The Dancer and the Raja Read Free

eyes rolling in terror, the thoroughbreds kick the air like giant insects. A dozen or so elephants carry boxes, furniture, carts, and industrial parts that emerge from the belly of the ship. It smells of damp, of smoke, of steel, and of the sea. Over the cawing of the crows, shouts and greetings and the whistles of the police officers mix together. The passengers who are disembarking, mostly English people, are welcomed by their families, well dressed and spotlessly clean. The most important ones, those who have some official position, are welcomed with garlands of bright orange Indian marigolds, which are placed round their necks. In the customs hall while Mme Dijon and Lola count the fifty trunks that make up the Spanish girl’s luggage, Anita manages to spot an Indian woman or two dressed in a sari. But she cannot see him. The man who has brought her here, and who has promised her all the love in the world.
    â€œAre you Mrs. Delgado?”
    The voice she hears behind her makes her jump. She turns: It’s him! she thinks in a flash. The bright red turban, the beard elegantly rolled up, and the splendid blue uniform with a blue-and-silver belt have confused her. She immediately realizes her mistake and turns serious, as the man places a garland of flowers round her neck.
    â€œDo you remember me? I’m Inder Singh, the envoy of His Highness the Raja of Kapurthala,” he says, joining his hands in front of his chest and bowing as a sign of respect.
    How could she not remember! Anita would need several lives before she could forget that man who was so tall and of such an imposing appearance who one day knocked on the door of the tiny flat in Arco de Santa Maria Street, in Madrid, where she lived with her family. He was so massive that he could not get in through the door. A real Sikh, the pride of his race. There was no way he could sit down during the visit, and he was so big he took up all the space in the kitchen cum living room. He had come expressly from Paris to give Anita, in person, a letter from the raja. A love letter. The letter that had turned her life upside down.
    â€œCaptain Singh!” Anita cries, as happy as though she were meeting an old friend again.
    â€œHis Highness has not been able to come and meet you and begs your forgiveness, but everything is ready for you to continue your journey to Kapurthala,” Inder Singh informs her in French mixed with English and Hindi, which makes the whole thing barely comprehensible.
    â€œIs it very far from here?”
    Inder Singh shakes his head, in a gesture that is very typical of his countrymen, which confuses foreigners because it is not always the equivalent of a negative.
    â€œAbout two thousand kilometers.”
    Anita is left speechless. The Indian goes on, “India is very big, Memsahib . But don’t worry about a thing. The train for Jalandhar leaves the day after tomorrow at six o’clock. From Jalandhar to Kapurthala it’ll only be two hours by car. You have a suite reserved in the Taj Mahal Hotel, close to here …”
    The Victorian-style hotel was designed by a French architect who ended up committing suicide because he did not like the result. But even so it is grandiose.
    With verandas and huge corridors so that the air can always circulate, a stairway lit by the weak light entering through the stained-glass windows, Gothic ceilings, the finest wood on the walls, four brand-new “electric lifts,” a permanent orchestra, and shops full of multicolored silks, the hotel is a world apart within the city, the only public place open to Europeans and Indians of all castes. The other luxury hotels are for “whites” only.
    The first thing Anita does when she goes into the Imperial Suite is to open the windows to let the warm breeze from the Arabian Sea bring in the smells and sounds from the promenade. Down below is the Aurore . The heat is leaden.
    Although what she would really like to do is lie on