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all. It occurred to him she might be gone. Absurdly, the thought
left him desolate. He chided himself that she was only a stranger.
But she wasn't, really. She was all here, in this book. Not her
name, and not her face, but she was here, and absurd or not, he thought
he might actually love her.
If she was in Jaipur, he vowed, he would find her.
He didn't have long to wait. It was only his second day in the
city when he was invited to a garden party at the Agent's Residence.
85
The upper echelons of the Indian Civil Service were known as the
"heaven-born," and when James saw the legion of white-turbaned
servants bearing trays of colored sweets and cocktails among the fantastical
banyan trees and the overlush vine flowers, he began to see why. In England,
bureaucrats could never have lived like this, like little kings with monkeys on
leashes and stables full of fine hunting horses. He smiled at his new
colleagues, but behind his smile he was thinking how these men had been tipping
back gin while other, better men had been holding in their entrails with both
hands. His fingers went automatically to Gaffney's lighter in his pocket.
All of James's childhood friends had died in the War. Every single
one. James often wondered at the chain of flukes it must have taken to bring
him through with his own life and limbs intact. Once, he might have believed it
to be the work of Providence, but it seemed to him now that to thank God for
his life would be to suggest God had shrugged off all the others, flicked them
away like cigarette butts by the thousands, and that seemed like abominable
conceit. James Dorsey took no credit for being alive. His higher power these
days was Chance.
He was distracted from his grim thoughts when he heard a raspy
voice over his left shoulder say, "That one, at the piano, that's the girl
the old bitch cursed. Damned good fun!"
His cursed girl! James's first impulse was to turn to look but he
stopped himself. He didn't like that raspy voice. It had a lecherous sneer
about it, and he didn't want his first glimpse of the girl to come at the end
of a lecher's pointing finger. He held himself still, his back to the
conversation and the piano. He heard the music, though, and became suddenly
alert to it.
86
He had a good ear, and even in the din of high, thin laughter and
meaty guffaws he could tell the pianist was extraordinary. Again, he almost
turned, but stopped himself and went on listening, imagining what she looked
like, trying to conjure a face from the exquisite notes that flowed from her
fingers. Delicate, he guessed, but passionate. He felt certain her hair would
be dark, and whimsically he imagined freckles. He smiled. It had been a long
time since he had savored anticipation like this. Mostly in the past years the
things he'd anticipated had been heart-stopping, vicious things like death-wish
dashes from one trench to the next.
While the notes of a Chopin sonata drifted through the garden, he
waited and imagined, and behind him, the gossip ensued.
"Cursed?" asked a brassy female voice.
"She's going to be the death of us all," came the reply
in a low, ominous whisper such as children affect to tell ghost stories by
candlelight.
The woman laughed and asked skeptically, "Her?"
"I know, I know. She seems an unlikely instrument of doom,
but so it is. It happened at her christening. The old bitch -- the emerald
miner's widow, you've heard about her? -- stood over her frilled bassinet and
said the lass would slay us all ... not with knives, mind you, or with poison in
our rum or asps in our beds, not by mutiny or pistol or any other means you
might conjure for killing, but with a very queer murder weapon indeed. You see,
that little lady will slay us with ..." -- he paused for effect --
"... her voice"
This was not news to James, who had read the girl's diary, but he
heard a derisive snort of laughter from the woman. "Her voice? Whatever
do you mean?" she asked.
87
Slowly, careful to keep the
left him desolate. He chided himself that she was only a stranger.
But she wasn't, really. She was all here, in this book. Not her
name, and not her face, but she was here, and absurd or not, he thought
he might actually love her.
If she was in Jaipur, he vowed, he would find her.
He didn't have long to wait. It was only his second day in the
city when he was invited to a garden party at the Agent's Residence.
85
The upper echelons of the Indian Civil Service were known as the
"heaven-born," and when James saw the legion of white-turbaned
servants bearing trays of colored sweets and cocktails among the fantastical
banyan trees and the overlush vine flowers, he began to see why. In England,
bureaucrats could never have lived like this, like little kings with monkeys on
leashes and stables full of fine hunting horses. He smiled at his new
colleagues, but behind his smile he was thinking how these men had been tipping
back gin while other, better men had been holding in their entrails with both
hands. His fingers went automatically to Gaffney's lighter in his pocket.
All of James's childhood friends had died in the War. Every single
one. James often wondered at the chain of flukes it must have taken to bring
him through with his own life and limbs intact. Once, he might have believed it
to be the work of Providence, but it seemed to him now that to thank God for
his life would be to suggest God had shrugged off all the others, flicked them
away like cigarette butts by the thousands, and that seemed like abominable
conceit. James Dorsey took no credit for being alive. His higher power these
days was Chance.
He was distracted from his grim thoughts when he heard a raspy
voice over his left shoulder say, "That one, at the piano, that's the girl
the old bitch cursed. Damned good fun!"
His cursed girl! James's first impulse was to turn to look but he
stopped himself. He didn't like that raspy voice. It had a lecherous sneer
about it, and he didn't want his first glimpse of the girl to come at the end
of a lecher's pointing finger. He held himself still, his back to the
conversation and the piano. He heard the music, though, and became suddenly
alert to it.
86
He had a good ear, and even in the din of high, thin laughter and
meaty guffaws he could tell the pianist was extraordinary. Again, he almost
turned, but stopped himself and went on listening, imagining what she looked
like, trying to conjure a face from the exquisite notes that flowed from her
fingers. Delicate, he guessed, but passionate. He felt certain her hair would
be dark, and whimsically he imagined freckles. He smiled. It had been a long
time since he had savored anticipation like this. Mostly in the past years the
things he'd anticipated had been heart-stopping, vicious things like death-wish
dashes from one trench to the next.
While the notes of a Chopin sonata drifted through the garden, he
waited and imagined, and behind him, the gossip ensued.
"Cursed?" asked a brassy female voice.
"She's going to be the death of us all," came the reply
in a low, ominous whisper such as children affect to tell ghost stories by
candlelight.
The woman laughed and asked skeptically, "Her?"
"I know, I know. She seems an unlikely instrument of doom,
but so it is. It happened at her christening. The old bitch -- the emerald
miner's widow, you've heard about her? -- stood over her frilled bassinet and
said the lass would slay us all ... not with knives, mind you, or with poison in
our rum or asps in our beds, not by mutiny or pistol or any other means you
might conjure for killing, but with a very queer murder weapon indeed. You see,
that little lady will slay us with ..." -- he paused for effect --
"... her voice"
This was not news to James, who had read the girl's diary, but he
heard a derisive snort of laughter from the woman. "Her voice? Whatever
do you mean?" she asked.
87
Slowly, careful to keep the
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