Bhauji?
Deeti put an arm around Paulette's shoulders and leant towards her ear: Pugli, what's to be done, tell me? Unless there's a miracle, I'm going to be a widow tomorrow.
Paulette took hold of her fingers and gave them a squeeze: Bhauji, don't give up hope. It's not tomorrow yet. A lot could happen between now and then.
Oh? The girl had been frequenting the air duct all morning, Deeti had noticed: she sensed that she knew more than she was willing to say. What is it, Pugli? Is something going on?
Paulette hesitated before giving her a quick nod. Yes, Bhauji, but don't ask me about it. I can't talk.
Deeti gave her a shrewdly appraising glance. All right, Pugli: I won't ask what's going on. But tell me this: you think it's possible that my jora could get away alive? Before tomorrow?
Who can tell, Bhauji? said Paulette. All I can say is that there's a chance.
Hé Rám! Deeti took hold Paulette's cheeks and shook them, in gratitude. Oh Pugli, I knew I could trust you.
Don't say that, Bhauji! Paulette cried. Don't say anything yet. So much could go wrong. Let's not doom it from the start.
There was more to this protest, Deeti guessed, than mere superstition: she could feel the girl's nervousness in the tautness of her cheeks. She brought her head closer to her ear.
Tell me, Pugli, she said, are you going to have a part in it too – whatever it is that's going to happen?
Again Paulette hesitated before blurting out, in a whisper: A very small part, Bhauji. But an essential one, or so I'm told. And I'm worried that things may go wrong.
Deeti rubbed her cheeks to warm them. I'll be praying for you, Pugli…
A little after four, shortly after the start of the first dogwatch of the afternoon, Captain Chillingworth came on deck again, looking pale and feverish, and hugging an old-fashioned boat-cloak to his chest. As he emerged from the companionway, his eyes went straight to the stooped, drooping figure that was tethered to the mainmast. He turned a glance of inquiry on the first mate, who answered with a grim laugh: 'The nigger's alive all right; kill that ziggerboo ten times over and he wouldn't be dead.'
The Captain nodded, and began to shuffle to the windward side of the quarter-deck, with his head lowered and his shoulders bunched. The wind was blowing hard and steady from the east, throwing white-capped combers against the schooner's side. In deference to the weather the Captain headed not to his usual place, at the junction of the bulwark and the fife-rail, but to the protective shelter of the after-shrouds. On reaching the shrouds, he turned to look eastwards where dark scuds of cloud had tumbled together to form a dense, steel-grey mass. 'Storm-breeders if ever I saw them,' muttered the Captain. 'How bad do you think it's going to be, Mr Crowle?'
'Nothing to sweat about, sir,' said the first mate. 'Just a few scurries and sneezers. Blow itself out by dawn.'
The Captain leant back to look up at the masts, which were now bare of all canvas except for the staysails and foresails. 'None the less, gentlemen,' he said, 'we'll have her hove-to and snugged down; best to ride out the weather under a storm-staysail. No need to take any risks.'
Neither of the mates wanted to be the first to give their assent to such an excess of caution. 'Can't see as it's necessary, sir,' said Mr Crowle at last, reluctantly.
'You'll do it all the same,' said the Captain. 'Or do I have to remain on deck to see it done?'
'Don't y'worry sir,' said Mr Crowle quickly. 'I'll see to it.'
'Good,' said the Captain. 'I'll leave it to you then. And as for myself, I'm more than a little a-weather, I must confess. I would be grateful if I could be spared any interruptions tonight.'
That day the girmitiyas were not allowed on deck for their evening meal. The weather being as bad as it was, they were passed balties of dry rations through the hatch – stale rock-hard rotis and parched gram. Few among them cared what they were served, for none but a handful had the stomach to eat. For most of them, the events of the morning had already faded from the forefront of memory: as the weather grew steadily worse, their attention came to be wholly absorbed by the raging elements. Since all flames and lights were forbidden, they had to sit in darkness as they listened to the waves, pounding against the hull, and the wind, shrieking through the bare masts. The din was enough to confirm everything that anyone had ever thought about the Black Water: it was as if all the demons of hell were fighting to get into the dabusa.
'Miss Lambert, Miss Lambert…'
The whisper, barely audible above the noise, was so faint that Paulette's ears would not have picked it up, had the name not been her own. She rose to her feet, balanced herself against a beam, and turned to the air duct: all that could be seen was an eye, gleaming behind the slot, but she knew at once who it belonged to. 'Mr Halder?'
'Yes, Miss Lambert.'
Paulette went closer to the duct. 'Is there something you wish to say?'
'Only that I wish you all success for tonight: for your brother's sake and mine, and indeed for all of us.'
'I will do what I can, Mr Halder.'
'I do not doubt it for a moment, Miss Lambert. If anyone could succeed in this delicate mission it is none other than you. Your brother has told us something of your story and I confess I am amazed. You are a woman of extraordinary talent, Miss Lambert – a genius in a way. Your performance so far has been so fine, so true, as not to be an impersonation at all. I would never have thought my eye, or my ear, could have been thus deceived – and that too, by a firangin, a Frenchwoman.'
'But I am none of those things, Mr Halder,' protested Paulette. 'There is nothing untrue about the person who stands here. Is it forbidden for a human being to manifest themselves in many different aspects?'
'Evidently not. I hope very much, Miss Lambert, that we will meet again somewhere, and in happier circumstances.'
'I hope so too, Mr Halder. And when we do, I trust you will call me Paulette – or Putli, as Jodu does. But should you wish to call me Pugli, that too is not an identity that I would disown.'
'And I, Miss Paulette, would ask you to call me Neel – except that if we do meet again, I suspect I will have had to change my name. But until then, in any event, I wish you farewell. And bon courage.'
And to you too. Bhalo thakben.