Flowers in the Blood (31 page)

“That will be all, Gulliver,” I said, dismissing him.

In the late afternoon, the winds whipped up once more. Accompanying them were claps of thunder that reverberated across the ravines and echoed off the cliffs in eerie volleys of dwindling booms. Anxiously awaiting Silas' return, I called for Gulliver and ordered an elaborate tea to be readied. “Certainly, memsahib,” he said, bowing.

I did not want him to leave yet. “Gulliver, what is your given name?”

He blinked, then replied, “Jetha.”

“And what is Lucretia's?”

“Namgal.”

“Jetha,” I repeated. “Namgal.” I liked the way they felt on my tongue far better than Silas' affectations. I wondered what Euclid's real name was, but sent Gulliver away without asking.

The rest of the afternoon passed without a sign from Silas. At last, only moments before darkness fell, he rode up to the gate in the tonga. I opened the door for him myself. Gulliver stepped forward to close it, then took my husband's cloak.

“Bring the tea at once, Gulliver.”

Even in the murky light I could see his pallor. The skin under his eyes was gray. His mouth was drawn into a tight line that puckered his mustache into a terrible grimace. Only once before, when he had been in the throes of his headache, had he looked so miserable. I knew something terrible had happened to Euclid—and though it pains me to admit this, I could not help feel relief that the disagreeable little man was out of my life.

“Here, drink this,” I said, serving Silas a cup of tea and adding a chota peg of brandy without asking if he wanted any. He clasped the cup with a wooden gesture. I poured myself the same, but with a burra peg to fortify me for whatever was about to come.

I waited for him to gather his strength, which at that moment was a feat of great restraint. As a lightning bolt struck close to the house, its sharp flare flashed through the cracks in the wood battens and illuminated the bolts carved above the windows. Next came the thundering crescendos, each one stopping my heart.

“Darjeeling deserves its name,” I managed between the bursts. Seeing my distress, Silas finally spoke. “Don't be afraid, Dinah. There are always storms like this at the start of the cold weather. They clear the air, and though the temperatures fall, the views are splendid and the climate is exceedingly healthy.”

“I have never feared natural phenomena,” I replied firmly. “My concerns are for you. Something awful has happened.”

“Yes, Dinah.” His voice broke. Almost a minute passed before he could begin again. “Euclid—he . . .”

“Is he dead?”

“No, thank God, no!”

I hoped he took my shocked expression as confusion, not disappointment. “What happened?”

“He tried to kill himself.”

“How? Why?”

He shook his head. “So much to explain . . . Dinah, please forgive me. If I had known the consequences, if I had known any of this could have happened, I would never have . . .” He trembled so violently I darted for his cup and placed it on a table.

Looking around, I saw Gulliver standing ramrod straight in the shadows. Lucretia was at her post by my doorway. “Could we talk about this in your room?”

Silas did not protest as I led him by the arm. I glanced over my shoulder as a warning for the servants to leave us in peace. Silas propped himself up on his bed. I brought a chair to the edge, but he took my hand and pulled me to his side. Leaning back on the fur pillows, we both stared across the blank boarded wall, which flickered with the eerie reflections of the one lit lamp.

After a long while he spoke in a singsong voice that assisted his untidy confession to roll off his lips. “I met Euclid when he was a boy of fifteen. Ever since I can remember, since I was a schoolboy, I found that I preferred the company of men. When I was in England, I met other like-minded friends who helped me to see there were many who felt as I did. I dreaded the moment when I would have to come back out to India, especially to the closed society of the Jewish community, where they would never tolerate my difference. The first year I lived under my father's roof again was a terrible strain. We fought most of the time. I do not think he discovered my secret, but he guessed I was not like the others and blamed my education for giving me lofty, elitist ideas.” He closed his eyes. “It was then I knew I would have to live on my own and thought of building a house near Tiger Hill.” His face firmed into an impenetrable shield.

Ignoring the fact I was unclean, I stroked his cheek, much as he often had done to mine. This act of tenderness crumbled his shell. He gasped and blurted, “When I met Euclid, I found happiness in India for the first time. He was a gentle, sweet boy who looked up at me as if I were a prince. I encouraged his studies and invited him to live in our home. My father never liked him. He thought Euclid was only using me to further himself. And then . . . then . . .” He turned toward me, sobbing.

Perhaps I should have been thinking how this affected me, but I was so lost in his pain that I worried only if. I had the means to comfort him. “Silas, Silas, please do not cry. Please, I only want to know the truth . . .”

“Then, he discovered me . . . with Euclid.”

“Who did?”

“M-my father.”

That explained the estrangement between Maurice and his son. The long silence was punctuated by the sudden torrent of rain that drilled on the roof. I took his hand in mine. “So you built this house and came here to live with Euclid.”

“Yes.”

“And you were happy together for many years.”

“Yes.”

“He was your assistant, your confidant, your closest friend—but never your babu.” I gave a weak laugh, showing that I had understood his warning not to use the title of “clerk” with his friend.

“How wonderfully understanding you are.”

I understand nothing!
I wanted to scream, but all I said was, “So, that is why Euclid resented me. I did not realize he was jealous, but now everything makes more sense, except. . .”

Silas filled in. “Why he left and why he—”

“What did he do?” I interrupted. “And will he recover?”

“Belladonna and ground glass, a common rat poison. The symptoms began much like dysentery. He told the family he was staying with—an old professor from school—that he was having stomach troubles, and they left him alone. When the storm began, a servant sent to close the shutters found that Euclid had fallen into a stupor. If the doctor had not come at once, if he had not treated a child who had mistakenly tasted the same poison only weeks before . . .”

“And now?”

“The doctor is unsure of the damage caused by the glass—bleeding continues internally—but the effects of the belladonna have been counteracted.”

“Then he is not out of danger.”

“They think he will survive, but he might have done some permanent damage.”

“All because of me.”

“No, not you. You are entirely innocent. Everything is my fault. I was crazy to believe I could work out something that would satisfy everyone. I did not want anything to change between Euclid and me. Through the ages, other men have managed to have families as well as their male friends. I thought that if I lived more normally, Euclid and I could preserve our way of life forever. And it might have worked out that way, if he had not been so demanding, wanting me to himself, expecting me to ignore you. Euclid's own selfish stupidity led to this crisis!” Silas stopped himself. “No,
my
selfish stupidity. How could I have believed I could balance everything? Worse, I deceived you from the first.”

As he spoke, I was devastated by a confusing galaxy of feelings, as though a mirror had broken and I was gazing into thousands of reflective fragments of my life. I understood everything. I understood nothing. Yet underneath the layer of distress ran a river of relief. The trepidation I had felt since the first day in Calcutta, when I had thought Silas had found me repulsive, the apprehension that had festered during the first days of our marriage, when he had not approached me, and had culminated in our unsatisfactory intimate encounters, when I was certain he found me undesirable, were melting in the glare of his confession.

“Why did you choose me?”

“I always had wanted a wife, a wife who would prove my normalcy to the outside world. I even believed I wanted children. And you seemed the perfect choice. Most Calcutta girls would not have been happy in Darjeeling, let alone on this godforsaken hill. The remoteness frightened any my father approached on my behalf. One or two candidates became available, but I rejected them as unsuitable, as they lacked any education. I knew that if I were to tolerate a woman's presence, I would have to meet my intellectual equal. When I heard about you, I became enthusiastic. I thought: Here is a possibility! You were the most brilliant woman I had ever heard about. And, as my father so shrewdly saw, you had good reason to want to leave Calcutta, and also to be content at Xanadu Lodge. He said, 'She will be grateful for a man like you and will turn a blind eye to your . . . your faults.' “

“You assumed I would accept Euclid, and you required Euclid to accept me!”

“No. It was my intention you should never know about Euclid. I believed we could be discreet. Nothing worked out as I had imagined. Since meeting you, I honestly had begun to lose interest in Euclid. You kept me enthralled—you were so curious, so humorous, so pleasant to be with. I was beginning to feel very close to you, and Euclid sensed this. I explained it was only right that I devote myself to you for the first few months. I told him I would approach you slowly, try to make you my friend before making you my wife. The moment he supposed I was attempting to meet my marital obligations, he went crazy with jealousy. We fought. He left the house, saying he was returning home to Bhutan, but going only as far as the town. Then he badgered me with messages, begging me to join him for a few hours. I refused, out of loyalty to you. And, so he took a drastic course.”

“Now what shall you do about him?”

“What can I do?”

“Bring him back here?” I offered without sincerity.

“Impossible, now that you know.”

“I agree. Unless . . . I went away.”

“Where would you go?”

Where could I go?

Silas sat upright and swung around to face me. With the lamp behind his head, he loomed like a blank, expressionless ghost. “I want you to stay with me.”

My face was illuminated; thus he must have seen the cost to me written in my eyes as I spoke my version of the truth. “No, you are only saying that because you feel duty-bound. I cannot be what you want. I am a woman. You never wanted a woman, did you?”

“I was not certain. Believe me, Dinah, I did not know if I did. I prayed I would find you appealing. After ten years of looking—oh, forgive me for saying this now—but I thought I could be attracted to you because your body is not too encumbered with curves. I liked touching you, being with you. And it might have worked if Euclid's questions and threats had not infected me. Every time we were alone together, he grilled me about what had occurred. He warned me it would never work, that I could never make love to a woman. No matter how I tried to shake his predictions, they loomed in my mind, rendering me unfit. But, Dinah, if this terrible accident had not happened, if he had left me in peace, I think we could have come together as man and wife. With your kindness, I would have overcome my . . . my difficulties.” In the long pause, he swallowed audibly. “We could still try again—”

“No.” I. moved to the far edge of the bed. “I suspected something was the matter. I thought it was my fault, and some of it was. Still, out of ignorance I persisted. Now that I know, I would rather have no man than one who comes to me with a natural aversion.”

“You do not understand. I am committed to you, tonight more than ever before. I want to find a way to earn your forgiveness and make you content. Your situation was not good when we met, and I admit it is not greatly improved now, but with me at your side you can have far more than you could alone. If you want, we both can forget the physical side of marriage. You can have me, to lean on, and have your freedom besides. I admit it was thoughtless and selfish to marry you, but you must believe me when I say there was never any concern for your dowry. It is inviolate. Everything else I own or will possess is at your disposal, so you may live the life of your choosing. Can't you see that if we remain together, we both may lead a life of dignity? I would treat you like an honored sister. You would have more freedom than any other married woman—or any single woman—and if a child should ensue, I would claim it as my own.”

I was too stunned to respond. I felt as though I were caught in a cage. The options were merely keys dangling on an unreachable hook. We were married—for life—and I would have to tolerate his terms and learn to live with them. His offer was more than generous, yet a prison of gold is as permanent as one of iron.

After a long silence, he began to speak in an entirely different manner. It was as though a new person had walked into the room and taken his place. “When I was younger, I went on summer treks to the barren wastes, where the green line of trees ends, but before the snows begin. Up there, in the last high place that men may walk on this earth, huge boulders the size of houses—like the marbles of giants— litter the landscape.” His voice took on the compelling timbre of a master storyteller. For a moment I was able to forget my torment and listen.

“During the day, the rocks are so close to the sun they heat to fiery temperatures. Then at night, when the peaks spill cold air into the ravines, they explode, as if they were eggs dropped from the sky.” His final mysterious words hung in the air. What did he mean?

At last he explained. “Even the hardest granite will be crushed by extremes: too much heat, too much cold—the love for a man, the love for a woman.” Silas leaned back with his eyes closed and spoke very slowly. “To survive, I must choose one over another. Now. So I will make another promise: I will never, no matter what he says or does, see Euclid again.”

A searing pain, as though I had drawn it like a lightning shaft, shot from his heart to mine. Just then I loved Silas as one loves someone who has leapt through a ring of fire to save her. Just then I also knew the hopelessness of our position and that his sacrifice was unendurable.