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piano out of his line of sight, James
turned to the gossipmongers. The lecher was a white-bearded fellow and the
woman had a horsey, well-bred face. They were craning their necks to see across
the garden, and there was a leer in the man's eyes as he darted out his pink
tongue to wet his lips. With great restraint, James did not follow his lewd
gaze to the piano.
"Simply this," the lecher explained to the woman.
"The old bitch pronounced that when the girl speaks, all within earshot
shall drop down dead."
"Ha-ha! You lot are still living, I see. It must have been a
good joke when she spoke her first words -- bit of a flinch all around?"
"Yes, well, I suppose there will be. You see, she has
never yet uttered a single sound."
"What? Ever? Not even as a baby?"
"Not after the christening. Not a peep. Damnedest
thing."
An ominous silence was left to hang there. The heat felt
carnivorous. The lecher drained his drink and looked for more. The ice was
running low. There was never enough ice. British hands looked swollen clutching
their cocktails. There was in the air always the subtle stench of overripe
fruit. For years after these British had returned to their dainty island, when
they smelled this soft decay, they would think of fevers and legless beggars,
and sad elephants wandering down lanes.
"And has she really never made a sound?" the horsey
woman murmured.
"Nary a sigh nor a snort of indignation," said the
girl's own mother, joining them and watching her daughter as if she were a
monkey brought to entertain them. "She believes the curse. I think
88
the servants convinced her of it. Always whispering. Indians
and their nonsense!"
"A bit eerie though, isn't it?" the woman said uneasily.
She was new to India, and she was finding that here in this wild land, strange
twinges of belief had a way of intruding into one's cultured disbelief like trick cards in a deck to be drawn at random. In India, sometimes, one
could accidentally believe the oddest things. "Perhaps she's just
mute," she suggested hopefully.
"Perhaps," allowed the mother, her eyes twinkling with
merry mischief as she said in a baleful voice, "Who knows, though. Perhaps
it's all true. If you'd like to find out, I'll encourage her to sing us an
aria. Her sisters have been practicing 'Una voce poca fa' and she must surely
have the words by heart."
"Damn me," said her husband, the one-armed Agent of
Jaipur himself. "I'm sure even the servants and the mynah birds have the
words by heart. The girls never stop wailing that bloody thing."
"Wailing! Gerald, hush!" She batted at him with her hand
and the others laughed. "The girls must have their culture!"
"Culture!" the Agent hooted. Catching sight of James, he
said with a conspiratorial wink, "Girl's got the right idea in my book.
Nothing wrong with a silent woman, eh?"
James forced himself to smile. He doubted his smile could conceal
his loathing of these people, but they didn't seem to notice it. After a moment
he drifted away from them and wandered at the edge of the garden. He knew by
the music -- Liszt now -- that the girl was still at the piano, and he wanted
to cleanse the gossip from his mind before he finally let himself see her. He
breathed the scent of a strange lily and fingered some broad waxen leaves. He
watched a beetle's progress across a flagstone, and when
89
he could stand it no longer, he turned on his heel and looked to the
piano.
And there she was.
Her composure marked her out at once from the women around her,
who laughed too loudly with their heads thrown back. Her back was straight, her
neck white. Her hair, upswept, was the color of dark chocolate. She was turned
away from him so James began to move through the crowd, ignoring the coy
murmurs of other girls as he went.
He wended his way round to the foot of the grand piano and the
girl was revealed to him. Her face, as he had known it would be, was perfect.
It was heart-shaped and delicate and flushed with the exertions of
turned to the gossipmongers. The lecher was a white-bearded fellow and the
woman had a horsey, well-bred face. They were craning their necks to see across
the garden, and there was a leer in the man's eyes as he darted out his pink
tongue to wet his lips. With great restraint, James did not follow his lewd
gaze to the piano.
"Simply this," the lecher explained to the woman.
"The old bitch pronounced that when the girl speaks, all within earshot
shall drop down dead."
"Ha-ha! You lot are still living, I see. It must have been a
good joke when she spoke her first words -- bit of a flinch all around?"
"Yes, well, I suppose there will be. You see, she has
never yet uttered a single sound."
"What? Ever? Not even as a baby?"
"Not after the christening. Not a peep. Damnedest
thing."
An ominous silence was left to hang there. The heat felt
carnivorous. The lecher drained his drink and looked for more. The ice was
running low. There was never enough ice. British hands looked swollen clutching
their cocktails. There was in the air always the subtle stench of overripe
fruit. For years after these British had returned to their dainty island, when
they smelled this soft decay, they would think of fevers and legless beggars,
and sad elephants wandering down lanes.
"And has she really never made a sound?" the horsey
woman murmured.
"Nary a sigh nor a snort of indignation," said the
girl's own mother, joining them and watching her daughter as if she were a
monkey brought to entertain them. "She believes the curse. I think
88
the servants convinced her of it. Always whispering. Indians
and their nonsense!"
"A bit eerie though, isn't it?" the woman said uneasily.
She was new to India, and she was finding that here in this wild land, strange
twinges of belief had a way of intruding into one's cultured disbelief like trick cards in a deck to be drawn at random. In India, sometimes, one
could accidentally believe the oddest things. "Perhaps she's just
mute," she suggested hopefully.
"Perhaps," allowed the mother, her eyes twinkling with
merry mischief as she said in a baleful voice, "Who knows, though. Perhaps
it's all true. If you'd like to find out, I'll encourage her to sing us an
aria. Her sisters have been practicing 'Una voce poca fa' and she must surely
have the words by heart."
"Damn me," said her husband, the one-armed Agent of
Jaipur himself. "I'm sure even the servants and the mynah birds have the
words by heart. The girls never stop wailing that bloody thing."
"Wailing! Gerald, hush!" She batted at him with her hand
and the others laughed. "The girls must have their culture!"
"Culture!" the Agent hooted. Catching sight of James, he
said with a conspiratorial wink, "Girl's got the right idea in my book.
Nothing wrong with a silent woman, eh?"
James forced himself to smile. He doubted his smile could conceal
his loathing of these people, but they didn't seem to notice it. After a moment
he drifted away from them and wandered at the edge of the garden. He knew by
the music -- Liszt now -- that the girl was still at the piano, and he wanted
to cleanse the gossip from his mind before he finally let himself see her. He
breathed the scent of a strange lily and fingered some broad waxen leaves. He
watched a beetle's progress across a flagstone, and when
89
he could stand it no longer, he turned on his heel and looked to the
piano.
And there she was.
Her composure marked her out at once from the women around her,
who laughed too loudly with their heads thrown back. Her back was straight, her
neck white. Her hair, upswept, was the color of dark chocolate. She was turned
away from him so James began to move through the crowd, ignoring the coy
murmurs of other girls as he went.
He wended his way round to the foot of the grand piano and the
girl was revealed to him. Her face, as he had known it would be, was perfect.
It was heart-shaped and delicate and flushed with the exertions of
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