From the sound of her voice, Deeti knew she was crying, so she put an arm around her, pulling her into a huddle: Heeru, don't be afraid; you can say what you like.

Several minutes pa.s.sed before Heeru could speak, and even then it was in a sobbing, disjointed rush: Bhauji ... I hadn't thought, didn't expect ... are you sure? Bhauji, they say in Mareech, a woman on her own will be torn apart ... devoured ... so many men and so few women ... can you think what it would be like, Bhauji, to be alone there ... Oh Bhauji ... I never thought ...

Deeti could not figure out where exactly this was heading. age ke bat kal hoile, she said sharply. You can talk about the future tomorrow. What's your answer for now?

What else, Bhauji? Yes, I'm ready ...

Deeti laughed. Arre Heeru! You're a bold one!

Why do you say that, Bhauji? said Heeru anxiously. Do you think it's a mistake?

No, said Deeti firmly. Now that you've decided, I can tell you: I don't think it's a mistake. I think he's a good man. Besides, he has all those followers and relatives - they'll look after you. You'll be the envy of everyone, Heeru - a real queen!

It was not unusual for Paulette, when going through her washing, to come upon a shirt, banyan, or pair of trowsers that she recognized as Zachary's. Almost unconsciously, she would slip these garments to the bottom of her pile, saving them for the last. When she came to them, depending on her mood, she would sometimes subject them to an angry scrubbing, even beating them upon the deck-planks, with all the vigour of a washerwoman at a dhobi-ghat. But there were times also when she would linger over their collars and cuffs and seams, going to great lengths to scrub them clean. It was in this fashion that she was cleaning a shirt of his one day when Baboo n.o.b Kissin Pander appeared at her side. Goggling at the garment in her hands, he said, in a furtive whisper: 'I do not wish to trespa.s.s into your preserves, Miss, but kindly may I inquire if that shirt belongs to Mr Reid?'

Paulette answered with a nod, whereupon he said, even more furtively: 'Just for one minute can I feel?'

'The shirt?' she asked in astonishment, and without another word, the gomusta s.n.a.t.c.hed the damp twist of cloth from her and pulled it this way and that before handing it back. 'Seems he has been wearing from times-immemorial,' he said with a puzzled frown. 'Cloth feels extremely aged. Strange, no?'

Although Paulette was by now well-accustomed to the gomusta's oddities, she was puzzled by this cryptic statement. 'But why is it strange that Mr Reid should have old clothes?'

'Tch!' The gomusta clicked his tongue, as if mildly irritated by her ignorance. 'If avatar is new, how clothes can be old? Height, weight, privates, all must be changing, no, when there is alteration in externalities? Myself, I have had to buy many new clothings. Heavy financial outlay was required.'

'I don't understand, n.o.b Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette. 'Why was that necessary?'

'You cannot see?' The gomusta's eyes grew even rounder and more protuberant. 'You are blind or what? Bosoms are burgeoning, hair is lengthening. New modalities are definitely coming to the fore. How old clothes will accommodate?'

Paulette smiled to herself and lowered her head. 'But Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' she said, 'Mr Reid has not undergone such a change; his old clothes will surely suffice for a while yet?'

To Paulette's astonishment, the gomusta responded with startling vehemence: his face seemed to swell in outrage, and when he spoke again, it was as if he were defending some deeply cherished belief. 'How you can make such sweeping-statements? At once I will clear this point.' Thrusting a hand through the neckline of his flowing tunic, he pulled out an amulet and unrolled a yellowing piece of paper. 'Come here and see.'

Rising to her feet, Paulette took the list from him and began to examine it under the glowing, sunlit penumbra of her ghungta.

'It is crew-list for Ibis from two years ago. Look at Mr Reid's good-name and you will see. Cent-per-cent change is there.'

As if mesmerized, Paulette's eyes ran back and forth along the line until they came to the word 'Black' scribbled beside Zachary's name. Suddenly so much that had seemed odd, or inexplicable, made perfect sense - his apparently intuitive sympathy for her circ.u.mstances, his unquestioning acceptance of her sisterly relationship with Jodu ...

'It is a miracle, no? n.o.body can deny.'

'Indeed, Baboo n.o.b Kissin. You are right.'

She saw now how miraculously wrong she had been in some of her judgements of him: if there was anyone on the Ibis who could match her in the multiplicity of her selves, then it was none other than Zachary. It was as if some divine authority had sent a messenger to let her know that her soul was twinned with his.

There was nothing now to stop her from revealing herself to him - and yet the mere thought of it made her cringe in fear. What if he a.s.sumed that she had chased him on to the Ibis? What else indeed could he a.s.sume? What would she do if he laughed at her for humiliating herself? She could not bear to think of it.

She lifted her head to look at the sea, rushing by, and a glimmer of memory flashed through her head: she remembered a day, several years ago, when Jodu had found her crying over a novel. Taking the book out of her hands, he had flipped through it in puzzlement, even shaking it by the spine, almost as if he were expecting to dislodge a needle or a thorn - some sharp object that might account for her tears. Finding nothing, he said at last - it's the story, is it, that's turned on the flow? - and on this being confirmed, he had demanded a full recounting of the tale. So she'd told him the story of Paul and Virginie, growing up in exile on an island, where an innocent childhood attachment had grown into an abiding pa.s.sion, but only to be sundered when Virginie was sent back to France. The last part of the book was Paulette's favourite, and she'd described at length the novel's tragic conclusion, in which Virginie is killed in a shipwreck, just as she is about to be reunited with her beloved. To her outrage, Jodu had greeted the melancholy tale with guffaws of laughter, telling her that only a fool would cry over this skein of weepy nonsense. She had shouted at him, telling him that it was he who was the fool, and a weakling too, because he would never have the courage to follow the dictates of his heart.

How was it that no one had ever told her that it was not love itself, but its treacherous gatekeepers which made the greatest demands on your courage: the panic of acknowledging it; the terror of declaring it; the fear of being rebuffed? Why had no one told her that love's twin was not hate but cowardice? If she had learnt this earlier she would have known the truth of why she had gone to such lengths to stay hidden from Zachary. And yet, even knowing this, she could not summon the courage to do what she knew she must - at least not yet.

It was late in the night, shortly after the fifth bell of the midnight watch, that Zachary spotted Serang Ali on the fo'c'sle-deck: he was alone and he seemed to be deep in thought, looking eastwards, at the moonlit horizon. All through the day, Zachary had had the feeling that the serang was avoiding him, so he lost no time now in stepping up to stand beside him at the rail.

Serang Ali was clearly startled to see him: 'Malum Zikri!'

'Can you spare a moment, Serang Ali?'

'Can, can. Malum, what-thing wanchi?'

Zachary took out the watch Serang Ali had given him and held it in his palm. 'Listen, Serang Ali, it's time you told me the truth about this timmyknocky here.'

Serang Ali gave the ends of his drooping moustache a puzzled tug. 'What Malum Zikri mean? No sabbi.'

Zachary opened the watch's cover. 'Time's come to cut playing the fool, Serang Ali. I know you been putting me on about Adam Danby. I know who he was.'

Serang Ali's eyes went from the watch to Zachary's face and he gave a shrug, as if to indicate that he was weary of pretence and dissimulation. 'How? Who tell?'

'That don matter none: what counts is I know. What I don't know is what you had in mind for me. Were you planning on teaching me Danby's tricks?'

Serang Ali shook his head and spat a mouthful of betel-juice over the deck rail. 'No true, Malum Zikri,' he said in a low, insistent voice. 'You cannot believe all what the b.u.g.g.e.rs say. Malum Aadam, he blongi like son for Serang Ali - he my daughter husband. Now he hab makee die. Also daughter and all they chilo. Serang Ali 'lone now. When I look-see Malum Zikri, my eyes hab done see Malum Aadam. Both two same-same for me. Zikri Malum like son also.'

'Son?' said Zachary. 'Is that what you'd do for your son? Turn him to crime? Piracy?'

'Crime, Malum Zikri?' Serang Ali's eyes flashed. 'Smuggling opium not blongi crime? Running slave-ship blongi better'n pi-ra-cy?'

'So you admit it then?' said Zachary. 'That's what you had in mind for me - to do a Danby for you?'

'No!' said Serang Ali, slapping the deck rail. 'Want only Zikri Malum do good for he-self. 'Come officer. Maybe Cap'ting. All thing Malum Aadam can not 'come.'

The Serang's body seemed to wilt as he was speaking, so that he looked suddenly older, and somehow strangely forlorn. Despite himself, Zachary's voice softened. 'Lookit, Serang Ali,' he said. 'You been plenty freehanded with me, can't deny it. Last thing I want is to turn you in. So let's just settle this between us. Let's agree that when we put into Port Louis, you'll light out. That way we can just forget any of this happened.'

Serang Ali's shoulders sagged as he answered. 'Can do - Serang Ali so can do.'

Zachary took a last look at the watch before handing it over. 'Here - this belongs in your poke, not mine. You better keep it.'

Serang Ali sketched a salam as he knotted the watch into the waist of his lungi.

Zachary stepped away but only to come back again. 'Look, Serang Ali,' he said. 'Believe me, I'm cut down 'bout it ending like this between us. Sometimes I just wish you'd'a left me alone and never come anigh. Maybe things would'a been different then. But it was you as showed me that what I do counts for more than where I was born. And if I'm to care bout my work, then I need to live by its rules. Else it wouldn't be worth doing. You see the sense of that?'

'See.' Serang Ali nodded. 'Can see.'

Zachary was about to step away again when Serang Ali stopped him. 'Malum Zikri - one thing.'

'What?' Zachary turned to find Serang Ali pointing ahead, in a south-easterly direction.

'Look-see. There.'

Zachary could see nothing in the dark. 'What'd you want me to look at?'

'Over there blongi Sumatra channel. From here maybe forty-fifty mile. From there Sing'pore very close. Six-seven day sail.'

'What're you getting at, Serang Ali?'

'Malum Zikri wanchi Serang Ali go, no? Can do. Can go very soon, that way.'

'How?' said Zachary in bemus.e.m.e.nt.

Serang Ali turned to point to one of the longboats. 'In that boat can go. Little food, little water. Can go Sing'pore seven days. Then China.'

Now Zachary understood. In disbelief he said: 'Are you talking of jumping ship?'

'Why not?' said Serang Ali. 'Malum Zikri wanchi me go, no? Better go now, much better. Only cause of Malum Zikri, Serang Ali come on Ibis. Or else not come.' Serang Ali broke off to dump a mouthful of paan in the sea. 'Burra Malum, he no-good b.u.g.g.e.r. See what he trouble he make with Shaitan-jib? b.u.g.g.e.r make plenty bad joss.'

'But the Ibis?' Zachary slapped the schooner's deck rail. 'What about her? What about the pa.s.sengers? Don't you owe them anything? Who's going to get them where they're going?'

'Plenty lascar hab got. Can reach Ibis to Por'Lwee. No problem.'

Zachary began to shake his head even before the serang had finished. 'No. I can't allow it.'

'Malum Zikri not hab do nothing. Only must sleep on watch one night. Just twenty minute.'

'I can't allow it, Serang Ali.' Zachary was absolutely sure of himself now, confident that this was where he had to stake out the lines of his own sovereignty. 'I can't let you make off with one of the longboats. What if something goes wrong later and we have to abandon ship? We can't afford to be a boat short, with so many people on board.'

'Other boats hab got. Will be enough.'

'I'm sorry, Serang Ali,' said Zachary. 'I just can't let it happen, not on my watch. I offered you a reasonable deal - that you wait till Port Louis before lighting out. That's as far as I'm going to go; no farther.'

The serang was about to say something but Zachary stopped him. 'And don't push me, cause if you do I'll have no choice but to go to the Captain. Do you understand?'

Serang Ali gave a deep sigh and a nod. 'Yes, Zikri Malum.'

'Good.'

Stepping off the fo'c'sle, Zachary turned around for one last word. 'And don't think of pulling anything smart, Serang Ali. Cause I'm goin to be watching you.'

Serang Ali smiled and stroked his moustache. 'Malum Zikri too muchi smart b.u.g.g.e.r, no? What Serang Ali can do?'

The news of Heeru's wedding broke upon the dabusa like a wave, creating eddies and whirlpools of excitement: after all the unfortunate things that had happened, here at last was something, as Deeti said, to make everyone laugh in their sorrow - dukhwa me sabke hasaweli.

As everybody's Bhauji, it fell, as if by right, to Deeti to think of all the organizing and bandobast that lay ahead. Should there be a tilak ceremony? Deeti allowed her voice to rise to the querulous pitch that was appropriate for someone who had been burdened, yet again, with the tiresome business of making all the arrangements for a family event: And what about a haldi, with a proper smearing of turmeric?

These were exactly the questions that arose when the other women heard the news: Was there to be a kohbar? Could a wedding be real without a marriage chamber? Surely it would be no great matter to set one up, with a few sheets and mats? And what about the fire, for the seven sacramental circlings? Would it be enough to have a candle, or a lamp instead?

We're all talking too much, scolded Deeti. We can't decide this on our own! We don't even know what the customs are like on the boy's side.

Boy? Larika? - this raised gales of laughter - he's no boy, that man!

At a wedding everyone's a boy: what's to stop him from being one again?

And what about a dowry? gifts?

Tell him, we'll give him a goat when we get to Mareech.

... Be serious ... hase ka ka batba re ... ? What's to laugh at?

The one thing everyone agreed about was that no purpose was to be served by dragging things out: best to get everything done with the greatest possible dispatch. Between the two sides, it was decided that the next day would be devoted entirely to the wedding.

Among the women, the only one who was less than enthused was Munia. Can you imagine living your life with any of these men? she said to Paulette. Wouldn't do it for anything.

So who're you aiming for then?

I need someone who'll show me a bit of the world.

Oh? said Paulette, teasing. A lascar, for example?

Munia giggled. Why not?

Among the women Sarju, the midwife, was the only one who still showed no signs of recovering from her seasickness: unable to keep down any food or water, she had dwindled away until it seemed that the last sparks of life in her body had retreated into her dark, fiery eyes. Since she was unable to go up to the main deck for her meals, the women took it in turns to bring a little food and water down to the dabusa, in the hope of coaxing some nourishment between her lips.

That evening, it was Deeti's turn to fetch Sarju's food. She came down the ladder while most of the girmitiyas were still on deck, eating their meal: the dabusa was lit only by a couple of lamps, and in that dim, near-empty s.p.a.ce, Sarju's worn, withered figure seemed even more forlorn than usual.

Deeti tried to sound cheerful as she seated herself beside her: How are you, Sarju-didi? Feeling better today?

Sarju made no answer; instead she raised her head and looked quickly around the dabusa. When she saw that there was no one within earshot, she caught hold of Deeti's wrist and pulled her close. Listen, she said, listen to me; there's something I have to tell you.

Yes, didi?

Hamra se chalal n jale, Sarju whispered. I can't take this any more; I can't go on ...

Why are you talking like that? Deeti protested. You'll be fine once you start eating properly.

Sarju dismissed this impatiently. Listen to me, she said, there's no time to waste. I'm telling you the truth; I will not live to see the end of this journey.

How do you know? said Deeti. You may get better.

It's too late for that. Sarju fixed her feverishly bright eyes on Deeti and whispered: I've dealt with these things all my life. I know, and before I go I want to show you something.

Moving her head off the cloth bundle that served as her pillow, Sarju pushed it towards Deeti: Here. Take this; open it.

Open it? Deeti was amazed, for Sarju had never before been known to open her bojha in anyone's sight: indeed her furtiveness about her baggage was so extreme that the others had often joked and speculated about the contents. Deeti had never joined in the teasing because Sarju's protectiveness seemed to her to be merely the fixation of a middle-aged woman who had precious few possessions to boast of. But she knew also that such manias were not easily overcome, so it was with some caution that she asked Sarju: Are you sure you want me to look inside?

Yes, said Sarju. Quickly. Before the others come.

Deeti had a.s.sumed that the bundle contained not much more than a few old clothes, maybe some masalas, and perhaps a couple of copper utensils: when she peeled away the first flaps of cloth she found more or less what she had expected - some old clothes and a few wooden spoons.

Here. Give it to me. Sarju thrust a twig-like hand into the bundle and pulled out a small pouch, not much bigger than her fist. She put it to her nose, took a deep breath and handed it to Deeti: Do you know what this is?

From the feel of the pouch, Deeti knew that it was filled with tiny seeds. When she raised it to her nose, she recognized the smell at once: Ganja, she said. These are seeds of ganja.

Sarju acknowledged this with a nod and handed over another pouch. And this?