Rebel Angels - Page 88/158

Kartik takes in the spectacle of me, panting for breath and obviously shaken. "I know a place. I've never taken a young lady there, but it's the best I can think of at the moment. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I say. He offers his hand, and I grasp it, climbing into the carriage, letting Kartik take the reins and my fate into his hands.

We travel across Blackfriars Bridge into the grimy, dark heart of East London, and I begin to have second thoughts about letting Kartik lead the way. The streets are narrow and rough here. Vegetable sellers and butchers scream out from their wagons.

"Potatoes, carrots, peas!" "Sweet cuts of lamb--no joint to speak of!"

Children crowd about us, begging for anything--coins, food, scraps, work. They compete for my attention. "Miss, miss!" they cry, offering"help" of every variety for a coin or two. Kartik pulls the carriage to a stop in an alley behind a butcher's shop. The children are on me, tugging at my coat.

"ON" Kartik shouts, using a Cockney accent I've never heard." 'Oo 'ere knows abou' the skull-'n'-the-sword, eh?"

The children's eyes go wide at this mention of the Rakshana.

"Righ'," Kartik continues. "So you be'ah well clear ou', if you know wha' Oi mean."

Instantly, the children scatter. Only one boy remains, and Kartik flicks him a shilling.

"Watch the coach, guv," he says.

"Right!" the boy answers, pocketing the coin.

"That was impressive," I say as we make our way over mucky streets.

Kartik allows himself one small, triumphant smile. "Whatever it takes to survive."

Kartik stays a pace ahead of me. He has a hunter's walk--all hunched shoulders and wary steps. We turn down one twisting street of dilapidated houses and then another. At last, we come into a short lane and stop before a small tavern sandwiched tightly between other buildings intent on crowding it out. We approach the heavy wooden door. Kartik knocks in a succession of short raps. A crude peephole in the door is opened from the inside, revealing an eye. The peephole closes, and we are let in. The place is dark and smells of the most delicious curry and incense. Big men sit at tables stooped over steaming plates of food, their dirt-stained hands wrapped around pints of ale as if they were the only possessions worth guarding. Now I see why Kartik has never brought a lady here before. From what I can tell, I am the only one here now.

"Am I in danger?" I whisper through clenched teeth.

"Not any more than I am. Just go about your business and don't look at anyone and you will be fine."

Why do I feel that this response makes Kartik very much like governesses who tell their charges grisly fairy tales before bed and then expect them to sleep peacefully through the night?

He leads me to a table in the back under a low, beamed ceiling. The whole place has a feeling of being underground, like a rabbit warren.

"Where are you going?'' I ask frantically the moment Kartik starts to walk away.

"Shhhh!" he says, finger to his lips."I shall surprise you. "'

Yes, that is what I'm afraid of. I fold my hands on the rough wooden table and try to disappear. In a moment, Kartik returns with a plate of food, which he puts before me with a smile. Dosa! I haven't had the spicy, thin cakes since I left Bombay and Sarita's kitchen. One bite has me longing for her kindness and the country I couldn't wait to leave, a country I wonder if I will ever see again.

"This is delicious," I say, taking another bite. "How do you know of this place?"

"Amar told me of it. The man who owns it is from Calcutta. You see that curtain there?" He points to a tapestry hanging on the wall. "There is a door behind it. It's a hidden room. If you should ever need me . . ."

I realize he is sharing a secret. It's a good feeling to be trusted. "Thank you," I say."Do you miss India?"

He shrugs. "My family is the Rakshana. They discouraged loyalty to any other country or customs."

"But don't you remember how beautiful the ghats looked at dusk, or the flower offerings floating on the water?"

"You sound like Amar," he says, biting into one of the steaming cakes.

"What do you mean?"

"He longed for India sometimes. He would joke with me. 'Little brother,' he would say,'I'm going to retire to Benares with a fat wife and twelve children to bother me. And when I die, you can throw my ashes into the Ganges so I will never come back. " "

This is the most Kartik has ever said about his brother. I know we've pressing business to discuss, but I want to know more about him."And did he . . . marry?"