Ryman, Rebecca (25 page)

"Tell
me about him anyway." Impatience and that all-pervading sense of urgency
cancelled out every other consideration. The look of pity she decided to
ignore. "I would like to know everything."

"And
so you shall, my friend, so you shall." Smiling a little
at Olivia's
impatience, Kinjal summoned a maidservant from a knot of women who sat not far
away singing softly among themselves, and ordered carpets and cushions.
"We might as well make ourselves comfortable. The story is long and the
telling will take time."

Surprisingly
enough, Kinjal said, our chief source of information about Jai Raventhorne's
background has been my husband's father, the late Maharaja. A man greatly
interested in his fellow human beings, rich or poor, he was in the habit of
travelling incognito to Calcutta and elsewhere. On one such journey he happened
to stop at a wayside tavern for refreshments for himself, his single attendant
and their horses. As he sat in the courtyard chatting with other travellers,
his eyes fell upon a young lad of about fourteen busy washing heavy kitchen
utensils at the well. The boy was clad in tatters and was far from clean. And
his body looked horribly emaciated.

What
encouraged the Maharaja's attention, however, were two rather unusual
characteristics; even though he was under no supervision by his employer, the
boy performed his menial task with single-minded effort—and his curious silver
eyes were empty of all discernible expression. The boy was obviously of mixed
blood, for beneath the film of dirt his skin was unusually pale. In India there
is no dearth of destitute half-breeds forgotten by transient fathers; this one
looked unprepossessing, but there was something about him that struck the
Maharaja as unusual.

He
called the boy over and asked his name. The boy answered but with visible
reluctance, almost as if the simple question had somehow insulted him. He
refused to respond to all other questions, his manner becoming more and more
resentful. Finally, for no reason other than the boy's curious air of dignity
and a feeling of pity for his abysmal condition, the Maharaja offered him a
handful of coins. The boy's reaction amazed him. Throwing back his shoulders he
straightened into a stance of lofty arrogance and his grey eyes became ashen
with contempt. "I
do not accept money when I have not worked for it," he said scornfully.
"Keep your charity for others who do."

Far
from being offended, the Maharaja was deeply impressed. It was rare indeed to
find such fierce pride in one who could so little afford it. From that day on
the Maharaja made it a point to stop at the tavern each time he passed. He
never made the mistake of offering charity again but instead worked hard to win
the confidence of the lad. Gradually over the months the boy's attitude towards
him loosened and an unlikely friendship of sorts developed between the king and
the dish-washer. But the boy seldom smiled and never talked about himself. What
he did do a great deal was ask questions, mostly about ships and the sea and
the world outside his own meagre one. The Maharaja made handsome offers of
employment in Kirtinagar or of education in some forward-looking institution.
He liked the boy, was convinced that he had worthy potential and wanted to give
him a chance to exploit it. Each time the boy refused.

"Then
what do you want to do with your life, Jai?" The Maharaja repeatedly
asked, exasperated by this inexplicable stubbornness. "Do you want to
spend the rest of your days washing other people's dirty dishes?"

Finally
one day, instead of prevaricating as he usually did, the boy volunteered an
answer. "No. I want to be the richest man in the world. And I will be some
day." He spoke with no passion at all, merely as if he were stating a
foregone conclusion.

"Well,
that certainly is an understandable ambition," the Maharaja said with
matching solemnity although suppressing a small smile. "But for that you
have to at least make a start."

The
boy looked surprised. "I already have."

"True,
but to improve in life substantially you need . . . equipment."

The
boy held out his hands. "I have equipment. These, and," he touched
his forehead, "this."

"Your
equipment is undoubtedly excellent," the Maharaja said gently, "but
to spend a lifetime washing dishes will not make you rich."

"No,"
the boy conceded, "but that is not how I will spend it."

"Then
how?"

The
boy took a long time to give an answer, the Maharaja later recalled. A strange,
far-away look came into his eyes as if he were transported into quite another
time. Then, slowly, he
smiled. "I will spend it," he said in a purr that was almost catlike,
"in fulfilling my destiny."

For
an instant the leaden, secretive eyes took on a look of naked spite. There was
such malice in them that the Maharaja was disturbed. Not even the most
persistent interrogation, however, could get the boy to say more. Once again he
had relapsed into silence and the disturbing expression was again impassive.
The Maharaja abandoned his inquisition for the next time, but two months later
when he came to the tavern again he learned that the boy had left. Nobody knew
where he had gone and the tavern owner neither knew or cared. Urchins like this
one, anonymous and rootless, were a penny a dozen in India and a replacement
had already been found. The rumour around the tavern was, however, that the boy
had stowed away to sea.

At
this point in her story, the Maharani paused. For a moment or two a silence reigned
between her and a rapt Olivia. Lying back on her cushion staring up at the
recognisable constellations moving westward in a clear, cloudless sky, Olivia
remained very still. In her mind was a vision of the man as he now was, and the
metamorphosis defied belief. She rolled over on a side to prop herself up on an
elbow. "Then?"

"Then,"
Kinjal resumed, "for many years nobody heard of or from Jai—not that there
was anyone with whom he would communicate. Perhaps my father-in-law was his
only friend, and in those many years he had died. In any case, Jai neither knew
his name nor was curious enough to inquire."

Arvind
Singh became Maharaja of Kirtinagar. He had heard of his father's dish-washer
friend but as time passed the story slipped his memory. Twelve years ago,
having ferreted out the Maharaja's name from an old groom at the tavern, the
impecunious boy reappeared in the form of Jai Raventhorne and asked to see the
Maharaja. When Arvind Singh's memory revived, he was staggered at the picture
of impeccable, expensive and masterful gentlemanliness the man presented. He
found it impossible to believe that this urbane, self-confident stranger who
spoke in such cultured tones was indeed the disreputable ragamuffin his father
had spoken about so often. Raventhorne was genuinely distressed that the
benevolent old man who had showed him such kindness was no longer alive.
Despite Arvind Singh's sense of shock, his admiration for the success
Raventhorne had achieved and the monumental effort that must have gone into
achieving it was instant. There seemed to be some strange empathy
between the two
men. "And," Kinjal said, concluding her narrative, "they have
remained close friends ever since."

Even
though it was Kinjal who had been speaking at such length, it was Olivia's
throat that felt arid and tight. It was an incredible story, unlike anything
she had anticipated; she felt immensely moved. "Jai's father," she
finally asked after lubricating her mouth with sherbet, "who was he?"

There
was sadness in the look Kinjal gave her. "We do not know. If Jai does, he
will not talk about it. Rumour says he was an English sailor, perhaps neither
seen nor remembered by his son."

"And
his mother?"

"They
say she was a tribal from the hills."

"Was?
Then is she dead?"

"In
all probability. Jai does not talk of her either. Had she been alive I feel
that Jai would have wanted us to meet her. My husband did ask him once but Jai
became so agitated at the question that the subject has never been raised
again."

Olivia's
emotions, already melting with compassion, emulsified further although she
could think of no man less deserving of that compassion than Jai Raventhorne.
Nevertheless, to have won when the deck was so heavily stacked in his disfavour
could not have been easy; the uneven battles could scarcely have left him
unscarred. Grudgingly, she began to understand if not all, at least a few then
of his perversities, for some wounds heal fast while others suppurate for a
lifetime. "Was it to America he sailed on that ship?"

"Eventually.
He says it took him twice around the world first and it was during this time
that he learned about navigation."

"He
talks about these experiences freely?"

Kinjal
made a wry face. "When he is in the mood. It was America, he says, that
finally made him into a man. A Boston merchant hired him as a shop hand. Jai
was an eager apprentice and worked diligently, and he ended up as the man's
partner." Uncovering her head, Kinjal opened out her long, flowing hair to
re-plait it carefully. "That merchant's name was Raventhorne, Jai told
us."

Olivia
sat up. "Raventhorne?"

"Yes.
Jai's own father's name is unknown to him. Until he adopted that of his
benefactor, he lived with only one name." To be so deprived, so
discriminated against by fate! Olivia
filled with an involuntary ache.
"That one name, what does it mean?"

Kinjal
smiled.
"Jai
means
victory
—what else? You must know he can
bear to be nothing but a winner. It is one obsession of which he makes no
secret."

"That
destiny he spoke of, has he fulfilled it yet?"

"Ah!"
Kinjal lay back to scan the stars. "That remains the darkest area of all.
Jai dismisses it as a joke, a childish flight of fancy."

"Do
you believe that?"

Kinjal
pondered, then shook her head. "No. Jai is not given to flights of fancy.
My father-in-law's indelible impression was that he was repeating some sort of
vow. And it has not yet been fulfilled. Had it already been, Jai would not
still be a man possessed, a man of such burning inner anger. Which is why,
Olivia," she sat up again and her frown was worried, "I do fear for
you."

"Fear
for
me?" The word Kinjal had chosen was so unaccountably strong that Olivia
stared. "But why?"

"You
must forgive me, Olivia, if I presume on a new friendship and exceed my
limits." The Maharani took her hand and pressed it. "I feel it is my
duty to warn you that Jai Raventhorne is a dangerous man."

The
familiar phrase brought an involuntary smile to Olivia's lips. "So
everyone tells me!"

Kinjal
did not share in her smile. "The English consider him dangerous for other
reasons. I consider him dangerous for . . .
you."
Her unmistakable
sincerity washed away Olivia's smile. "You cannot conceive of the lengths
Jai went to so that you could be here this weekend."

Olivia
flushed. "And that is a matter for . . . fear?"

"You
must understand, Olivia, that Jai is very dear to me." Suddenly there was
even more concern in her tone. "Nothing I say to you is a disloyalty to
him for he knows my views. In Jai's life there have been endless women. He has
treated them with scant respect and has used them only for physical
gratification." She peered anxiously into Olivia's eyes. "Am I
embarrassing you?" Olivia shook her head even though her cheeks felt warm.
"In a way I do not blame Jai. He is rich, good-looking and visibly virile
so the women flock to him like bees to a honey pot."

"Like
Sujata?" She had not meant to ask, for there was something humiliating
about her nagging interest in the woman.

"You
have met Sujata?" Kinjal exclaimed in astonishment.

"Once."
Unable to withdraw the question, Olivia fumbled through a hasty explanation of
the circumstances, then inexplicably committed another unwanted indiscretion.
"Is he not in love with Sujata?"

Listening
not so much to the words but to the impulse that had prompted the inquiry,
Kinjal turned melancholy. "Love is an emotion with which Jai is
unfamiliar," she said sadly. "He neither understands it nor accepts
it in his vocabulary. No, he is not in love with Sujata or with any other
woman." She paused as if to underline the significance of her forthcoming
words. "Nor, perhaps, can he ever be."

This
then, these final six words, were the crux!

They
dropped one by one onto Olivia's ears but penetrated her consciousness only
superficially. He did not love Sujata! For the moment nothing else that Kinjal
had said made any resounding impact. The haunting image of that swift moment of
intimacy that had been gnawing away at Olivia's inner mind receded. Now she
thought only of another vision, equally haunting, when she had lain in the
howdah pressed to his chest, when warmth from his breath had fanned her cheek,
when she had glimpsed something in his eyes as nebulous as a passing cloud.
Making a circle of her arms, she hugged her knees but kept her face averted so
that Kinjal could not observe her contented expression.