The Henna Artist(40)

The parakeet whistled again and screeched, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”

The maharani looked at the doorway. There, peeking around the open door, was Malik. I stiffened. How many times had I told him to wait outside? Hadn’t I made it clear how critical the elder queen was to our future?

She beckoned him with a hooked forefinger, and he stepped gingerly into the room, looking for the source of the sound. I was thankful that I’d bought the long-sleeved yellow shirt and white pants for him the day Parvati had first mentioned a palace appointment. This morning after he arrived at Mrs. Iyengar’s, I’d washed and oiled his hair and scrubbed his neck and ears until they turned red. Today, he was even wearing sandals that fit.

The maharani was studying him curiously while he examined the bird, taking no note of her at all. “Would you like to say hello to my precious?”

Madho Singh flew off his perch and landed on the back of the maharani’s sofa. “Precious,” the parakeet repeated prettily.

Malik salaamed the bird with his graceful hand. “Good morning,” he said in his best English, not once taking his eyes off the parakeet.

The bird repeated, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”

Malik smiled. “Smart bird.”

“Smart bird,” repeated Madho Singh.

The maharani, who’d been watching Malik all the while with interest, asked, “How old are you?”

He seemed to give the matter some thought. First, he looked up at the ceiling, then back down to the maharani. “I prefer to be eight.”

The corners of her lipsticked mouth quivered, then gave way to a generous smile. “How perfectly charming.” Her laughter began in her chest and bubbled up to her throat, jangling her bracelets and rustling the folds of her sari. She looked from Malik to me. “Yours?”

I shook my head.

She turned to Malik. “Young man, what’s your favorite sweet?”

The bird mimicked, “What’s your favorite sweet?”

Malik scrunched up his face and looked again at the ceiling. “Rabri,” he said.

“Marvelous! We must tell Chef,” the maharani said, “to make you rabri at once.”

My face grew warm and I lurched forward to the sofa’s edge. “Your Highness. We’ve come to do your bidding, not for you to do ours.” Making rabri was tedious and time-consuming, requiring constant attention while the milk cooked and the water evaporated over a low flame for two hours, leaving only the cream. It was impertinent to ask the palace for it!

The maharani opened her eyes wider. “But it would give Madho Singh the greatest pleasure. Would it not?”

The bird blinked. “I love sweets.”

Malik darted his eyes at me, the slightest smile on his lips, as if asking what game we were playing, and if he might be allowed to join.

I protested. “Your Highness, rabri takes so long to make—”

“Precisely.” She turned to the door and another attendant came forward. She instructed him to take Malik to the kitchen and not to return until the boy had had his fill of rabri. “Make sure Chef doesn’t send the boy off to one of the other kitchens. And take Madho Singh with you.” To me, she said, “He loves sweets.”

Malik’s eyes were huge as he turned to look at me. I lifted one shoulder slightly. Who was I to argue with a maharani? As if he had understood the maharani perfectly, the parakeet flew off of the divan and settled on the white-coated shoulder of the attendant.

“I love sweets,” Madho Singh repeated as Malik followed bird and attendant out the door.

I turned back to the elder queen, who was trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh. “Chef is odious,” she said. “He never flavors food the way I like. He was my late husband’s favorite and now resents the fact that he must serve me. It will annoy him to slave over a hot stove to feed yet another mouth.”

My shoulders relaxed. Like my ladies, the maharanis had devised their own rules of gamesmanship.

The maharani turned over a six of diamonds and placed it on a seven of clubs. “So...you know Parvati Singh. Her father and my mother were cousins.” She looked at me with a becoming smile. “It’s her husband I find irresistible. Perhaps because Samir sends the most fitting presents. Did you know?”

Puzzled, I replied, “No, Your Highness.”

“You should,” she said, her expression cagey. “I believe you’re his supplier.”

The sachets? Impossible!

“My hair has never been thicker.” She shook her head; her hair flowed gracefully from side to side. Samir bought a case of my bawchi hair oil every month, but I’d assumed it was for his mistresses.

I smiled. “It’s beautiful, Your Highness.”

“So when Samir says you work miracles, I believe him.” She threw a shrewd glance in my direction. “Do you believe you perform miracles?”

“I have that reputation.”

“Let me see your head.”

I hesitated, surprised by her request. But when she gestured with a finger for me to remove the pallu, I uncovered my head. Her dark eyes took in my hair (freshly washed and oiled), the sprig of jasmine at the top of my bun, my naked earlobes. She twirled her finger and I turned my head around so she could see the back of it. When I faced her again, she nodded, once.

“I like a well-shaped head,” she said.