Read Online The Temple Dancer by John Speed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Speed
Tags: Historical fiction, India
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very good with these things, once
you tell him."
"How do you know this?"
"Didn't we sail together in a dhow for three weeks?"
Lucinda nodded. But a second later she began to wonder-Maya's answer any number of interpretations. So of course she changed the subject.
"But don't you eat with Slipper?"
"I do a great many things that Hindi women do not do, and before long I shall do a great many more. You know why as well as I do. Let us not
speak of it again. I will tell Deoga and that will be enough."
"You seem very certain."
Maya smiled. "He is a good man. Haven't you seen that?" A moment
later she was out the door.
Da Gama, of course, understood, and did what Maya asked. After a wearying hour standing beside "Brother" Fernando, intoning rosary after rosary in
front of a particularly gruesome crucifix, Da Gama persuaded him to invite
Slipper to the men's supper. At first their host had been reluctant, but with
Da Gama repeatedly imploring, Anala's concern for Slipper's immortal soul
overcame his distaste at eating with a hijra. "A Hindi would never agree," he
told Da Gama. "It shall be the proof that I am reborn a Christian."
"Your actions reflect well on Christ," Da Gama assured him.
Anala's servant found Slipper in a small courtyard by the stables, at
evening prayer with the other Muslims. Pathan's guards laughed when they
heard Slipper being invited. "What shall I do?" Slipper asked Pathan.
"You must accept. I'm sure the Christian considers his invitation to be
some sort of honor."
"Will there be forks?" the eunuch asked. "I've wanted to try eating
with a fork."
"Forks, yes," the servant replied. "Also wine."
"Wine..." Slipper said dreamily. "Tell him I shall come."
The dining table was lit by a chandelier. The sideboard was crowded: a platter of roasted chickens the size of pigeons, a mutton haunch, a loin of pork,
each rubbed with pepper and coarse salt. The steaming meats glistened; juice
trickled onto the pewter platters. Beside them stood gravies and sauces fragrant with wine and herbs, crisp round loaves of yeasty bread, and a bowl of
butter. If not for the bowl of rice and dal and a plate of mango pickle, they
might have been eating in Lisbon.
The men sat in chairs (Fernando's seat a few inches taller than the others), used forks, ate from porcelain. A pair of waiters, dressed as farangs except for bare feet and turbans, served them with unexpected skill. "How
did he get all this stuff?" Geraldo whispered to Da Gama. But Da Gama
was too busy eating to answer.
"Don't I get a glass of wine?" Slipper asked in a piping voice after a few
minutes. "Everyone else has one."
"Not the burak. Muslims, I assumed..." said Anala, looking miffed.
But he recovered, and with a flick of his delicate fingers, directed one of his
servants to bring a glass.
Slipper drank the whole glass before the servant had time to step away,
and held it out for more. Soon his round cheeks flushed in a mottled patchwork. He gave up trying to use his cumbersome fork, and like Pathan ate
with his fingertips, washing down his food with big gulps of wine. One of
the servants took to hovering near him, pitcher in hand.
Soon Slipper could barely speak for giggling. One of his eyelids began
to droop. Fernando kept trying to bring the conversation around to theology, but Slipper brushed each effort aside with a joke, often lewd.
Finally, to everyone's surprise, Fernando leaped from his chair. "I can
turn my other cheek no longer," he shouted. His voice was not much lower
than the eunuch's. Even Slipper grew quiet, sensing the fury radiating from
Anala's tiny form. "You will make no more sport at my expense, hijra, or at
the expense of my beloved Lord Jesus Christ!" Fernando stabbed the air
with a fork for emphasis.
"Your Jesus?" Slipper struggled to his feet. "Yours? I won't be scolded
by a Hindi! Particularly not by a counterfeit farang like you! I'm a Muslim,
not some Hindi infidel! I knew about Jesus
you tell him."
"How do you know this?"
"Didn't we sail together in a dhow for three weeks?"
Lucinda nodded. But a second later she began to wonder-Maya's answer any number of interpretations. So of course she changed the subject.
"But don't you eat with Slipper?"
"I do a great many things that Hindi women do not do, and before long I shall do a great many more. You know why as well as I do. Let us not
speak of it again. I will tell Deoga and that will be enough."
"You seem very certain."
Maya smiled. "He is a good man. Haven't you seen that?" A moment
later she was out the door.
Da Gama, of course, understood, and did what Maya asked. After a wearying hour standing beside "Brother" Fernando, intoning rosary after rosary in
front of a particularly gruesome crucifix, Da Gama persuaded him to invite
Slipper to the men's supper. At first their host had been reluctant, but with
Da Gama repeatedly imploring, Anala's concern for Slipper's immortal soul
overcame his distaste at eating with a hijra. "A Hindi would never agree," he
told Da Gama. "It shall be the proof that I am reborn a Christian."
"Your actions reflect well on Christ," Da Gama assured him.
Anala's servant found Slipper in a small courtyard by the stables, at
evening prayer with the other Muslims. Pathan's guards laughed when they
heard Slipper being invited. "What shall I do?" Slipper asked Pathan.
"You must accept. I'm sure the Christian considers his invitation to be
some sort of honor."
"Will there be forks?" the eunuch asked. "I've wanted to try eating
with a fork."
"Forks, yes," the servant replied. "Also wine."
"Wine..." Slipper said dreamily. "Tell him I shall come."
The dining table was lit by a chandelier. The sideboard was crowded: a platter of roasted chickens the size of pigeons, a mutton haunch, a loin of pork,
each rubbed with pepper and coarse salt. The steaming meats glistened; juice
trickled onto the pewter platters. Beside them stood gravies and sauces fragrant with wine and herbs, crisp round loaves of yeasty bread, and a bowl of
butter. If not for the bowl of rice and dal and a plate of mango pickle, they
might have been eating in Lisbon.
The men sat in chairs (Fernando's seat a few inches taller than the others), used forks, ate from porcelain. A pair of waiters, dressed as farangs except for bare feet and turbans, served them with unexpected skill. "How
did he get all this stuff?" Geraldo whispered to Da Gama. But Da Gama
was too busy eating to answer.
"Don't I get a glass of wine?" Slipper asked in a piping voice after a few
minutes. "Everyone else has one."
"Not the burak. Muslims, I assumed..." said Anala, looking miffed.
But he recovered, and with a flick of his delicate fingers, directed one of his
servants to bring a glass.
Slipper drank the whole glass before the servant had time to step away,
and held it out for more. Soon his round cheeks flushed in a mottled patchwork. He gave up trying to use his cumbersome fork, and like Pathan ate
with his fingertips, washing down his food with big gulps of wine. One of
the servants took to hovering near him, pitcher in hand.
Soon Slipper could barely speak for giggling. One of his eyelids began
to droop. Fernando kept trying to bring the conversation around to theology, but Slipper brushed each effort aside with a joke, often lewd.
Finally, to everyone's surprise, Fernando leaped from his chair. "I can
turn my other cheek no longer," he shouted. His voice was not much lower
than the eunuch's. Even Slipper grew quiet, sensing the fury radiating from
Anala's tiny form. "You will make no more sport at my expense, hijra, or at
the expense of my beloved Lord Jesus Christ!" Fernando stabbed the air
with a fork for emphasis.
"Your Jesus?" Slipper struggled to his feet. "Yours? I won't be scolded
by a Hindi! Particularly not by a counterfeit farang like you! I'm a Muslim,
not some Hindi infidel! I knew about Jesus
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