The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (32 page)

Indiana smiled his best, even, I’m-right-where-I-should-be-no-matter-where-I-am, American smile. “Lost? No, we’re not lost. We’re on our way to Delhi. This is Miss Scott, and this is Mr. Round. My name is Indiana Jones.”

Chattar Lal was taken aback. “
Dr.
Jones? The eminent archaeologist?”

Willie sneered without rancor. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Chattar Lal went on. “I remember first hearing your name when I was studying at Oxford. I am Chattar Lal, Prime Minister for His Highness the Maharajah of Pankot.” He bowed to do them honor. “Welcome to Pankot Palace.”

He accompanied them through the central foyer, down pillared marble halls, past dazzling interiors, inlaid with mirror and semi-precious stones, ivory fountains, intricate tapestries.

Willie gazed in awe at the ornate splendor. Down the next corridor they passed the portraits, hanging chronologically, of the Pankot Princes. The faces were variously dissipated, elegant, evil, vapid, aged, ageless.

Willie whispered to Short Round as they went by each one. “How’d you like to run into
him
in a dark alley? That one’s kind of cute. I could see myself married to a prince like that. Princess Willie.”

Ahead of them, Chattar Lal questioned Indy in a tone midway between curiosity and mistrust. “The plane crash and your journey here sound . . . most incredible.”

Willie heard that. “You should’ve been there,” she cracked.

Indy sounded earnest. “We’d appreciate it if the Maharajah would let us stay tonight. We’ll be on our way in the morning.” Right after a little covert inspection tour.

“I am only his humble servant”—Chattar Lal bent his head obsequiously—“but the Maharajah usually listens to my advice.”

“Is that him?” Willie asked. They’d come to the last picture in the row of portraits that lined the wall. Willie stopped and stared in frank disappointment at the immensely corpulent, aged Rajput prince. “He’s not exactly what we call a spring chicken,” she sighed.

“No, no,” advised Chattar Lal, “that is Shafi Singh, the present Maharajah’s late father.”

“Oh, good,” Willie brightened up some. “And maybe the present Maharajah is a little
younger?
And thinner?”

Two female servants materialized from a side door and bowed.

Chattar Lal nodded to Willie. “They will escort you to your rooms now. You will be provided with fresh clothes. Tonight you will be dining with His Highness.”

“Dinner?” beamed Willie. “And with a prince? Hey, my luck is changing.” Until she caught sight of herself in a piece of decorative mirror. “But look at me. Oh, my God, I’ve got to get ready.” To hook a prince, the correct bait was essential. She hurried off with one of the servants.

To Indiana, Chattar Lal offered a cool smile. “Eight o’clock in the Pleasure Pavilion, Dr. Jones.”

They both bowed, each less deeply than the other.

An extraordinary golden dome rose above elaborate gardens. The night air was perfumed with jasmine, hyacinth, coriander, rose. The strains of sitar, tambour, and flute wafted on the torchlit breeze. The Pleasure Pavilion was aglow.

Rich court ministers and Indian merchants, decked out in their formal Rajput finery, mingled on the paths, trading innuendo and promise of booty for court favor and imagined privilege. Into this net of palace intrigue strode Indiana Jones with his bodyguard, Short Round.

Indy wore his traditional professorial raiment: tweed jacket, bow tie, round eyeglasses; his pants and shirt had been freshly cleaned by palace servants. He’d decided to keep his three-day growth of beard intact: he wanted to look rough and ready to this weird Prime Minister—and besides, he didn’t want Willie to think he was trying to impress her. Short Round, too, was clean, though he’d refused to change clothes or remove his cap.

“Look around, Shorty,” said Indiana. “You like to have a place like this someday?”

“Sure,” said Short Round.

“Wrong,” said Indy. “It’s beautiful, okay, but it reeks of corruption. Smell it?”

Short Round sniffed the air. “I . . . think so.” There
was
a peculiar pungence to the air, like a too-sweet incense.

“Attaboy,” nodded Indy. The kid had enough disadvantages without hooking him on this kind of wealth. “It looks good. I’ll admit that. And it might be a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live here.”

“I live in America,” Short Round agreed.

“Take that carved ivory sundial, over there, for example.” He wished he
could
take it, all the way back to the university—it was a prime specimen of Tamil craftwork—but that wasn’t the point he was trying to make. “It was clearly stolen from a different kingdom, purely for the aggrandizement of this palace.”

Short Round nodded. “Just like us: they find new home for tilings.”

Indy cleared his throat. “I don’t think exactly just like us, Shorty.”

Short Round was momentarily confused, but then he thought he saw what Indy was getting at. “Ah: these mans can’t spell!”

“Right,” said Indy. He decided to leave it at that, for the time being. “They can’t spell.”

“I think they know numbers pretty good, though,” Short Round figured; anybody this rich had to at least be able to count money.

Indy smiled at his pal. “You got good eyes, kid.”

They let their good eyes wander over the porcelain tiles, jade facades, fluted pillars.

As the hangers-on and functionaries began filing in, Chattar Lal approached. With him was a British cavalry captain, in full regalia.

Chattar Lal made the introductions. “We are fortunate tonight to have so many
unexpected
guests. This is Captain Phillip Blumburtt.”

Blumburtt bowed to Shorty and Indiana. He was a proper gentleman, perhaps sixty, mustachioed, balding, wearing four medals across the chest of his dress uniform.

Indy shook his head. “Hello. I saw your troops come in at sunset.”

“Just a routine inspection tour,” he assured them all politely.

“The British worry so about their Empire.” Chattar Lal tried to sound warm.

“Looks like you’ve got a pretty nice little empire here to worry about,” smiled Indy.

As the four of them stood there admiring the architecture, Willie entered the gardens from a separate path. Indiana admired her architecture as well.

She looked stunning. Washed and made-up, she’d been lent a royal bone-colored silk sari, slightly westernized with a low V neckline and brocade borders. In her hair draped a diamond-and-pearl tiara; golden hoop earrings set off her face; an ornate gem-studded necklace sat, dazzling, across her chest; over her head was the finest silk veil.

It was truly a transformation.

“You look like a princess,” said Indy.

As far as she could remember, this was the first nice thing he’d ever said to her. She nearly blushed.

Blumburtt and Lal made similarly complimentary remarks. The Prime Minister then noted that the dinner would soon begin, and led the way toward the dining hall. Willie was about to accompany him when Indy held her back a few steps.

“Don’t look
too
anxious,” he advised. “Your mouth is watering.”

“I think it
is
sort of like being in heaven,” she confessed. “Imagine, a real prince. My best before this was a provincial duke.”

They crossed the gardens to the inner pavilion, Willie on Indy’s arm. Her eyes were like a kid’s at Christmas.

Short Round lagged several paces behind just to watch them. Lovely, stately, devoted, charmed. They were his idealized parents, at that moment, and he their faithful son. Pausing briefly, he sent off a simple prayer to his favorite stellar divinities-—the Star of Happiness, the Star of Dignities, the Star of Longevity—asking that this moment be noted in the Celestial Archives so it could be later reproduced upon request.

Prayer finished, he caught up with them at a trot, falling quickly into step.

They entered the dining hall. Massive granite columns supported the rococo ceiling. Alabaster horses danced in bas-relief along the walls. The floor was marble and ebony. Crystal chandeliers refracted candlelight to every corner. In the center of the room a long, low table had place settings for twenty, marked by solid gold plates and cups. Bejeweled guards stood at rigid attention beside the doorway. Indy and company walked in.

Off to the side, drums and strings wove an exotic melody as a sparsely dressed dancing girl spun to the ecstasy of her muse. Indiana gave her the once-over, smiling appreciatively. “I’ve always had a weakness for folk dancing.”

Willie nodded to the dancer, half-snide, half-encouraging. “Keep hoofin’, kid; look where it got me.” She gave Jones a disparaging glance, then quickened her stride to catch up to the Prime Minister. “Oh, Mr. Lal.” Willie affected her most conversational tone. “What do you call the Maharajah’s wife?”

“His Highness has not yet taken a wife,” Chattar Lal demurred.

Willie beamed. “No? Well, I guess he just hasn’t met the right woman.”

As Willie entered into more intricate levels of small talk with the Prime Minister, Indiana wandered over to a far wall where numerous bronze statues and outré devotional objects were on display. One strange clay figurine attracted his attention right away. He picked it up to examine it as Blumburtt walked over to join him.

Blumburtt grimaced when he saw the small, strange doll. “Charming. What is it?”

“It’s called a Krtya,” said Indy. “It’s like the voodoo dolls of West Africa. The Krtya represents your enemy—and gives you complete power over him.”

“Lot of mumbo jumbo,” Blumburtt blustered.

Indiana took an even tone. “You British think you rule India. You don’t, though. The old gods still do.” He’d had a sense of that when he saw the little statue that guarded the path to the palace. This Krtya doll only reinforced his impression.

Blumburtt looked sour. Indy put down the doll. Willie ran over, all excited from her chat with the Prime Minister.

“You know, the Maharajah is positively
swimming
in money.” She flushed. “Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.” Blumburtt arched his eyebrows at her with the gravest sort of misgivings. Indy merely smiled.

A drum boomed sonorously from the musicians’ dais.

“I believe we’re being called to dinner,” Captain Blumburtt said, showing some relief.

“Finally!” Willie exclaimed. Blumburtt moved to separate himself from these people as quickly as possible.

Indiana took Willie’s arm, and escorted her to the table.

As the drum continued beating, the assembled guests took their places standing beside floor pillows that surrounded the low banquet table. Only the head of the table remained empty. Indiana was placed to its right, beside Captain Blumburtt; Willie and Shorty stood opposite them, to the left of the seat of honor.

Chattar Lal strolled over to the corner, near Willie, clapped his hands twice, and made an announcement, first in Hindi, then in English: “His Supreme Highness, guardian of Rajput tradition, the Maharajah of Pankot, Zalim Singh.”

All eyes focused on two detailed, solid silver doors that were closed some ten feet behind the Prime Minister. At once, the doors opened; across the threshold strode the Maharajah Zalim Singh. Everyone in the room bowed.

Indy saw Willie looking up from her obeisant position; saw her jaw literally fall open. He looked from her face to that of the entering monarch: Zalim Singh was only thirteen years old.

“That’s the Maharajah?” she whispered. “That kid?” Never had disappointment weighed more heavily on a human face.

“Maybe he likes older women,” suggested Indy.

Zalim Singh walked to the head of the table. He was outfitted in a long robe of gold and silver brocade, festooned with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls. His turban was similarly jewel-encrusted, topped with a diadem in the shape of a spraying fountain. He was further adorned with earrings, finger rings, toe rings. His face had that pre-adolescent delicate softness about it: no wrinkles, no hair, puffed out to the barest sulk by the last vestiges of baby fat. Actually he looked quite feminine. And actually quite beautiful.

He gazed imperiously at the crowd . . . until his gaze fell upon Short Round. Short Round was not bowing.

Short Round was standing there in his baseball cap, chewing gum, glaring antagonistically at this kid who seemed to think he was some kind of bigshot.

Natural enemies.

Indy sent Short Round a withering look across the table, and though Shorty did
not
wither, he
did
bow. But he was bowing for Indy, he told himself, not for this haughty wimp.

The Maharajah finally sat down on his golden pillow. At a nod, the guests took their seats on the floor, reclining against cushions of their own.

Indy smiled sympathetically at Willie, her dreams of monarchy evaporated. “Cheer up,” he consoled her. “You lost your prince, but dinner’s on the way.”

It was just what she needed to hear. Her crestfallen features became salivary. “I’ve never been so hungry in all my life.”

Servants appeared with silver platters of steaming food. Willie closed her eyes a moment, savoring the aromas that filled her nostrils. When she opened them again, the first course sat before her: an entire roasted boar, arrows piercing its back and bloated stomach, tiny fetal boars impaled on the shafts, a rafter of broiled baby boars suckling on their well-cooked mother’s teats.

Willie grimaced in amazement. “My God, it’s sort of gruesome, isn’t it?”

Indiana farrowed his brow. It seemed rather odd, at best. Hindus didn’t eat meat. He glanced at Blumburtt, who seemed equally puzzled. Willie continued to stare at her food.

The young Maharajah leaned over to whisper something to Chattar Lal, on his left. The Prime Minister nodded, and addressed the group.

“His Highness wants me to welcome his visitors. Especially the renowned Dr. Jones from America.”

Indy tipped his head slightly toward the little prince. “We are honored to be here.”

A small pet monkey jumped up on Short Round’s shoulder, stole a flower off the plate, chattered gaily. Short Round giggled. The monkey took his cap; he took it back. They shook hands, whispered secrets, played with the flower petals, like rowdy siblings at a family affair.