Part 1 (2/2)

Fitzgerald had sat across from her at dinner. Mariana had seen immediately that he was a possibility, with his square, handsome face and high Roman nose, his hair smoothed unfas.h.i.+onably with pomade. After the soup he had put back his head to laugh at someone's remark, and that gesture, the angle of his head, the shape of his mouth, had caught her eye. Later, risking a glance, she had found him looking at her speculatively over the chicken frica.s.see.

His expression gave nothing away, but his look had excited and disturbed her. For the rest of dinner she had labored to converse with the man beside her, rationing her glances across the table, but Fitzgerald had not met her eyes again.

”Miss Givens,” Fitzgerald called again, over the crowd's noise, frowning as he climbed down from his bale, smart in his uniform, ”surely you should not be here. If you will wait a moment, I shall escort you to your tent.”

”Thank you, Lieutenant,” Mariana shouted back, ”but I have come to see the elephant.”

As she approached him, he looked at the front of her gown, then glanced hastily away. She glanced down and saw a telltale bubble of cloth poking up where she had missed a b.u.t.ton.

Her whole gown must be b.u.t.toned wrong. Her hair was coming loose from her bonnet. She bit her lip and raised her eyes to find the lieutenant smiling.

He offered his hand. ”Since you have come to see the elephant,” he said, ”you had better climb up here with me. This promises to be interesting.”

She scrambled to the top of the bale, breathing in the rain-soaked mustiness of his wool uniform, feeling the warm pressure of his fingers.

Steadying her by her elbow, Fitzgerald pointed. ”There he is.”

Mariana looked out over the crowd and drew in her breath.

In front of them, ringed by coolies, a ma.s.sive bull elephant struggled to rise to his feet, the Governor-General's rolled-up durbar tent creaking and swaying on his back.

A mahout mahout straddled the elephant's neck, beating at the huge head with an iron prod, shouting at him in Bengali, while the crowd, already liberally splashed with mud, argued and speculated and laid wagers. Ignoring them all, the big elephant steadied himself while he searched for purchase in the gla.s.sy mud, and then, with a fearful, trembling effort, heaved his tottering burden upward. straddled the elephant's neck, beating at the huge head with an iron prod, shouting at him in Bengali, while the crowd, already liberally splashed with mud, argued and speculated and laid wagers. Ignoring them all, the big elephant steadied himself while he searched for purchase in the gla.s.sy mud, and then, with a fearful, trembling effort, heaved his tottering burden upward.

At the last instant, a great hind leg gave way. Mariana felt Fitzgerald stiffen beside her. The coolies groaned. Overbalanced by the sodden canvas, the elephant rolled, squealing, onto his side, scattering the coolies like so many chickens and sending his mahout scrambling for balance.

What a perfect scene for today's letter to her father. Mariana turned to Fitzgerald, her face alight. ”This is what I like about India: real Indian things, not imitation English things. We try so hard to be English, with our tents and food and furniture, but it doesn't-”

”I am sorry, Miss Givens,” Fitzgerald interrupted, letting go of her elbow, his gaze traveling past her as if he were looking for someone, ”but I must inform General Cotton at once of the elephant's failure.” He swung himself to the ground and held up a hand, looking both military and apologetic. ”Allow me to help you down.”

She looked at the elephant a moment longer, impressing his picture into her memory, then took the hand Fitzgerald offered.

When she reached the ground, he raised an elbow to take her arm. ”I must see you to your tent, Miss Givens. It's too far for you to walk alone.”

His hair gleamed as he bent to her. He had missed a spot on his cheek while shaving. His eyes, like hers, were green. He smiled crookedly.

Tempted to accept, Mariana hesitated. In the ten minutes it would take to reach her tent, they would converse. She could learn much about him in ten minutes; but what of the toppled elephant that breathed harshly behind her in the mud, the tent still roped to the wooden frame on his back? Could he get up again? Was he hurt? Dear Papa, waiting at home in Suss.e.x for her letters, must be told.

”That is kind of you, Lieutenant,” she replied, ”but I shall stay here a moment longer. I wish to have a word with this elephant's driver.”

Fitzgerald took his arm away. ”A word with his mahout?” he repeated, frowning. ”But how can you-ah, of course, you speak their languages.” He hesitated. ”But surely I should not leave you alone here.” He looked over his shoulder, as if seeking help.

Mariana planted her feet in the mud. ”I came here alone, Lieutenant Fitzgerald,” she replied. ”But I am sure,” she added, looking him full in the face, ”that we shall see one another again soon.” She glanced away, certain she had held his gaze too long.

He hesitated again, then bowed. ”I am flattered that you remember my name, Miss Givens. And you will be all right here?”

Mariana nodded, her lips pressed together, then offered him her wide, impulsive smile.

He smiled in return. ”Then I shall tell no one I have seen you.”

When she looked back, he had gone.

The elephant still lay on his side, weighed down by the sodden tent, a gray mountain with one visible, bloodshot eye. The mahout moved around him, crooning as he went, a large, wicked-looking knife in his hand, slicing a rope here and a strap there, expertly loosening the animal's load.

He started when Mariana cleared her throat.

He was smaller than she was, and wiry. His shoulders moved awkwardly when he greeted her, as if he were unused to foreigners.

”What is your elephant's name?” she asked, in her careful Urdu. Being English, she was ent.i.tled to be imperious. She chose to be civil.

”It is Motu, Memsahib,” he replied over his elephant's whistling breath, departing from his own language to answer her. His face was deeply seamed. The whites of his eyes were the color of old ivory.

She nodded. ”Motu. And yours?”

”Hira Lal.”

Behind Hira, the elephant twitched and raised his trunk. Without an apology, the mahout turned from Mariana and went back to his work.

Well, then, she would speak to his back. She raised her voice.

”Why are you cutting all the ropes? Won't they be angry with you?”

”What do I care for their ropes?” Hira's fingers shook as he cut through a thick leather strap. ”I told them we should not try to move the tent today.” His own voice rose. ”I told them Motu would fall. I warned them of the danger to Motu.”

”Danger?” Mariana took a step closer. ”What danger?”

Hira made one last cut and the load fell away like a huge, cold sausage. Motu lay still for a moment, then rolled onto his knees, the empty frame still tied to his back.

The little man turned to face Mariana. She could not imagine how he could bear the chill, wearing only a loincloth and a strip of worn cotton. He was covered from his carelessly tied turban to his bare feet in the pungent smell of elephant. ”An elephant's spine is delicate,” he told her. ”If something causes the load to s.h.i.+ft, the frame may s.h.i.+ft, and press upon the spine. Such accidents cripple or kill elephants. An elephant must never fall when loaded.”

When his face relaxed, Mariana saw how frightened he had been.

At Hira's command, Motu lumbered to his feet and towered above them both. It was the unusual length of his legs, like four great tree trunks, that made him so tall. While Mariana watched, he bent his front legs and lowered his face to his mahout. Hira Lal spread his arms and took hold of the two great ears, then set one foot high on the elephant's trunk, mounted in one nimble motion, and seated himself twelve feet above the ground.

”How long have you been his mahout?” Mariana tilted her head upward, a hand on her bonnet, not wanting them to leave.

”Since he was small,” Hira replied. The heavy elephant prod appeared in his hand. ”I hope,” he said, ”that we die at the same time. We are used to one another.”

s.h.i.+vering at the thought, she turned back toward the avenue.

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