The Strangler Vine, page 18
‘Remember,’ Blake muttered. ‘Do what I do. When the natives prostrate themselves, we go down on one knee and bow our heads. It’s the Company’s protocol. And whatever happens, don’t show any irritation.’
Before I could press him for further explanation, the tall doors were opened and we walked into a large hall in which brightly dressed natives, all barefoot, were pressed around the walls. We took up position just inside the doors, with a dais and low throne opposite us. Blake and I were the only Europeans, and some of the natives stared openly at us. Most, however, took no interest. The room was like nothing I had ever seen. The lower walls were painted in bands of mustard yellow and a deep forest green. Above this was a cornice of scalloped arches picked out in gold, under which the plaster was painted with twisting stalks, tendrils and blossoms. Massive studded and embossed wooden pillars supported two sides of the hall, and from the high ceiling were hung two enormous elaborate glinting chandeliers. The throne, one of those low chairs that are called gaddi, which more resemble beds, was made of embossed silver, and the seat was a plump blue silk cushion. Before it on either side were a large pair of silver lions, embossed with patterns and bearing impossibly curling tails, each holding in one paw what looked like a mace. Between them was a red velvet carpet.
‘Why are the lions there?’ I whispered to Blake.
‘The Indian princes do not prize originality. They all call themselves “Singh”, which means lion.’
After some minutes a procession of sorts began. From a curved archway to one side of the throne, two natives appeared, each beating a drum. They were followed by a portly gentleman in a large orange silk turban, processing very slowly; then by a troop of bearers holding long pikes and giant feathered fans; and then by a cluster of bejewelled native gentlemen in embroidered jamas, carrying curved tulwars in ornamented scabbards. More finely dressed men emerged slowly, these carrying long staffs, followed by more servants holding fans and giant fly-swatters. And finally, in a tableau of silk-covered soldiers, servants and officials, a slender, finely made man who sparkled and wore pointed gold slippers – the only shoes in the room – padded slowly towards the throne, making no attempt to acknowledge his audience. He did not sit on the throne, however, but on the carpet before it, between the lions. The plump native in the orange turban approached the dais, with some difficulty went on to one knee and then flattened himself on the floor. The rest of the company followed. Blake knelt and bowed his head, and I did likewise, while straining to gain a glimpse of the Rao. After a pause, he stretched out his hand and, with an air almost of exasperation, gestured for the multitude to rise.
Orange Turban got awkwardly to his feet and the audience followed. He began to address the assembly in a deep, sonorous voice. It was clear that he knew the words well and that the audience had heard them before, for no one was very attentive. The speech went on for some time, and I took to studying our circumstances. Orange Turban I guessed must be the Grand Vizier or some such. He wore a heavy gold necklace over his thickly embroidered robe. He spoke with great earnestness, and made large emphatic gestures. Rao Vishwanath Singh, meanwhile, was much younger and had a small, very neat upturned moustache and a short, tightly clipped beard. He wore a wide turban of a deep burgundy silk, a gold and white embroidered robe and burgundy silk pyjamas. But the jewels were the thing: he glittered from his head to his gold slippers. On his turban was a jewel shaped like a curved flame and studded with diamonds and emeralds, with a spray of pearls dangling from it. Around his neck he wore string upon string of pearls – so many one could hardly see the tiny embroidered designs of his coat. Jewels sparkled in his ears, there were rings set with rubies on his fingers, and his robe was fastened by a belt of emeralds. The body beneath all this finery was rather thin and pale, and when I took a fleeting glance at his face he appeared to be suffering the event with ill-concealed irritation.
The Grand Vizier ceased speaking, and another, taller man, with a long face and deep-set eyes ringed with grey, came forward holding a scroll and feather quill. A tall, pulpit-like table was brought for him. He began to speak. I had assumed this would be our moment, and looked to Blake attentively for a sign. Instead a burly man accompanied by a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve came and knelt before the Rao, and began to speak in an urgent manner, pointing every so often at the boy. It was clear he was gripped by a sense of grievance and expected redress. The talk went back and forth between him and the scribe for what seemed an eternity. Eventually the Grand Vizier spoke, the Rao nodded, the man withdrew, evidently disappointed but apparently not surprised, and the scribe scribbled something on his paper. Once again I prepared myself for our summons. But now another native came forward and made his obeisances. Then another, and another. As suit followed suit, I fancied the native audience was whispering about the evident affront being done to us. I glanced at Blake. He did not move; his expression was almost serene. Mir Aziz, to one side of us, remained ramrod-straight; Sameer, behind me, was, I was sure, struggling to restrain himself. I felt myself begin to simmer.
It seemed to go on for hours. The Rao never spoke, but nodded occasionally with an air of great boredom. Finally the scribe beckoned Mir Aziz, and they conferred. The Rao stared at us coldly. Blake knelt, and I knelt. There was a silence. The Rao did not invite us to rise. Blake turned to the Grand Vizier, who looked nervously at the Rao and gestured for us to rise. Blake began to speak in a melodious, rhythmic tongue which I assumed must be Persian. The Grand Vizier nodded loftily.
From his breast pocket, Blake extracted a white envelope with dark seals and held it out. Mir Aziz took it and gave it to the scribe. After conferring with the Grand Vizier, the scribe began a great dramatic dumb show of opening the envelope with a great flourish, then plucking the letter from its envelope, unfolding and beginning to peruse it. He whispered urgently to the Grand Vizier. Blake cast his eyes down and began to speak clearly and quietly, but the Grand Vizier raised his hand to stop him and took the letter from the scribe. Blake fell silent. At that moment the Rao moved suddenly from his reclining position into a cross-legged one, and made it clear he wished to see the letter. The room was at once utterly still. Producing a silk square which had been tucked into his cummerbund, the Grand Vizier wrapped it around his hand – he had, I saw, grotesquely long thumbnails – took the letter and presented it to the Rao. The Rao looked over the letter. He scratched his nose delicately and then looked at us as if he would very much have enjoyed watching us being exquisitely tortured. The Grand Vizier’s expression had shifted from diplomatic to insulted. He frowned with evident displeasure. Blake spoke again. We stood in awkward silence for what seemed like many minutes. The Rao spoke two words. The room stirred, uneasily. The Vizier smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and he replied to Blake. Even I could tell the words were curt. Blake bowed again and withdrew to our former position. The Rao, meanwhile, stood up and swept out, followed by his entourage. The rest of audience left through another anteroom to the side in an orderly column of twos and threes, all studiously ignoring us.
I was both outraged and bitterly disappointed, but I had given my word and so I obediently followed Blake back through the garden. Now it seemed to me alien and chilly, the peacocks’ cries shrill and strange. We came into the palace yard, where we waited while Sameer went in search of the horses.
‘How could they treat us like that? Keeping us waiting as if we were nobodies! Summarily dismissing us! Publicly insulting the Company! But you knew, you expected something of this sort.’
‘There was little that could be done. They were already ill-disposed towards us. Buchanan had nothing good to say of the Rao, and Jubbulpore regards him as an enemy. That witless Resident won’t have helped things either. If I were Vishwanath Singh I would have taken his appointment as an affront. And we’re a modest party – I have no real rank as far as Company matters go, and you’re only a lieutenant, so the Rao and his officials would calculate we are easy to insult with impunity, as long as he’s all honey with the Resident’s grand guests. Also I suspect our letter of introduction was even more brusque than I expected it would be. All in all we were ripe for snubbing. The object of the audience was to show how angry he is, and that he will not help while relations continue as they are.’
‘You did tell him we seek Mountstuart and have no interest in Thuggee?’
He gave me a look. ‘I tried, but he would not have him spoken of – or at least he ignored my reference to him.’
‘Why would our letter from Government House be brusque?’
‘That is a good question and I have no good answer to it, except that Calcutta is often bad at bending a knee even when it would be politic to do so.’
I sighed with disappointment. ‘So the Rao insults and dismisses us. We have no good reason to suppose that Mountstuart was even here – unless of course you know something which you choose not to share with me.’ I paused, but he did not rise to the bait. Indeed, he looked almost too unconcerned and innocent. ‘What is it that makes you so sure that Mountstuart was here?’ I said, almost pleading.
‘Just a feeling,’ he said and, seeing how downcast I was, ‘Be of good cheer, Avery.’
I would not be comforted. ‘Then what the devil are we to do next?’
‘We will enjoy the festivities.’
We moved out of the Residency the next day and were glad to go. There was something lowering about the place, not unassociated with Mr Crouch-Symington’s dyspeptic ill humour. Mir Aziz had found us rooms in an old building not far from the palace which belonged to a native merchant. Blake claimed the few European billets had long since been taken. I took secret pleasure in the place’s exoticness, its long arched windows and the old embroidered carpets and cushions draped everywhere, and the way it was permeated with oriental smells – spices, dust, incense. Nonetheless, regarding Mountstuart we were at stalemate. Blake, however, was almost cheerful. Once our few belongings were moved he prepared to go out, putting on a long robe over his native clothes and winding a pugree about his head. With his new moustache and the beginnings of a beard, he might almost have passed as a native.
‘You wish me to be of assistance,’ I said. ‘Will you not take me with you?’
‘No.’
There was an almost tangible air of anticipation about him. Most suspicious. I, meanwhile, lay back on my charpai, a picture of lassitude, examining my arm and the small scabbed holes where my stitches had been, opening and closing my fist, my books about me. The moment he left I followed swiftly behind. The narrow street was packed with crowds of bustling natives, the men in dhotis or long robes fluttering red, orange, blue, their wives in bright saris which covered their heads and sometimes their faces. Excited children capered and screamed, taking bites at some sticky sweetmeat clasped in their fists. Of course, I was lost almost immediately, but I was confident that I would find the bazaar in due course, and I did.
I found Blake at a pan stall with Mir Aziz. A crowd had gathered. I placed myself at a distance, by a seller of brass vessels, and gave the woman a few coins to let me stand in the shadow of her stall. A table had been set upon trestles with a bolster at one end, and upon it lay a native. Nearby sat two more men, and to each Blake administered a small ball of something – I was sure it was opium. The crowd about the pan stall chattered and examined little bottles and pouches.
Then, with a very precise flourish, Blake brought out a large soft purse and handed it to Mir Aziz. I could not see what was in it, but I guessed some tools of some sort. Blake pinned the man down by the shoulders, and Mir Aziz took up one of his implements, a long curved needle, placed across his nose a pair of spectacles that I had not seen before, and bent over his patient. He appeared to pull open the man’s eye and brought his needle down into the eyeball itself. I held my breath and so did everyone else. The man, presumably well dosed with opium, did not flinch. From my post all I could tell was that Mir Aziz seemed to make cuts in the man’s eye while his audience watched, fascinated. Then he washed it with what I guessed was melted ghee, and followed the same procedure with the other eye. Once it was complete, his patient sat up, threw up his hands and cried out with joy and amazement. Two men came forward to help him, but he pushed them away and hobbled to his feet, exclaiming. There was a great deal of chatter, the crowd surged around him and I could see nothing; when it parted, the man had been borne off. The next patient presented himself. Mir Aziz performed the procedure three more times, and each time the crowd gasped as the needle came down.
For some time afterwards neither Blake nor Mir Aziz could move from their places by the pan stall, so besieged were they by the enthusiastic crowd. But even after the people had dispersed, Blake and Mir Aziz continued to talk to the pan seller and a few others. Blake then went to the next stall, a barber’s, and was shaved. And all the time he chattered away. Now I recalled all the times that he had departed from us unshaven and returned smooth-faced. Finally, he walked to a stall at which there seemed nothing to buy. It was draped in thick red cotton blankets and within it sat an old biddy with no teeth. He produced something and presented it to her with a small bow. She cackled and took it, and they began to talk. I had never seen Blake so at ease.
I departed then, and as I left the bazaar passed two or three European parties – including a lady with dark brown hair, swaddled in layers of muslin, and her entourage, who were examining a stall of silks. She made no attempt to disguise her curiosity about me, and under other circumstances I would have introduced myself, but I was eager to return to our rooms before Blake and so I made do with a polite nod. Blake returned some fifteen minutes later with two pairs of soft Bundelkand boots, and a vial of oil which he claimed was good for rheumatism. He was in an immensely good humour.
I said, ‘So you were shaved in the bazaar, though Mir Aziz is himself a barber.’
He looked up.
‘For who knows more of everyone’s business than a barber?’ I continued.
‘Get a good look, did you?’
‘I saw Mir Aziz performing some bizarre ritual with a needle upon the natives’ eyes. It looked extraordinarily dangerous.’
‘He does not cut them, he removes cataracts. He restores sight. It is an ancient and much-prized skill. It “opens doors”, as they say.’
‘Why would you not take me?’ I said.
‘You are of no use to me in the bazaar.’
‘I do not see its great appeal,’ I said.
‘Open your eyes. Everything comes to the bazaar. All news, all truth, all lies end up there. Where do you think I first heard of the breaking machine?’
‘So why could you not take me? My authority, my uniform, might encourage them to speak.’
He sighed. ‘Listen, Avery. For most natives the Company barely touches their lives. Do you know how few Europeans there are here? Do you not recall that Mir Aziz did not see one of us until he was, what, sixteen? To them we are a burden to be born and at best ignored. The sooner you understand that, the better. If you stand behind me in your redcoat, the words will dry in their mouths. In the bazaar you’re of no use to me. But I speak better street Hindoostanee and Marathee – and half a dozen other tongues – than any European you’ll ever meet. I used to know every barber and matchmaker between Calcutta and Lahore – the best carriers of news in all Hind. A few still remember me.’ This was said wryly. ‘What’s more, I like being among them.’
I gritted my teeth and picked up one of my books.
‘It is not your fault,’ he said after a moment. ‘The Company teaches its people to shrink from contact with the natives.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I said. Then, trying to drain the exasperation from my voice, ‘So what great jewels of intelligence have you discovered today?’
‘Tomorrow there’s to be a public execution, before the festivities for the heir’s seventh birthday begin. It’s unusual – the princes generally like to show off their mercy at times of celebration. But this man’s an assassin who got into the Rao’s bedchamber and nearly killed him barely two weeks ago. All is not steady in the kingdom of Doora. The court is full of factions: the Rao is liked well enough – his mother the Dowager-Begum is very popular – but there are said to be several sardars who see themselves on the throne. They say the assassin belongs to one of them, but no one is sure whom. Vishwanath Singh is worried because he had no son. Everyone expects another attempt on his life before the heir is fully installed.’
‘What d’you mean, he has no son? The heir’s having his seventh birthday.’
‘No. The Rao has an army of wives and concubines, but no son. He’s adopted a cousin – it’s a widespread practice among the native princes if a son can’t be begotten. But the child only formally becomes his heir after the thread ceremony in a few days’ time, in which he is initiated into his caste and religion. If the Rao dies before that, everyone knows what’ll happen.’
I waited expectantly. ‘What?’
He shifted impatiently. ‘The Company will march in and take over, put in a puppet and that’ll be the end of an independent Doora. Don’t look surprised, the Company does it all the time, in the name of security or stability or order. And the Company particularly dislikes this Rao. In the bazaar they say that the Company has one or all of the Rao’s rivals in its pocket.’
‘I do not believe that!’
‘It might be gossip. But it would give the Rao a good reason for hating the Company. And that, Mr Avery, is what I discovered in the bazaar.’
‘And did the bazaar produce any news of the whereabouts of Mountstuart?’
