Silver Wattle (3 page)

I loved dogs. As a child, I asked my parents every Christmas why we could not have one of our own.

My mother’s mouth would set in a firm line. ‘You know why,’ she always replied, turning away from me while my father attempted to distract my wilful demands with promises of birds and goldfish. It was only when I was older that I was made to understand why my mother refused to own a dog. It was a front to save her family’s reputation, for Aunt Emilie was supposed to have died of madness brought on by a case of rabies after she was bitten by a stray dog.

Because Mother knew many wealthy people and Milosh’s clients were rich, we often attended parties in grand homes. One of these was the villa of paní Provazníkova, on one of the most exclusive avenues in the fashionable suburb of Bubenech. When Klara and I followed Mother and Milosh up the marble staircase, past rows of manservants and maids dressed in black, we knew we were in no ordinary house. French doors opened into a reception hall complete with Greek columns. For her first party of the season, paní Provazníkova, the heiress to a coal fortune, had converted the hall into an indoor garden. Trellises of vines hung from the ceiling; a weeping willow drooped over an artificial pond with live ducks bobbing on it; and a path bordered by pots of golden azaleas led the way to paní Provazníkova. The hostess sat on a floral throne surrounded by admirers perched on stools while a string quartet played Haydn in the background.

‘There he is,’ she said, turning to welcome Milosh. ‘There is the genius who made all this happen.’

In her pink gown and dainty slippers and with ostrich feathers in her hair, paní Provazníkova was a fairy princess. Her dark hair was streaked with silver but her face was young and, despite the frivolity of her outfit, her eyes had an intelligent gleam.

‘The house is a masterpiece,’ agreed one of paní Provazníkova’s companions. A woman sitting next to him squinted at us and produced such a tight-lipped smile that I cringed. ‘Marta, it is nice to see you,’ she said to Mother. ‘It has been a long time. And you brought your children.’

Mother introduced the woman as paní Doubkova, a friend of hers from finishing school.

‘Such lovely girls,’ said paní Doubkova, her eyes narrowing on us like a hawk. ‘One blonde, one dark.’

Klara flinched and I wondered if paní Doubkova’s high-pitched voice was grating on her sensitive ears. In the house next to ours lived an old man who liked to whistle whenever he watered the flowers in his window box. But there was no tune to his serenade, which sounded about as musical as a squeaking wheel, and Klara would cup her ears and wince in pain whenever she heard him. Then I realised that she was staring at the glass eyes of the fox stole paní Doubkova wore around her neck. The animal’s feet hung limply at the woman’s stodgy throat, its once wild claws manicured into tiny points.

If paní Doubkova noticed my sister’s disgust, she did not show it. She patted Klara on the head and introduced her husband, who was named Vaclav Doubek. When he stood up to greet us, he stooped so badly he must have measured half his true size.

‘Why don’t the children get something to eat?’ suggested an old lady sitting near paní Doubkova. She had the kindly eyes and apple cheeks of a storybook grandmother. That was the only kind of grandmother I knew, because my maternal one had died before I was born and my only recollection of my paternal grandmother was the whiskers on her chin, which prickled me whenever she kissed me.

I returned the woman’s smile, not minding that she had referred to me as a child although I was nearly seventeen. I took Klara’s hand and led her to a table spread with cheeses, breads, apple pastries, chocolates and marzipan sweets shaped into crowns. We returned with our plates to sit beside Mother. Milosh was gone. I surveyed the room and found him talking to an elegant woman in a brocade dress. She glanced in our direction before turning away. Her gaze fell on us for only a second but it sent a shiver down my spine.

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ whispered paní Doubkova. ‘She is paní Benova, widow of the army officer, the late Major Beno. Her family used to be one of the wealthiest in Prague, but her father gambled their fortune away. I’ve heard she is on the lookout for a better situation.’

‘She is a talented pianist,’ added pan Doubek.

‘Klara plays the piano beautifully,’ my mother said. ‘She is exceptional for her age.’ There was a sense of strain in her voice. It mirrored the anxiety creeping up on me that I could not explain.

‘Is that so?’ asked the old lady, who was called paní Koutska. ‘I do so love music and children and these days have neither in my home. Perhaps, paní Provazníkova, you could introduce me to paní Benova and I can ask her and Klara to play at a soiree for me one day?’

I turned to look again at Milosh and paní Benova. The young woman was beautiful, with raven-black hair, a long neck and a tiny pout for a mouth. She was like a swan. But it was my stepfather who most caught my attention. Gone was the stern look on his face. He lowered his eyes and whispered something that made paní Benova laugh. Then he laughed too, his eyes sparkling with gaiety. That must have been Mother’s first impression of Milosh, I thought. For I was convinced that she would not have chosen such a humourless man to be our stepfather had she known what he was really like.

The invitation to attend paní Koutska’s soiree came a few weeks later. Klara was finishing up her lesson with paní Milotova. They had been working on Beethoven’s last keyboard work, the Six Bagatelles, Opus 126. It was a mature work for Klara to be studying but she played it with deep feeling. I listened from the dining room where I was helping Marie lay out the table for lunch. Paní Milotova was a friend of my mother’s and she stayed to eat with us each Wednesday after Klara’s lesson. When we were seated at the table, Mother handed her paní Koutska’s invitation.

‘Do you think it is too soon for Klara to perform for an audience?’ she asked. ‘Will it take away her enjoyment of playing?’

Paní Milotova, who Mother called Lída but who we addressed formally because she was a teacher, studied the invitation. ‘Klarinka is a natural performer,’ she said. ‘She will shine even brighter with an audience.’

Mother turned away. Paní Milotova frowned then a look of understanding crossed her face and she blushed. ‘You could certainly use that as an excuse if you didn’t wish to attend. But I would go, if I were you. I would hold my head up and be proud of my daughter. You are the one who nurtured her talent.’

I looked from Mother to paní Milotova. Some understanding had passed between them but I was not sure what it meant. My stomach turned. I had the premonition that something was about to happen but I had no idea what.

Aunt Josephine appeared on our doorstep with Frip soon after paní Milotova had left.

‘I have a letter from Ota,’ she said, holding up a thick envelope. It was not opened, and when Aunt Josephine saw that I had noticed she explained, ‘The moment I touched it, I knew it was something important. So I came straight here.’

Mother showed Aunt Josephine into the drawing room and gave Frip a bowl of water. The maid brought tea as usual. The day was warm and the curtains were closed to keep out the heat. The drawing room was stuffy and I was sure I felt the presence of a spirit somewhere near me but had no idea to whom it belonged.

While Aunt Josephine was always excited to receive a letter from Uncle Ota, she seemed more so than ever today. Her face was flushed and she had not taken as much care as usual with her toilette. She smoothed down a lock of hair that had sprung loose from her chignon and pushed her hat straight before she commenced reading the letter.

To my dear ladies,

So many extraordinary things have happened since I last wrote to you. Not the least is that I have married. Now, my dear ladies, I know that this is not something you were expecting to hear from me and that you are wondering to what kind of woman I have decided to devote my life. Well, let me tell you that her name is Ranjana, which means ‘delightful’ and sums her up perfectly…

‘Ranjana? An Indian?’ said Mother, patting her neck with a handkerchief.

Klara and I leaned forward, eager to hear more. I had a picture of a marvellous princess bedecked in gold bangles and an ochre-coloured sari. We were used to Uncle Ota’s eccentricities and viewed his marriage as another of his adventures. We begged Aunt Josephine to continue to read the letter to us. And after a few moments of disbelieving head shaking, she obliged.

As you will recall from my last letter, I was heading towards Delhi from Bombay. I stopped in a village not far from Jaipur to visit a British officer and his family who I had met on a previous trip to the region. While I was there, the officer was informed that a young woman in a nearby village was intending to commit sati. You may have heard of this custom? A widow immolates herself on her husband’s funeral pyre. Hindus believe that a woman who dies this way is virtuous and will go directly to heaven and redeem all her forefathers’ sins in the process. The practice was outlawed by the British government last century and is condemned by enlightened Indian leaders.

The officer asked if I would like to accompany him and some soldiers from his regiment. When we arrived in the village we learned that the woman and her kindred had already left with the husband’s body and were heading towards the cremation ground. We followed them there and viewed the party from the cover of some nearby hills. I have seen many temples dedicated to sati ‘goddesses’ and have always sought not to interfere in anyone else’s beliefs. The life of a widow in India is a hard one. On the death of her husband, she loses all status in the household and her head is shaved. Her touch, her voice and her appearance are considered abhorrent. But what we witnessed on the field below us was an abomination.

The widow was no more than twenty-one. She had been tied to a horse and was being led along by a man in a red robe. Instead of her holding the symbols of a sati—a mirror and a lemon—in each hand, they had been strung around her neck. Her head was lolling as if she had been drugged. Walking in front of her were a group of women singing and chanting. The officer told the soldiers with him to be ready for trouble because the girl was surrounded on all sides by youths carrying swords. They had got whiff of intervention and were ready to prevent it.

We watched the party until they reached the spot where they intended to set the pyre alight. My stomach turned when the woman was dragged from the horse and thrown upon the platform alongside her husband’s corpse. In her weakened state she put up the fiercest struggle she could but her pathetic cries for help were unheeded by the women who simply chanted louder. The officer told me to stay some distance behind his men, then he commanded the soldiers down the hill between some rocks. I watched in horror as the youths covered the woman with sticks then doused her with oil. But before they could light the pyre, the officer and his men were upon them. A fight ensued in which several of the youths were shot and one soldier had his arm wounded. While the men were having it out, I noticed one of the youths sneak away and light a torch. I ran down the hill and intercepted him before he reached the pyre. I had to deliver several blows to his stomach before I could force him to the ground and put the fire out. I pulled the sticks off the girl; curiously none of the women tried to stop me. When I reached the widow, I found her fitting and frothing at the mouth. I lifted my canteen to her lips, convinced that she had been poisoned and was done for anyway. But after a few moments the convulsions ceased and she looked up at me with the richest coffee-coloured eyes I have ever seen.

The rest I leave to your imagination, only to tell you that after that fateful meeting of eyes we travelled to Calcutta and from there to Ceylon, where we were married yesterday amongst bougainvillea, hibiscus and gardenias in what must have been the original Garden of Eden.

My dear ladies, I am sure that this letter has you astonished but I hope that you will share with me in my own happy bewilderment. I am a man who does not change his habits easily, therefore, while my decision may have been quick, do not think it was unconsidered. Ranjana is an unusual young woman. She was betrothed at ten years of age to her husband, who was then sixty. Although the marriage was arranged, he was a wealthy businessman who did not want an ignorant wife. Ranjana often accompanied him on his trips to Jaipur, where he traded with the British Raj, and she was educated by governesses in English, French and German. She assures me that her husband would never have agreed to her committing sati and that the whole idea was dreamed up by her in-laws because her husband had made provision for her in his will, a practice unheard of in India. She is quite a linguist and her Czech is coming along nicely—much better than my attempts at Marwari and Hindi, which leave her in fits of laughter. Anyway, with Ranjana a widow and me a Czech, we cannot stay in this region for long and must find a new place soon. We are thinking of going to the fifth continent, Australia…

‘Well, I say,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘He is full of surprises!’

I was startled to hear a sob. Klara, Aunt Josephine and I turned and saw that Mother had risen from her chair and was standing by the fireplace.

‘Good gracious, what is it?’ said Aunt Josephine, rushing to Mother’s side.

Klara and I both stood, not sure of what to do. I thought of calling Marie to bring Mother a glass of water but I stopped myself. This was a sight she should not see.

‘I’m fine,’ said Mother, wiping at her wet cheeks. But she was anything but fine. She was trembling and there was a desolate look in her eyes. Aunt Josephine led her back to the sofa and sat down with her. Klara poured Mother another cup of tea. Mother had made a scene and she would have to give us an explanation for it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief. ‘You see, I knew Ota when he was young and he said that he would never marry. His news came as shock because it took me back to the days when I first met your father. That was twenty years ago. It’s a jolt when things change suddenly and you realise that you are no longer young. That so much has already passed and you can never go back and live those days again.’