding. Bang! Then another: Bang! A shutter? Was someone dead? I rushed to the door and opened it. Bang! There it was again. Somebody had forgotten to bolt one of the glass doors leading out to the veranda. The wind rising from the valley had pushed it open and it fluttered in the gusty air. As I locked it, I wondered: What time is it? The clock over the mantel was almost at three. My hand was on my doorknob when I thought I heard noises. They came from Silas' room. Two male voices, muffled so I could not separate them, were speaking in short angry bursts. My heart, at last quiet after being awakened so rudely, began to pound again. Why would Silas be arguing with someone at this time of night? What could possibly be wrong?

At bedtime we had parted amicably. He had complimented me on my first chess lesson. He had held my hand and kissed my fingertips— with teeth pressing slightly, as the
Kama Sutra
had suggested—and kissed the soft flesh inside my elbow, then the cleft of my neck, before reaching my lips and pressing much harder than ever before. I had thought he might ask to follow me to my room, and when he did not, I took especial care of my toilette. If he came to me later, I would be fresh for him. For a long while I had remained awake, thinking that if Silas were counting the same way, tonight was the ninth day; and tomorrow would be
the
day.

I heard the lock turn on his door and jumped behind the post. Euclid, fully dressed in his saffron robe, stepped out and slammed the door behind him with a firmness that was an indication of disrespect. To reach the stairs to the lower level he did not have to pass me, and fortunately, he had no intention of remaining upstairs. I waited until the only sound was the ticking of the clock, then made my way back to the vastness of my lonely bed.

I got up early, scrubbed my teeth, and wiped myself with a cloth dipped in cold water, since no servants had been asked to bring hot water this early. I checked the snows—they were hidden behind a solid wall of mist—reclosed the draperies, and went back to bed. I had learned that Silas liked to come to me in the morning. This had to be the tenth morning. It would not be long now. . . .

At eight, Lucretia appeared and asked me if I wanted a tray. Nettled to see her and not Silas, I indicated I would dress and join my husband. She shook her head and tried to tell me something I did not understand. Still irritated, I took my place at the breakfast table beside the center windows.

Gulliver poured my tea before pointing out that he had not set a place for Silas. “The sahib is unwell this morning.” He backed away before I could ask what he meant. I assumed Silas was sleeping in because he had been up late arguing with Euclid.

As I finished my toast, Euclid appeared. “I will be going down to Darjeeling in an hour. Would you like me to post any letters or might there be anything else you require, Mrs. Luddy?”

“Nothing, thank you, Euclid, but could you tell me what is the matter with my husband?”

“One of his usual headaches.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

His thin mouth formed a stern line, and he shook his head. “What he requires is quiet, a dark room, and to be left to rest, although the pain is such that he cannot find any respite in sleep.”

“Is he ill?”

“Not with a disease, if that is what you mean. This is the sort of sick headache called a migraine that some people suffer routinely.”

“Has he seen a doctor?”

“Yes, but they can do nothing for him. Many important men have been similarly afflicted—Caesar, Paul, Kant—so Silas is in fine company.”

“How often does Silas have them?”

“Once or twice a month.”

My bad humor was not improved by the realization that this man knew my husband far better than I. “How long have you known Mr. Luddy?” I asked sharply.

“For more than ten years, since I was fifteen.”

“Has he had these headaches all that time?”

“As far back as I can remember.”

“Why did you come to this area, Euclid?”

He informed me that he had come to study at St. Paul's School. He had met Silas through a teacher who was one of his friends, and began to assist him on holidays. “And he has made a place for me ever since,” Euclid concluded.

“I am certain you have made a place for yourself, Euclid. Silas speaks highly of you.”

His feet shifted. I could tell he wanted to be away, yet I continued to command his attention. “Do you play chess?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Luddy is teaching me. I wondered if you would be kind enough to play with me later, if he is still unwell. I would like to learn a few moves that might impress him with my prowess after only one lesson.” I tried a little laugh, but it sounded as unnatural as I felt in this man's presence.

“As much as it would honor me to assist you, Mrs. Luddy, my duties lie elsewhere today,” he said tensely.

“Of course. Forgive me for even suggesting it. Perhaps some other time.” As I stood up, Gulliver came forward and pulled out my chair. I looked across to Silas' closed door. “I had better see what I can do for him,” I said, making my way in that direction.

Euclid moved to block me. “He must have absolute quiet and no light of any kind. Even a narrow ray from the door hurts his eyes—like a knife blade, he says.”

“Who tends him when he is sick?”

“Gulliver and I do.”

“Then you must teach me how you manage without opening and closing doors. Invisibility is a skill most women would be pleased to master.”

 

Silas was turned toward the wall. A thin cover draped his legs. The dim light that stole from under the draperies illuminated his face, which glowed a waxy white. Beside his bed there were two bowls. One held a soaking cloth; one was for sickness. At my approach he groaned, and without opening his eyes he lifted the cloth from his forehead and held it up for a replacement. Silently I took it from him, wrung out the one that floated in the water, folded it lengthwise, and laid it on his brow.

His skin was dry, not feverish, as I might have expected. His utter stillness, though, was what concerned me the most. Even his breathing was so shallow his rib cage hardly moved. His arms were bent across his chest with hands curved rigidly, like claws. At first I had suspected he was only recovering from his disagreeable confrontation in the middle of the night. Now I realized a true torment afflicted him.

“Silas,” I whispered. “What else may I do for you?”

One eye opened, tearing as it squinted to focus on me. “Din . . . ah . . .” The two syllables were an effort. “Where is . . . ?”

“Euclid has gone down to Darjeeling on an errand. Gulliver is waiting outside. I heard you were ill and wanted to tend you myself.”

“Kind . . . thanks . . . just my usual headache . . . need to rest . . .but . . .” His speech came in garbled bursts, his mouth wincing with the effort.

“Hush. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Ask Gulliver to send for me if there is anything I can do.”

“Gulliver . . . yes . . .” His color darkened as he held his hand over his mouth.

I waved his bearer in. There was no time to close the door as Gulliver rushed to Silas' side and held the bowl while he was sick.

Finding Euclid had left, I decided to take some fresh air. Emerging from the lush woodland, I made my way along a lane guarded by spreading cedars, tall waving bamboos, hemlocks, and
sungri katus
— oaks with large pale acorns. My walk took me down the mountain road that passed our house to a widened area by a curve where I noticed travelers often stopped. From the tonga I had not understood the reason, but from the path I could see a lane that led to a small clearing in the underbrush. In the center rose a simple altar of stones under a stand of prayer flags, cloth strips painted with black characters and nailed by one edge to bamboo poles. A group of Tibetans was making offerings to the God of the Mountain. My eyes lifted across the blue waters of Lake Senchal to the spurs and peaks above.

I knew the Indian custom of taking
darshan
, having seen them making a pilgrimage up the Ganges to the holy city of Benares or to a palace, temple, or house of a famous seer, in an attempt to absorb some greatness or beauty into their lives. The most devout dedicated their lives to escape the cycle of being reborn, but most took a few weeks to satisfy a hunger for something loftier to illuminate their modest existences. At that moment I felt as though I too was but a pilgrim in those hills. No, I reminded myself, this is your home. I walked back up to Xanadu Lodge feeling more peaceful and more settled than before.

Just past sunset, Silas emerged from his room. After asking Gulliver to dim the lamps, he turned to me. “My symptoms will be gone in the morning. They always are.”

I remained as quiet as possible while he sipped broth from a lacquered bowl.

“Have you seen Euclid this evening?” he asked after a while.

“Gulliver said he did not return from Darjeeling, but he sent the tonga back with the post.” I offered him the packet. With much agitation Silas shuffled the envelopes until he found what he had been searching for. He read the brief note, then crumpled it in his hand.

“Is anything the matter?”

There was a long pause. “Euclid has decided to return to his family for a few weeks.”

“So suddenly? He did not mention anything to me about it when I spoke with him—” I stopped myself. This was none of my business. Besides, I knew they had quarreled and that Silas would not have wished to explain what had occurred, at least not now when he was feeling so wretched. “I hope his absence will not place more of a burden on you.”

“I shall manage. Dinah, if you will excuse me . . .” He stood up, almost losing his balance, but steadied himself long enough to get to his room with a modicum of dignity.

18

 

S
o much for the tenth day—and the eleventh. Silas spent that Friday as a convalescent, sipping tea and nibbling dry bread. At first he appeared as if he had been ill for weeks instead of less than a day, but by evening a rosy glow replaced his pallor and his despondency transformed into an ebullience that I found disturbing by contrast.

We lit the Sabbath candles and said our prayers together. “You cannot know how wonderful it is to have a Jewish woman by my side.” He smiled and his teeth glinted in the candlelight. During dinner he was more loquacious than ever before.

“What are you planning to wear to the ball tomorrow?”

“Are you well enough to go?”

“Of course. Do I look like an invalid to you?”

“No, you don't, but—”

“My headaches are a trial, but at least they always end within a predictable length of time. Otherwise I might go mad. The odd thing is that once the pain has left me, I feel more energetic, more alive than in the weeks that preceded the attack.” He stretched his arms above his head. “Ah, I am so happy to be without the pain. It's humbling. Unless one suffers, the misery of the wretched people on this earth cannot be understood properly. My agony is a cruel, exacting professor teaching a. lesson that can be mastered no other way.” He patted my hand. “Now, what will you wear? How about that blue dress you first wore in Calcutta?”

“Oh, no!”

“Why not? With a shawl you will be warm enough.”

“I was certain you did not care for it.”

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Well, the design is fine, the color suits you, and I know it is the height of fashion this season—just the sort of gown you will feel comfortable in at Government House and the other ladies will envy. Only . . .”

“Yes?”

“With some minor modification it could be even more sublime.”

“What would you suggest?”

“The bows at the shoulders and in the back are unnecessary—they clutter the line. And though I do not know much about the underpinnings, if you carried less bulk underneath, the skirt would fall more flatteringly and you could move more freely.”

How much he recalled about one dress stunned me. Moreover, I agreed with his suggestion. The next morning I set Lucretia to work removing the offensive fillips.

We rested during the afternoon, breaking the Sabbath with prayers and a light meal of dumplings and fruit. When I was dressed, Silas came to inspect me. Beaming, he had me spin around and around as he admired the narrower silhouette and the cleaner lines of the gown. “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand so I would not move. A few minutes later he returned, hiding something in his fist. “Close your eyes.” I felt him move behind me and clasp something around my neck. It was a string of pearls centered with a jewel suitable for a maharajah's turban: a huge pink pearl teardrop. As I hugged him in thanks, he held me close, rubbing the small of my back. “You are so beautiful, so beautiful,” he murmured in my ear.

And beautiful I felt as I entered Government House on his arm, as he squired me around, showing me off to the officials of the Bengal government, the leaders of Darjeeling's hot-season society, and the permanent residents who saw this night as the passing of the baton back to them for the next six months.

I looked around for Maurice Luddy, whom I had not seen since the wedding, and asked Silas' sister, Gala Ezekiel, where he was.

“Ever since Mother died, he has avoided most social occasions,” she replied, and clasped my hand. “I do so hope you and Silas will be happy together.”

I smiled shyly. She seemed satisfied for the moment.

I danced every dance, saving every other one for my husband, who waited on the side when I was engaged. At supper my place was on the governor's right, which I suspected was due more to my status as a Sassoon than as Mrs. Luddy. The only difficult moment came when he asked me what I was reading. Under the influence of two glasses of champagne, I almost blurted:
“The Kama Sutra,”
but caught myself to change
“Kama”
to
“Kubla,”
so it came out,
“Kubla Khan
, by Coleridge.”

During the ride back to Tiger Hill Silas regaled me with gossip about the people I had met. The names and faces and tales were hopelessly muddled, but I did not care, since I would not have to sort most of them out for half a year. Gulliver and Lucretia waited at the door to serve us. I was so giddy that Lucretia had to follow me about picking up my shoes, stockings, and gloves and unbuttoning me as I whirled around the room babbling about my success to a woman who could not possibly understand me. At last I sensed her frustration and sent her off, saying I would take care of myself. I dabbed my face, splashed water on my body, only rinsed my mouth, and slipped into bed coiled much too tightly to unwind into sleep.

When the door opened—without a preceding knock—I did not start. And when Silas moved to the side of my bed, I welcomed him with outstretched arms. The twelfth day, I thought, liking the number very much.

 

For a long while Silas kissed my face from the tips of my ears to the hollow at my throat. He licked at my eyes, brushed my lips, then pried them open with his tongue. I tried—not too unsuccessfully, I thought—to return each in kind with the modesty of a virgin, yet with enough enthusiasm to encourage him to press forward.

To this day I recall every detail of what happened next. Many a bride might make the identical claim, of course, but I doubt many have experienced the same results. There were two starkly remembered moments: before my mistake, and after. Perhaps a doctor of the body or of the mind would soothe me by claiming one momentary lapse could not have influenced the outcome, that under normal circumstances we would have recovered. And a doctor might have gone on to reassure me the circumstances were
not
normal. There is good sense in that tact, but I do not speak sensibly. I speak from the authority of having lived through the moment. Nobody else was in my position. And I know—logic aside—that at that instant I was at fault.

We kissed and kissed until Silas began to stroke my arms, my hips, lightly touching my breasts with his right hand. I angled myself to face him slightly, and his other hand reached toward the hem of my gown. I was wearing a white lawn shift with embroidery around the neckline. A sheaf of ribbons formed the shoulder straps, and more were twisted into a sash that tied behind my back. I did not want to frustrate him as he blindly worked to free me. His breathing was rapid and I felt his lingam—that was the word that came to mind—swelling against my leg. Knowing exactly where to pull to loosen the girdle, I reached behind me, untied the ribbons, and slid the gown over my hips. The movement so startled him that he pulled back on his elbows to see what I was doing. Cheeks burning, eyes flashing, he seemed entranced as I kicked the gown away from my feet and onto the floor.

I lay on my back, like a gift. Silas, still wearing an undergarment, hovered above me on his haunches. I thought he was pleased, but no! what I had taken for desire became an outbreak of the most acute anxiety. Sweat poured off his chin. He gasped as though he were drowning. His teeth ground and muscles bulged in his neck. He bent his head to my chest and laid his cheek on my breast. He kissed its underside, moved up to the nipple, then sucked like a baby. “Do you mind?” he mumbled.

My reply was to stroke his fine hair to coax him to continue. The sensations emanating from my breasts and flowing down to my thighs were oddly pleasant and might have been even more so if the strain between us had not been foremost in my mind. Let it be over, I prayed. Let us just get past this point.

As though answering my prayers, Silas tensed. He rocked back on his knees and pulled off his covering. I closed my eyes. He knelt on either side of my legs. With a few quick thrusts he poked his sex at me, hitting a bony arch far off the mark. Using one hand, he tried to aim it more precisely. Expecting pain or some other sharp sensation, I held my breath. Once, twice, a third time I felt myself parting, yielding; then everything became easier. The hardness had melted. Was he inside me? I. felt nothing except the weight of his body upon mine. Could it be this simple? He groaned and moved his hips in a shallow circle. His body was slippery with perspiration. He ground against me for several long minutes before sliding off and turning on his back.

“Sorry, too much drink at the party. Never a good idea to overdo.”

I was so ignorant I did not realize what had—or had not—occurred. “No, it was fine, didn't hurt a bit.”

He must have suspected how confused I was, but his own humiliation was so intense he did not care to correct me. Moving away, he said something about going to sleep. I reached for him, pulling his arm. “Please, don't go back to your room tonight.”

He refastened his underwear. “A long day, we need to rest.”

“I do not want to be alone.” The yearning in my voice delayed him. He lay next to me. “The bed is so large, there is plenty of room.” I lifted the cover and he crawled in beside me.

He kissed my cheek. “Dinah, I—” I hushed him with a strong press of my finger on his lips. “Good night, Dinah.” He turned his back to me and curled like a baby.

Watching the nape of his neck, I could determine when he drifted off to sleep. When I thought he would not notice, I crept out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. Reaching between my legs with a soft facecloth, I checked for bleeding. Nothing. I touched myself for soreness. There was none. I tried to recall each detail of what had happened. Everything had changed when I had removed my gown and exposed myself lewdly. Hadn't I been warned that my body was not exactly the feminine ideal? I was too tall, too bony, my breasts (especially when I lay on my back) were flat cakes, not the juicy globes that men preferred. And what was admirable about the flatness of my belly or that mound of tangled hair?

After a long while I returned to the bed, finding a spot as far away from him as possible. For hours I lay there worrying how I had offended him, wondering what I had done wrong. Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep.

When I opened my eyes, Silas was at the window looking up at the snows.

“Silas?”

“Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Do you always check them so early?”

“Yes, a custom since the day I came to this house. I need to know which of the mountains are out. If they are closed in, I find I can get back to sleep. Otherwise this is my best time for quiet contemplation.”

From the bed I could not see the view. “What are they like today?”

“Come, you must see . . .” He held out his hand.

I moved beside him and looked up and far away. In the foreground all was blackness. The first light of day was outlining the peaks in red. A wisp of a moon hovered over Kanchenjunga, which, as though in homage, sent snow streamers blowing out in the direction of the celestial presence. Together we watched in awe.

“Is it never the same?”

“Never. The sight compels me. I could live nowhere else.” He placed an arm around me protectively.

I would have liked to make a similar affirmation. I did not, sensing that once words were said, the picture was framed. Instead I shivered in the morning air. Silas pulled me closer and kissed my forehead. I bent my head shyly and, to my surprise, I noticed that his underwear stood out like a tent. Gently he pushed me back to the bed. With the curtain open I saw what he looked like as he unveiled himself. My images, derived from the exaggerated Hindu carvings, made his lingam seem modest in size. He placed my hand on it. I did not recoil. As I touched it, I watched his face. His eyes were partially closed. His mouth twisted in something between a painful grimace and a wry smile. His secret flesh was dry, smooth. He put his hand around mine to encourage me to hold it more tightly than I would have dared. He slipped my fingers up and down the shaft. The skin slid as though it were unattached. He lay back and his eyes clenched. He groaned. I stopped.

“No, faster,” he gasped.

In a few seconds I watched as he moaned, writhed, and spilled his seed. As he rolled over on his stomach, I touched his back. “Do you want to sleep?”

“Yes.”

I pulled the cover over him and busied myself in the bathroom until he was lost in a deep slumber. Then I took my turn beside the window, watching the theater of the snows.