The Other Language(61)
She heard the sound of a chair screeching, then footsteps, then his voice saying “J’arrive” on what she assumed was the intercom.
“I’ve got to go, the taxi is here. What were you saying?”
“I said, there’s a time difference …”
“Where are you?”
She was reluctant to say. Holidaying in a maharaja’s fort sounded frivolous compared to where he was headed. And if she said she was on some sort of holiday, he’d know she must be with someone.
“I am in India, but I’ll be back in Rome next week.”
“Great. Come to Paris.”
She laughed.
“Maybe I will.”
“You must. How late can I call you back? I want to talk to you.”
“My ten thirty? They turn off the generator after eleven,” she lied.
“Va bene, mia bella,” he said. He used to call her that when they were together, in that soft, rolling American accent she used to find so seductive.
Hundreds of tiny lights advanced in the dark, floating on the river’s surface like a mirrored reflection of the starry sky. They had appeared all at once, past the river bend, dotting the Narmada like sequins on black velvet while they were having drinks on the top terrace. Everyone stopped talking and just looked in amazement at the clusters of lights flowing downstream. They were told by a waiter that the shikara was ready to take them, so the group descended the steps to the ghats, their spirits lifted by more cucumber martinis and the knowledge that they were under the flawless stage directions of the prince who left no detail unattended. The boat slid silently on the smooth river surface (no engines were allowed on that stretch of the sacred river), parting the clusters of lights that were coming toward them. Now they could see there were lotus flowers and coconuts floating alongside with the oil lamps—were these offerings to deities?—that someone upriver must have been instructed to release at the appointed hour, in order to make their short trip unforgettable. The tiny island glowed in the distance. There were torches burning and more lanterns that lent the scene a warming glow. As they approached he saw, waiting for them on the bank, a few attendants dressed in white, who helped them descend. A white padded carpet as wide as a room had been spread on the ground. They sat barefoot among the soft cushions and more scattered rose petals. In the darkness that surrounded the small circle of light he could make out the silhouettes of the musicians, who’d begun to tune their instruments, cross-legged on a wooden platform, right across from where they were sitting. For the first time since he had been in India, he wished he were wearing the same comfortable shirts and soft shawls as the other men in his company, which blended so well with the surroundings. Even the young translator had abandoned his jeans and T-shirt in favor of traditional clothes perfectly starched and ironed; now he too looked noble and sculpted. A light drumming started, accompanied by the violin and then the flute. The prince walked over to the stage and introduced with a few words the piece they were going to see, then he ceremoniously lit the oil lamps under a small bronze sculpture of Shiva and his wheel. The glimmering flames lit and revealed the depth of the stage and the shapes of the musicians.
He felt inebriated by the smells, the sounds of crickets in the trees, the quiet waves lapping in the distance. As the music began, a soft, beguiling tune, the dancers entered the stage in their elaborate silk costumes. Ushma was in the center, in a flaming orange sari, covered in rich golden jewelry. She moved across the stage in a slightly tilted stance, where head, bust and torso formed a curvaceous line in an S shape that made the temple sculptures come alive. She wore a sphinxlike smile, while her enormous black irises moved right and left in the blinding whites of her eyes, adding expression and movement to the dance; her fingers opened and closed, like petals of a lotus flower. Every part of her body flexed, creating opposing angles as she kept shifting her weight from right to left, in a geometric design that seemed impossible to accomplish other than in a drawing. It was a timeless image, as powerful and dense as only dreams can be. Ushma wasn’t looking at him. Her face, her smile and her glances were set in the carefully constructed mask the dance required. But underneath the composure of her face she was, he knew, dancing for him.
Something softened inside and he realized he had tears in his eyes. What a relief and what a revelation, to be feeling something so deeply that it should bring tears. So there was something left in him that had been frozen and now was thawing. Might this be a case of Stendhal syndrome? he wondered as he dabbed away at his tears. It must be either that or the feeling of oneness with the universe that Ushma had described. Where else would this spellbinding emotion come from? This was exactly what he needed to reconnect with: the simple truth contained within a perfect act. If only he could tap into that source again, then he would be safe, as an artist and as a man.
When the performance ended Ushma came forward, followed by the three younger dancers. With their long hennaed fingers they touched first their heads, then their eyes, then their hearts, and bowed. Not to the audience, he realized—they didn’t engage with them, or smile or come out of their composure—they were bowing to Shiva and to his cosmic dance. Then the three slender younger dancers, in one swift, deft move, knelt down in front of Ushma, placed their hands around her ankles and kissed her feet, touching their foreheads lightly to the floor. To each one Ushma gave a blessing, by touching their heads with her open palms. This exchange, performed with such delicacy, a daily ritual that didn’t seem to surprise his Indian companions, astounded him. To kiss your teacher’s feet. To be blessed by your guru. For a fleeting moment he thought that if he could only penetrate more deeply into this magnificent tradition and be part of it—no longer as a visitor or as part of an audience, but physically delve into it—then he might have hope to find a way back into his work. There was no longer any respect for serious writers in the West, only marketing. Appearances. Money. It was no wonder he was so disillusioned, no wonder his inspiration had waned. Now Ushma smiled, as the small audience kept clapping, and he was sure that she was looking directly at him. Yes, she had danced for him, and for him only. That he knew. How could he let go of such a miracle?