Read Online The Jewel Trader Of Pegu by Jeffrey Hantover - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeffrey Hantover
Tags: Historical
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jasmine. I will miss tending the betel vines. I will miss lying on the riverbank looking up at a fierce elephant in the clouds turn into a dancing goddess, and she float apart into more orchids than I could count. I will miss my dog, closer to me than my shadow. I will not miss my father and his angry words.
I told my aunts and cousins that I’m not afraid of going to Pegu, but I am. I have heard you can walk all day and not leave the city gates. The streets are crowded with strangers from distant lands, tall as ghosts and with skin white as spiderwebs, who have pointed teeth like dogs. There are men from islands at the edge of the world, who take their parents, when they are too old to work, and sell them in the market for others to eat. There are men, skin dark as river mud, who have never heard of the Buddha and bow before angry demons. I pray my husband will protect me.
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13 December 1598
Dear Joseph,
Your humble cousin, who in Venice tips his hat more than he opens his mouth, has just returned from speaking to the king of Pegu.
From now on, I will expect greater respect and bended knees from your even more humble person.
Win and I were summoned to the king’s presence on a day’s notice. Win spent the day in great turmoil for fear that, out of ignorance, I would bow too few times, lift my head at the wrong moment, or simply behave with such impropriety as to put my business and his, if not our lives, at jeopardy. Last evening Win summoned me to his home to practice our entrance and exit and acts of supplication. I felt I was a thirteen-year-old ready to recite his first blessing at the Sabbath reading, receiving last-minute instruction from an anxious rabbi. I have never seen Win so agitated, so imperious with his slaves—a woman and her two young daughters. A year ago, her husband failed to pay for some stones he had pledged to buy, and, as is the custom here, Win took his family as his slaves. For how long—if not forever—I am not sure. Win does not seem to treat them badly, no worse than a rich Israelite treats his maid or manser-vant. But yesterday he was quick to raise his voice and pushed the two girls roughly to their places as they played our parts as subject and supplicant. At evening’s end, he had achieved the opposite of his intentions, and I was almost as nervous as he. Before I left, he showed me with glowing pride a small silver spittoon the king had bestowed upon him for his loyalty and faithful performance as a royal broker. It seemed a ridiculous object of honor, but I held my tongue and praised its workmanship.
I cannot describe in great detail the royal hall: my eyes were cast down at my feet or toward the king, when bidden to speak to him. Win and I entered the hall with the sound of trumpets in our ears. We cast ourselves down on our knees, stretched out our arms three times as if in prayer to some pagan idol, and kissed the ground thirty-two paces from the entrance—not thirty-three paces, not thirty-one, but thirty-two. As best I could understand from Win, there is one supreme god in their heaven and thirty-two lesser gods, so in paying homage to the supreme earthly god we had to come forward thirty-two steps. What foolishness, but I walked shoulder to shoulder with Win, and listened to his hushed voice count out each step. The king sat on a high throne of gilded wood, its arms carved like tigers in full roar, and at the back of the throne, above the king’s head, were two large elephant tusks tipped in gold and so studded with rubies, sapphires, and other jewels that you could barely see the white ivory. The king sparkled no less, his fingers and toes bejeweled with rubies, his arms circled with gold bangles and bracelets of sapphires and rubies. His princes and ministers surrounded him and looked down at us from high benches, one behind the other. We stopped eight paces in front of the king and stood at the side of the royal interpreter, the Lord of the Words. We were not
I told my aunts and cousins that I’m not afraid of going to Pegu, but I am. I have heard you can walk all day and not leave the city gates. The streets are crowded with strangers from distant lands, tall as ghosts and with skin white as spiderwebs, who have pointed teeth like dogs. There are men from islands at the edge of the world, who take their parents, when they are too old to work, and sell them in the market for others to eat. There are men, skin dark as river mud, who have never heard of the Buddha and bow before angry demons. I pray my husband will protect me.
----
13 December 1598
Dear Joseph,
Your humble cousin, who in Venice tips his hat more than he opens his mouth, has just returned from speaking to the king of Pegu.
From now on, I will expect greater respect and bended knees from your even more humble person.
Win and I were summoned to the king’s presence on a day’s notice. Win spent the day in great turmoil for fear that, out of ignorance, I would bow too few times, lift my head at the wrong moment, or simply behave with such impropriety as to put my business and his, if not our lives, at jeopardy. Last evening Win summoned me to his home to practice our entrance and exit and acts of supplication. I felt I was a thirteen-year-old ready to recite his first blessing at the Sabbath reading, receiving last-minute instruction from an anxious rabbi. I have never seen Win so agitated, so imperious with his slaves—a woman and her two young daughters. A year ago, her husband failed to pay for some stones he had pledged to buy, and, as is the custom here, Win took his family as his slaves. For how long—if not forever—I am not sure. Win does not seem to treat them badly, no worse than a rich Israelite treats his maid or manser-vant. But yesterday he was quick to raise his voice and pushed the two girls roughly to their places as they played our parts as subject and supplicant. At evening’s end, he had achieved the opposite of his intentions, and I was almost as nervous as he. Before I left, he showed me with glowing pride a small silver spittoon the king had bestowed upon him for his loyalty and faithful performance as a royal broker. It seemed a ridiculous object of honor, but I held my tongue and praised its workmanship.
I cannot describe in great detail the royal hall: my eyes were cast down at my feet or toward the king, when bidden to speak to him. Win and I entered the hall with the sound of trumpets in our ears. We cast ourselves down on our knees, stretched out our arms three times as if in prayer to some pagan idol, and kissed the ground thirty-two paces from the entrance—not thirty-three paces, not thirty-one, but thirty-two. As best I could understand from Win, there is one supreme god in their heaven and thirty-two lesser gods, so in paying homage to the supreme earthly god we had to come forward thirty-two steps. What foolishness, but I walked shoulder to shoulder with Win, and listened to his hushed voice count out each step. The king sat on a high throne of gilded wood, its arms carved like tigers in full roar, and at the back of the throne, above the king’s head, were two large elephant tusks tipped in gold and so studded with rubies, sapphires, and other jewels that you could barely see the white ivory. The king sparkled no less, his fingers and toes bejeweled with rubies, his arms circled with gold bangles and bracelets of sapphires and rubies. His princes and ministers surrounded him and looked down at us from high benches, one behind the other. We stopped eight paces in front of the king and stood at the side of the royal interpreter, the Lord of the Words. We were not
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