The Temple Dancer (5 page)

"Watch out for him, niece, he's a charmer of the old school," her uncle
laughed.

"But, Uncle, you haven't said his name," Lucinda said.

"Jebtha Albuquerque Da Gama at your service, Lucy," the man said,
lifting his bowed head. "Or should I now say, Senhorita Dasana?" He took
her hand in his sun-browned fist and kissed it with a tenderness she had
not expected.

"I'd be pleased if you'd still call me Lucy," Lucinda said, surprising
herself.

"Good, good," her uncle said, as if wanting to be on with business.
"Well, now you've all met, and I daresay you'll know each other better by
the end of the trip. But I forget-you can't manage to be ready in time?
Wasn't that what you came to tell me?"

"Me? No, Tio Carlos! I'll be ready, of course! In fact, I must be going.
So nice to meet you all!" Da Gama kissed his fingers in a wave as she left,
but the Muslim, Captain Pathan, just stared at her, his lips pursed like he'd
bitten something sour.

On the eve of their departure, Carlos Dasana set a feast. Lucinda sat at the
end of the table as hostess. As usual, Dasana's secretary, Carvallo, sat to her
right, next to his fat wife, Maria, who had painted her face with oil and lead
oxide. Arsenico could only do so much to improve the complexion, and
past a certain point lead was needed, for it not only whitened the face, but
was thick enough to fill the pits and gaps of age. Supposedly. Why doesn't
she do something about her hair then, thought Lucinda-use a lead comb,
at least, to darken the gray.

On her left sat the soldado she'd met a few days before, Da Gama, the
adventurer who said he'd known her parents. He'd had a bath and a shave,
and his queue was oiled and tied in a bow, but despite his clothing, which
was proper, and his manners, which were pleasant, he looked out of place
amid the china and crystal. He seemed almost to be seated in a taverna, as
though the blown-glass goblet in his leathery hand were a metal tankard
and the tiny roasted pigeon on his gilded plate were a haunch of boar.

At the other end of the table Tio Carlos sat next to Geraldo, who had the
polished look of a man freshly barbered. From time to time he glanced Lucinda's way, arching an eyebrow or tilting his head as if to say-you and I, we understand, we two. Every time he did this, Lucinda gave a little start and
forced herself to look elsewhere. It was as though he could see into her heart.

The party might have been perfect except for the last guest, who sat
across from Geraldo, the Muslim captain Pathan. He perched uncomfortably on his chair, his head held higher than the others. Such a conceited
man, Lucinda thought. He drank only water, frowning as the wine flowed
freely at the table, and he seemed especially disturbed whenever Lucinda
raised the wineglass to her lips. Why should I care what you think, Lucinda thought, glaring at him. Even so she watched in fascination while he
ate, using only his fingers, but with more delicacy and refinement than
some of the men who struggled with their forks.

"Senhor Dasana says that you're still worried about the arrangements,"
Carvallo said to Da Gama, talking past Lucinda.

"I'd prefer to be taking Portuguese soldados."

"You won't need them. This is Hindustan, Da Gama-baksheesh means
more than arms. You of all people should know that. Bribes are so much
more effective than guns, particularly these days. Besides, the burak has four
or five men with him."

"We should send our own men, and not rely on Muslims," Da Gama
scowled.

"Well, you've got Geraldo. And you, of course, the great Deoga himself. Isn't that sufficient?"

Man-talk, Lucinda thought with a sigh. She took a long drink of wine
and glanced at Pathan, realizing that he'd said not a word all evening. As if
sensing her gaze, he looked back at her, and she saw his frown as he
watched her drink. Smiling at him, she held out her goblet for a refill.

Suddenly she realized that the men were talking about Pathan.

"I don't understand why you're so concerned, Da Gama," Carvallo
said. He seemed to be goading Da Gama.

"Because he's their best burak. They wouldn't have sent him unless
they thought there'd be trouble."

Carvallo was about to speak. Then he thought better of it and dabbed
his lips with a napkin. "And that's why we sent for you, sir. Aren't you
supposed to be the best as well?"

"Maybe." Da Gama shook his head. "Maybe I'm not the best, just the
last. Everyone else is gone, or dead."

"Gone where?" Lucinda said cheerily. This conversation was getting
very dreary.

"Gone to Lisbon, Lucy," Da Gama answered. "Or to Macao, some of
them. We're just handing Hindustan to the Dutch."

"Oh, Hindustan is so tiresome. I wonder what Macao is like?" Of
course the men then began to tell her, and she nodded and laughed and
shook her curls as though she cared. But her attention was suddenly
brought back when Carvallo and Da Gama began whispering about Geraldo. Trying to be discreet, she listened hard.

"So Carlos paid off his Macao debts?" the soldado asked.

Carvallo, the perfect secretary, merely shrugged. "You'd be amazed if I
told you what he owed. And he's run up more in Goa, if you can believe it,
just in the few days he's been here."

Da Gama took a long pull of wine. "I remember being young," he said,
smiling at Lucinda, who pretended to be uninterested. "What about his
family?" Da Gama asked, but something in his manner made Lucinda
wonder if he didn't already know.

"A bad lot, for the most part. They left him little, and what he had is
gone, I expect."

"Well, it doesn't pay to be his relative, I can tell you that much," Da
Gama said, leaning forward. "He's bad luck. People die around him. In
Lisbon, three of his cousins died in one month." Carvallo raised an eyebrow, and Da Gama tilted his head for emphasis. "That man he killed in
Macao was his great-uncle."

"But I heard he was a young man."

Da Gama leaned back, took a drink of wine and shrugged. "A distant
relative. It's complicated. Genealogy's a hobby of mine."

This caught Lucinda's attention. "Why is that, senhor?"

Da Gama smiled and shook his head sheepishly. "Because of my name,
Lucy. I had hopes, don't you know. I dreamed that I was related to Vasco
Da Gama. I hoped I was a missing heir and unspeakably rich."

"And?"

"And I'm not," Da Gama said with dancing eyes. "I have the same
name, Lucy, but a different family entirely. Related to the Dasanas, in fact.
So while it is my good fortune to be your cousin, sadly, I must work for a
living."

"Master Carlos plans to bring the boy into the business," Carvallo said after a pause, staring at Da Gama as if studying his reaction. "He'll stay in
Bijapur and work with Master Victorio."

A darkness fell across the soldado's face. "Tell him to watch his back,"
he said at last.

Whose back? Lucinda wondered. But just then Tio Carlos raised his
glass. Servants scurried to fill the goblets of the others while Pathan glowered. "Tomorrow, you leave for Bijapur. May the Blessed Virgin grant a
pleasant journey to you all!"

"Long life and health to you, Tio Carlos," Geraldo answered, clinking
his uncle's glass. Around the table all lifted their goblets and mumbled
agreement.

All but Pathan, who stared fiercely at his water glass and scowled.

That night Tio Carlos came down with a flux so terrible that a doctor was
summoned, and later a priest. Lucinda heard the commotion and hurried
to her uncle's room, but Carvallo assured her that she could do nothing.
She saw Geraldo seated in a corner by the door, his face in turmoil. "He's
shown such kindness to a poor orphan. What am I to do if he should die?"
he said. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He grasped it, and lifted it to his
cheek and then kissed it before looking away, his dark eyes brimming with
tears.

By morning the household was in an uproar. Pathan had brought the
caravan to the door at dawn, as originally planned. Of course an argument
had started in the hallway, for the servants had decided on their own that
the master was dying and the journey was off. "You must do something,
bebe," Helene told her as Lucinda dressed.

Lucinda threw on a painted linen dressing gown as she looked through
the window. Muslim horsemen stood in the street, along with several bullock
carts. But they were dwarfed by a great bull elephant with banded tusks, his
gilded headdress glittering in the morning sun. The curtained howdah on the
elephant's back came up nearly to her window. It looked like a miniature
house: its curved green roof held up by red lacquered uprights, its carvings
gilded with gold leaf, its platform flowing in silks and edged by a railing of
polished brass.

"What's all the fuss?" she said as she came down the narrow staircase.

"Ah, Mistress Dasana," Carvallo said. "Your Hindi is much better than
mine. Explain to this numbskull that your uncle is sick and the departure
must be postponed."

Lucinda felt small as she walked toward the burak. Pathan's robes were
crisp and his sword hilt sparkled. His face, always dour, seemed to burn with
resentment. She took a deep breath and stood as tall as she could. "Captain
Pathan," she said in Hindi, "what Senhor Carvallo is trying to say ..."

"I understand completely, madam," Pathan answered, his voice much
softer and gentler than she expected. "But what can I do, I ask you? I have
a duty to perform, do you see? If I succeed or if I fail, I care not. But I am
told to leave today and duty compels me to try. Please forgive me if I disturb the peace of this house."

"What does he say?" Carvallo demanded, but for the moment Lucinda
ignored him.

"Then you understand, Captain, that my uncle is near death, and we
must postpone ..."

"I understand nothing of the sort, madam. My men checked with the
servants; they tell me that your uncle has much improved."

Lucinda looked at Pathan's steady gaze and found herself irritated
once more by his smug demeanor. She was about to argue, but instead
turned to Carvallo. "What is Tio Carlos's condition?" she asked in Portuguese.

Carvallo bowed, "Much better, senhorita."

"Then why do we postpone?"

Carvallo seemed taken aback. "It does not appear seemly, senhorita . .

"Has anyone asked your uncle's wishes, madam?" Pathan asked quietly
in Hindi.

Now it was Lucinda's turn to be surprised. "I will do this," she answered. With a glance to Carvallo that she hoped would indicate her command of the situation, she burst inside and hurried upstairs.

She found Geraldo sleeping in a chair by her uncle's door. "He's been
there all night," the valet, Adolfo, told her as he led Lucinda inside.

"Come in, niece," Carlos said. The wave of his hand seemed to take all
his strength. His face was pale from being bled, but his eyes were bright
and he beamed at her with love.

She explained the situation. "The caravan must leave at once," he told
her. "Things are not good, and I fear any delay."

"Yes, Uncle," Lucinda answered, placing her hand on his. His skin felt
thin, cool and slightly damp. He'd been cleaned, and his hair combed back,
but even so a smell of vomit and feces hovered in the air. "We'll go then as
you say.

"Wait," Carlos said placing his other hand on hers. She saw the white
bandage on his forearm covering the wound where the doctor had bled
him. "They thought I was dying last night. They said it was poison. Bah.
Too much wine for an old man, that's all. But when the priest placed the
chrism on my forehead, do you know what I thought?"

Lucinda hid her surprise. No one had told her about the priest. "What,
Uncle?"

"Not about my sins or the Virgin. No, I thought about you." A tear glistened on his cheek. "You're so perfect, Lucy. So pure. Family is everything. I
see that now more clearly than ever. You're all I've got now, dear one."

"And Geraldo, Uncle."

"What?" Carlos said, blinking as if he'd been asleep.