Chapter 52
Rupa barely got through the second show. Her legs dragged
when they should leap, the pert angles of her shoulders drooped miserably, and
her eyes met no one’s gaze. But the men applauded as always and Monsieur Vaudin
said nothing. Back in the dressing room she hurriedly wiped off her makeup and
hung up her costume, then ran up the steep, narrow stairs to the safety of her
little room. Fortunately the other girls were still downstairs visiting with
clients or helping at the bar—they relished the tips that a swish of the hips
or a knowing laugh could earn them. Their customers would happily drink and
play cards until early morning, when Monsieur Vaudin started blowing out lamps
and ushering lingerers out the door.
Rupa flew
to her little dresser and pulled out the top drawer. All the way in the back,
under a pile of silk scarves, was a tiny ivory box no bigger than a walnut. Her
father had given it to her when she was a little girl. She rubbed her finger
over the procession of carved elephants marching around the edge of the lid,
then opened it and drew out a piece of paper that had been folded many times
over. She read the address on it as she had a thousand times before: Fellcrest,
Route 7, Duchess County, New York, United States.
She refolded the paper tenderly and held it to her chest. How he must be
suffering—to have her child delivered to him as though it were his. Imagine
what people must be thinking of him. As young as she was, Rupa knew enough to
understand that the event may well have shattered his life.
A wave of
rage filled her and she clamped her hands to her head. She spun this way and
that and, with no outlet for her distress, threw herself against the wall with
the little window to the sea. Weeping, she raised her eyes and looked out
desperately over the red roofs of the mostly sleeping city. She never dreamed
her father would go to such lengths, following their tracks himself, even to America.
Foolish, foolish man! Now Phillip was paying for her silence, paying for the
wickedness of her brothers. But how could she have told anyone? Her mother
would have blamed her, and her father—there was no telling what he might have
done in his rage. The whole family would have twisted every which way to avoid facing
the truth: that her brothers had handed her over to a stinking British soldier
for a little drink. She had seen that soldier before, hanging about the edge of
their property with her brothers. They liked him for the gin he shared, and she
had caught the big, dirty foreigner more than once eyeing her with a sickening
smile. Then came that night . . . She would never forget the smell of him as he
came toward her, nor her terror the moment she realized what was about to
happen.
She saw
again the four of them just inside the doorway to her room, her three brothers looking
nervous behind the soldier. She saw his pale skin and matted beard as he
stumbled toward her. He had gone too far. Arihant, the eldest, grabbed his arm
as the soldier started to pull off her sari, but the large man took out his gun
and pointed it at him. Arihant fell back with the others, and all she was aware
of was this beast on top of her and the sound of Anil, her youngest brother,
sobbing and arguing with Arihant. Viplav, the middle brother, kept his mouth
shut as always and did whatever Arihant said.
When it was
over and the soldier had shuffled out the door, Arihant threw her clothes at her.
He leaned close to her face as she hid herself, crying, behind her hands.
“Look at
me, Rupa,” he insisted. “Look at me!”
It took all
her strength to lower her hands and turn her eyes toward his.
“This did
not happen, my little river rat,” he whispered. “Do you understand? It was a
bad dream, nothing more. I know you won’t tell anyone, will you? It would not
be good for you.” His beautiful brown eyes were fierce and frightened, all at
the same time. She knew he would do anything to protect this secret.
“Will you
keep quiet or not?” She could smell the alcohol heavy on his breath and slowly
nodded. The next day at dinner her father announced her betrothal to Manindra,
the notorious local aristocrat. A fine match, he said, the son of a
prince—reason to celebrate. Arihant shot her a warning look. No, she would not
tell. But she could run away. She would not spend another week in this dreadful
home or be traded off to a lunatic nobleman for the rest of her life. This
American man Phillip was leaving their house soon, and he was so kind. Maybe he
would help her. She had to take the chance.
Now that
story must be told, she realized. Rupa calmed herself, breathing in the cool
night air, taking control of her thoughts. She must send a letter. Phillip’s
Hindi was poor, and she knew no English, so she would write in French. Elise
the barmaid had been teaching her for months now and said she was learning well.
Everyone who was anyone knew French, Elise said, so that would include a
high-born man of Phillip’s class, surely.
But while
Rupa could make herself understood in Marseilles,
she could not spell, and she struggled to form the strange letters of this foreign
alphabet. She would need Elise’s help. And for that, she would have to tell her
the story.
The next
day Rupa rose earlier than usual and walked to a stationer’s to buy a few
sheets of paper and an envelope. When Elise arrived for work at La Coquette,
Rupa drew her aside and asked the favor. The generous barmaid readily agreed,
so the two decided to meet at the city’s main post office the following
morning, where Elise would write out a letter from Rupa’s dictation.
Never
having set foot in a post office, Rupa did not know what to expect. Imagining a
chaotic scene that would require well-placed bribes to get her mail into the
right bag and onto the proper ship, she was surprised to find the main post
office in Marseilles a smart and busy place, with polished counters you could
write at, complete with pens and bottles of ink, and all kinds of people coming
and going with packages of every description. When Elise arrived, they found a
corner away from the hustle and bustle, and spread out Rupa’s letter paper on a
counter.
Rupa looked
earnestly at her friend. “What I tell you is not good, Elise. Maybe you will
not like me anymore after I tell you. But it is necessary.”
Elise
looked down at the girl matter-of-factly. “My dear, you can’t tell me much that
I have not heard or even done myself.”
“And you
will not tell anyone? Not the other girls or Monsieur Vaudin?”
“Of course
not. It’s none of their business, is it?”
Rupa relaxed
for just a moment to smile in innocent gratitude at her friend, then she began
her tale. She interrupted it only once near the start to ask her scribe to
please write it down in good French, not in her exact words with all the
mistakes (to which Elise, raised by a literary mother until her early death, told
her not to worry—that when the letter was finished, Dumas himself would find
nothing to quarrel with.) [1]
Eventually
they had covered three sheets of paper and said everything Rupa felt necessary.
Elise blotted the pages carefully, folded them into the envelope, and inscribed
the address from Rupa’s little piece of paper. She handed the envelope to Rupa.
She had written everything down without comment, and only now, as Elise gave
the young girl a tender pat, did Rupa see how sad she looked.
“Take this
to the window and send it off,” Elise instructed, pointing across the room.
“You are a very brave girl.” Elise cleared her throat and touched the corner of
her eye. “Now I’m off to La Jambe
Pendante (the Hanging Leg had
become the staff’s name for their cabaret since M. Vaudin’s installation of the
new racy sign) “so I will see you soon.” With a brisk smile, Elise left Rupa to
conclude her business.
Rupa walked
to a window where a small, yellowed man sat, smelling strongly of tobacco. He
examined the address and stamped the envelope forcefully in the upper corner,
then tossed it into a gray sack behind him. Rupa handed over the price
demanded, then ventured to ask, “Please, Monsieur, do you know how long it will
take?”
“Is it
urgent?” snapped the man. Rupa pulled back involuntarily, squeezing her little
purse. “If it was urgent, you should have said something,” he chided her. The
poor girl stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“Well,
urgent or not, it’s all about the same to America. Two days by train, seven
days by ship, then what they do over there, God only knows. So maybe two weeks,
maybe three.” He sniffed and glared at her as though daring her to ask another
question.
Conscious
of some people now waiting behind her and too afraid to satisfy her curiosity
further, Rupa murmured her thanks to the violent little man and hurried away.
Three weeks, she thought. So much can happen in three weeks. But it would have
to do. She only hoped that the ship carrying her precious letter made it to New York harbor without sinking in the middle of the Atlantic. Two ships had gone down just a week earlier
after colliding in a fog, and she wondered now how many important letters and
fat packages tied up with loving care had sunk to the bottom with them. At this
thought, a gloom settled over her in which she spent the rest of the day. She
had to believe that her story would reach Phillip and that it would make a
difference. Having included no return address—she must not be found— she would
never know for sure.
Chapter 53
Eleanor pulled the damp cloth from her head and very slowly
opened her eyes. She knew it was late afternoon by the light slicing between
the barely open drapes and by the special quiet outside, when those used to
living in a hot climate wait for the sun to slide low so they can finish their
chores or simply stroll about the cooling streets. She recalled the sleepy
region’s motto, “Deucement le matin, pas trop vite le soir.” [2] Gradually she pushed herself up and lowered
her feet to the floor. Yes, the ferocious pain was gone. Only a dull soreness
remained and a subtle ache that might simply have been from hunger. She dimly
remembered someone knocking at the door the night before telling her to open up
for her dinner, but she had sent him away with something like a threat. So she
had eaten nothing for at least twenty-four hours.
She looked
at the other bed. Its coverlet was unwrinkled, the pillow still round. Just as
I thought, she mused, Wilbur had not returned. She had enjoyed the quiet, but
had to admit that it was unusual for her husband to be gone on a foray this
long. He usually stumbled back around dawn and collapsed into bed. Once he was
gone for two days, but that was because he had gone to gamble in a neighboring
town and lost everything, including coach fare, and had to walk home, an
experience which included spending the night under a tree and very nearly being
attacked by an owl.
Eleanor
washed her face and arranged her hair. She would have a meal downstairs and
then find the baths. Nothing was more salutary after a bout with such pain than
a gentle scrubbing and a soak in warm saltwater. Putting on hat and gloves, she
descended the main staircase in search of the dining room. She found the room
empty aside from a short man in a long apron spreading white tablecloths.
Clearly she was too early for dinner, so she addressed herself to the front
desk, inquiring in flawless French where she might find a quality bathhouse.
The round, pale clerk with crooked spectacles referred her two blocks away,
assuring her that it was the very best in town. He pulled a coupon from below
the counter, imprinted with the hotel’s name, added his initials in the corner,
and urged her to present it for extra special treatment. And he hoped she would
return for dinner, served at seven, tonight featuring a seafood
bouillabaisse—the house specialty—with sweet melon.
Eleanor
took a deep breath, delighted at the prospect of a good bath followed by a
hearty meal, and walked to the door. A small sign posted just beside it made
her stop. The word Attention appeared in bold letters across the top, so
she paused with one hand on the door and read the short notice. All travelers
were advised to be cautious after dark in consequence of the murder of a
gentleman, possibly American, in the Faubourg Gastonnier, most probably at the
hands of foreigners, who remained at large. Any information regarding the crime
or the identity of the gentleman would be most appreciated. Kindly report any
and all knowledge to the Prefecture
of Police, rue Saint
Etienne.
A
gentleman, possibly American. She looked back toward the counter. The
bespectacled man was bent over a ledger, making notations. Eleanor retraced her
steps.
“Excuse me,
Monsieur.” The round man straightened, marking his place with a finger.
“Do you
happen to know any more about the incident reported on the notice there?”
“Only what
the gendarme told me who posted it this afternoon. He said the deceased was a
man about two meters tall, lean, with graying hair. He wondered if we were
missing anyone of that description. I told him,” the man recounted with a look
of satisfaction, “that physical descriptions of our guests are not the sort of
thing we record in our books. And since I was on leave the last two days, I
could not answer for the attributes of all our clients who had checked in
during that time.”
Eleanor
made sure her face reflected the fact that she found nothing exceptionally
clever in what the clerk had told the officer. “How did they know he was
American?”
“I asked
the same thing,” declared the man. “They said his clothes all had American
labels, New York City,
I believe. But the boots were English.”
Eleanor
stared at the man. Like an avalanche, one mighty thought fell upon her mind:
While she lay in bed waiting out her headache, Wilbur may have moved from being
the nettlesome man who strutted and smirked and burned through their fortune to
the softened and harmless status of the past tense. His clothes all had
American labels, New York City,
I believe. But the boots were English. Those silly boots he insisted on
buying the last time they were in London
even though he had three fine pairs in his trunk. And his clothes, all from
Percy Haberdashers on Sixth Avenue—for years the only tailors he would buy
from.
“Does
Madame possibly know the gentleman?” The clerk’s voice came from far away.
She
hesitated only a second. “No, I don’t believe so. Thank you.”
Eleanor
found the baths as good as the clerk had promised and more. As she lounged in
the briny tub, inhaling the sharply scented steam, the accumulated anxiety of
the past year melted into the water. It did not matter that soon her money
would be gone. She would have to find another man quickly or work—a fate that,
until this moment, had horrified her more than any other. Either way, she would
wake every morning without having to set eyes on Wilbur Brown. Of course, this
was only if his really was the corpse lying on ice in the Marseilles morgue. He might walk into the
hotel tonight and fall into bed, only temporarily the worse for wear. But
something told Eleanor that he was dead, and she was alone in this gritty town,
indeed, in the entire world.
She turned
over in her mind matter-of-factly how she might determine if this were true.
Should she go to the morgue and ask to see the body? They would want identification.
She would have to fill out paperwork and answer questions. No, that was
impossible. Maybe she should conduct her own private investigation. But where
would she begin? He could have struck off in any direction that night. She
decided to wait a few more days and trust that his absence would confirm his
fate.
She arrived
at the hotel dining room at seven o’clock precisely, freshly dressed and
wonderfully famished. The maitre d’hotel bowed and asked if her husband would
be joining her.
“No,” she
smiled, “I am dining alone tonight.” At a small table by the window, she took
her time over each course, savoring the Mediterranean flavors, enjoying a glass
of sweet wine that Wilbur would never have allowed (sweet grapes were a waste
of vineyard space, he maintained), and altogether taking twice as long as she
ever had at dinner with her husband. His nerves always propelled them forward
to the next thing, whatever that was, before coffee could be served. When the
dessert cart rolled up, she took her time examining each magnificent confection
before pointing to the largest one, a tart covered in berries and rich cream,
and ordered a café au lait. She
pushed her fork slowly into the tart, splitting a strawberry in two. In her
mind Wilbur grew more certainly dead with each delicious mouthful.
To be continued . . .
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