Passion & Profession: Chapter 11
In which the Rev. St. John fights twice with Cpt. Aquilaine over the Expressions of their Affection, and discovers the Significance of Thursdays.
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A happiness which is built on honesty and openness, and which springs naturally from a firm foundation of contented trust, can weather whatever turmoils are sent by a malicious world to test and prod, seeking what weaknesses it may exploit. A happiness which relies on the shifting sands of covert measures, however, with secrets left unspoken and the deliberate quelling of unsettled consciences, will rarely last; like Plato's ouroboros, forever doomed to gnaw on its own tail, it quickly consumes itself with remorse, suspicion and fear.
In similar fashion, finding love in two women at once is a cruel predicament; the likelihood of contentment is small. Deciding on one means a deliberate wounding of the other. The one choosing suffers innumerous regrets, sees in his current love all the little failings the other did not possess-for absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder-and recalls at length all those rejected virtues which the other woman offered, which will now never be his to enjoy. The chosen wonders what special qualities of hers were the ones crucial to his decision, fears the consequences of any alteration of character or habit, no matter how trivial, and questions in her mind-never aloud-whether he feels he favoured the right woman after all is said and done. She also bears the burden of gratitude. They must both expend much time and energy to reassure each other, and themselves, that the correct choice has been made. Like happiness built on shifting sands, few harmonious relationships can last after such a perilous beginning.
How much worse it was for the Rev. Rivers, forced to choose between the God he served out of duty, necessity, and fear, and Cpt. Aquilaine, who brought him joys immeasurable but who drew him inevitably closer to spiritual peril! Not able to have both, he had made his choice and promptly grew dissatisfied with it. He quickly found himself more and more frequently upset by the Captain's oft-coarse ways, worldly thoughts, and careless disrespect for Providence. The quiet, sterile, and pious life he had rejected began to seem serene and fruitful. The regrets made themselves quickly known; he felt the burden of his decision at all times.
Cpt. Aquilaine should not have been similarly troubled; he did not have a choice to make. But he too seemed ill at ease, gave the Reverend sidelong glances they both studiously ignored, and often hesitated when speaking, as if he had something perpetually on the tip of his tongue. Further, he had begun to request more and more intimacies from St. John, intimacies they both knew would not be allowed. Some weight preyed on him, as well. Perhaps he disliked having to be grateful that his friend had deigned to prefer him, in a regretful sort of fashion.
But the Reverend could not give voice to such concerns, not aloud. Any mention of his previous decision to leave would consume the Captain with anxiety and self-doubt. Privately, he also worried as to how he would tell the Bishop of his change in plans, especially since he had said, quite untruthfully, that the Lord had called him to leave Calcutta. And he feared for the health of his immortal soul, since his most effortless and heartfelt prayers were now inspired by fornication. He spoke to God but seldom now; when he did pray, with a heart full of gratitude and love towards the Creator who had given mankind so much joy, it usually came directly after something Cpt. Aquilaine had done in bed. In short, he had made a difficult choice between two loves, and was now free to repent at his leisure.
The sands, Reader, had already begun to shift.
Several nights later, as they lay in bed after completing their nightly duties to each other-for now Cpt. Aquilaine also demanded to be taken in hand before they progressed to their second round of affections-the Captain unexpectedly asked a question St. John had privately dreaded for some time, knowing the topic could not be gainsaid forever.
“What are your thoughts on the act of being a fellator?”
St. John grimaced in silence, glad the last candle had already been extinguished. “I personally find the practice decadent and uncivilised.”
A long, rather tense silence followed. Then, finally-
“So you would not be willing to engage in such activities, even once? Even as an experiment, to see whether your opinion on the matter matches with the reality of the thing?”
“Certainly not. There is no circumstance, no situation under which I could see myself as a fellator. I assure you, it is not worth pursuing this matter, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine sat up, restless and agitated. St. John could sense the tension in his limbs. “It is hard, you must know, to hear the many different ways in which you tell me, again and again, that my interests and my actions are base. I have never criticised any of your preferences, even though other sorts of men might have had a good deal to say about your needs.”
“Such as what?” St. John also rose at this, dismayed to hear that what he considered his perfectly average desires could be called into account.
“Such as your continued preference for keeping the room entirely dark … many people would like to see their lover's reactions and not simply try to guess at them. Or your insistence that whilst I may touch your most intimate spots, I may do nothing more than that, when I can assure you that is hardly the only possibility. Or your staunch refusal to even do that much in return! St. John, you deny me so much, I question whether you even understand that it is not just the refusal of such actions, but your manner of rejecting them that makes me so unhappy? When you open your mouth to speak, you criticise. It is as if you must find fault in me somehow. It hurts, that you have yet so little trust.”
St. John ducked his head in impatience and shame, hating this sort of discussion bitterly. “How many more times must I say that I have little or no restraint around you? Yes, I must keep my guard up at all times, but that is to protect me from myself!”
“As if, by playing the fellator even once, to simply discern whether you genuinely dislike it or simply have been taught to, you will then lose all control over yourself and I shall find you on your knees in the sitting room each day when I return home, scarcely able to wait for me to remove so much as my hat?”
“Do not mock me, Marcus!” St. John hoped the Captain would not notice how his body had reacted to the suggestion; certainly there could be no ignoring the Captain's response. It was a mercy, besides, that men could not read one another's thoughts. St. John did not want to imagine the consequences if his friend realised that although the Reverend did not wish to be a fellator, he had no qualms about playing the rôle of the irrumator, and that he struggled to fight back the images of returning from church on Sunday to find Cpt. Aquilaine waiting in the study for him, repenting once again his failure to properly observe the Lord's Day, kneeling on the carpet and begging to be allowed to make a proper penance to the man who could absolve him of sin, if he only would shew contrition …
Cpt. Aquilaine fell back against his pillow with a sigh, pulling the Reverend down as he did so. “For a man of God, it is singular how you have absolutely no confidence in yourself, nor any faith in God's Grace. You see the Devil's temptations behind every bush, and you are always afraid.”
St. John shifted to allow the Captain to rub his back. “That is true … the closer I try to draw to Him, the further I feel from love, joy, patience and all the other fruits of the Spirit. I have never felt the Peace of God, never in all my years of striving.”
“Stop striving then! Are you not simply supposed to yield to the Spirit and allow it to lead you where it will? What if It takes you in a direction you do not expect? You speak so often of your passion to be an instrument in the Hands of the Lord … will you fight Him tooth and nail because He is using you in a manner not to your expectations? You believe you already comprehend the very Mind of God, and will not brook so much as a whisper that contradicts what you presume He thinks!”
“Now that is false, thank you, the grossest untruth-”
“I know you, St. John! If I may, I know you very well by now. I know how you prefer to be alone, how undomestic and unsentimental you are. And sometimes I wonder-are you so afraid of your own nature and supposedly-sinful desires that you will spend a lifetime repenting for how God has made you?”
St. John could give no response; he had asked himself this many times, in the silence of his own heart. How unpleasant it felt to have another person so easily discern him. Some nights he longed once more for the privacy of a solitary life, where no one demanded that he talk or listen, no one bade him stay or go, and no one presumed the liberty to offhandedly sift through his innermost thoughts, examining all the tenuous hopes and wishes and fears that he had so carefully shut away under the guise of protecting them.
But what does Marcus truly know about me? He could never understand how deeply I love my sisters, and how dearly I miss taking dinner with them and reading devotions to them by the fire. He does not know how I longed to see them when they were gone to teach, and how I would spend the whole day pacing the kitchen and peering out the windows, looking for their coach when they returned for Christmas-tide! I never said as much to them; some stiff propriety always stopped my tongue and, God forgive me, I was cold to them. I so feared that they would stray from the path. But every day now I would like to see them again. Nor does he know how glad I would have been to marry, to have a wife who could suffer my severity, and to have a child I could raise in the ways of the Lord. To sit with them all after dinner, and read to them. I acknowledge now that such things cannot be, so I have set them aside, let these dreams fade into memory, but they are not gone. They will never leave me. He does not know this.
Cpt. Aquilaine continued, “You are so afraid of doing wrong and jeopardising your soul that you have instead smothered it in its sleep! Do you think that by removing every part of humanity that resides within your breast you can protect yourself from sin?”
A great wave of sorrow unexpectedly broke over St. John's head. “Do not say that! You cannot say that to me!” he raged into the darkness. The Captain gripped his arms and he struggled to pull away, miserable at their touch. His breath caught with a ragged hitch as he lowered his voice. “You do not know! You cannot understand how … how much I feel and how deeply I long. I have not killed off the more tender parts of my nature, just because I do not wear them on my sleeve as you do, Marcus. You give me no credit, none at all. Think of how much I have shewn you of myself already, and how far I have let myself go down this path. I had never more than kissed a woman on the cheek, and now I fornicate with you every night! I, who was accustomed to spend days and weeks at a time absolutely alone with my books, now share nearly all the waking moments that I can with you. And still you accuse me of having no heart, because as far as I have come and as much as I have changed it is not enough. I do not suppose it will ever be enough for you.”
His speech echoed through the silence in the room. He could hear his own breath, shallow and halting, as it joined the Captain's slower, more measured breathing. He felt wrung through; he could not form words in his mouth. And then-
“No, you are correct. You have passion, St. John, passion in abundance, but I am not skilled at seeing it because it is so unlike all I have known before.” His voice sounded oddly meek. “Some days it seems to burn in you as strongly as I once burnt to attain true honour. I should be grateful when you allow me to catch a glimpse of it.”
St. John wanted to weep, although he could not possibly understand why. He reached out and pulled the larger man down into his arms, holding him very tightly, as if by pressing their bodies together he could convey through touch alone what he could not speak aloud.
“I am sorry, I am so sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice,” he murmured into the Captain's hair. “I should not shout, Marcus, you are far too dear to me.” For a moment his voice shook too much, and he had to wait until he could be calm once more. “But what a painful thing you have put your finger on-that cuts right to the quick!”
Cpt. Aquilaine's voice rasped and St. John felt him tremble a little under his arms. “We are too good at that, St. John, at prodding one another's hidden wounds. I am afraid it is a skill I have been improving upon since meeting you, since your words always have such keen aim.”
“Do not lay all the blame on me! In your own way you have also been teaching me how to find those most private and sensitive spots,” St. John replied without thinking.
There was another long moment's pause, during which he shut his eyes tight and desperately hoped that Cpt. Aquilaine had not been paying close attention. But then the Captain begin to shake just a little, in a manner that had nothing to do with sorrow.
“Do you wish to elaborate, Reverend?” he enquired roguishly.
“No, thank you, Sir, I do not.” St. John answered, rather stiffly.
“Ah, you are blushing, I think.” He touched St. John's cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes, that is quite warm.” St. John tried to push his hand away, the Captain grabbed his other wrist in return and for a moment they found themselves nearly wrestling, a friendly sort of grapple, before Cpt. Aquilaine claimed the upper hand by virtue of his larger size and greater strength. As St. John lay half-pressed to the bed, arms pinned at his sides, Cpt. Aquilaine seized the opportunity to bite him gently on the ear whilst the Reverend squirmed and tried to shift away.
“Another sensitive spot, Reverend Sombre?”
“I should never have told you that, Marcus-oof-you must not-aaaaah!” The unfamiliar sensations overwhelmed him and St. John began to laugh helplessly, at the ridiculousness of his situation and what he had said, and because this sort of fighting was far more pleasant than a true argument. Then they were both lying on each other, laughing out of relief and a sudden sharp happiness, and they continued until their sides hurt and all traces of their previous hot words had been forgotten.
Finally St. John broke the now-companionable silence. “Marcus, I do not want to talk more of intimate matters tonight. We too often end in ill tempers, and I always regret it deeply afterwards.”
“I know.” Cpt. Aquilaine kissed St. John on the tip of the nose. “I did not wish to quarrel either. It just saddens me that there is little I can do to ease your mind when your mood is black.”
“Perhaps one day it shall be easier. Remember how far I have journeyed in so short a time!”
“True, I do not always give you enough credit, and I am impatient. But you know that my impatience is only because I can scarce keep my hands to myself when you are nearby?”
“How could I forget it?” He turned, burrowing deeper into the bed and nestling his back against the Captain's chest. “Can we go to sleep? I am strangely exhausted, and if we sleep now I shall be more awake in the morning.”
His friend sighed with mock-disappointment and settled himself in. “If that is a promise, I suppose I can survive a night of only taking my joy once. Once is still far more than I was accustomed to, before you graced me with your favour.”
St. John merely turned his head to kiss him in response.
When he woke to the dawn Cpt. Aquilaine, intent on making sure the previous night's guarantees would not go overlooked, immediately began to stroke St. John with one hand and clutch at his buttocks with the other. St. John put up a feeble protest.
“Aah, Marcus, I am still halfway asleep.”
“I want you on top of me, St. John. I want to see how you look whilst you are between my thighs.” When he saw how quickly the Reverend retreated into himself, he explained further, “I know you dislike this in the daytime. It is only that you have such a divine form, and I can think of no better way to spend my day than to carry about the memory of you with me. Give me that, please.”
St. John, who had dreamt of how ripe and inviting the Captain's mouth looked before the first cup of tea in the morning had steadied his hand enough to wield a straight razor, realised that if he agreed, it would give him greater leverage for when he finally admitted how deeply he would like to be an irrumator. So he yielded, enjoying the feel of the Captain's hands on him, until such time as he had grown needful enough to begin.
Still, as he slipped on top of his friend, mindful of the bad leg and the burgeoning flesh pointing towards him, he had to shut up his eyes against how exposed he looked in the growing light. Half his mind knew the only person observing him was the Captain, but the other half, raised in a lifetime of belief that God watched over his flock in all circumstances, could not help but feel as if they were lying in the middle of the cobblestone street, with beggars staring and making encouraging cheers. He closed his eyes tighter as he felt his need slipping.
“St. John, is it well with you? Or is this not to your liking?”
“It is just very hard being peered at,” he muttered. “Distract me from myself, and we shall both be happier for it.” He raised himself onto his knees and let the Captain dab oil between his thighs, then settled onto him once more. Now Cpt. Aquilaine began to relax him much as he had the very first time they tried this, one broad arm around his narrow waist in an embrace both confining and affectionate whilst the other hand reached back to slide between his buttocks and tease along his most sensitive spots. St. John, a firm believer in routine and constancy, immediately began to respond.
They continued for some minutes, St. John simply arching back and pushing forward, concentrating on the Captain's hands whilst the Captain, from below, watched with growing delight and whispered the occasional word of encouragement. When he whispered “Shall I give you a little more?” St. John just quickened his breaths and nodded haltingly. His pleasure increased as the large fingers continued to touch and stroke, pressing more insistently, until St. John gasped out,
“O Marcus, please, give me more … go further.” In response, Cpt. Aquilaine shifted one of his fingers and carefully breached St. John quite to the knuckle. The tight, burning sensation was unmistakable; there could be no question as to what had just occurred. They both seemed more than a little caught off guard, then, when St. John responded by immediately wrenching himself away from the Captain's grip and nearly throwing himself from the bed. Cpt. Aquilaine sat up in shock and confusion as St. John stood on the carpet, clad only in air, need fading as precipitously as his anger rose.
“St. John, what-”
“You forget yourself, Sir! How dare you?” Fury surged through him in his humiliation.
“You said you wanted me to go further!” The Captain spread his hands out in a gesture of appeasement, fingers still glistening with oil.
“I did not mean like that. Do not try to claim your innocence; I have been quite clear on many occasions. You have violated me!”
Cpt. Aquilaine blanched at the accusation. “For God's sake, St. John, it's a finger, not a fuck!”
“I trust you with my very body, and this is how you repay me? Treachery!” He could not explain exactly why he was so angry; perhaps some lingering disquiet, stoked by Col. Fitzpatrick's letter, was making itself known at last. “You may keep your interest in baser desires, but I will have none of it.”
At this Cpt. Aquilaine also grew more angry, frustrated need further shortening his already-short temper. “Again with how base a man I am! Anyone but the pure and pious Rev. Rivers would have consented to more, so much more by now. But you, you insist you are better than that. It is fine for a man like me, of lesser virtue, to debauch myself-that is what you think, is it not?-but you will not so much as touch my testes, let alone my arse, and God Himself forbid you put your lips on my cock!”
St. John was stunned. “You have never before protested my piety … you were content to take what I could give, and you have reassured me repeatedly that it did not bother you. Where has all this sprung from?”
“It is hard enough being called a man of easy virtue by someone as haughty as Col. Fitzpatrick. I did not think I would hear it from you as well, St. John.” A wild sort of hurt welled up in his eyes. “But I see it now-it is my lack of honour-you too think that of me.”
“That is not the case-”
“You call me base, treacherous, violating. Why not just say I am a fancy-man who will bend over for any pretty thing that walks past?”
“Oh stop your dramatics, Captain. I have never said such a thing, and you know perfectly well I do not think that of you.”
“Yet you are so sanctimonious that you will not even stoop to place a finger near my arse?”
“It is filthy! Foul! That is not a place to slake physical desires, Marcus! It is an orifice for voiding soil, nothing more, and I will not allow you to disrespect me by encroaching upon mine.”
The Captain simply stared at him in disbelief, as if he had gone quite mad. “Do you not even know what comes out of a woman's cunny? Menses blood and babies! No, I will not allow you to tell me my desires are foul, certainly not when you are content to enjoy them, even if you will not return the favour.” He exited the bed and brushed past the Reverend as he moved to his chest of drawers. He proceeded to pull on his clothes with short, rough motions. St. John also began to dress, feeling quite at a loss for what to do or say next. Whilst his back was turned Cpt. Aquilaine spoke, his voice grim.
“We will talk more on this tonight, if you can manage to speak to me without accusing me of other whorish behaviours. And we shall come to some sort of an agreement, for neither will I allow you to so disrespect me in the future. I may not have honour, but I would like to claim dignity, at least!” He took a long, deep breath. “And I will be more composed, and you will have had time to think, and we can work through this like the gentlemen that we both are.”
“Where are you going? It is hardly even daybreak!” St. John fought back an inexplicable but rising panic; he was wholly unused to being the target of anger, however many times he had levelled it at others. Further, his friend had never before directed such assertive words at him.
“I am going to take the airs; my appetite has quite vanished in present company.” Seeing the stricken look on his friend's face, the Captain softened his tone and gripped the Reverend on the elbow. “Good God, St. John, you are impossible. None of this is irreparable; we are simply having a fight. There are raised voices, and old injuries brought to light … have you not had a fight like this before?”
“No-never! And I think I hate them.”
Cpt. Aquilaine pursed his lips in irritation. “I do not enjoy them either, but sometimes they are quite necessary, such as when two people who are otherwise fond of each other stumble onto an important aspect of their relationship that proves impossible to reconcile. But keep this in mind,” he bent down to stare his friend in the eye, looking as implacable as St. John had ever seen him, “we will both need to yield on certain things. I may have to give up some of what I want, but so will you.”
St. John nodded, his face tense and pale. “Agreed.”
The Captain walked into the sitting room and retrieved his cane from the umbrella stand. “After training finishes I have my weekly engagement with my commanding officer. It will not take more than an hour, but I will be back later than usual. Please do not spend that hour thinking that I have left town on the first available barge.”
For lack of a more useful thing to say, St. John blurted out, “but it is only Thursday. I thought your appointments were every Friday evening.” Then he realised the magnitude of his words.
Lord help me, it is Thursday. But the waters between us are so stormy now that I cannot possibly ask him to what Col. Fitzpatrick was referring.
“I have an officer's meeting tomorrow evening as well, so my commander has moved the appointment to today.” The Captain looked reluctant to speak further, as if he simply wanted to leave and be done with the Reverend for the nonce. But as he reached for the door he turned back. “Well, I am off. I hope … I hope you are in a better frame of mind tonight, and I hope I shall be as well. And I hope we come to a quick and painless resolution, because there is one good thing about a fight: after everything has been said and agreed upon, there is always the opportunity to make up, and that is pleasant indeed.” Seeing St. John smile at last, the Captain pecked him on the cheek-nothing overly warm, but far better than nothing at all-and left, shutting the door behind him as he went.
St. John waited until he heard the limping footsteps fade. Then, hardly daring to think, he slipped down the hall to his own quarters, threw on his frock-coat and hastened after the Captain. It was foolhardy, distrustful and sly, and he knew he risked causing permanent damage to their friendship, especially in light of what words they had just exchanged. But being nearly certain that something was about to happen, something that Cpt. Aquilaine most definitely did not want him to learn of, drove his mind to all manner of nightmarish ideas. He could not spend the entire day wondering and waiting, knowing that when the Captain returned they would fight again, and attempt to discuss in reasonable tones things he could hardly even think without flushing. All he wished was to reassure himself that Col. Fitzpatrick was, as suspected, a vile creature who would not flinch to tell lies about a gentleman. To reassure himself that the man with whom he had fallen in love was also a man to be trusted.
The thought It is Thursday, it is Thursday, O God, whatever he does on Thursdays he is about to do now, because it is Thursday pounded in St. John's ears as he hastened out the door and on to the cobblestones.
Mirzapore Street was already growing crowded with Englishmen and Indians headed to jobs, shops, offices, and appointments. After a moment of panic he spotted the Captain's shako; Cpt. Aquilaine was by no means the only officer making his way west towards the military barracks, but he wore the only hat that took a slight lurch to the left with every step, mimicking his limp. Feeling six parts a fool and six parts a scoundrel for an even dozen of self-reproof, St. John wove his way through pedestrians whilst trying to stay far back, but not so far back that he lost sight of his friend altogether. He began to think he had made a grave mistake, one improved only by the fact that God alone knew he was following the Captain; then, instead of turning south and making his way down Chittapore Road to Fort William, where his Sepoys lived and trained, Cpt. Aquilaine turned north.
St. John's knees turned to water as he stumbled on. Please, Father, oh please, for everything I have done for Thee, please let this be all innocence.
Cpt. Aquilaine made his way north, ambling past the house of the wealthy merchant Raja Rajendra Mullick, which looked like nothing so much as a gaudy, neo-Grecian palace, all marble and glass. He did not glance around furtively-as St. John did-or hesitate as to the direction or purpose of his steps. He passed through Jorasanko, where the most prominent native families made their home, and here the crowds began to become less English and more Indian. St. John redoubled his efforts to stay inconspicuous. Then the Captain made an abrupt left turn.
St. John's heart faltered and he fell back as he realised that Cpt. Aquilaine was heading into the Sonagachi, the heart of Calcutta's brothel district.
Mayhap he is taking a shortcut to whatever is on the far side of the Sonagachi. But what lies along the western bounds of this sad place? Only the Ganges, and the better docks are south of us. Still, he cannot have this rough place in mind as his ultimate destination. He is not that type.
Unbidden and unwelcome, the words of Col. Fitzpatrick's letter drifted back to him. As for Thursdays, I am a firm believer in discretion, and will only say-semper sub rosa! St. John brushed the very idea aside angrily; he without any doubt trusted Cpt. Aquilaine more than the worthless Colonel.
He kept at a distance-no hard task now, as the Captain's shako stood like a beacon over a sea of shorter, black-haired native heads-and watched as his friend walked confidently through the crowded, twisting streets. Little of Britain graced this slummy part of Calcutta. He took care not to step in refuse or waste, and thanked God repeatedly for his small stature, which kept him well-hidden despite the beggars who tugged at his greatcoat and the women who whistled at him from doorways and windows. When the Captain paused to buy a mango from a peddler, St. John hid behind a vegetable cart lest he be spotted. The peddler greeted Cpt. Aquilaine warmly, as if they knew each other.
Still ducked behind the cart, whilst trying to shoo off the merchant who insisted he purchase a head of cauliflower, St. John watched as Cpt. Aquilaine strode over to a somewhat shoddy door painted bright red and hung with marigolds. He rapped sharply on the door with his cane and a stocky man with a drooping moustache put his head out. The man's annoyance quickly shifted to a more-welcoming smile.
“Marcus! Āpani tāṛātāṛi āja.”
“Duḥkhita, Chandrasekhar. Bāṛitē kūṭa sakālē; pāṭhā'iẏā druta yathēṣṭa naẏa yadi satya balā hatē pārē.”
“Kōna byāpāra, Kyāpṭēna - hē hē! Āpanākē sabasamaẏa abaśya'i ēkhānē sbāgatama! Āsā, bhitarē āsuna Harjindēr āpa dinēra jan'ya itimadhyē. Tini anēka gata rātē bāṇijya nā thākē.”
“Kēna ēta śānta?”
“Nēṭibhasa Gaṇēśa Chaturthī jan'ya sañcaẏa tādēra kaẏēna paryanta haẏa, ēbaṁ Briṭiśa manē ēṭā khuba yaunasaṅgama garama!”
They both laughed, and with that Cpt. Aquilaine ducked into the brothel, shutting the door firmly behind him.
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notes:
ouroboros - An ancient symbol, the ouroboros is a snake eternally eating its own tail.
fellator - Fellator is Latin for “one who fellates”, in other words, one who sucks. Irrumator was similar: “one who is fellated”. Because sexual intercourse was believed to be a zero-sum activity (see the discussion on Greek sexuality in the Chapter 7 notes), fellatio had very low status, whilst irrumatio was considered an aggressive, potentially-violating act. Please know, also, that the actual terms fellatio and irrumatio, however, are not Latin; they likely emerged in the 1890s.
cunny - The words “cunny” and “cunt” (“cunny” is a somewhat-milder version, and therefore more commonly used among Victorians) was not always as offensive as it is nowadays. “Cunt” was used freely in the Canterbury Tales and is hidden in many Shakespearean puns, but by the 19th century was quite taboo, possibly as much as it is today. Sailors, of course, have always used it without shame or hesitation, in terms such as “cunt-splice” and “cunt-line” (the groove between individual strands in a 3-strand piece of line).
Jorasanko - Jorasanko is a lovely neighbourhood, one of the oldest in Calcutta, filled with spacious, leafy streets and fine examples of early Victorian and Greek Revival architecture. The famous and influential Tagore family made Jorasanko their home; they were tremendously wealthy, highly educated, and involved in business, the arts, religion, and law. In 1913 Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature; the Tagore estate now houses a university named after him. Jorasanko also contains the fantastic, slightly bizarre Marble Palace, build by Raja Rajendra Mullick in 1835. Mullick was a wealthy merchant and art collector who wanted a suitable house for his tastes and interests; the Palace is an enormous neoclassical structure with Corinthian pillars holding up the three-storey portico entrance, elements of Chinese architecture throughout, a zoo, and countless hallways and rooms stuffed to bursting with furniture, paintings, sculptures, busts, mirrors, and curious objets d'art.
Sonagachi - I do not know if, during the 1840s, Calcutta's brothel district was named “Sonagachi”. I have no doubts whatsoever that there was one.
Ganesha Chaturthi - a popular Hindu festival in mid-August, celebrating Ganesha and the day when his father Shiva declared him superior to all other gods. The celebration lasts 10 days, during which families purchase elaborate statues of Ganesha; a priest ritually invests the statue with life, the statue is then offered various tributes and offerings throughout the festival, and on the last day the family carries Ganesha, amidst much fanfare, to the nearest river and dips him in. The festival is huge and immensely popular, but also expensive.
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A happiness which is built on honesty and openness, and which springs naturally from a firm foundation of contented trust, can weather whatever turmoils are sent by a malicious world to test and prod, seeking what weaknesses it may exploit. A happiness which relies on the shifting sands of covert measures, however, with secrets left unspoken and the deliberate quelling of unsettled consciences, will rarely last; like Plato's ouroboros, forever doomed to gnaw on its own tail, it quickly consumes itself with remorse, suspicion and fear.
In similar fashion, finding love in two women at once is a cruel predicament; the likelihood of contentment is small. Deciding on one means a deliberate wounding of the other. The one choosing suffers innumerous regrets, sees in his current love all the little failings the other did not possess-for absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder-and recalls at length all those rejected virtues which the other woman offered, which will now never be his to enjoy. The chosen wonders what special qualities of hers were the ones crucial to his decision, fears the consequences of any alteration of character or habit, no matter how trivial, and questions in her mind-never aloud-whether he feels he favoured the right woman after all is said and done. She also bears the burden of gratitude. They must both expend much time and energy to reassure each other, and themselves, that the correct choice has been made. Like happiness built on shifting sands, few harmonious relationships can last after such a perilous beginning.
How much worse it was for the Rev. Rivers, forced to choose between the God he served out of duty, necessity, and fear, and Cpt. Aquilaine, who brought him joys immeasurable but who drew him inevitably closer to spiritual peril! Not able to have both, he had made his choice and promptly grew dissatisfied with it. He quickly found himself more and more frequently upset by the Captain's oft-coarse ways, worldly thoughts, and careless disrespect for Providence. The quiet, sterile, and pious life he had rejected began to seem serene and fruitful. The regrets made themselves quickly known; he felt the burden of his decision at all times.
Cpt. Aquilaine should not have been similarly troubled; he did not have a choice to make. But he too seemed ill at ease, gave the Reverend sidelong glances they both studiously ignored, and often hesitated when speaking, as if he had something perpetually on the tip of his tongue. Further, he had begun to request more and more intimacies from St. John, intimacies they both knew would not be allowed. Some weight preyed on him, as well. Perhaps he disliked having to be grateful that his friend had deigned to prefer him, in a regretful sort of fashion.
But the Reverend could not give voice to such concerns, not aloud. Any mention of his previous decision to leave would consume the Captain with anxiety and self-doubt. Privately, he also worried as to how he would tell the Bishop of his change in plans, especially since he had said, quite untruthfully, that the Lord had called him to leave Calcutta. And he feared for the health of his immortal soul, since his most effortless and heartfelt prayers were now inspired by fornication. He spoke to God but seldom now; when he did pray, with a heart full of gratitude and love towards the Creator who had given mankind so much joy, it usually came directly after something Cpt. Aquilaine had done in bed. In short, he had made a difficult choice between two loves, and was now free to repent at his leisure.
The sands, Reader, had already begun to shift.
Several nights later, as they lay in bed after completing their nightly duties to each other-for now Cpt. Aquilaine also demanded to be taken in hand before they progressed to their second round of affections-the Captain unexpectedly asked a question St. John had privately dreaded for some time, knowing the topic could not be gainsaid forever.
“What are your thoughts on the act of being a fellator?”
St. John grimaced in silence, glad the last candle had already been extinguished. “I personally find the practice decadent and uncivilised.”
A long, rather tense silence followed. Then, finally-
“So you would not be willing to engage in such activities, even once? Even as an experiment, to see whether your opinion on the matter matches with the reality of the thing?”
“Certainly not. There is no circumstance, no situation under which I could see myself as a fellator. I assure you, it is not worth pursuing this matter, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine sat up, restless and agitated. St. John could sense the tension in his limbs. “It is hard, you must know, to hear the many different ways in which you tell me, again and again, that my interests and my actions are base. I have never criticised any of your preferences, even though other sorts of men might have had a good deal to say about your needs.”
“Such as what?” St. John also rose at this, dismayed to hear that what he considered his perfectly average desires could be called into account.
“Such as your continued preference for keeping the room entirely dark … many people would like to see their lover's reactions and not simply try to guess at them. Or your insistence that whilst I may touch your most intimate spots, I may do nothing more than that, when I can assure you that is hardly the only possibility. Or your staunch refusal to even do that much in return! St. John, you deny me so much, I question whether you even understand that it is not just the refusal of such actions, but your manner of rejecting them that makes me so unhappy? When you open your mouth to speak, you criticise. It is as if you must find fault in me somehow. It hurts, that you have yet so little trust.”
St. John ducked his head in impatience and shame, hating this sort of discussion bitterly. “How many more times must I say that I have little or no restraint around you? Yes, I must keep my guard up at all times, but that is to protect me from myself!”
“As if, by playing the fellator even once, to simply discern whether you genuinely dislike it or simply have been taught to, you will then lose all control over yourself and I shall find you on your knees in the sitting room each day when I return home, scarcely able to wait for me to remove so much as my hat?”
“Do not mock me, Marcus!” St. John hoped the Captain would not notice how his body had reacted to the suggestion; certainly there could be no ignoring the Captain's response. It was a mercy, besides, that men could not read one another's thoughts. St. John did not want to imagine the consequences if his friend realised that although the Reverend did not wish to be a fellator, he had no qualms about playing the rôle of the irrumator, and that he struggled to fight back the images of returning from church on Sunday to find Cpt. Aquilaine waiting in the study for him, repenting once again his failure to properly observe the Lord's Day, kneeling on the carpet and begging to be allowed to make a proper penance to the man who could absolve him of sin, if he only would shew contrition …
Cpt. Aquilaine fell back against his pillow with a sigh, pulling the Reverend down as he did so. “For a man of God, it is singular how you have absolutely no confidence in yourself, nor any faith in God's Grace. You see the Devil's temptations behind every bush, and you are always afraid.”
St. John shifted to allow the Captain to rub his back. “That is true … the closer I try to draw to Him, the further I feel from love, joy, patience and all the other fruits of the Spirit. I have never felt the Peace of God, never in all my years of striving.”
“Stop striving then! Are you not simply supposed to yield to the Spirit and allow it to lead you where it will? What if It takes you in a direction you do not expect? You speak so often of your passion to be an instrument in the Hands of the Lord … will you fight Him tooth and nail because He is using you in a manner not to your expectations? You believe you already comprehend the very Mind of God, and will not brook so much as a whisper that contradicts what you presume He thinks!”
“Now that is false, thank you, the grossest untruth-”
“I know you, St. John! If I may, I know you very well by now. I know how you prefer to be alone, how undomestic and unsentimental you are. And sometimes I wonder-are you so afraid of your own nature and supposedly-sinful desires that you will spend a lifetime repenting for how God has made you?”
St. John could give no response; he had asked himself this many times, in the silence of his own heart. How unpleasant it felt to have another person so easily discern him. Some nights he longed once more for the privacy of a solitary life, where no one demanded that he talk or listen, no one bade him stay or go, and no one presumed the liberty to offhandedly sift through his innermost thoughts, examining all the tenuous hopes and wishes and fears that he had so carefully shut away under the guise of protecting them.
But what does Marcus truly know about me? He could never understand how deeply I love my sisters, and how dearly I miss taking dinner with them and reading devotions to them by the fire. He does not know how I longed to see them when they were gone to teach, and how I would spend the whole day pacing the kitchen and peering out the windows, looking for their coach when they returned for Christmas-tide! I never said as much to them; some stiff propriety always stopped my tongue and, God forgive me, I was cold to them. I so feared that they would stray from the path. But every day now I would like to see them again. Nor does he know how glad I would have been to marry, to have a wife who could suffer my severity, and to have a child I could raise in the ways of the Lord. To sit with them all after dinner, and read to them. I acknowledge now that such things cannot be, so I have set them aside, let these dreams fade into memory, but they are not gone. They will never leave me. He does not know this.
Cpt. Aquilaine continued, “You are so afraid of doing wrong and jeopardising your soul that you have instead smothered it in its sleep! Do you think that by removing every part of humanity that resides within your breast you can protect yourself from sin?”
A great wave of sorrow unexpectedly broke over St. John's head. “Do not say that! You cannot say that to me!” he raged into the darkness. The Captain gripped his arms and he struggled to pull away, miserable at their touch. His breath caught with a ragged hitch as he lowered his voice. “You do not know! You cannot understand how … how much I feel and how deeply I long. I have not killed off the more tender parts of my nature, just because I do not wear them on my sleeve as you do, Marcus. You give me no credit, none at all. Think of how much I have shewn you of myself already, and how far I have let myself go down this path. I had never more than kissed a woman on the cheek, and now I fornicate with you every night! I, who was accustomed to spend days and weeks at a time absolutely alone with my books, now share nearly all the waking moments that I can with you. And still you accuse me of having no heart, because as far as I have come and as much as I have changed it is not enough. I do not suppose it will ever be enough for you.”
His speech echoed through the silence in the room. He could hear his own breath, shallow and halting, as it joined the Captain's slower, more measured breathing. He felt wrung through; he could not form words in his mouth. And then-
“No, you are correct. You have passion, St. John, passion in abundance, but I am not skilled at seeing it because it is so unlike all I have known before.” His voice sounded oddly meek. “Some days it seems to burn in you as strongly as I once burnt to attain true honour. I should be grateful when you allow me to catch a glimpse of it.”
St. John wanted to weep, although he could not possibly understand why. He reached out and pulled the larger man down into his arms, holding him very tightly, as if by pressing their bodies together he could convey through touch alone what he could not speak aloud.
“I am sorry, I am so sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice,” he murmured into the Captain's hair. “I should not shout, Marcus, you are far too dear to me.” For a moment his voice shook too much, and he had to wait until he could be calm once more. “But what a painful thing you have put your finger on-that cuts right to the quick!”
Cpt. Aquilaine's voice rasped and St. John felt him tremble a little under his arms. “We are too good at that, St. John, at prodding one another's hidden wounds. I am afraid it is a skill I have been improving upon since meeting you, since your words always have such keen aim.”
“Do not lay all the blame on me! In your own way you have also been teaching me how to find those most private and sensitive spots,” St. John replied without thinking.
There was another long moment's pause, during which he shut his eyes tight and desperately hoped that Cpt. Aquilaine had not been paying close attention. But then the Captain begin to shake just a little, in a manner that had nothing to do with sorrow.
“Do you wish to elaborate, Reverend?” he enquired roguishly.
“No, thank you, Sir, I do not.” St. John answered, rather stiffly.
“Ah, you are blushing, I think.” He touched St. John's cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes, that is quite warm.” St. John tried to push his hand away, the Captain grabbed his other wrist in return and for a moment they found themselves nearly wrestling, a friendly sort of grapple, before Cpt. Aquilaine claimed the upper hand by virtue of his larger size and greater strength. As St. John lay half-pressed to the bed, arms pinned at his sides, Cpt. Aquilaine seized the opportunity to bite him gently on the ear whilst the Reverend squirmed and tried to shift away.
“Another sensitive spot, Reverend Sombre?”
“I should never have told you that, Marcus-oof-you must not-aaaaah!” The unfamiliar sensations overwhelmed him and St. John began to laugh helplessly, at the ridiculousness of his situation and what he had said, and because this sort of fighting was far more pleasant than a true argument. Then they were both lying on each other, laughing out of relief and a sudden sharp happiness, and they continued until their sides hurt and all traces of their previous hot words had been forgotten.
Finally St. John broke the now-companionable silence. “Marcus, I do not want to talk more of intimate matters tonight. We too often end in ill tempers, and I always regret it deeply afterwards.”
“I know.” Cpt. Aquilaine kissed St. John on the tip of the nose. “I did not wish to quarrel either. It just saddens me that there is little I can do to ease your mind when your mood is black.”
“Perhaps one day it shall be easier. Remember how far I have journeyed in so short a time!”
“True, I do not always give you enough credit, and I am impatient. But you know that my impatience is only because I can scarce keep my hands to myself when you are nearby?”
“How could I forget it?” He turned, burrowing deeper into the bed and nestling his back against the Captain's chest. “Can we go to sleep? I am strangely exhausted, and if we sleep now I shall be more awake in the morning.”
His friend sighed with mock-disappointment and settled himself in. “If that is a promise, I suppose I can survive a night of only taking my joy once. Once is still far more than I was accustomed to, before you graced me with your favour.”
St. John merely turned his head to kiss him in response.
When he woke to the dawn Cpt. Aquilaine, intent on making sure the previous night's guarantees would not go overlooked, immediately began to stroke St. John with one hand and clutch at his buttocks with the other. St. John put up a feeble protest.
“Aah, Marcus, I am still halfway asleep.”
“I want you on top of me, St. John. I want to see how you look whilst you are between my thighs.” When he saw how quickly the Reverend retreated into himself, he explained further, “I know you dislike this in the daytime. It is only that you have such a divine form, and I can think of no better way to spend my day than to carry about the memory of you with me. Give me that, please.”
St. John, who had dreamt of how ripe and inviting the Captain's mouth looked before the first cup of tea in the morning had steadied his hand enough to wield a straight razor, realised that if he agreed, it would give him greater leverage for when he finally admitted how deeply he would like to be an irrumator. So he yielded, enjoying the feel of the Captain's hands on him, until such time as he had grown needful enough to begin.
Still, as he slipped on top of his friend, mindful of the bad leg and the burgeoning flesh pointing towards him, he had to shut up his eyes against how exposed he looked in the growing light. Half his mind knew the only person observing him was the Captain, but the other half, raised in a lifetime of belief that God watched over his flock in all circumstances, could not help but feel as if they were lying in the middle of the cobblestone street, with beggars staring and making encouraging cheers. He closed his eyes tighter as he felt his need slipping.
“St. John, is it well with you? Or is this not to your liking?”
“It is just very hard being peered at,” he muttered. “Distract me from myself, and we shall both be happier for it.” He raised himself onto his knees and let the Captain dab oil between his thighs, then settled onto him once more. Now Cpt. Aquilaine began to relax him much as he had the very first time they tried this, one broad arm around his narrow waist in an embrace both confining and affectionate whilst the other hand reached back to slide between his buttocks and tease along his most sensitive spots. St. John, a firm believer in routine and constancy, immediately began to respond.
They continued for some minutes, St. John simply arching back and pushing forward, concentrating on the Captain's hands whilst the Captain, from below, watched with growing delight and whispered the occasional word of encouragement. When he whispered “Shall I give you a little more?” St. John just quickened his breaths and nodded haltingly. His pleasure increased as the large fingers continued to touch and stroke, pressing more insistently, until St. John gasped out,
“O Marcus, please, give me more … go further.” In response, Cpt. Aquilaine shifted one of his fingers and carefully breached St. John quite to the knuckle. The tight, burning sensation was unmistakable; there could be no question as to what had just occurred. They both seemed more than a little caught off guard, then, when St. John responded by immediately wrenching himself away from the Captain's grip and nearly throwing himself from the bed. Cpt. Aquilaine sat up in shock and confusion as St. John stood on the carpet, clad only in air, need fading as precipitously as his anger rose.
“St. John, what-”
“You forget yourself, Sir! How dare you?” Fury surged through him in his humiliation.
“You said you wanted me to go further!” The Captain spread his hands out in a gesture of appeasement, fingers still glistening with oil.
“I did not mean like that. Do not try to claim your innocence; I have been quite clear on many occasions. You have violated me!”
Cpt. Aquilaine blanched at the accusation. “For God's sake, St. John, it's a finger, not a fuck!”
“I trust you with my very body, and this is how you repay me? Treachery!” He could not explain exactly why he was so angry; perhaps some lingering disquiet, stoked by Col. Fitzpatrick's letter, was making itself known at last. “You may keep your interest in baser desires, but I will have none of it.”
At this Cpt. Aquilaine also grew more angry, frustrated need further shortening his already-short temper. “Again with how base a man I am! Anyone but the pure and pious Rev. Rivers would have consented to more, so much more by now. But you, you insist you are better than that. It is fine for a man like me, of lesser virtue, to debauch myself-that is what you think, is it not?-but you will not so much as touch my testes, let alone my arse, and God Himself forbid you put your lips on my cock!”
St. John was stunned. “You have never before protested my piety … you were content to take what I could give, and you have reassured me repeatedly that it did not bother you. Where has all this sprung from?”
“It is hard enough being called a man of easy virtue by someone as haughty as Col. Fitzpatrick. I did not think I would hear it from you as well, St. John.” A wild sort of hurt welled up in his eyes. “But I see it now-it is my lack of honour-you too think that of me.”
“That is not the case-”
“You call me base, treacherous, violating. Why not just say I am a fancy-man who will bend over for any pretty thing that walks past?”
“Oh stop your dramatics, Captain. I have never said such a thing, and you know perfectly well I do not think that of you.”
“Yet you are so sanctimonious that you will not even stoop to place a finger near my arse?”
“It is filthy! Foul! That is not a place to slake physical desires, Marcus! It is an orifice for voiding soil, nothing more, and I will not allow you to disrespect me by encroaching upon mine.”
The Captain simply stared at him in disbelief, as if he had gone quite mad. “Do you not even know what comes out of a woman's cunny? Menses blood and babies! No, I will not allow you to tell me my desires are foul, certainly not when you are content to enjoy them, even if you will not return the favour.” He exited the bed and brushed past the Reverend as he moved to his chest of drawers. He proceeded to pull on his clothes with short, rough motions. St. John also began to dress, feeling quite at a loss for what to do or say next. Whilst his back was turned Cpt. Aquilaine spoke, his voice grim.
“We will talk more on this tonight, if you can manage to speak to me without accusing me of other whorish behaviours. And we shall come to some sort of an agreement, for neither will I allow you to so disrespect me in the future. I may not have honour, but I would like to claim dignity, at least!” He took a long, deep breath. “And I will be more composed, and you will have had time to think, and we can work through this like the gentlemen that we both are.”
“Where are you going? It is hardly even daybreak!” St. John fought back an inexplicable but rising panic; he was wholly unused to being the target of anger, however many times he had levelled it at others. Further, his friend had never before directed such assertive words at him.
“I am going to take the airs; my appetite has quite vanished in present company.” Seeing the stricken look on his friend's face, the Captain softened his tone and gripped the Reverend on the elbow. “Good God, St. John, you are impossible. None of this is irreparable; we are simply having a fight. There are raised voices, and old injuries brought to light … have you not had a fight like this before?”
“No-never! And I think I hate them.”
Cpt. Aquilaine pursed his lips in irritation. “I do not enjoy them either, but sometimes they are quite necessary, such as when two people who are otherwise fond of each other stumble onto an important aspect of their relationship that proves impossible to reconcile. But keep this in mind,” he bent down to stare his friend in the eye, looking as implacable as St. John had ever seen him, “we will both need to yield on certain things. I may have to give up some of what I want, but so will you.”
St. John nodded, his face tense and pale. “Agreed.”
The Captain walked into the sitting room and retrieved his cane from the umbrella stand. “After training finishes I have my weekly engagement with my commanding officer. It will not take more than an hour, but I will be back later than usual. Please do not spend that hour thinking that I have left town on the first available barge.”
For lack of a more useful thing to say, St. John blurted out, “but it is only Thursday. I thought your appointments were every Friday evening.” Then he realised the magnitude of his words.
Lord help me, it is Thursday. But the waters between us are so stormy now that I cannot possibly ask him to what Col. Fitzpatrick was referring.
“I have an officer's meeting tomorrow evening as well, so my commander has moved the appointment to today.” The Captain looked reluctant to speak further, as if he simply wanted to leave and be done with the Reverend for the nonce. But as he reached for the door he turned back. “Well, I am off. I hope … I hope you are in a better frame of mind tonight, and I hope I shall be as well. And I hope we come to a quick and painless resolution, because there is one good thing about a fight: after everything has been said and agreed upon, there is always the opportunity to make up, and that is pleasant indeed.” Seeing St. John smile at last, the Captain pecked him on the cheek-nothing overly warm, but far better than nothing at all-and left, shutting the door behind him as he went.
St. John waited until he heard the limping footsteps fade. Then, hardly daring to think, he slipped down the hall to his own quarters, threw on his frock-coat and hastened after the Captain. It was foolhardy, distrustful and sly, and he knew he risked causing permanent damage to their friendship, especially in light of what words they had just exchanged. But being nearly certain that something was about to happen, something that Cpt. Aquilaine most definitely did not want him to learn of, drove his mind to all manner of nightmarish ideas. He could not spend the entire day wondering and waiting, knowing that when the Captain returned they would fight again, and attempt to discuss in reasonable tones things he could hardly even think without flushing. All he wished was to reassure himself that Col. Fitzpatrick was, as suspected, a vile creature who would not flinch to tell lies about a gentleman. To reassure himself that the man with whom he had fallen in love was also a man to be trusted.
The thought It is Thursday, it is Thursday, O God, whatever he does on Thursdays he is about to do now, because it is Thursday pounded in St. John's ears as he hastened out the door and on to the cobblestones.
Mirzapore Street was already growing crowded with Englishmen and Indians headed to jobs, shops, offices, and appointments. After a moment of panic he spotted the Captain's shako; Cpt. Aquilaine was by no means the only officer making his way west towards the military barracks, but he wore the only hat that took a slight lurch to the left with every step, mimicking his limp. Feeling six parts a fool and six parts a scoundrel for an even dozen of self-reproof, St. John wove his way through pedestrians whilst trying to stay far back, but not so far back that he lost sight of his friend altogether. He began to think he had made a grave mistake, one improved only by the fact that God alone knew he was following the Captain; then, instead of turning south and making his way down Chittapore Road to Fort William, where his Sepoys lived and trained, Cpt. Aquilaine turned north.
St. John's knees turned to water as he stumbled on. Please, Father, oh please, for everything I have done for Thee, please let this be all innocence.
Cpt. Aquilaine made his way north, ambling past the house of the wealthy merchant Raja Rajendra Mullick, which looked like nothing so much as a gaudy, neo-Grecian palace, all marble and glass. He did not glance around furtively-as St. John did-or hesitate as to the direction or purpose of his steps. He passed through Jorasanko, where the most prominent native families made their home, and here the crowds began to become less English and more Indian. St. John redoubled his efforts to stay inconspicuous. Then the Captain made an abrupt left turn.
St. John's heart faltered and he fell back as he realised that Cpt. Aquilaine was heading into the Sonagachi, the heart of Calcutta's brothel district.
Mayhap he is taking a shortcut to whatever is on the far side of the Sonagachi. But what lies along the western bounds of this sad place? Only the Ganges, and the better docks are south of us. Still, he cannot have this rough place in mind as his ultimate destination. He is not that type.
Unbidden and unwelcome, the words of Col. Fitzpatrick's letter drifted back to him. As for Thursdays, I am a firm believer in discretion, and will only say-semper sub rosa! St. John brushed the very idea aside angrily; he without any doubt trusted Cpt. Aquilaine more than the worthless Colonel.
He kept at a distance-no hard task now, as the Captain's shako stood like a beacon over a sea of shorter, black-haired native heads-and watched as his friend walked confidently through the crowded, twisting streets. Little of Britain graced this slummy part of Calcutta. He took care not to step in refuse or waste, and thanked God repeatedly for his small stature, which kept him well-hidden despite the beggars who tugged at his greatcoat and the women who whistled at him from doorways and windows. When the Captain paused to buy a mango from a peddler, St. John hid behind a vegetable cart lest he be spotted. The peddler greeted Cpt. Aquilaine warmly, as if they knew each other.
Still ducked behind the cart, whilst trying to shoo off the merchant who insisted he purchase a head of cauliflower, St. John watched as Cpt. Aquilaine strode over to a somewhat shoddy door painted bright red and hung with marigolds. He rapped sharply on the door with his cane and a stocky man with a drooping moustache put his head out. The man's annoyance quickly shifted to a more-welcoming smile.
“Marcus! Āpani tāṛātāṛi āja.”
“Duḥkhita, Chandrasekhar. Bāṛitē kūṭa sakālē; pāṭhā'iẏā druta yathēṣṭa naẏa yadi satya balā hatē pārē.”
“Kōna byāpāra, Kyāpṭēna - hē hē! Āpanākē sabasamaẏa abaśya'i ēkhānē sbāgatama! Āsā, bhitarē āsuna Harjindēr āpa dinēra jan'ya itimadhyē. Tini anēka gata rātē bāṇijya nā thākē.”
“Kēna ēta śānta?”
“Nēṭibhasa Gaṇēśa Chaturthī jan'ya sañcaẏa tādēra kaẏēna paryanta haẏa, ēbaṁ Briṭiśa manē ēṭā khuba yaunasaṅgama garama!”
They both laughed, and with that Cpt. Aquilaine ducked into the brothel, shutting the door firmly behind him.
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notes:
ouroboros - An ancient symbol, the ouroboros is a snake eternally eating its own tail.
fellator - Fellator is Latin for “one who fellates”, in other words, one who sucks. Irrumator was similar: “one who is fellated”. Because sexual intercourse was believed to be a zero-sum activity (see the discussion on Greek sexuality in the Chapter 7 notes), fellatio had very low status, whilst irrumatio was considered an aggressive, potentially-violating act. Please know, also, that the actual terms fellatio and irrumatio, however, are not Latin; they likely emerged in the 1890s.
cunny - The words “cunny” and “cunt” (“cunny” is a somewhat-milder version, and therefore more commonly used among Victorians) was not always as offensive as it is nowadays. “Cunt” was used freely in the Canterbury Tales and is hidden in many Shakespearean puns, but by the 19th century was quite taboo, possibly as much as it is today. Sailors, of course, have always used it without shame or hesitation, in terms such as “cunt-splice” and “cunt-line” (the groove between individual strands in a 3-strand piece of line).
Jorasanko - Jorasanko is a lovely neighbourhood, one of the oldest in Calcutta, filled with spacious, leafy streets and fine examples of early Victorian and Greek Revival architecture. The famous and influential Tagore family made Jorasanko their home; they were tremendously wealthy, highly educated, and involved in business, the arts, religion, and law. In 1913 Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature; the Tagore estate now houses a university named after him. Jorasanko also contains the fantastic, slightly bizarre Marble Palace, build by Raja Rajendra Mullick in 1835. Mullick was a wealthy merchant and art collector who wanted a suitable house for his tastes and interests; the Palace is an enormous neoclassical structure with Corinthian pillars holding up the three-storey portico entrance, elements of Chinese architecture throughout, a zoo, and countless hallways and rooms stuffed to bursting with furniture, paintings, sculptures, busts, mirrors, and curious objets d'art.
Sonagachi - I do not know if, during the 1840s, Calcutta's brothel district was named “Sonagachi”. I have no doubts whatsoever that there was one.
Ganesha Chaturthi - a popular Hindu festival in mid-August, celebrating Ganesha and the day when his father Shiva declared him superior to all other gods. The celebration lasts 10 days, during which families purchase elaborate statues of Ganesha; a priest ritually invests the statue with life, the statue is then offered various tributes and offerings throughout the festival, and on the last day the family carries Ganesha, amidst much fanfare, to the nearest river and dips him in. The festival is huge and immensely popular, but also expensive.