Flowers in the Blood Page 2

  In a week or two, the robe's silk began to lose the scent, and long before my father returned, the last essence of rose had vanished.

  The day after I discovered my mother, I awoke to find Yali and Nani staring down at me, muttering. After I bathed, Yali dressed me in a white pinafore embroidered with butterflies. Nani unbound my light brown hair and signaled Yali to brush it out. When it was obvious they would not braid it again, I was about to comment. Then I noticed my grandmother looked peculiar. Her own hair was also unbound and fell in gray clumps about her face.

  “Why is your hair out, Nani?”

  “A mark of respect.” She nodded to Yali that she was satisfied with my appearance. “Now you must eat something.”

  “I'm not hungry.”

  A servant brought a tray with tea and fruit and placed it on the bedside table.

  “Take some tea.” Yali held the cup while I sipped. “Good. Doesn't that feel better?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Now some slices of banana.” Grandmother kissed my cheek. “Many people are coming to see us today.”

  “Why?”

  She took my hand. “Today we say good-bye to your mother.”

  “Where will she go?”

  “To the cemetery.”

  “And then?”

  “Into the ground.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is what we do.”

  I stamped my foot and cried out, “No! Not my mother!”

  Grandmother reached out to steady herself on my washstand, her eyes brimming. “You must not say that, Dinah.” Her mouth set into a firm line with little vertical creases above and below. She squeezed my hand and led me out to see the others.

  During the morning, there was a constant stream of visitors. I wandered among them, permitting them to touch me and fuss. I felt as though I was acting a part in an elaborate fairy tale. As long as I was passive, brave, and quiet, nobody banished me from the places where the activities were taking place. The scene became even more interesting when the Sassoon contingent arrived.

  The members of my father's family were almost strangers. Both his parents were dead and the others came around only when he was home from his travels. They filled the entire parlor, relegating the Raymonds and Cohens to other wings of the house. Anyone could tell the difference between the two sides of the family by their dress alone. Grandfather Ephraim Raymond wore the attire of his Arabic origins, including a turban, a long gown, called a dagla, and a loose outer coat, known as a jubba.. Nani was dressed in a dariyee kassa, the traditional open-fronted dress with an embroidered chemise. Other relations on the maternal side wore variations on this Baghdadi style of garment, with both men and women covering their heads with a fez—the women's decorated with gold thread and pearls.

  The Sassoons had begun to adopt European dress. All four of my father's brothers wore tailored suits. My father's one sister, Bellore, held court in the fashion of the day known as a wrapper, a loose garment that reached to her ankles, with a frilly collar, sleeves, and hem. The children in the family were outfitted like our British counterparts.

  Reuben, the second Sassoon brother, called me over and offered me some jelebis, the syrupy candy I liked best. I took two, but did not taste them.

  “Don't you like sweets?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He rattled the tin. “Plenty more here. Go ahead, after yesterday—”

  I jutted out my chin and handed them back with a regal gesture that caught him off-guard.

  “You are upset, of course you are.” He lowered his head until his thick beard grazed my cheek. When I pulled back, he firmly drew me toward him. “You can tell your uncle about it. What did you see?”

  Aunt Bellore swooped forward and I squirmed as she locked her stout arms around me. Her massive breasts jiggled in my face. Even though she was supposedly in mourning, a heavy layer of powder covered her pasty skin and perfect rouged circles had been smudged under her padded cheekbones. “Hush! How could you?” she chastised her brother. Clasping me to her bosom, she led me away.

  Later that afternoon, when the cart carrying Mother arrived, the wailing of the women rose to such a pitch that the china, the glassware, even my bones began to vibrate. Following the others outside, I saw the body lying in an aron, a long lidless bier with wicker sides. She was completely wrapped in a white shroud.

  “That's not Mama.”

  “It most certainly is,” Aunt Bellore declared firmly.

  “Take it off,” I screamed. “I want to see Mama!” I pushed forward, but the sickly-sweet smell of rosewater emanating from the aron sent me running to Yali.

  “They wouldn't let me see her. Why?”

  “You're a child,” my ayah replied softly.

  “But I saw her in the bed,” I sobbed.

  I did not return to the family until the men gathered in preparation for the funeral ceremony. From a far doorway I watched as poles were attached to the aron; then it was covered by a sheet. Six torches were carried on either side of the bier. The procession, with the corpse held aloft on the shoulders of my father's brothers, organized itself outside the house. Then began the slow four-mile journey to the cemetery. Prayers were read as the party walked. My grandfather, whom I called Nana, and his assistant, Dr. Hyam, followed behind in the carriage. In the failing light the ribbon of men, their white garments reflecting dusky roses and purples, swayed before me like a sari in a breeze.

  “No! Don't take her!” I ran after them, but two of the mourners grabbed me and carried me home.

  While they were away, the women tried to divert my grandmother. Nobody seemed concerned with me. Even Yali was occupied with the younger children.

  Confusion accompanied my grandfather's return. Dr. Hyam helped him into his rolling chair. I followed as he was wheeled to his room and lifted into bed.

  “What’s wrong?” Aunt Bellore asked.

  “He broke down at the grave,” Dr. Hyam replied. “When he saw where it was placed, he could not bring himself to do his part.”

  “I thought she'd be with her husband's family—”

  “No, the site for Luna's burial was on the south side of the cemetery and separated from the regular plots by a low wall,” the doctor whispered.

  “My God, not beside the suicides!”

  “No, but nearby. The place where the other—” He caught himself. “Where some disreputables are buried.”

  “No,” my aunt groaned, but I could see her expression was an odd mixture of consternation and pleasure. “What did Ephraim do?”

  “He raised his fist toward the Sassoons. I had to help lower him into the grave.”

  “He did it, then?”

  “Yes, he finally did his duty as her nearest male relative.”

  “And?” she prodded.

  “He uncovered Luna's eyes and sprinkled a handful of earth into each of them. Afterward, it took three men to hoist Ephraim level with the grass.”

  For two days I had managed without losing my equilibrium, but this vivid detail unhinged me. I remembered my mother's almond-shaped eyes—the same amber color as mine—and her long, curling lashes. I thought about my grandfather forcing the lids up and soiling the delicate white orbs with grit.

  “Mama, I want my mama!” Fighting back, I pounded the wall with my foot.

  Dr. Hyam had not noticed my presence in the shadows, and he started. “What is she doing up?”

  “Mama! Mama!” Aunt Bellore pinned me under her arm. I kicked her legs. “Let me go to Mama!”

  “Dinah,” she hissed. “Control yourself. You cannot go to your mother. Your mother is never coming back.”

  “Yes she is!” Furiously struggling, I sank my teeth into the tender flesh inside her elbow. She bellowed in anger, released me for a second, then caught me with the other arm. Defeated by her superior strength, I slumped in the hallway. She kept one hand on me so I could not flee.

  Nani came running. “What are you doing to her? Let the child go!”


  “She's gone crazy. This is what comes from letting her run wild. We should have sent her away today. But no, you wouldn't listen to me.”

  As Nani possessively yanked me to her, the jolting motion caused my gut to twist and I vomited on my pinafore.

  “Look what you've done now,” Aunt Bellore accused as she backed away shaking her head. “I don't know why nobody ever listens to me.”

  On the conclusion of the prayers on the seventh day, the tea table was laden with delicious foods, including my favorite sweets: sumboosaks, cakes filled with cheese or almonds; dol-dol, made from molasses and coconut milk; babas, pastries filled with mashed dates. There was far more than any family—or even the guests who flocked to the house— could eat in a month.

  Nani said, “Take whatever you like. The rest will be given to the poor.”

  I filled my plate. “Why not save it?”

  “Someone should benefit from our grief.”

  “Good to see her appetite returning,” my grandfather replied in a shaky voice. “Benu will be pleased she looks so well.” A few weeks later I would overhear Dr. Hyam tell my grandmother that Nana's palsy of the past few years had taken a sharp turn for the worse after the funeral.

  “How long until word reaches Benu?” Nani muttered.

  “A ship leaves for China and the Pearl River delta this week. No telling where he might be or how long a message might take to reach him. A month at the least.”

  Nani replaced her silver water goblet. “When was he due back?”

  I strained to understand what they were saying about my father.

  “Saul did not expect him until February. If he hears the news sooner, he will certainly come before then. If not—”

  “Will I have to go back to Theatre Road?” I asked.

  Nana's trembling increased and the fork fell from his fingers. “That's your home,” he said gently.

  “I do not want to live there ever again.”

  The adults' eyes shifted from one to the other. Dr. Mordecai Hyam, my grandfather's assistant, filled in. “Dinah, nobody knows what will happen in the. future. We shall have to wait and see.”

  In the next few weeks, the atmosphere in my grandparents' house changed palpably, partly due to the weather. Well into October the air had been drier than usual. The monsoon had withdrawn early. Breathing seemed easier, as though the weight of humidity and melancholy were lifting in tandem. During that time, the question of where we would live was discussed repeatedly. Concerns revolved around my grandfather's failing health and occupation more than the needs of the three motherless children. Although Nana was only nominally working, he did continue to see patients and advise young Dr. Hyam on their treatments. Transferring his consulting room to Theatre Road was impractical. My grandmother's moving without him was impossible. On the other hand, the Raymonds' home in the old Jewish district was not large enough to accommodate three children, two ayahs, and a nursery cook on a permanent basis in anything but cramped conditions. Dr. Hyam had been given a bed with neighbors, so he could be available for either my grandfather or patients, but this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. The nursery cook was offered time off to visit his family, with Nani supervising our meals herself. I was content, and balked anytime a change was mentioned. I promised myself they could never force me to leave. I would scream, I would shout, I would do anything to prevent them from transporting me to that dreadful house, with that bloody bed, those creaking shutters.

  Grandfather Raymond had a following in an unusual quarter: the lepers of Calcutta. On Wednesdays those experiencing problems with their rotting limbs would make their way to the consulting room. Laden with garlands of flowers, fruits, or whatever meager offerings they had managed to assemble, they waited for medical attention. They were devoted to my grandfather because he had been one of the first physicians of his day to offer pain relief to his patients—whether nobleman or pauper—in the form of chloroform and opium drops.

  One particular Wednesday, almost two months after my mother's funeral, I came upon three lepers waiting at the back door of his clinic. The only woman beckoned me closer. After a few hesitant steps I could see she was waving with a discolored stump of an arm. I fled back to the courtyard. In less than an hour I heard a door slam and I peeked around the side wall. The lepers were being helped into the back of a cart. The woman's chest and shoulder were wrapped in a bandage. As the cart carrying her turned down the street, Aunt Bellore and her husband, Samuel Lanyado, drove up in their gharry.

  “Hello, Dinah,” Uncle Samuel called out brightly when he saw me.

  “Where's your grandfather?” Aunt Bellore asked brusquely.

  “In the consulting room.”

  She pushed by me and made for the door, Uncle Samuel puffing behind. I ran after her and blocked the path. “He's been—”

  “Dinah, let us pass,” my aunt barked sternly.

  Nobody had spoken to me in anything but a solicitous tone since the day of my mother's murder. Stung into silence, I fell behind as Aunt Bellore blustered her way forward. The door between the anteroom and the procedure room was slightly ajar. She pushed it open with her foot. Grandfather's sweeper, a white-bearded Hindu, was scrubbing the floor. Neatly laid out on a cloth on the table was the day's gruesome harvest: one leg, one hand, one arm. Aunt Bellore's screams brought Dr. Hyam running from the office.

  I hid behind the door and listened until the commotion passed, then made my way as close as I dared, to listen.

  “. . . so he's been arrested . . . they're still looking for the other . . . I thought you would want to know . . . the evidence in his rooms . . . the rubber shoe . . . chloroform vials ...” were some of the phrases I caught before scurrying back to the courtyard.

  Yali gave me my supper with the boys, saying the adults could not be disturbed. Nani did not come in to see me until I was in bed. Her face, which had softened somewhat since the ordeal of the funeral, was again a map streaked by long lines leading in every direction. Her hug was short, tense, and she almost flew from the room.

  Disturbed, I could not sleep and begged Yali to tell me what was wrong.

  “Are they going to send me away?”

  “No, no.”

  “Are we going back to Theatre Road?”

  “No, no.”

  “What is happening, then?”

  Yali twisted the hem of her sari and looked away as she whispered, “Do you remember a friend of your mother's, the sahib Mr. Sadka?”

  “Uncle Nissim?”

  She grimaced. “He's not your true uncle.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “He was merely a friend of your mother's.”

  “And mine. He brought me sweets and toys.”

  “No.”

  “But he did!”

  “He was not a real friend.”

  “Mama liked him. She was always happy to see him.”

  “She was mistaken. He is a wicked man.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Yali sat on my bed and attempted to drape my mother's robe over my shoulders. I brushed it away. “No! I don't want it.”

  Yali refolded it and sat down on her mat. “You sleep now, Dinah.”

  “No!”

  “Shall I stay?”

  “Yes!”

  I clenched my teeth and stared at the poles from which the mosquito-netting tent hung over my bed. Something inside me twisted and crushed me painfully. I must have cried out, for Yali appeared beside me, stroking my shoulders. Barely noticing her, I lay still as images of Mama and Uncle Nissim flashed before me: quick glances, a light touch on the hand, lying together side by side on the veranda cushions passing the mouthpiece of a gurgling water pipe, called a hookah, between them, Uncle Nissim's long, drooping lashes, his protuberant lower lip mimicking a bulbul, Mother dancing in front of him in a diaphanous gown, him clapping in response. I remembered joining in, linking hands in a circle, and recalled how out of place I had felt because they were in step with eac
h other, but out of step with me. That memory was jolted by others: a grim expression in Uncle Nissim's black velvet eyes, a slammed door, loud voices, a broken glass. They had argued. Most people did. Even so, how could a man who had been so gentle, so funny, have harmed my mother? No, Uncle Nissim could never have done that! It was someone else. Someone had made a mistake. There had to be another answer.

  From that moment I developed a precocious curiosity about the crime.

  2

  A daughter learns her mother in sequence as the years pass. At each stage there are revelations, mysteries revealed. But what of the child who loses her mother before the age of reason? That child learns as I did—from others. I had few memories of our early years together, but these I began to gather and store as if in preparation for the long winter of life without a maternal guardian.

  Luna's mother, Flora, was a direct descendant of Shalom Aaron Cohen, who came from Aleppo, Syria, arriving in Calcutta in 1798. He is considered the founder of the city's Jewish community. Soon thereafter Jewish settlers began to flood into Calcutta, the majority emigrating from Baghdad in order to flee the harsh rule of Daud Pasha in the early 1800's. India, a land of many religions, welcomed the Jews. Here they could live in perfect freedom; here their traditions could be preserved. Flora had been promised to Ephraim Rahamin (who later anglicized his last name to Raymond) through intermediary contracts in Baghdad. Her father, Obadiah Cohen, had been a gem dealer to the nawabs of Oudh, as had been his father, Shalom. Obadiah was said to have been a charming man who loved to weave stories and entertain—a skill that made him popular with the princes of northern India. Once he received a gift of priceless pearls, and the most valuable were set into a pearl ring, which my grandmother gave, along with many matching pieces, to Luna on her wedding day.

  Obadiah was one of the first Jews to build a mansion in the elegant Park Street district—as fine as any in this “City of Palaces.” To maintain his family's scholarly tradition, Obadiah insisted tutors from Baghdad educate his children. Determined to raise the Jewish community to new standards, he wanted to establish a Jewish clinic. His daughter's dowry was astounding, as was Obadiah's offer to construct not only a home for the couple but also whatever medical facility the young man desired. Thus he was able to entice a medical student from Baghdad to come out to India.