Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘It would seem,’ she said curtly, addressing the Collector, ‘it would seem that this was all a great sport for Mr Raha.’

‘No.’ Rajkumar’s voice grew louder. ‘Not at all.’

Dolly kept her gaze away from him. ‘Mr Raha,’ she said, ‘appears to have enjoyed himself thoroughly.’

‘No. That was not what I meant.’

Glancing at Rajkumar, Uma saw a look of inexpressible dismay cross his face. Suddenly she was sorry for him: Dolly was being needlessly cruel, unfair; anyone could see that the man had not intended any disrespect.

‘Mr Raha. .’ Uma put out her hand to tap him on his wrist, to bring him back to the present and remind him that he was in company. But her elbow brushed accidentally against the table as she was reaching out. A fork slipped off her plate and fell tumbling to the floor. The sound was very small, thinly metallic, but within the confines of that space, it achieved the amplitude of an explosion. Two bearers leapt simultaneously from their places at the wall: one snatched the fallen utensil from the floor while the other proffered a napkin-wrapped replacement.

‘Ah, Madame. .’

The Collector’s voice was expansive and loud, filled with mirthful irony. At the sound of it she shrank into her chair, in mortification. She had come to dread this note of derision, this inflexion that so often accompanied his comments on her small acts of clumsiness. She knew the incident would be mentioned many times that evening; there would be innumerable jokes, references, arch asides: these would constitute her punishment.

‘Ah, Madame,’ the Collector continued, ‘may I urge you once again to refrain from juggling with the Government’s silver?’

She shivered, her eyes fixed on her plate. How was it possible to endure this? She looked at the new fork, lying on her plate, and as though of its own accord her hand began to move. Her wrist snapped up, sending the fork cartwheeling into the air.

Just before the utensil had completed its arc, Rajkumar shot out a hand and snatched it out of the air. ‘There,’ he said, slapping it down on the tablecloth. ‘No harm done.’

Across the table the Collector was watching in astonishment. ‘Uma!’ he cried, the note of irony gone from his voice. ‘Uma! What is the matter with you today?’

There followed an instant of silence in which they heard the sound of a carriage, rumbling up to the Residency’s gate. ‘ Kaun hai ?’ came the sentry’s shouted challenge. The reply was muffled and indistinct but Dolly started at once to her feet. ‘It’s Mohanbhai. Something must have happened at Outram House.’

A bearer came in, bowing, and presented the Collector with an envelope. ‘Urgent, sir.’

Slitting the envelope the Collector took out a sheet of embossed notepaper. He read the letter through and looked up, smiling gravely. ‘I’m afraid I must leave these revels. A summons. Her Highness wants me at Outram House. At once.’

‘Then I should go too.’ Dolly pushed back her chair.

‘By no means.’ The Collector gave her hand a pat. ‘Stay and enjoy yourself. It’s me she wants. Not you.’

Dolly and Uma exchanged glances: they both knew at once that the Queen had summoned the Collector in order to announce the Princess’s pregnancy. Dolly could not decide whether it would be better to go back to Outram House or to stay away.

‘Stay, Dolly,’ Uma urged.

‘All right,’ Dolly nodded. ‘I’ll stay.’

The complicity of the two women was not lost on the Collector. He looked from Uma to Dolly and back again. ‘What exactly is going on at Outram House?’ he said. ‘Does either of you have any idea?’

‘No.’ Uma was quick to answer, her voice a note higher than usual. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t require Dolly’s presence.’

‘All right then.’ The Collector moved quickly around the table, saying his goodbyes. ‘I’ll be back when Her Highness sees fit. Do keep yourselves amused. .’

The suddenness of the Collector’s departure set the others astir. The Naidus and the Wrights rose whispering to their feet. ‘It’s very late. .’ ‘Ought to be on our way. .’ There was a flurry of leave-taking and handshakes. Following her guests to the door, Uma stopped to whisper to Dolly: ‘I’ll be back after I see them off. Wait for me. .’

Dolly went dazedly into the drawing room and opened one of the French windows. Stepping out into the garden, she stopped to listen to the voices of the departing guests. They were saying their goodbyes. ‘Thank you. .’ ‘So nice. .’ One of the voices was Uma’s, but it seemed very far away. She couldn’t think clearly right now: everything seemed a little blurred. It struck her that she should shut the French window to keep the insects out of the house. But she let it pass: there was too much to think about.

Right now, at this very moment, at Outram House, the Princesses were probably sitting by their windows looking down the road, waiting for the sound of the Collector’s carriage. Downstairs, the reception room was probably open already, the lamps lit, just two, to save on oil. The Queen would soon be on her way down, in her patched crimson htamein; in a moment she would seat herself with her back to the door. And there she would wait until the Collector was shown in.

This was how the accustomed world of Outram House would end: they’d known this, all along, she and the Princesses. This was exactly how it would happen: one day, suddenly, the Queen would decide the time had come. The Collector would be sent for immediately, not a minute to waste. The next day everyone would know: the Governor, the Viceroy, all of Burma. Mohanbhai would be sent away; perhaps the Princesses too. Only she, Dolly, would remain, to bear the blame.

‘Miss Dolly.’

She recognised the voice. It was that man, the visitor from Burma.

‘Miss Dolly.’

She turned on him, her temper rising. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘I heard. .’ He stopped to correct himself. ‘The truth is that it was you who told me your name.’

‘Impossible.’

‘You did. Do you not remember? That night, in the Glass Palace. You were the girl with the Princess. You must remember. I spoke to you, asked you your name.’

Dolly clapped her hands over her ears. ‘It’s a lie. Every word of it. You’ve made it all up. Everything, every last word. There was not a line of truth in anything you said tonight. Min and Mebya were gods to the people of Mandalay. No one would have dared do the things you described. . People cried when we were taken away.’

‘They did. That is true. But this too is true: the mob, the palace. I was there, and so were you. You must recall — that night in the palace, someone had snatched something from you — a box. I found it and gave it back. That was when you told me your name: Dolly. I can still hear your voice.’

She averted her face. ‘And you are here because of this? Because of what you saw that night at the palace?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve made a mistake, Mr Raha.’ Her voice rose to a cry of plaintive denial. ‘It wasn’t me you saw. It was someone else. Children change as they grow. I have no memory of what you describe. I was not there. There were many of us — girls working in the palace. Perhaps it was someone else. I don’t know. It wasn’t me. I was not there.’

‘I remember what I saw.’

‘How can you be sure? I remember nothing of that time. I have never wanted to. And you yourself were a boy, a child.’ ‘But I still remember.’

‘And for that you came here looking for me?’

‘Miss Dolly, I have no family, no parents, no brothers, no sisters, no fabric of small memories from which to cut a large cloth. People think this sad and so it is. But it means also that I have no option but to choose my own attachments. This is not easy, as you can see. But it is freedom of a kind, and thus not without value.’