The Sandalwood Tree (21 page)

“Yes, very nice.” I dried my hands and edged toward the living room.

“And, excuse for saying, but madam’s hair is being too short.”

“I’ll let it grow.” I headed for the verandah, licking the sticky wax off my lips. I called out, “Make a pot of masala chai, OK? The landlord is coming.”

Rashmi launched herself into the living room and headed me off at the door. She made a couple of rough swipes at my lips with her thumb, saying, “Not for him this is. For sir only.”

“Of course.” I took the dishcloth from her and wiped my lips. “Now will you please make tea?”

She retreated, mumbling in Hindi; I didn’t understand the words, but the indignant tone came through loud and clear. In her world, men did not come alone to visit married ladies in the middle of the day.

I sat in the wicker rocker and checked my watch. I had dreaded this encounter when I wrote the invitation, but that morning I was glad for something to take my mind off Martin.

At exactly eleven, a black Mercedes pulled up and a chauffeur got out and opened the back door. Our landlord, Mr. Singh, always wore well-tailored Western suits, and his turban always matched his tie. That day, he wore a gray silk suit and a slate-blue turban and tie. He mounted my front steps—his steps, actually—and strolled across the verandah with an air of ownership.

Our landlord had the manner of an English aristocrat and the reputation of a cagey businessman, the type Chicagoans called a shark. I did not expect him to throw us out on the street, but he could set whatever interest and penalties he liked, and we might come up short even after Martin’s paycheck arrived.

I considered inviting him in and serving tea in the living room, but he might notice the missing pillow, and if he asked to use the bathroom, he’d see the orange stain on the tiled floor. None of that would put him in a generous mood. I felt like a hun who had laid waste to his pristine dollhouse, and I reminded myself that at least it wasn’t I who had gnawed those teeth marks in the wooden arm of the brocade chair.

He put out his hand and his white smile dazzled against his caramel skin. I had the passing thought that he might use neem twigs to brush his teeth, but that was ridiculous; neem twigs were for peasants, and this wealthy man was as European as he was Indian. As I shook his hand, he made a small, efficient bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell.” His British English had no Indian lilt.

“Thank you for coming.” I gestured at the wicker chairs.

“My pleasure.” He took one of the faded chairs and sat as if his
entire body was freshly starched; he flicked an invisible piece of lint off razor-creased trousers, and I called for the tea. In the history of the world, there has never been a negotiation in India without tea.

Rashmi brought it out, looking put upon and suspicious as she set the tray on the small table between the wicker chairs. After she had poured, she walked away, trying to catch my eye and shaking her head. The landlord picked up his cup and inhaled the fragrant steam. He took a sip and said, “Very nice, Mrs. Mitchell.” He put his cup down without a sound. “Now, how can I be of service?”

Where to start? I said, “Perhaps you heard that our little boy went missing.”

“I did. And I was relieved to hear that he is safe.”

“Yes, but, you see, we paid out quite a lot of money for … we paid people to help us find him.”

“You paid baksheesh, Mrs. Mitchell. I know how things work.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid, we can’t pay the rent. I hoped we might come to an arrangement. Something that would be fair to everyone.”

His face clouded. “It would be a fine thing if life was fair, wouldn’t it?”

I sat forward. “Mr. Singh, surely you understand that we intend to pay. Haven’t we always? I’m only asking that you waive any penalties and set a reasonable rate of interest. We live on a budget.”

He held up a manicured hand. “Mrs. Mitchell, you misunderstand. I would never charge you penalties or interest. It saddened me to hear about your little boy.”

“Oh.” I sat back. “Well, that’s generous of you.”

He raised his teacup. “It’s nothing, I assure you.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Something felt stuck in my throat, but it would have been mortifying to cry in front of that polished man. I took a swallow of tea to wash down the obstruction. Still, my voice came out strained. “I expected you to be angry. Lately, people are so angry.”

He nodded. “It’s an anxious time—bad decisions and worse behavior. As the British depart, we should be trying to get along.”

“You don’t favor Partition?”

He shook his head solemnly. “I think it’s quite unfortunate.” He brushed more nonexistent lint off his trousers. “My beloved grandfather was my first mentor, and he would have been sorely distressed by Partition. He, too, would never have penalized you for your misfortune. In memory of my grandfather, I will not trouble you for the rent until you find it convenient.”

“My goodness.” I wanted to tell Martin, and then remembered—I couldn’t.

For a week, the ghost of Elsa made us walk around each other as if avoiding some contagion; it hung in the air like a bad smell that neither of us acknowledged. Martin left every morning before I woke and came home to spend half an hour with Billy before he went to the Club for dinner. He said he couldn’t take Habib’s cooking anymore, but we both knew he was having trouble looking at me. When he returned, always late, he fumbled off his clothes and collapsed into our white bed smelling of whiskey. I pretended to sleep and kept my back to him. I wanted to turn and say, “I still love you.” But the memory of that woman and her little boy kept me quiet. He was Martin, and he was good, and I did still love him, but I couldn’t rid myself of the images of her he’d given me—standing in her bakery wrapping a loaf of rye bread and, later, reaching out to him.

One morning, after he left, I sat up in bed and said, “No.”

If it was a mistake for Martin to let that moment ruin his life, then it was a mistake for me as well, and if I had to lose Martin, it wouldn’t be without a fight. We couldn’t simply talk—words couldn’t get past his guilt—but I could
show
him I still loved him. I had to make a grand gesture that would shock Martin out of his dark place.

That afternoon, I left Billy with Rashmi—who now never let him out of her sight—and I took a tonga to the Lakkar bazaar. I never took my camera with me anymore—India simply could not be squeezed into my viewfinder—but I had begun keeping a journal. I made my way to the tent of the henna artist, and my heart banged against my ribs as I pushed aside the flap and entered the dim, perfumed interior. The henna artist, a woman in a sari the blush-color of passion fruit, put her hands together and bowed, “Namaste, memsahib.”

I put my hands together. “Namaste.” I took a shaky breath. “I’d like a henna tattoo.”

She looked me up and down, then asked, “Hands or feet?”

“Here.” I laid my hands over my breasts and belly. The woman stared at me for a moment, and then she smiled. “Of course, memsahib.”

I undressed down to my panties and lay on the white sheet she spread on the ground, and she laid another sheet over my body. She disappeared behind a beaded curtain to mix powders and paints while I lay, listening to the bustle of the bazaar outside the tent, thinking how strange it was to lie there, almost nude, with only a piece of canvas between me and thousands of people hurrying by, talking, laughing, buying, selling. This feeling was foreign to me, and the henna on my body would be even more foreign, but it felt right. Martin would not be able to ignore this. The lines from Rumi came back to me.

You can’t quit drinking the earth’s dark drink?
But how can you not drink from this other fountain?

The henna artist came out carrying a small black-bellied pot filled with thick red mush covered with a metallic sheen. I lay still, feeling the tickle of a fine-tipped brush adorning me with vines and flowers. She turned my body into a lush jungle that bloomed over my breasts, twined down to my navel, and spread across my belly, a
tale of the ties that bind and how difficult it can be to locate beginnings and ends.

After the henna artist finished, she told me to lie still for an hour while the paint dried. I lay on the ground, waiting, feeling my heartbeat in the hollow spot at the base of my neck. A certainty came to me then that we would be all right; I would do this for him, only him, to show him that I could forgive him; that he was, in fact, forgivable.

That night, I waited in bed for Martin to return from the Club. When he climbed in beside me, I reached for him and said, “We have to stop this.” He went still, and I whispered, “I forgive you. I still love you.”

He said, “I can’t forgive myself.”

“I’ll help you.” I slipped my nightgown off my shoulders. “Look at me.”

He made a hoarse, choking sound. “Evie, what have you done?”

I laid my hands over my breasts and my stomach. “This is us, Martin. Intertwined. Still. Always.”

“Jesus.” His voice was husky.

I said, “Touch me.”

He placed his fingertip in the hollow at the base of my neck and let it rest there while he took in the design on my body. Then took his hand away and said, “Cover yourself.”

“What?”

He pulled my nightgown up over my breasts and shoulders, gently pushing me away at the same time, and humiliation, sharp as a broken bone, forced a strangled cry out of me.

Martin said, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He got out of our bed, knocking Rashmi’s marigold mala off the bedpost in his haste, and in his hurry to pull on his pants and leave me there, he stepped on it.

Early the next morning I found him on the sofa, awake, staring at the ceiling. He said, “I had a wonderful dream.”

His happiness made me instantly angry. I said, “Good for you.” I turned away, but he grabbed the hem of my nightgown, and I stopped with my back to him.

“Evie, please.”

I peered over my shoulder; his face was wide open, like a child wanting answers. He said, “I don’t remember all of it, but there was light, so much light, and I was playing the piano, and I felt … this is corny, but … I felt bliss.”

“Bliss.” I remembered the crushed mala still lying on the bedroom floor, my scathing humiliation and the henna tattoo, fresh and vivid on my pale skin. I’d have to live with it for months. I said, “I’m happy for you.” I yanked my nightgown away from him and went into the kitchen to make coffee.