MARBLE MADE FLESH — an extract

 I

On the very outskirts of Calcutta, in the native quarter that few East India Company men talk about and even fewer have visited, stands the Bara Bazaar. There among the sprawling warren of stalls and shops I hope to find news of St John Rivers, the missionary I am here to search for. It was in Calcutta that John was last seen, exhorting his listeners to turn to God. Someone here must hold the clue to his whereabouts.

     I'm told it is a brave Englishman that ventures beyond the city pale after dark, but what choice do I have? In the three frustrating weeks since I arrived in India to search for John I have learned nothing. My enquiries have been met with shrugs at best and more often with blank looks. If the Anglo-Indians can tell me nothing of the man I seek, I must try my luck elsewhere. 

     I do not go alone. The Company has done little enough to support me in my search, but in Captain Baron I have one ally among the ranks of their army. We met soon after I had docked, when I still walked with the rolling gait of a man that has been five months at sea. He recognised my newness and extended the hand of friendship which is the hallmark of our countrymen. Since then he has introduced me to Society and his fellow officers but none have taken up my cause. Lately when we meet at the Club and talk over tumblers of whiskey Baron urges me to think of returning home but he is a good man and so when I begged this favour of him, to accompany me into enemy territory, he did not hesitate. I only wish he had not insisted on bringing George Marshall with him. The junior officer has a growing reputation, but that doesn't mean that I can trust him. 

     At sundown we ride to the bazaar in a bullock cart. It has been adapted to carry passengers and Baron lounges on the narrow bench opposite, his body angled so he can stretch out his long legs. Like me he has adopted native dress for the evening. Over indigo jamas, he wears a matching choga embellished with golden thread. Uncomfortably aware of the short sleeves of my own garment that finish just above my wrist bones I marvel at how easily he has assumed his borrowed skin. 

     'I do not underestimate the risk you take tonight,' I say, but Baron shrugs it off.

      'Few of us soldiers can resist an adventure. Eh, Marshall?'

     The younger man sitting alongside him smirks in response. He has ignored Baron's advice to dispense with his uniform and wears the familiar red coat and cream jodhpurs of the army. Either he does not share Baron's concerns on attracting unwonted attention or he assumes I've sought permission for our visit to the bazaar.

     'If the savages know anything about your friend, we'll find it out,' Marshall says.

     We move along at a steady pace, the heavy animal surprisingly swift, and I take the opportunity to mark the changing scenery. In and around the centre of Calcutta and out towards Fort William the roads are wide and clean. You might see a gentleman travelling in a smart barouche or a lady patronising the pastel-painted shops and think yourself in York or Brighton. Beyond the Chowringee district there can be no such mistake. The further we go, the fewer white faces we see and for the first time in my life, I feel conspicuous. There is a wildness out here that is totally at odds with anything I've ever known. Waist-high grasses encroach on the roads, thrumming with the movement of unknown insects; strange birds caw from the branches of the banyon trees overhead and jackals scream in the near-distance.

We have been travelling for almost an hour when Baron calls to the driver to stop the cart. We pull into a narrow alleyway and jump out. In the inky darkness the misgivings I suppressed as we travelled here rush back. We were foolish to come into their territory without the support of the Company. I hope we will not pay for it. Whether we are wearing chogas or not it is clear we don't belong. 

     Baron smiles kindly, sensing my concern.

     'There's a side entrance not far from here. I know the way.' He moves away but I grip his arm and he turns back in surprise.

     'Now Wharton, you said you had the stomach for this.'

     'I did, I do.' I lower my voice so Marshall, who has gone to answer a call of nature, cannot hear me. 'But why is Marshall, here?'

     'This again?' Baron says. 'He's a good soldier. I know you're wary of him, Wharton, but give him a chance. He's young I know and a bit heavy-handed at times, but he'll mature while he's out here.'

     Will he? I am not convinced, but there is a warning against further complaint in Baron's tone. If we are going to get through this, we'll have to stick together.

     'You're right. Let's get on, shall we?' 

     'Good man,' Baron says. 'Give me one moment.'

     He speaks to the driver in Hindustani and I hear a clink of coins. Reassured by Baron's confidence, I fall into line as Marshall rejoins us and we move forward in single file. We have walked perhaps 100 yards when we hear the snort of the bullock and turn to see the cart trundling back towards the city.

     'You there, stop,' Marshall shouts at the driver. He is all for giving chase, but Baron steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

     'He'll be back, don't worry,' Baron says. Marshall's face reddens with anger.

     'You've paid him already, haven't you?' he says, with a curl of his lip.

     'He will be here when we return, you have my word,' Baron says, but Marshall is not placated. He stalks ahead, muttering about the foolishness of trusting savages.

     The narrow passageway is lined with rickety houses fashioned from wood and corrugated iron. There is no glass in the windows, and the thin gauzy fabric used for curtains billows in the evening breeze. Marshall is directly in front of me, swinging his rifle and whistling tunelessly. Our footsteps are loud in the stillness of the night and I suppress an urge to tiptoe. 

     There is a movement in the bougainvillea bushes to my left. It makes me start, but it is only a stray mongrel, its ribs visible beneath a mangy straw-coloured coat. The dog turns piteous eyes on me and I hold out my hands to show I have no food. 

     'Keep up, Wharton,' Marshall calls over his shoulder. 'Wouldn't want to get lost round here.'

     The dog slinks away. I am peering after him when a burly Indian steps forward from a doorway obscured by shadow. He hawks and a thick globule of tobacco-reddened phlegm lands in the dirt by my feet. It is a challenge. I open my mouth to call to Marshall and Baron and shut it when it dawns on me that there might be many such doorways along this alley, and untold numbers of Indians keen for confrontation. How long was the journey from the centre of town? Three-quarters of an hour at least and there are just the three of us. I step back, and the man gives a derisory shake of his head at my cowardice. Marshall and Baron are now some way in front of me and I hurry to catch them up. Until we reach the end of the alley I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Marshall's red-coated back and the supple leather strap from which his rifle hangs. 

     The alley opens out onto a wide thoroughfare. Ahead, the entrance to the bazaar is marked by a pair of wooden gates. We stand to one side as Baron fumbles for something in his bag and I stand rapt watching the crowds as they wander in and out. More than anything I am struck by the amount of bare flesh on display. The slim arms of the young women and the bellies of the old men alternately fascinate and repel me. It is the first time I have seen so many Indians together and the sheer number of them is frightening. What would we do if they turned on us? 

     Baron places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 

     'What do you think of these, Wharton?' he says and presses a wad of papers into my hand.

     I turn them over and there is John's face staring back at me. It is a portrait I have not seen before. It shows John preaching to a group of young Indians who sit cross-legged on the floor at his feet. The artist has caught the zeal in his expression, his hands outstretched as he implores the Indians to come to God. The classical lines of his face, his high broad forehead and Athenian mouth and chin are rendered in perfect detail. I can almost hear his clear ringing voice 'There is no business in life but the work of our Lord.'

     'Where did you get this?' I say.

     'The Governor's clerk gave it to me.'

     'You told Coursy we were coming here?'

     'Of course not. He'd have a fit if he knew we were here, the days when the English could saunter the streets of the old town are far behind us.'

     'Is it really that dangerous?'

     'It doesn't have to be, but it's important we keep close order. There's someone in the bazaar I'd like you to meet, we'll go straight to him. Look, take these pictures. We can hand them out to the fellows inside as we go.'

     I take the posters, holding them limply by my side.

     'Come, Wharton,' Baron says. 'I thought you'd be pleased. Look, I asked my servant to write this note at the bottom. It says that if anyone has information to contact you at the compound. See.'

     I force my eyes back to the poster, ignoring the image to focus on the inky blots and flourishes of the Hindustani text beneath. Aap is aadamee ke baare mein jaanakaaree hai, to krpaya use East India Company ke parisar mein bhej.

     'Thank you, Baron. I am grateful to you, really. It is the heat that is getting to me.'

     'It's being here,' Marshall says coming over to us. He has been scanning the crowds, too, but now comes to stand in front of me and gives me a searching look.

     'Seeing so many of them together would throw anyone off their stroke if they're not used to it,' he nods to Baron. 'Go ahead. I'll wait with him for a moment.'

     Baron shrugs and disappears into the bazaar and Marshall stands protectively at my side. I am grateful for the unexpected kindness. Maybe I have judged him too harshly. As Baron says he is young and impetuous. But its more than that. He wants to prove himself and which of us hasn't felt that need and risked our all for the respect of our peers or loved ones. While Marshall keeps watch, I take another look at the portrait of John and think back to when his letter arrived and I determined to come to India and rescue him. My wife warned against it so I pleaded with her. 

     'Mary, I must go to him,' I said.

     She turned to face me and though her expression was guarded she could not fully mask the anger that lurked beneath.

     'Did you open my letter, James?' 

     Her voice was sharp and though she asked a question I knew I was not expected to answer.

     'That letter was addressed to me, James,' she said.

     'What does that matter? Your brother lives, Mary! After all this time we know he lives.'

     Just to speak the words aloud sent a thrill through me and Mary turned away to allow me to compose myself. When she spoke again her voice was flat and cold.

     'He does not need you, James. He does not need any of us. Why do you not see it?'

     'He would not write such a letter if he did not want us to help him.'

     'He asked for you?'

     'Not in so many words, Mary, but it is what he wants. Here, you should read it for yourself.' I thrust the letter at her, but she refused to take it from me.

      I dropped to my knees so I could look into her blue-grey eyes that were so like his. I raised her right hand, pressed her palm to my chest, and felt the coolness of her fingertips through my thin cotton shirt. When Mary felt the wild throbbing of my heart she tried to pull away, but merciless, I held her to me. When at last the beating slowed she lifted her gaze to mine and the pain in her face was so stark I felt it as though it were my own.

      'Mary, let me bring him home to you,' I said.

     'To me, James? I do not want him.'

     'How can you say that? He is your own brother.'

     'I do not forget it, James. But St. John made his choices. Go if you must, but I will not help you. I cannot.'

     Marshall nudges me. 

     'Wharton, are you fit?'

     The gossamer threads of that day cling to me. I pass my hand across my face to brush away the cobwebs of memory and nod, brought back from my reverie.

     'Onward then. Baron knows his way around here, but it won't do to leave him alone for too long.'

     'After you,' I say, and together Marshall and I enter the bazaar.

Inside the bustle continues. There are stalls on either side and sellers shouting their wares. Baron has stopped to buy sugared almonds.

     'Hungry?' I ask. Smiling he shakes his head.

     'Payment for my informer.'

     There is no time to question him further. He wanders ahead and within moments I am offered a bowl of dates. The brown fruit glistens with syrup and my stomach turns as I spot a dead fly clinging to it. The date seller steps away only to be replaced by another merchant. This one holds a bolt of vivid yellow cloth. He unravels it, holds it up against me to take my measure. 

     'Nahin dhanyavad,' I say. 'No thank you,' but the man produces a pair of scissors and prepares to cut a section.

     'Please, no,' I repeat. But the man ignores me. 

     Marshall, impatient, pushes him roughly away. The bolt of cloth slips from the man's grasp and he makes a clumsy fumble to catch it before it hits the dusty ground. Marshall giggles.

     'That will teach him,' he says. 'You've got to be firmer with them, Wharton. It's the only thing they understand.' And with just those few words, all my previous dislike of him returns. 

     'Stay close and don't stare,' he says. 'You'll only encourage them.' Despite his bravado he, too, is nervous.

      Further into the bazaar, a group of men crouch on their haunches around a hookah pipe that bubbles wetly with an opaque white liquid. As I approach, one blows out a stream of rose-scented smoke and I wave a hand to clear it. I produce the poster of John and lean down to show it to them.

     'Have you seen this man? This is St John Rivers. Have you seen him?'  

     The man closest to me has a coarse white beard that reaches halfway down his chest. The ends, resting on his bloated brown stomach, are curled and yellowing. 

     'Have you seen this man?' I ask him, directly.

     The man gives the picture a cursory glance, then waves me away with a dismissive movement of his hand. 

     'Kya aapane is aadamee ko dekha hai?' 'Have you seen this man?' I repeat, thrusting the picture into the man's hand.

      The man looks long and hard at the picture of John and then back at me. He holds it up to his friends and says something to them. I do not quite catch it, but the mocking tone is clear.  Slowly and deliberately he brings his hands together around the poster, screwing it into a ball. With a snort he casts it from him and it lands on the floor beside a small puddle. The dirty water creeps its way along the bottom edge, spreading slowly and the black ink of the Hindustani script begins to run. 

     Marshall, standing by my side, reacts swiftly. His hand closes around the man's beard and he yanks him to his feet. The man's friends break out into angry chatter and a young boy is sent off at a run.  

     Marshall forces the man down onto the ground, kicks the paper back towards him. 

     'Take another look,' he says.

     The man is on his knees. He takes the paper and unfolds it. The water has overtaken John's face and anger rises within me. How dare this man desecrate John's image.

     'This is St John Rivers,' Marshall says. 'Do you recognise him now?'  

     The man remains kneeling, shakes his head. He mutters something in broken English. Marshall leans down next to him.

     'Speak up man, I can't hear you.'

     'No, Sahib. I have not seen.'

     'What about now?' Marshall taunts him. He pushes the butt of his rifle into the man's neck, forcing the man's head down over the poster until his forehead is inches from the floor.  

     'Look,' Marshall calls across to me. 'This one is praying we find John.' 

     Marshall is enjoying himself. We have attracted a crowd and he is relishing his chance to perform for them. He excels in this role: from his clipped accent to the touch of wanton cruelty. But he is still young. He looks over to me often, like a pup who's run ahead of his master. His half smile at once boyish and uncertain asks, 'Are you still there, am I doing this right.' 

     'We should go, Marshall,' I say. The crowd is growing rapidly and we are surrounded on three sides by stern black faces. That boy, where did he run off to? We must be gone before he returns as its unlikely he'll be alone. Marshall looks as though he would argue, but when I begin to walk away he follows. 

     'Wharton,' he calls as he catches up, 'Did you see me, did you see their faces, they won't forget to pay us the respect we deserve in the future. Even when we're outnumbered, we stand up for what's right. They've seen the English character today.'

     Is that what they'll think, the Indians who were there? Is this what an Englishman is to them? I let Marshall chatter on and after a while his excitement subsides, and he falls into his usual tuneless whistle. Glancing back over my shoulder, I see that the old man has been coaxed into a sitting position and is surrounded by a group of young men. They appear to be questioning him closely and I pick up my pace and encourage Marshall to do likewise. I'll feel safer once we have some distance from them. 

     'Over here, Wharton,' Marshall calls, 'I've found Baron.'

     I join Marshall at the edge of a circle. A little further in, I can see Baron head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. In the centre of the circle an Indian girl is dancing. She is young, no more than sixteen, her supple hips moving in time to the rhythmic hand claps of the onlookers. Baron whistles in encouragement and she acknowledges him with a twirl of her pink silken scarf. Her sinuous movement weaves a spell over the watchers. I take an involuntary step closer and almost trip as a small boy runs in front of me. No English child would be allowed out at this hour, but here I have seen five and six-year-olds out on the streets when they should be safe in bed. 

     Moving on from the dancing girl Baron leads us further into the bazaar. We turn off the main thoroughfare and I am uncomfortably aware that there are no more stalls, no more traders shouting their wares. Instinctively, Marshall and I close ranks. 

     'How much further should we go tonight?' I say.

     'I thought you wanted news of John?' Baron says. 

     'I do, but I'm not sure we should stay here much longer.'

     Baron looks at me quizzically. 'I have a particular person in mind who might be able to help us. It's only a little further now. Are you fearful, Wharton?'

      'It is my fault,' Marshall cuts in. Some of those old men by the hookah were disrespectful and so…' His voice trails off as an Indian approaches us, a young man.  Like Marshall and Baron, he is a solider, wearing the grey jacket over white jodhpurs that the Company reserves for its native recruits. I am about to shoo him away when he whispers to us in perfect English.

     'Go. You must go now. It is not safe for you, here.'

     Baron steps forwards, palms raised in the universal gesture of submission. In contrast I can see that Marshall has tensed and the rifle that swung loosely is now gripped in his hands.

     'You need not fear us, we are looking for our friend.' Baron holds up John's picture.  Have you seen him?' he asks.

      But the man pushes the paper away.

      'You are not safe here,' he repeats, looking over his shoulder. 'Go. Now.'

      I glance to left and right.  The street appears quiet, but I can taste the bile of fear at the back of my throat. Thank God Baron has the presence of mind to smooth the situation.  He places a warning hand on Marshall's shoulder and the younger man loosens his hold on the rifle, pointing it once more at the ground.

      'Easy, my good man,' Baron tells the soldier. 'We are leaving.' 

      As one, we back away.  Our steps as slow and respectful as if we were in the presence of Queen Victoria, herself. After ten paces, we turn and run.