Flowers in the Blood Read online

  FLOWERS

  IN THE

  BLOOD

  GAY COURTER

  Copyright © Gay Courter, 1990

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Electronic Edition Copyright 2010© by Gay Courter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Published in electronic form by Egret E-Book Editions, Crystal River, Florida

  For information contact www.gaycourter.com [email protected]

  Originally published in hardcover by Dutton, a division of Penguin Books, New York in 1990.

  J

  Jacket design: Philip Courter

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Courter, Gay.

  Flowers in the blood/Gay Courter—electronic edition

  1. Calcutta (India)—Fiction. 2. India—History—19th century—Fiction. 3. Opium trade—Fiction. 4. Jews—India—Fiction. 5. Historical Fiction. 6. Love stories.

  PS3553.O86185 1990 [Fic.] 813.54--dc22 90-44085

  ____________________________

  E-book ISBN 978-1-61750-027-5

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  In loving memory of

  Aunt Edith and Aunt Mary

  In Gay Courter’s bestselling sweeping saga, beautiful Dinah Sassoon, daughter of an affluent opium trader and pillar of Calcutta’s tight-knit Jewish community, sees her privileged future destroyed when her mother is mysteriously murdered. This tragic event leaves Dinah dishonored and virtually unmarriageable…until Edwin Salem, offering unconditional love, sparks her indomitable spirit and passionate ambition. Exotic and richly textured, Flowers in the Blood rings to life a nineteenth-century India never before portrayed. Irresistible in its storytelling power, it is one of the finest novels set in India.

  “A novel of Jews in India…Compelling, informative, absorbing.” – New York Times Book Review

  This well-researched novel depicts in rich detail the culture and customs of the enclave of Arabic Jews living in Calcutta.” – Library Journal

  “Gripping…Creates a mesmerizing reality, subtly etched with historical detail.”– Booklist

  “An elaborate romance in an exotic setting.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  “The Jews of India…A vivid, heartwarming sage…the best kind of history…the sights and sounds of India and Hong Kong come alive…meticulously researched and well-written.”

  — Jewish Week

  Exhilarating…Suspenseful!” — Kirkus Reviews

  A fascinating tale…Meticulously researched…Delves deeply into the history of the Jewish People in India.”

  — Cleveland Plain Dealer

  Also by GAY COURTER

  How to Survive Your Husband’s Midlife Crisis (with Pat Gaudette)

  I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate

  The Midwife’s Advice

  Code Ezra

  River of Dreams

  The Midwife

  The Beansprout Book

  Contents

  PART I: Poppy Fields

  Calcutta, 1878

  PART II: The Drought

  Darjeeling, 1890

  PART III: The Sowing

  Cochin and Travancore, 1891-1892

  PART IV: The Harvest

  Calcutta, 1892–1897

  PART V: Flowers in the Blood

  Hong Kong, 1898

  P A R T I

  Poppy Fields

  In India . . . Everything that has happened, is happening or will happen to the human race is there and visible to the naked eye.

  —ANDRÉ MALRAUX

  A. Sassoon Salem

  11 Alwyne Place

  London N 1

  11 July 1960

  Clara Luna Weiss

  605 Park Avenue

  New York, New York

  Dear Clara,

  We are still sorting out the details of Mother's estate, and nothing much has changed since we spoke in London after the memorial service. However, amongst the possessions left to you is that ghastly desk that Mother referred to as “Give's bureau.” She must have remembered your admiring comments on it, although I am not certain if they were in praise or in jest.

  In any case, her papers directed Mr. Jhirad to remove a package which he found in one of the drawers and to forward it to you. As per Mother's instructions, it has been left intact in its wrapping. We're all panting to know if it is a packet of love letters, or, as Uncle Asher has suggested, a stack of worthless rupee notes saved “for emergencies.” Zachariah says if it contains unpaid bills to burn them. Knowing Mother's sentimental side, I'll go on record as guessing the parcel contains school reports, childish scrawls, pictures, and the like. The reason she sent them to you is that you inherited her tendency never to toss anything out.

  If you wish, I will ship out the desk “under separate cover” or dispose of it as per your instructions. Your more substantial share of the loot will be forthcoming once the tax men on both sides of the Atlantic pick over the bones.

  Do let us know about the mystery bundle.

  Love from Nancy and the children,

  Aaron

  1

  Calcutta, 1878

  Ever since that dreadful day, I have been unable to tolerate one sound: the slapping of a shutter. Almost twenty years would pass before I could order someone to remove the wooden abominations from that room and replace them with the hush of draperies. And even today, three-quarters of a century later, I recall with loathing the peculiar clatter that woke me the morning my mother was murdered.

  Yet here I am in the room where it took place, writing as much as I can recall after so much time. Parts of my past are public knowledge, the stuff of criminal records and newspaper headlines. The rest has been kept within the tight circle of the Sassoons of Calcutta. Because I am departing India, the letters, clippings, photographs, ledgers, and official documents are stacked in the corridors. Perusing them for the last time, I recognize that what seemed a senseless ending is in fact the beginning of my story.

  I also now see this tale has elements of revenge, both sweet and bitter, calculated and accidental. Although for most of its telling my narrative will refer to this brooding river, this vindictive undercurrent, I managed to ignore the silent swells for many a year. And yet, as a tap with an intermittent drip eventually fills the bucket, this wall of water, though inevitable if one recalled the source, came as a surprise when it finally rushed its bank. Like the victim of a catastrophe, I would face the moment when I would be swept into the sea to flounder or to prevail. However, that time of reckoning was many years off from the discovery of my mother's mutilated body.

  Today, this house looks little different from the way it did in 1878. The clatter of cars and lorries has replaced the clomping of horses pulling carriages, but the traffic still mostly consists of sweating rickshaw-wallahs and other forms of human powered vehicles. Of the mansions lining both sides of the street, Number Four Theatre Road continues to be the most prestigious address, at least for the present. What will happen once the Chatterjees take over is anyone's guess.

  The room where I am writing is the largest corner suite. Once it was my father's bedroom. The family slept on the second story because the high ceilings and large windows helped cajole the most elu
sive breezes to pass over us at night. My mother's room adjoined my father's, but since he was away most of the year trading opium to China, she usually slept in his bed, which was raised on a platform to the level of the three walls of windows. “He likes to know I am waiting for him here,” she once said to me. At the time the words were a comfort, for my father was a shadowy figure. Whenever I wanted something special or had a difficult question, I was told to wait for his return. The date was never set—it could be weeks or months—yet my mother's presence in my father's bed promised he indeed would come home.

  My bedroom was next to my mother's dressing room. I occupied the one bed, and Yali, my ayah, slept on a mat on the floor. Next to me was a large nursery washroom with doors leading to my room and the infants' area, where my brothers were in the care of Selima, the dai, or wet nurse. Asher, who was less than a year, slept in a swing cradle; Jonah, who at two was four years younger than I, in a railed bed. The other members of the household staff, including the cook, his assistant, the coachman, the bearer, and the durwan, or gatekeeper, lived in the godowns, which were outbuildings behind the kitchen.

  That calamitous night, the first of October, Jonah had a heat rash, so my mother asked the ayahs to take shifts in fanning the babies. The clapping sound woke me before dawn. At first I thought it was Yali, who sometimes snored. I looked down, saw her mat rolled like a snail, and remembered her duties had been shifted. Sitting up, I focused on the noise. Perhaps it was the slap of the punkah, the long, flat fan. One of the ayahs would sit in a rocking chair and pull the rope that led to the stiff curtain in a long, slow rhythm. She could close her eyes and doze for five or ten minutes before the movement of the chair in concert with the fan would terminate, and the rope tied to her wrist would tighten enough to nudge her awake. Stirred by a sense that something was not as it should be, I peeked into the babies' room. The punkah was still. Selima lay on her mat, her stout arms and legs looking like stuffed sausages. Skinny Yali was stretched like a child's stick figure on the floor beside her. My brothers slept peacefully. I returned to my bed.

  Just as I lay down, a louder bang startled me. It came from the far end of the hall, where my mother slept. Her shutter must have come loose. I decided to fix it, then lie down on the chaise in the corner of the room—where I was permitted to rest if I had a bad dream or a fever—until she awakened. I passed through her dressing room because the corridor door was always fastened from the inside.

  At once I saw the difficulty. One of the double corner shutters, which were hinged in the center, had been opened intentionally, but had not been hooked into place. Moonlight, mixed with the amber rays that herald the tropical sun, spilled into the room. The luminescence slashed across the bed where my mother was sleeping. The pearly skin of her face glowed in contrast to the satin cape that draped from her shoulders onto the bed. I had never seen this covering before. It was red, glistening. It matched her nightdress fold for fold.

  As I latched the shutter securely, I noticed an odd aroma in the room. Usually the odor of jasmine bushes alongside that end of the house dominated at night, but as I moved toward Mother I was assaulted by a peculiar pungent smell that caused my eyes to water and my throat to burn.

  “Mama,” I choked.

  I climbed to the rim of the platform and touched the satin cloak at her shoulder. It slid away from me, the shiny surface adhering to my fingertips, warm and sticky. I brought my hand to my face and sniffed the rusty residue.

  “Mama . . .” The cloying odor made me gag.

  Holding my breath, I touched her forehead. It was cool as stone. Something splashed my bare toes. In the darkness I could not see what was seeping down the front of my legs, and for one horrifying moment I thought I was urinating. I tried to hold myself, only to discover the wetness poured from the bedclothes. With both hands I clasped my mother's arm and pulled it toward me. It flopped limply beside the bed, its crimson cover slithering along with it. As I lifted her wrist upward, a warm fluid sprayed my face.

  “Mama! Mama! Mama!”

  My shrieks brought the ayahs running. They found me in the middle of the bed, bending over my prostrate mother. I thrust my bloodied hands forward in supplication. My nightgown—acting like a wick— was hemmed with scarlet streaks.

  Yali touched my mother's mouth and lips, then reached for me. “At least she lives!” Yali said as Selima handed me to her.

  “Mama!” I cried, but the ayahs seemed unconcerned with her. They rushed me to the kitchen courtyard and laid me down on the cold stones. I struggled to be free, but they held me fast. The cook cut away my gown with a curved knife. His assistant poured tepid water over me. What sort of a bath was this? The cook ran his fingers across my scalp, checked my ears, my nose. Yali, who was strong and wiry enough to hold me down, bathed my flailing limbs, then pressed a cloth between my legs and wiped me like a baby. When that too came out clean, she fell upon Selima with joyful sobs. ..

  A few days later I came to understand what they had been doing: searching my bloodied body for wounds. However, at that moment I could not fathom how they could be so happy when their mistress had been attacked. I jumped up and beat Yali with my fists. She took the blows without resistance. When I tired, she carried me, pink and naked, into the drawing room, where stout Selima was waiting with a fresh gown. Jonah and Asher lay nearby on blankets set like islands on the Kashmir carpet. The doors to the rest of the house were shut. I crawled into Selima's generous lap. In Hindustani she suggested that Yali might want to attend to herself. I looked up. Yali's sari was streaked with vermilion patches. I clutched Selima. Holding me like an infant, the wet nurse stroked my cheek. My tears flowed freely. I had moistened her blouse, so she lifted it away, and my cheek rested against her brown breast. The buttery cleft smelled of cardamom. Even though I had not nursed for several years, I took her firm teat in my mouth. Sucking, I fell asleep.

  Later in the day, after the police had taken control of the house, Grandmother Flora Raymond came to fetch us. I called her Nani, the Hindustani name for one's maternal grandmother. She barely moved her mouth as she asked me to come outside with her. The cook's assistant brought a glass of water. Grandmother sprinkled in some salt and made me take a few sips.

  “Ugh!” I pushed it away.

  “For the fright,” she said, forcing me to take another swallow. She then went to the kitchen, which was in an outbuilding, took a long iron spoon, placed a rough hunk of lead in the hollow, and held it over the fire. When the spoon glowed, the cook was told to hold a large dekchi, or pot, over my head, and into this she doused the molten lead. The sizzling made me jump. Next, she reached in to examine the shape into which the ball of lead had formed. Displeased, she repeated the procedure two more times. Satisfied at last, she wrapped the lead in paper and placed this under my foot.

  “Stamp on it, Dinah.”

  “Why?”

  Her response was a stern, not-to-be-disobeyed expression.

  “Ayn-faksit-ayn-ilraa,” she chanted in Arabic, the original language of the Calcutta Jews. “May the evil eye be destroyed.” This was the first time I had heard a tarkah, a superstitious Baghdadi charm, used as an antidote to fright.

  Nani decided to take us back to her house in Lower Chitpur Road in the older Jewish district near the earliest synagogues. A few clothes were fetched from my room, and I was asked what else I might want.

  “The white robe with the blue border.”

  Yali looked perplexed. “You have nothing like that.”

  “I want it.”

  “Some books perhaps, your dolls?” Nani suggested sweetly.

  “The robe. Mama's robe.”

  “Why would she want such a thing?” Yali asked.

  With an impatient gesture Nani indicated the nurse was to fetch it.

  Moments later, though, Yali returned crying. The police would not allow her to enter the room where the crime had occurred.

  “I'll see to it,” Nani announced.

  That night, when she set
tled me in the garden room at her house, she placed the robe at the foot of my bed. “There it is, dearest Dinah. Your mother loved you very much.”

  “No, she didn't. If she loved me, she would be here.”

  As my grandmother stood up, I saw only her back, curved with defeat. She replied in a garbled voice, “I will send Yali in now. She will sleep at your bedside. If you awake, she will fetch me.”

  Before I closed my eyes, I pulled the dressing gown across myself. Running my fingers down the plump edge, I was able to blot out the image of my mother under the red cloak by replacing it with the white moire robe. I envisioned Mama reading a book—one of her favorites was Lorna Doone—the lamplight playing on the silk swirls like oil skimming water. Sometimes I would sit beside her and she would read to me. She was so slender, it was a simple matter for us to share the narrow chaise longue. Mama would begin from wherever she was in her own story. Not that it mattered to me. Though I had a passing interest in the tale, I mostly wanted to hear her voice: lyrical, whispery, with the faintest of lisps. After I had fallen asleep or slipped away, she would continue silently. Usually she wore this white gown, banded with a two-inch border of blue silk. Over and over I would run my hands along the smooth seam, from the hem to the shawl collar, idly trying to fathom where it began, where it ended. I would press my cheek against her breast. She smelled mostly of roses. Sometimes Mama would clasp my other hand to her lips and kiss each finger, one by one. That's my most vivid memory: kisses, her thin, tentative voice, her languid sprawl on the chaise, the same volumes read again and again.