Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters Page 16

  “When we got to the outskirts of the city, our car drove along a seemingly endless wall that towered nearly one hundred feet up.

  “‘What is this?’ Beatrice asked the driver. He turned around and grinned at us.

  “‘This is the wall around His Excellency’s palace,’ he said.

  “‘But the wall is at least two miles long!’ Beatrice whispered to us in disbelief as the car pulled up to a huge iron gate in the wall. It took five men to heave it open.

  “We drove into the estate on a wide driveway paved with pure white pebbles. It wound over vast green lawns and past brilliant gardens and through several small palm forests. Monkeys peered down at us from the tree branches, their black eyes glittering.

  “‘Are we almost there?’ asked Gladys, whose stomach was growling noisily.

  “‘We have to drive through only five more gates, memsahib,’ the driver assured us.

  “‘Five!’ we exclaimed together.

  “At long last, the palace came into sight, a sprawling mansion made of blinding snow-white marble. A very dark, stern man in a stark white turban waited on the front steps for us. He stood as still as a statue until our driver opened a door for us. Pressing his palms together, he raised his hands in front of his face and bowed slightly.

  “‘Namaste. Mera naam Kinyatta hai,’ he said to us in Hindi. ‘Good afternoon. Welcome to the home of His Excellency the maharaja of Maharashtra. My name is Kinyatta. I will be attending to you while you are here. Come with me, kripaya—please.’ And he turned around efficiently and walked out of the hot sun and into the palace.”

  “So that’s how Mister Kinyatta got his name?” blurted out Cornelia. “From the man at the palace?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Virginia. “I don’t know that the real Kinyatta would have appreciated the peculiar homage, but it was my own small way of honoring him. He was such an interesting man. We learned later that he was originally from Africa, not India. When he was a boy, he’d come to India with his parents, and all three became servants in the maharaja’s house for many years.”

  “We followed him into the palace. ‘There are more than eight hundred rooms,’ Kinyatta informed us. ‘You must always have a guide, or I promise that you will get lost. His Excellency has prepared a special banquet in honor of your arrival. He waits now to greet you in his private wing,’ he added, and steered us to the part of the palace where the maharaja lived.

  “Our expedition through the vast halls and pillared colonnades and gardens was like strolling through an endless enchanted labyrinth. At one point, we heard the trumpeting of an elephant.

  “‘Yes, the zoo is over there,’ said Kinyatta, pointing over a high wall covered in magenta blossoms. ‘His Excellency has sixty elephants, and they are very noisy.’

  “At last, we approached the doors to the maharaja’s personal reception room. Two servants in uniforms and white gloves opened the grand doors for us. The maharaja sat at the far end of the hall on a huge throne. An extensive collection of guns and swords hung on the walls.

  “Gladys pinched my arm as we promenaded in. ‘Look down there, to the left,’ she said under her breath.

  “My stomach lurched when I spotted several low tables made out of real elephants’ feet! And ahead of us, at the maharaja’s feet, a big tiger hide served as a rug on the white marble floor. The tiger’s head—fangs and all—was still attached.

  “‘Come in, come in,’ the maharaja laughed. ‘He still has teeth, but he cannot bite you anymore.’ He stomped across the tiger’s back as he came forward to greet us.

  “Remembering our manners just in time, we pressed our palms together and said to our host, ‘Namaste, Your Excellency.’ Jewels sparkled on the maharaja’s fingers and turban, and he spread his arms wide, gesturing to the room around us.

  “‘I am pleased to welcome the Somerset sisters to my enviable palace, which my ancestors built hundreds of years ago,’ he declared. ‘And it will belong to my sons and my sons’ sons as well. Unless those thieves in the new government get their hands on it,’ he added darkly. ‘But never mind that now. It is time for the banquet that I am hosting in honor of the importance of your father.’

  “‘That’s very…kind of you, Your Excellency,’ said Alexandra.

  “‘Yes, well, he is a great man,’ said the maharaja. “My heart bleeds for him that he has no sons to make him proud. Ah, well, you will all just have to marry good husbands.’

  “Gladys raised an eyebrow at me as we followed the prince to another set of closed doors, which were immediately whipped open by more servants. The maharaja swept into a large dining hall next door. When we tiptoed in after him, nearly a hundred people sitting in the room stood up and bowed slightly. The maharaja had invited all of the other maharajas from the Maharashtra region to dine with us. He clapped his hands and announced, ‘I would like to introduce the daughters of the Honorable Augustus Somerset of New York City. He is the very important president of a bank and an old friend from Oxford. May his daughters serve him well.’

  “All of the men in the room murmured in agreement. Beatrice coughed indignantly.

  “We sat with him at table on a canopied stage at the front of the room. Servants set down heavy crystal bowls filled with water, floating candles, and rose petals in front of us. The twins sat to the left of the maharaja, and Gladys and I to the right. Each sister had a little throne, and of course, the maharaja had the biggest throne of all. Waiters brought in the feast and served it to us on plates of solid gold.

  “‘I have planned many events to entertain you,’ the maharaja told us as he sucked on a big chicken bone. ‘Tomorrow, I’m playing in a polo match, giving you the chance to watch and clap as we thunder gallantly by on our horses. The day after that, there is another banquet at Maharaja Rajiv Azmi’s palace. And the day after that, we will go on a grand hunt and shoot tigers, so you can bring home the hides as a gift for your father.’

  “‘We would like to tour Bombay as well, Your Excellency,’ Alexandra piped up, ‘and see the markets and buildings and daily life as well.’

  “Suddenly every guest in the room dropped his gold knife and fork and stared at her. The maharaja put down his own fork and said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  “Alexandra’s face reddened. ‘I said…uh…that we would like to see daily life in the city as well,’ she stammered. ‘The markets and—I don’t know—how other people in India live. The ones who don’t live in palaces.’

  “The maharaja glared at her. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ he demanded. The servants had stopped in their tracks and stood like statues.

  “‘It’s just that we’ve never been here before,’ Alexandra said in a small voice. ‘We want to get to know the country.’

  “‘Well,’ the maharaja snorted disapprovingly. He began eating again. The rest of the princes, taking the cue from their host, picked up their gold cutlery and resumed the feast. The servants scurried among the grand tables again as well, attending to the guests.

  “‘Such a thing is easily arranged,’ the maharaja said. ‘Kinyatta can give you a motor tour around the city tomorrow, before the polo match.’

  “As you can imagine, none of this was going over well with Gladys, although she was clearly enjoying the cuisine.

  “‘We had a motor tour this morning, on our way to the palace,’ she said, her mouth full of Malvani kombdi, chicken in coconut sauce. ‘What my sister means, Mr. Maharaja, is that we would like to actually get out of the car and prance about a little bit. Get to know some of the people in town. Local color and whatnot. We’ve been around, you know. We can handle it.’ She took another big bite of chicken and gave an exaggerated wink to the maharaja, who looked appalled.

  “‘Maybe it’s a good idea if you do not attend the polo match tomorrow, after all,’ the prince said disdainfully as he peered around, hoping that none of the other princes had overheard her remarks.

  “‘Kinyatta!’ he exclaimed. The African servant stepped forward
from the wall, where he’d been standing silently with his hands behind his back. ‘Take the Somerset sisters on a tour of the city tomorrow,’ the maharaja commanded. ‘You will be responsible for their welfare and for protecting them from the undesirable elements of the urban populace. And there are many of those, ladies. Enjoy your little outing.’ He leaned in over his plate and sawed a piece of lamb with his fork and knife. Kinyatta nodded once and took his place at the wall again.

  “The maharaja ignored us for the rest of the feast, which lasted for eleven more courses. The four of us practically ran out of the banquet hall when it was over. Kinyatta led us to a set of rooms around a private courtyard.

  “The blue Indian moonlight filtered into my room through latticed windows, casting shimmering curves and shapes on the pale floor. I fell gratefully into my huge, silk-covered feather bed and dreamed about being hunted by tigers.”

  “I would have hated to sit near the maharaja,” said Cornelia. “The way he keeps talking about your dad reminds me of how people always act around me. I’m never just Cornelia. Instead, I’m always ‘Lucy’s daughter,’ and it drives me crazy.”

  “It was infuriating, I agree,” said Virginia. “And it was a lot worse in those days, and more so in certain cultures. For the first part of their lives, girls were seen as property of their fathers, and later, their husbands. I loved my father, but I certainly didn’t enjoy being seen solely as his personal possession by other people. None of the Somerset sisters did. Like I told you when I first met you, that’s one of the main reasons none of us ever got married.”

  “I hope you taught the maharaja a lesson,” said Cornelia. “Like Alexandra and Beatrice did to the famous artist in Paris.”

  “You’ll hear how we dealt with him,” answered Virginia.

  “The next morning, Kinyatta collected us after breakfast and led us through the palace out to a waiting car. A driver took us back past the gardens and over the lawns and through the six guarded gates and finally out onto the street again. An hour later, we rode into the center of Bombay.

  “We strolled through the crowded streets, dodging bicycles and donkeys and even cows among the throngs of people. An aching, majestic beauty filled the city and its ancient and colonial buildings. However, we found it difficult to admire the arches and minarets because fleets of beggars besieged us everywhere we went.

  “I know that you’re used to seeing homeless people here in New York City, Cornelia, but nothing would prepare you for what it’s like in India. I’ve never seen such poverty. Some of the beggars were very old and some carried babies and some of them were just barely older than babies themselves. Guilt and pity gnawed at my heart, and I began to lose interest in sightseeing. It just seemed like a frivolous pastime.

  “Kinyatta took us to the Crawford Market inside a big building with a famous clock tower on top. The market reminded me of the souks in Morocco with their thousands of stalls filled with fruit and flowers in every imaginable color. Great lanterns shaped like flying dragons dangled from the ceiling above.

  “Yet once again, beggars thronged around us immediately. Kinyatta shouted unsuccessfully at them to leave us alone. Alexandra and Beatrice emptied their pockets of coins and gave them to several barefoot children who trailed us around the stalls. Within minutes, we were like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, with dozens of poor children following us and tugging on our skirts. When we got out of the market into the harsh midday sunshine, Kinyatta shooed them away from us.

  “‘You will never be able to give something to everyone,’ he told us. ‘It is best not to give them hope. Let us go back to His Excellency’s palace now.’

  “But good old Gladys, as usual, had a guidebook.

  “‘I’m not ready to go back to that old blowhard’s house yet,’ she declared. ‘It says here on Chapter 7 that there’s a market nearby called the Thieves’ Market. Now, that sounds exciting to me. I’ve always wanted to learn how to steal something. Let’s go learn from the professionals.’ She clumped down the street.

  “‘Gladys-ji,’ Kinyatta called after her. ‘There will be more beggars than ever there. Let us go back. His Excellency will be expecting you.’ But Gladys didn’t pay any attention, so we had no choice but to follow her down to the Thieves’ Market.

  “Kinyatta was right—we saw many beggars and no thieves. Within minutes, children in rags surrounded us, begging for money. Beatrice opened her pockets to show them that she had no more coins to give them. After ten more minutes of this, she burst into tears and we turned to leave.

  “Then something caught Alexandra’s attention. She strode over to a ramshackle tin shack. ‘Beatrice, come here,’ she said excitedly. ‘I want you to see something.’

  “We all ran over to the stall. Several paintings on flat wood boards were propped up against its outside wall. A young Indian boy, about eleven years old, sat on the ground next to them. He looked up at us hopefully.

  “‘These are fantastic,’ Beatrice said. ‘Where did they come from?’ she asked the boy, who didn’t answer her.

  “‘He does not understand English,’ Kinyatta said, and translated Beatrice’s question to the boy, who responded timidly in Hindi. He looked slowly from Kinyatta to each of us, staring into our eyes. Kinyatta looked at the child suspiciously.

  “‘He says he is an orphan,’ Kinyatta reported. ‘His father was a painter and left behind the paints when he died. The boy claims he painted the pictures here himself, and he is trying to sell them to buy food.’ He frowned, and added, ‘I do not believe him. The pictures are too good. I think he steals them from somewhere. Anyway, he is Harijan. Let us go back to the palace.’

  “‘He’s what?’ I asked.

  “‘Harijan,’ repeated Kinyatta patiently. ‘An untouchable.’

  “‘What does that mean?’ asked Gladys indignantly.

  “Kinyatta sighed. ‘Nearly everyone in India belongs to a group called a caste. In one caste, you have the princes and warriors and they are called the Kshatriyas. The merchants’ and businessmen’s caste is called the Vaisyas. And so on. And then people who have no caste are called the untouchables. They are not allowed to be near the people from other castes. This boy is a polluted untouchable. Do not go near him or his stolen paintings. His Excellency would be angry.’

  “My heart nearly broke as I looked down at the dirty boy, who was barefoot and pitifully thin. ‘What has he done to become an untouchable?’ I asked.

  “‘Nothing,’ said Kinyatta. ‘That’s just the way he was born. The system has been in place for hundreds of years.’

  “‘Sounds like a pretty cruel system to me,’ I said. I bent down and pointed at the boy’s hands. ‘Look at his fingernails! They’re caked with colors, like Alexandra’s and Beatrice’s when they paint. I know an artist’s hands when I see them. He didn’t steal these pictures. He’s an incredibly talented boy, and he doesn’t have a fighting chance in this city, because of the so-called system.’

  “I leaned in toward him. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him. Kinyatta repeated my question in Hindi:

  ‘Aapka naam kya hai?’

  “‘Mera naam Patel hai,’ answered the little boy cautiously.

  “‘Mera naam Virginia hai,’ I said. ‘Kinyatta, please tell Patel that I’d like to buy all of his paintings, and that I would like him to paint me another one,’ I said. ‘We’ll come back to get it when he’s done.’

  “‘Virginia-ji,’ Kinyatta said, greatly troubled. ‘You cannot bring the art of an untouchable into the palace of His Excellency. He would be outraged.’

  “‘Why not?’ asked Gladys. ‘Mr. Maharaja doesn’t have to know, and you can keep a secret—can’t you, Kinyatta, old pal? Why should we let this kid starve, just because your boss is a conceited snob and has half a dozen gates around his palace to shut the world out?’

  “A funny look came over Kinyatta’s face. After a minute, he stepped forward and spoke with Patel. The boy stacked the pictures up, tied them with a long strand of di
rty string, and placed them at Kinyatta’s feet.

  “‘He says that he will have another painting for you in three evenings from now,’ said Kinyatta. ‘If we come back here, he will be waiting for us.’

  “I dug all of the money out of my purse and gave it to Patel, who took it timidly.

  “‘Tell him that we’ll be here,’ I said. ‘What else did he say?’

  “Kinyatta swallowed. ‘It is hard to translate exactly,’ he answered. ‘Chalo,’ he added, which meant ‘Let’s go.’ He turned and walked away.

  “The boy watched us as we walked away. Later that afternoon, we smuggled the Harijan’s paintings through the six gates of the maharaja’s palace and hid them in Alexandra’s room.”

  “What did the pictures look like?” asked Cornelia. She could hardly believe that the elegant man downstairs had once been a bereft orphan in the Bombay Thieves’ Market.

  “They were the pictures that you just looked at on the wall,” answered Virginia. “Can you imagine coming across such things propped up in the dirt against a shack, only to realize that a street boy had done them? Patel was a startling child prodigy.” The word “prodigy” meant “a person with exceptional talents.”

  “My mother was a child prodigy too,” said Cornelia.

  “She played her first concert at Carnegie Hall when she was thirteen years old. People remind me of that all the time, and then they ask me when I’ll be giving my first concert.”

  Virginia paused. “I hate to probe, Cornelia, but I always have been curious why you don’t play the piano too,” she said.

  Like a seashell snapping shut, Cornelia went silent. Finally, looking at her lap, she answered in a quiet voice, “Because I don’t want to be compared to my mother all the time, and I don’t love music like she does. I like listening to it, but I like reading better. Nobody ever understands that, and I always get told that I should want to be a famous pianist like her and my dad. Sometimes I wish I’d been born without fingers so no one would ask me that anymore.”