The Sleeping Dictionary Page 15

IN THE NEXT week, Mummy accepted 401 rupees for me from the Marwari merchant who had bought Doris’s virginity years ago. He’d come in from Calcutta by train and would not leave Kharagpur, he said, until he’d had his satisfaction. I asked Mummy about the odd number, and she said plus one was for good luck. But I didn’t feel as fortunate as everyone thought I should.

  That evening, while he was paying Mummy downstairs, I took a hot bath scented with rosewater. My thoughts turned to Bidushi and our long-ago imaginings of her wedding. I was glad that Bidushi would never know about tonight. How disappointed she would have been to learn that the first male hands touching me were not a handsome bridegroom’s but those of a wrinkled old man. And Pankaj! I was sure he would not remember me, nor would he understand that I would always wish for him, no matter what I’d become.

  Briefly, I thought of submerging myself so I would drown: the death that by all rights should have been mine five years ago. But I could not, because the other girls kept coming in to wish me well. When I was drying off in the bedroom, Bonnie delivered a cup of warm milk with saffron that she said would relax me. The more I drank, the dizzier I became. Through the haze, I knew that I should have stayed in the protest march in town and not come back to Rose Villa. Now it was too late. Almost a hundred rupees had been spent on my clothing and food and such; I could not possibly pay it back to Mummy.

  Bonnie took me by the hand into the Lotus Suite. I wore no jewelry, only perfumed skin cream and a transparent lace nightdress. I lay on the bed with eyes tightly shut and did not open them even when the stranger came into the room. But then he made me stand up and dance for him while he slowly clapped his hands and sang. So I had to open my eyes to keep from falling down.

  In the room’s pink light, I saw a man the age of my own grandfather, but heavy and with a face like a ghoul. How wrong it was for him to use a girl my age; to make me stand and take off the nightdress for the dance. When he finally bade me to lie down, I thought that at least I could close my eyes against his contorted, pockmarked features. But his hands, with their moist, worm-like fingers, were everywhere.

  Inside my mind, a horrible film was playing. I was out on the street seeing the enraged faces of the English officers and the Indian constables and protesters. The camera moved closer to show the pursed lips of the little boys spitting at the police and the open mouths of their worried mothers calling them back. And then it showed the townsmen with their lathis, hitting so hard. The fighting had moved inside me: blow after blow after blow; pain and pushing, all at the same time.

  “You are only hurting yourself by moving. Stay still!” he huffed into my face with breath that smelled like onions.

  I had changed my mind about everything. But as I struggled to get out from under the man, he moved his elbows so that I was pinned in place. All I could hear was still . . . still. . . .

  I was too weak to fight him. Despite my drugged mind, I understood that I could not escape this man or the other customers who would come after. The same horrible scene would replay each night, in an endless loop.

  CHAPTER

  12

  My trial is hard indeed. Just when I want a helpmate most, I am thrown back on myself. Nevertheless, I record my vow that even in this trial I shall win through. Alone, then, shall I tread my thorny path to the end of this life’s journey.

  —Rabindranath Tagore, The Home and the World, 1919

  No longer was I considered a girl. At fifteen, I was a working lady. This was hard for me to understand, because I did not look any older than before, but I was earning thirty rupees a day, on par with the top earners: Bonnie, Lucky, and Natty. This was not because I was any good at my work. Every time I lay down, my mind blacked out. I ran away to the cupboard of my childhood memories, burying myself in the fairy tales, songs, and stories once told by my mother. And I felt that through all of it, Ma was holding my hand. She comforted me from her faraway place and kept me alive.

  My mental absence was not noticed by the men. They saw me as new, and that was enough. Five more times, Mummy sold me as a first-time debut. So many men thought they had won the auction that they were truly delighted and did not notice the small vial of chicken blood I used. And as for the French letters—how they pleaded against using them, since I was supposedly innocent. Yet I mustered my courage to dress their members with the sheaths, all the while murmuring praise and endearments. I had caught no diseases, Dr. DeCruz said with satisfaction after I visited him each fortnight. No babies, either.

  The one thing I’d caught was sadness. All the money was not enough to make up for the way my heart sank every time a customer sitting in the parlor pointed at me. I understood what it meant, but I didn’t know whether he would be straightforward or a game player. Or whether he would be quick or someone who would thrust for an hour or force me to keep my mouth open too long.

  The other Roses took pity on me, trying to teach me what I could do to make the man reach satisfaction more quickly. Doris said a woman’s best weapon was her tongue—and with Doris’s repertoire, the proverb took on new meanings. Natty had a special skill at humiliating gentlemen. She said that the ones who’d gone to boarding schools in England liked that especially.

  One skill everyone felt seriously about developing was called woman’s intuition. This was the way a woman understood another’s feelings through listening carefully and noticing slight physical cues. Just by looking at a man’s shoulders or the movement of his eyes or hearing the pitch of his voice, one could determine whether he would be easy or difficult, kind or selfish. Woman’s intuition could be used to read anyone, even females: Bonnie explained how she’d known I was desperate for shelter when she saw me slumped on the bench; the Statesman on my lap told her that I had advanced English skills.

  Just as I’d suspected, the way I spoke English was my greatest asset. In the dark bedchambers on the second floor, customers called me Anne or Margaret and other names of girls they had lost or never had in the first place. Without being told, I understood I was to say that I desired them, loved them, and would be theirs forever. Sometimes, they would stay in bed with me for hours, just talking. That type of encounter was the best, for it earned me a lot of extra pay without a moment of pain.

  Outside the suites, I used my intutition to learn more about the secret lives of the others. Beside Natty’s bedroom door each morning was an empty bottle of whiskey. Sakina’s room was perpetually fogged with a haze of opium smoke. I did not smoke or drink yet, but I wondered if I might need to later on, when the reality of what was happening finally drove the fairy tales out of my mind.

  Sometimes I dreamed of Pankaj’s sad, handsome face and a grand house with a marble staircase leading up to a bedroom without spy holes or boxes of French letters: just a plain white bed covered with pink and red rose petals. In these dreams, I was not Pamela but Bidushi in a lovely bride’s sari, with a ruby hanging from the neck. That jewel remained my lodestone for that which was beautiful and pure.

  It had crossed my mind that the loss of Bidushi’s ruby was what had taken the life spirit from her. If only Bidushi had lived and I had been able to accompany her to Calcutta as an ayah and live the rest of my life at the edge of her and Pankaj’s marriage. Then I’d not be dreaming of the ruby on my neck. The gem would only touch my hands when she gave it to me for polishing, and I would help her to keep from never losing it, in order that one day, it would pass to her firstborn daughter.

  My refuge for such imaginings was the bed I slept in at the end of each night with Bonnie. With her on the other side, breathing softly, I could sometimes trick myself into feeling that I was in the hut in Johlpur with my sisters nearby. I felt so close to Bonnie. So when she asked if I’d take a matinee with her and Chief Howard one day, I agreed. It was not that I was eager for her touch, but a prearranged job meant time away from the choosing parlors that evening.

  “We sleep together every night, don’t we? It will be easy.” Bonnie winked as we went together to the Hibiscus Suite with the
big red bed and overhead mirror. “Just follow what I’m doing and listen to what he wants. He’s really just an overgrown child.”

  MR. HOWARD WAS chief of the Kharagpur police and protected Mummy’s business from trouble. And even if the Midnapore police had alerted their nearby colleagues about a jewel theft, I doubted that any description of a young servant girl with a messy braid could be matched with what I looked like now, dressed in fine silk, with glossy hair that fell freely to the middle of my back, kohl-lined eyes, and hands and feet as soft as satin.

  The chief arrived in his khaki uniform, complete with pith helmet, lathi, and pistol. In the suite, Bonnie helped him take off his clothing, all the while shooting me looks to do something more than pick at the bedspread. I took his shirt, still steamy and pungent, to hang out on the clothes press as we always did for the customers while they rested. His trousers were of the same material but very long. As I folded them over my arm to bring to the press, the chief called out for me not to remove them from the bed’s footboard.

  “Bobby sometimes likes me to wear the pants, doesn’t he?” Bonnie giggled.

  I wished I could speak with her privately. When I’d touched the trousers, I’d felt an object in the front right pocket. It was hard and thin. A rush of fear went through me as I worried it might be a knife. But he would not use a weapon on girls he liked. Mummy had always said her customers were Kharagpur’s leading gentlemen. And he had taken it upon himself to be Rose Villa’s protector.

  As I arranged the chief’s uniform, Bonnie finished undressing him, and herself as well, and then gave me a meaningful look. Dutifully, I stripped off all my clothes and went to join in. I should have been familiar with Bonnie’s nakedness. But in our bedroom, I’d always kept my eyes respectfully averted. Now she was reaching toward me, making it impossible not to really see her. How very slim she was: much like a classical statue from a history book, with a narrow waist and hips and small high breasts without nipples. I realized as she drew my hands to her breasts that she did have nipples, but very small ones. The thatch between her legs was light, too: an unearthly blond, but I knew this came from a peroxide soak on the villa roof.

  How different Bonnie and I appeared reflected in the round mirror: light and dark, curvy and boyish. Day and moonlight. From the way Chief Howard was rubbing himself, I sensed that he liked the contrast. With a happy laugh, he shouted to Bonnie to open his briefcase. With one graceful hand, she drew out a length of gold cloth.

  “Sir, you’ve brought your turban again! Goody!” Bonnie clapped, but I sensed it was only the beginning of something strange.

  “She’ll know how to wrap it; she’s from a nawab’s palace,” the chief said, pointing a long finger at me. “Tonight I’m playing maharajah with my old wife and a new one.”

  “Don’t call me old, Bobby!” Bonnie tipped up her nose at him, all the while showing me how to kneel on the bed in front of the major so he could play with my breasts as I tied on the shimmering cloth. In a warm voice, she stroked my hips from behind and sang out her lines. “Sir, I am only waiting to serve and give you every pleasure you deserve!”

  I hadn’t seen Bonnie work before, but I was quite impressed with her musicality. I was having a harder time with the turban. Growing up in Johlpur, I’d never seen anyone wearing a turban except for itinerant holy men. I certainly had never wrapped a man’s head with one. But I tried to seem comfortable as I rolled the gaudy length around the man’s balding pate, averting my eyes from his face. When I’d finished, the police chief did not at all look Indian, but reminded me of the pictures of wizards in children’s books. His eyes twinkled at me and he whispered that my job would be to bring Bonnie to good pleasure. If I could do this, my life would be spared.

  “She will service us both, Rajah,” Bonnie said, draping a possessive leg over him and giving me a sultry look. What was I to do? I had never trained on women. Her parts were not like his. I could only hope she’d pretend with me the way we all did with the customers.

  Bonnie rolled from side to side, arching her back. She murmured, “Touch me as you’d like to be touched, darling! It’s as simple as that.”

  But it wasn’t. I’d had some strong feelings when I’d thought about Pankaj and his letters, but I had never imagined being touched in turn. Over the last half year, so many men stroked, pinched, and poked me, I could not match any of these movements with feelings of pleasure. I was frozen as I looked at Bonnie undulating on the bed, and I wondered how to proceed: top or bottom?

  In his pretend rajah’s accent, the chief said: “Rajah’s pet will play, too.” He rolled onto his side and then moved his hands and knees to the foot of the bed where his pants lay. I whipped my head around to catch him reaching in the pocket. He brought out an object carefully, but it half escaped from his hand, and I caught my breath.

  It was a snake. A short brown one. I was so horrified I could not even say anything. I just clapped my hand over my mouth. The chief was keeping the creature low so Bonnie couldn’t see it. In any case, she didn’t notice; she was quite involved in chattering to me.

  “Be a good pet, Pammy. Fluff my fur and brush it,” she said. “There is a little brush in the nightstand, remember. . . .”

  I glanced from her to the major, who was crawling determinedly forward, keeping his hand with the snake out of sight. His eyes gleamed at the sight of Bonnie’s parted thighs and in the midst of my grooming her, he suddenly lunged forward. The snake’s head snapped, and Bonnie caught sight of it coming toward her womanly place. In an instant, her pale face had gone all white and her eyes rolled back in her head. Then she jerked and collapsed on the pillows.

  The chief was still laughing and trying to show Bonnie the snake, not noticing her collapse. Filled with fear and sorrow, I gently lifted Bonnie’s arm, which fell limply to her side. Then I shouted “Bonnie!” in her ear.

  Her lack of response told me death must have been instantaneous, although it was so recent she was still warm. Looking at her, I felt the same hollow feeling in my stomach when I’d seen Bidushi’s covered corpse. This was a terrible way to die; and I would not let myself be the next victim. With my heart pounding, I jumped from the bed and ran straight out into the hall.

  “Bonnie’s dead! Chief Howard killed her!”

  At my screamed words, I heard a murmuring begin in some rooms; but I wanted to be sure Mummy downstairs heard, too. I shouted again, “Bonnie’s been killed! Chief Howard’s snake must have bitten her!” and I heard the sounds of people moving behind the doors, and soon men were running out, half dressed; they were not coming into the Hibiscus Suite, although I’d left the door wide open, but running downstairs, one after the other.

  Mummy lumbered up the stairs. “What in hell are you shouting about? Look at you naked in the hallway! No shame!”

  I had been so scared I hadn’t taken time to dress. Panting, I said, “He killed Bonnie with a snake—”

  “Hardly!” said Mummy, walking into the bedroom. Bonnie still lay spread on the bed, unmoving; the chief had his pants on and was furiously buttoning his shirt. He had forgotten about the turban on his head.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” he said, pointing a finger at me. “All I brought was a toy. A little pretend snake.”

  “Show me,” Mummy said, and he put it in her hands; now I could see it was made of many wooden pieces that fit together and painted to look like a snake’s skin. “Pamela, this is a common toy from the bazar. Any fool can see!”

  “Oh. Then Bonnie must have died of—fright.” I heard my voice falter and hated myself for having been so stupid.

  “Very doubtful!” Mummy slapped Bonnie’s face hard; and before my amazed eyes, her head turned.

  “What happened?” my friend said hazily, lifting a long arm to her brow.

  “You saw a toy, lost your senses, and your little friend caused a near riot,” Mummy said briskly. “Every other customer in the house had fled and the most important of all, Chief Howard, has been inconvenienced.”


  “Bobby, I’m so sorry, but I am deathly afraid of snakes—” Bonnie shuddered. “Is it still here?”

  “Take the damn thing with you!” Mummy said, shoving it in my hand. “Go upstairs. Wash yourself. There are other customers waiting downstairs, and if you’re lucky, they haven’t heard what you’ve done.”

  “Come back to me, Bobby,” Bonnie murmured weakly. “We can get another girl in for the double—”

  “No. The mood’s spoiled,” he said, and with angry, swift movements, he began dressing himself.

  Later on, after the man departed and new customers had arrived, Rose Villa settled into normalcy. In our bedroom, Bonnie slowly drank a whiskey and slipped into a fresh dress. Passing me on her way out the door, she put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Buck up.” She gave me a half smile. “I know you only did it because of worry.”

  Relief flooded my tight body, because I was so glad she had survived. That was the important thing to remember, not the shame. “Bonnie, I’m very sorry, but I honestly thought you had been struck dead—”

  She held a finger up like a teacher, and her eyes burned into mine. “Pamela, a lot of things will happen here that look like something fearful but really are not. You’ll manage it, if you’re tough. But do remember: don’t tell on the men. They hate it.”

  FALL TURNED TO winter and then spring. I pushed down the shame of the Snake Mistake, as everyone was calling it, and kept working. Enough money was flowing into the house that Mummy continued to treat me well, and after paying her my room and board fees, and making my bank deposit, I allotted myself four rupees per week spending money for clothing and books. I struck an arrangement with a bookseller to return books I’d read for half of what I’d paid. Most of them I gave back: but not the Brontës nor the Austens, not Shaw’s Pygmalion and certainly not The Home and the World, the famous Bengali novel by my beloved Rabindranath Tagore. I lost myself in the plight of the character Bimala, torn between a good husband who loved her and a dashing activist who persuaded her to steal for him without so much as saying a word.