LITMIR.BIZ

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she think Spain? Papa had fought in Spain… “bitter-sweet,” he had said of the music. Moorish influence… “they call it flamenco”…in her dream she saw herself dancing by herself in a red dress with only the sound of a guitar…then a voice…hers, somehow. Why would she sing when she was so sad? Sad…waiting…never, the words of the song said. Gone…gone…never…It had nothing to do with her!

      Alexa almost woke then, but not quite. Floating between sleep and wakefulness, she heard someone playing minor chords on a guitar, a voice singing in Spanish. The almost cloying perfume of night-blooming flowers drifted into the room. Queen of the Night, Jasmine. Temple Flower. Gardenia. Alexa, knowing Spanish (as well as four other languages), understood that the song was a cry of unrequited love—of happiness followed by sadness—until it ended on an ugly, discordant note. “So, enough! There are too many centuries of bitterness embedded in the music of Spain. An English song, perhaps?”

      There were more voices and sounds now, drowning out what she had almost felt and almost reached. Turning over on her side, Alexa burrowed her face into a too-soft pillow, still not wanting and not prepared to wake up quite yet. She was drifting as lightly as a lotus blossom on the surface of sleep when she heard Harriet come in, followed by a servant. A tray was to be removed and another with fresh fruit and fresh, cool water and wine brought in to replace it. She felt Harriet bend over her, pulling up the cotton sheet that had slipped down to her waist. Poor Aunt Harry. An uneasy mixture of conservative and liberal. Think free, but do conform on the surface. What had happened to the man she had loved who had married her best friend?

      “Have all the young missy’s clothes been pressed before they were hung up?”

      “Oh, yes, lady. I look after everything. I sit up all night if young missy want something.”

      “Good. Thank you—Menika, was it? I’m sure you’ll see to everything. And I intend to go to sleep myself. No, I don’t need any help. Well, just the buttons at the back, perhaps, and then I shall manage quite well.”

      Breathing evenly, Alexa floated in and out of sleep in spite of the fact that the sheet Aunt Harry had pulled up as far as her neck felt scratchy and far too hot. Poor Aunt Harry. Poor dear. She needed her sleep too…. She could hear the faint sounds of the sea from outside, and over that the sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves and voices calling out good-byes. Soon everything would be quiet and the night would belong to the sounds of the sea again. The faint aroma of a cigar made her wrinkle her nostrils, and she thought: Smells like one of Uncle John’s. He always smokes the very best. And he had given her the very best of himself too. His wisdom, his understanding…

      How pleasant it was to lie like this and drift along the borders of sleeping and waking. So many thoughts floated in and out of her mind without ceasing, one dream thought melting into the next. She saw herself as a rebellious, questioning child who resented the hampering skirts she was supposed to wear—until Aunt Harry took her side. And then in her next dream picture she was a pirate on a ship that rocked under her bare feet, fighting with a cutlass until the last and then, with a laugh of defiance, turning to plunge into the sea. How cool and pleasant it was, the sea. Like a friend she had always known. Green or blue or grey shading to black. Foam-tipped and salty. Both friend and foe. Nemesis or lover.

      What a strange and almost startling thought. It must have been that and the chimes of the clock on top of the mahogany bookcase that made Alexa start upright in bed. Twelve. Somehow, she knew without counting how many times the same note had repeated itself. She was wide awake, all of a sudden, and she was hot and thirsty as well. The unfortunate young maid who started up almost as soon as the “English missy” did had no way of knowing at that moment, of course, that Alexa was also used to having her own way. Or that she had learned to speak both Tamil and Sinhalese, the major languages of the country, and was accustomed to getting into heated arguments with some of the young English officers who grinned and made comments like, “Alex has a way with the natives, all right. Can’t understand it.”

      “Natives?” she would say, flaring up. “I suppose that’s how the Romans and the Danes and the Saxons and the French who invaded England referred to our ancestors! This is their country and we’re just visitors here—uninvited, I might add. And the civilization of the ‘natives’ of this island dates back to a time before Christ was born! You—we—all of us should be learning instead of trying to tear down in order to substitute…well look at us! Look at our clothes, look at…Have you ever wondered how primitive we must seem? As primitive, perhaps, as the barbarians who overran Rome, in the end.”

      “Can’t stop Alexa when she gets on her soap box!” How it infuriated her when they wouldn’t listen, or did not want to listen perhaps, and would sometimes deliberately incite her into “laying down the law” as they called it.

      But on the other hand, when it suited her Alexa could not only act but sound as imperious as any haughty English madam.

      “I’m thirsty. I’ll have a very little of the wine, thank you. No fruit—I’m not hungry. And then I’d like a bath.”

      “A…a bath now, Missy? With hot water brought up?”

      Even in the dim light shed by two candles, Alexa could see the dismay on the girl’s face, making her relent slightly.

      ‘No, I don’t want hot water by any means; not in this heat. But isn’t there a bathing place here? Where do you go to bathe? In the hill country…”

      The Sinhalese people made it a point to bathe at least once every day and sometimes more often if it was exceptionally hot. At a well, or a stream, or under a waterfall. Alexa looked questioningly at the pretty young woman who had to be close to her own age, and repeated her question in Sinhalese.

      Understanding, the girl shook her head as she tried to explain. “Not here, Missy. There are only bath tubs and the Governor’s pool. But it has water from the sea, not fresh water. And this Governor and lady never use the Governor’s pool.”

      Alexa flung aside the sheet that was supposed to cover her and swung her legs off the bed, stretching as she rose to her feet and pretending not to notice the amazement on the face of the young maid, who had obviously never seen an “English missy” naked before. “It sounds very inviting to me, at least,” she said pleasantly. “And while I drink some wine you must tell me about the pool. Is it quite private? Is it very close to the house? How long would it take for us to get there?”

      Menika had been newly promoted from her hitherto lowly position of helping to make beds and fold linens, and her mother, who had served several former governors, had instructed her strictly as to what her duties were. She must obey orders, and she must never let her tongue chatter until she sounded like a mynah bird; also, she must remember that anything she heard or witnessed was never to be repeated. Did she understand? Never!

      The girl understood well enough, as she always had. She knew very well too why her skin happened to be a much lighter shade of brown than her mother’s skin was—and why her eyes were hazel instead of being black. And also why her “father” was supposed to be dead. Sometimes she would wonder which Governor was her real father, and then push the thought away. Most likely he had been a guest. This Governor and his lady made sure that Menika attended only their women guests; but before there had been times when she had been obliged to lie with some drunken, bad-smelling Englishman who would use her body without any consideration before sending her away with a slap on her bottom and perhaps a few rupees, if he was sober enough to think of it. For as long as she could remember, Menika had always understood what life was and had accepted both its cruelties and its rewards. In her heart she was a Buddhist, although like her mother and the rest of the servants who served the English Governors who came and went at Queen’s House, she had to pretend she was a Christian convert in order to keep her position. It did not matter—the ritual she had learned to repeat parrot-fashion held no meaning for her. It was what people thought and believed inside themselves and how they lived their lives—never consciously harming any living being—that was all that really counted.

      Usually, when she attended the Governor’s guests, Menika merely obeyed orders and answered questions as briefly as she could. She had

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