The Sandalwood Tree (14 page)

He murmured, “Pragpur at the full moon?”

“Yes. It is December tenth by my calendar.”

He leaned across the table and his voice became husky. “It will be cold, and you must bring warm clothing. But in spite of the chill, I suggest that on the first night, you forego having a fire.” His expression was blank but a bit tense, she thought. Or was that only her? He said, “All the better to enjoy the moonlight on the mountains.”

“And how far is this hotel from your silk plantation?”

“About six hours on horseback.”

“That’s a long ride.”

“No, madam. It is nothing.”

Like the Club in Simla, the hotel in Pragpur had been decorated in the Indo-European style. Kashmiri rugs covered polished teak floors, Indian screens stood behind chintz sofas, and stuffed animal heads stared down from the walls with glass eyes. The ground floor offered a high-ceilinged dining room, and a sweeping stairway led up to the bedrooms.

Porters carried in Felicity’s luggage while she waited in front of
an abandoned reception desk. After putting down one of her cases, a porter hurried behind the desk and smiled—the reduced winter staff doing double duty. He said, “Unexpected you are coming, memsahib. Christmas, neh?” He rocked his head from side to side.

She said, “I trust you have a room available.”

“Yes, memsahib. All rooms are being available.”

“I would like a room facing the mountains to the east, please.”

“Yes, memsahib.”

“And I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, memsahib. Only one servant will be laying the fire, isn’t it?”

“No fire.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It is cold.”

“No fire.”

“Yes, memsahib.”

“But please draw a hot bath for me after dinner.”

“Yes, memsahib.”

In the dining room, she pushed curried lamb and rice around her plate, trying to give the impression that she was eating, and then climbed the wide, curved staircase to her room. In typical colonial fashion, the bedroom and bathroom were large, with high ceilings and wide teak molding. The bed, piled with quilts, faced a cold fireplace; an oak almirah stood in one corner and a wingback chair in another. In the white tile bathroom, a cast-iron claw-foot tub full of steaming water waited, tendrils of steam rising in the chill air.

She bathed slowly, squeezing the sponge to watch rivulets of water run down her arms and sheet her breasts. When the tremulous voice of a muezzin snaked into the room, she lay back and listened, then she took a deep breath and slid under the water, her hair floating on the surface like a tentacled sea creature. She stayed under as long as she could and came up smiling.

She dried herself with care, as if she would never touch that body again. She wondered what she would feel like in the morning, whether her transformation would show. She towel-dried her hair and pinned it loosely.

The porters had unpacked while she dined, and she stood in front of the open almirah deciding what to wear—the pretty pink taffeta or her pale lavender sari. Who would she be? She settled on the sari. She slipped on the tight little blouse and tied the simple petticoat beneath her navel. Then she gathered up the opulent fabric, yards and yards of shimmering silk with a wide silver border, and wound it around her body. She carefully made her pleats and draped the sari over her shoulder. It seemed to take an intolerably long time.

Felicity sat in the wingback chair to wait, and after a while she found herself unable to draw a full breath. With no corset to loosen and her breathing becoming shallow, she went out on the balcony with a cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The brisk air shocked her lungs into a deep breath, and she watched the full moon rise over the mountains. Ghostly light laid blue shadows on the white peaks while Indian ragas and coils of smoke rose up from the godowns. As always, the air smelled charred.

With the full moon well risen, she spotted a figure on horseback racing along the base of the mountains. She held up an oil lamp and watched him ride. She admired the way he sat on his horse—high and straight and in control. When he came near enough for her to hear the pounding of hoofbeats, he reined the horse in and slowed to a canter. He looked up and she moved the lamp in a small arc, and the horse reared up in salute. She blew out the lamp and shivered, then pulled the shawl tighter around herself. When she heard a whinny and snort close by, she went inside and sat on the edge of her bed with her back to the balcony.

She heard a scrabbling on the vine-covered wall outside, and she sat very still. Riding boots dropped onto her balcony, but still
she did not turn. He came in, shutting the door behind him, and crossed the room to stand before her. Under one arm he carried a carved wooden jewelry box, and moonlight flung his shadow up against the wall. They did not speak. When he opened the box, the gold hinge gave a faint creak, and for a moment nothing happened. Then a soft explosion of pale green silk moths erupted from the box and poured out into the room. Felicity gasped at the rush of flickering wings, and he said, “In this place, in this moment, we are free.”

Silk moths filled the room, fluttering and darting, casting nervous shadows on the wall. They flitted and danced in the moonlight, alighting on a bedpost, then a chair, but only for the briefest moment. The room filled with magic, but if there had been a fire, they would have flown toward the flames and been incinerated.

He stood so still that a moth alighted briefly on his shoulder. It flew off when he knelt before her to unwind his turban, and she watched thick, glossy hair fall in black ringlets around his face and onto his shoulders. They stayed like that, not touching, not speaking, and not quite smiling, while silk moths flashed around them. When he grazed his lips on her cheek, her lashes brushed his brow and he groaned. With two fingertips, he caressed the back of her neck, while his other hand slipped the lavender sari off her shoulder.

1947

I
found Billy’s makeshift bazaar ransacked, the cookies gone, and the coins lying in their place. In the kitchen, Billy sat at the table with Habib, munching cookies and drinking creamy Indian tea. Billy said, “Hi, Mom,” and Habib gave me a full smile, revealing an entire row of square, white teeth. I wondered whether my entrusting Billy to him had broken the ice. Had he distrusted me because he thought I distrusted him? Would I ever understand India? Billy pointed to the clock. “You’re late, but that’s OK. Spike is playing with Habib.”

“Well,” I said, “how about that.”

The kitchen was redolent of coriander and, while Habib packed up his basket, I peeked into the pot he’d left on the stove and saw big juicy chunks of eggplant in the curry. I said, “Oh, I love eggplant.”

Habib shocked me by saying, “Eggplants are being the king of vegetables, isn’t it?”

“You speak English?”

“Eggplants are being good for the senses, madam. I am wishing health for you and sir.”

I was dumbstruck. “You speak English,” I repeated.

“Good day, madam. Namaste, chota sahib.”

I looked at Billy. “He speaks English.”

Billy shrugged and said, “Namaste, Habib.”

As Habib opened the back door to leave, I had a flashback to the burning car in Simla, the bamboo sticks rising and falling. I said, “Habib!”

He turned with his hand on the door. “Madam?”

“You live in Masoorla, don’t you?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You’re not going into Simla today, are you?”

His eyes questioned me. “No, madam. You are needing something?”

“No. Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He left without another word, and Billy said, “We’re glad you’re home, Mom. Can you read us a story?”

I could almost hear the stolen pages in my purse clamoring to be read, but … that cherubic face was irresistible. “Sure, BoBo.”

We had just finished reading
The Little Engine That Could
when Martin came home early. The sight of him irritated me immediately, because I wanted to tell him what I’d seen in Simla and couldn’t. I’d lost my best friend and I missed him like fire.

I went through the motions of an ordinary evening—Billy’s dinner of ginger chicken soup with Indian plums and buttermilk, then bath time, pajamas, and an Irish lullaby.

Martin and I sat down to the mustard-colored curry, surprisingly mild, and Martin said, “There was an incident in Simla today.”

My fork stalled briefly. “Oh?”

“A mob set a car on fire and beat the driver to a pulp.”

It all came back: the fireball, the smell of smoke, the blood-spattered sticks, the angry faces. I said, “Why did they do it?”

Martin shrugged. “No one’s talking. According to the locals, no one saw anything.” He shook his head. “Whatever the guy did, I suspect his real offense was being Muslim when he did it.”

“You don’t know that.”

He tilted his head at me. “An educated guess.”

I glanced at his kurta pajamas—he was wearing the whole outfit now, long tunic top and baggy pants. I said, “My educated guess is that you’re looking for trouble dressing like that.”

He looked away and said, “Let’s not go through that again.” He took another helping of curry. “This stuff isn’t bad, but it would be better without the eggplant.”

Just as well to change the subject. “Habib speaks English.”

“Great. Tell him to lay off the eggplant.”

After the dishes were washed and put away, Martin buried himself in
Crime and Punishment
, and I put a record on the turntable—“Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby.” The title had jumped out at me, and the snappy rhythm seemed to dare anyone listening not to join in or at least tap a foot. I lay on the camelback sofa, singing quietly with the exuberant Andrews Sisters while heat lightning flashed outside, but Martin never even looked up from his book. I stared at the ceiling, surprised at how easily I had lied to him. Then I wondered how he could not have seen it in my eyes. A crack of thunder rolled over the house, and I asked myself, for the first time, whether it might be better for everyone if we just got a divorce. The thought took my breath away.

The record ended and I put it away, trying to think of someone who was happily divorced—but I didn’t know anyone who was divorced, happily or otherwise. In 1947 it wasn’t done much. Dave and Rachel would be disappointed, and Da would be devastated, but they’d get over it. They’d have to. What was the point of this sham, and what would it do to Billy to grow up with parents who didn’t even speak to each other? Wouldn’t it be better to be apart and amicable than together and miserable?

Around ten o’clock, Martin and I wandered into the bedroom more or less together. I remember a goodnight peck and then, as usual, he turned his back to me.

I waited until his snoring hit the rhythmic stride of deep sleep,
then I slipped out of bed, unhooked my purse from the bedroom doorknob, and crept through the dark house with my stolen papers. It was cool by then, and I took the crocheted afghan off the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders. I didn’t want light to seep into the bedroom or even, irrationally, to be seen from outside. Guilt really can make you crazy. I took a flashlight from a kitchen drawer, sat down at the table with my cache of notes, and unfolded each sheet, careful of the fragile paper. In the narrow beam of light, I arranged the pages in chronological order, February to June. They were journal entries, and in my eagerness to read them, I didn’t stop to wonder why someone had torn them out and put them in a Bible.