This assertion had evoked much disbelief. One of the men had said, Why? Are we being fattened for the slaughter, like goats before 'Id?
The duffadar had laughed and told him that it was he who would be feasting on fattened goats.
On the way back, all of a sudden, the duffadar had told Kalua that if he had a mind to join up, he would be happy to have him: he could always use big, strong men.
This had set Kalua's head a-spinning. Me? he said. But malik, I'm married.
No matter, said the duffadar. Many girmitiyas go with their wives. We've had letters from Mareech asking for more women. I will take you and your wife as well, if she wants to go.
After thinking about this for a bit, Kalua asked: And ját – what about caste?
Caste doesn't matter, said the duffadar. All kinds of men are eager to sign up – Brahmins, Ahirs, Chamars, Telis. What matters is that they be young and able-bodied and willing to work.
At a loss for words, Kalua had put all his strength behind his oars. As the boat was pulling up to shore, the duffadar had repeated his offer. But this time he had added a warning: Remember – you have only one night to decide. We leave tomorrow – if you come, it must be at dawn… sawéré hí áwat áni.
Having told his story, Kalua turned to look at Deeti and she saw that his huge, dark eyes were illuminated by questions that he could not bring himself to ask. The sensation of a full stomach had made Deeti groggy enough to hear Kalua out in silence, but now, her head boiled over with the heat of many inadmissible fears and she jumped to her feet in agitation. How could he imagine that she would agree to abandon her daughter forever? How could he conceive that she would go to a place which was, for all she knew, inhabited by demons and pishaches, not to speak of all kinds of unnameable beasts? How could he, Kalua, or anyone else, know that it wasn't true that the recruits were being fattened for the slaughter? Why else would those men be fed with such munificence? Was it normal, in these times, to be so profligate without some unspoken motive?
Tell me, Kalua, she said, as tears welled into her eyes. Is this what you saved me for? To feed me to the demons? Why, it would have been better if you'd left me to die in that fire…
One of the small ways in which Paulette attempted to make herself useful to her benefactors was by writing the place-cards for their dinners, suppers, church tiffins and other entertainments. Being of a comfortable, placid disposition, Mrs Burnham rarely exercised much effort over these meals, preferring to make the arrangements while lying in bed. The head-bobachee and chief consumah were generally shown in first, to discuss the fare: for reasons of propriety, Mrs Burnham would keep her nightcap on her head and her mosquito-net down while this consultation was in progress. But when it was Paulette's turn to enter, the drapes would be pulled back and more often than not Paulette would be invited to sit on the Burra BeeBee's bed, to look over her shoulder as she puzzled over the seating for the meal, writing names and drawing diagrams on a slate tablet. Thus it was that Paulette was summoned to Mrs Burnham's bedroom one afternoon to help with the arrangements for a burrakhana.
For Paulette, the examination of Mrs Burnham's seating charts was usually an exercise in misery: coming as low as she did in the order of social precedence, it almost always fell to her to be seated amidships – or beech-o-beech, as the BeeBee liked to say – which meant that she was usually placed between the least desirable guests: colonels who'd been deafened by gunpowder; collectors who could speak of nothing but the projected revenues of their district; lay preachers who ranted about the obduracy of the heathens; planters with indigo-stained hands, and other such nincumnoodles. Such being her experience of the Burnham burra-khanas, it was with some trepidation that Paulette asked: 'Is this a special occasion, Madame?'
'Why yes, Puggly,' said Mrs Burnham, stretching languidly. 'Mr Burnham wants us to put on a tumasher. It's for Captain Chillingworth, who's just arrived from Canton.'
Paulette glanced at the slate and saw that the Captain had already been placed at the BeeBee's end of the table. Glad of an opportunity to show off her knowledge of memsahib etiquette, she said: 'Since the Captain is next to you, Madame, must not his wife be placed beside Mr Burnham?'
'His wife?' The tip of the chalk withdrew from the slate in surprise. 'Why, dear, Mrs Chillingworth has been gone many a long year.'
'Oh?' said Paulette. 'So he is – how do you say – a veuf?'
'A widower do you mean, Puggly? No, dear, he's not that either. It's rather a sad story…'
'Yes, Madame?'
This was all the prompting Mrs Burnham needed to settle back comfortably against her pillows. 'He's from Devonshire, Captain Chillingworth, and bred to the sea, as they say. These old salts like to go back to their home ports to marry, you know, and that's what he did: found himself a rosy-cheeked West Country lass, fresh from the nursery, and brought her out East. Our country-born larkins weren't mem enough for him. As you might expect – no good came of it.'
'Why, Madame? What was it that came to pass?'
'The Captain went off to Canton one year,' said the BeeBee. 'As usual, months went by and there she was, all alone, in a strange new place. Then at last there was news of her husband's ship – but instead of the Captain, who should turn up at her door, but his first mate. The Captain had been struck down by the hectic-fever, he told her, and they'd had to leave him in Penang to convalesce. The Captain had decided to arrange a passage for Mrs Chillingworth and had deputed the mate to see to it. Well, dear, that was that: hogya for the poor old Captain.'
'How do you mean, Madame?'
'This mate – his name was Texeira as I recall – was from Macao, a Portuguese, and as chuckmuck a rascal as ever you'll see: eyes as bright as muggerbees, smile like a xeraphim. He put it about that he was escorting Mrs Chillingworth to Penang. They got on a boat and that was the last that was seen of them. They're in Brazil now I'm told.'
'Oh Madame!' cried Paulette. 'What a pity for the Captain! So he never remarried?'
'No, Puggly dear. He never really recovered. Whether it was because of the loss of his mate or his wife, no one knows, but his sea-faring went all to pieces – couldn't get along with his officers; scared the cabobs out of his crews; even turned a ship oolter-poolter in the Spratlys, which is considered a great piece of silliness amongst sailing men. Anyway, it's all over now. The Ibis is to be his last command.'
'The Ibis, Madame?' Paulette sat up with a jolt. 'He will be Captain of the Ibis?'
'Why yes – didn't I tell you, Puggly?' Here the BeeBee cut herself short with a guilty start. 'Look at me, rattling on like a gudda when I should be getting on with the tumasher.' She picked up the slate, and scratched her lip pensively with the tip of the chalk. 'Now tell me, Puggly dear, what on earth am I to do with Mr Kendalbushe? He's a puisne judge now you know, and has to be treated with the greatest distinction.'