The Dancer and the Raja by Javier Moro

show was over, they left the restaurant and sent the chauffeur away. They walked back across the Place de la Concorde, this time arm in arm “like lifelong sweethearts,” but now it did not matter because Anita wanted it to be so. The temperature was delightful, and at that moment Paris was the most romantic city in the world. She had opened her heart to him, giving free rein to the flood of feelings and emotions she had been repressing for months, like the waters of a dam when the floodgates are opened. So she did not dare to interrupt the pleasure of the first and only day of intimacy they had had. They went up to the suite in the Meurice Hotel and, by the heat from the marble fireplace in the bedroom, he initiated the first caresses; he did it so carefully that his suggestion that she undo her dress seemed natural. While she did that, he went into his dressing room; when he came back, he was wrapped in a snow white dressing gown, which he dropped on the floor before slipping into bed. She followed him like a frightened fawn. He took her hand, clenched in fear, nibbled her fingers and then stroked the curve of her neck, the soft hair on her arms …, and so on until, all unawares, she felt him touching her breast. Anita felt a shiver of pleasure all over her body and was glad to be in near darkness so that he would not suspect the redness of her cheeks. Then she gave herself to him, with no fear, but with pain, leaving a crimson carnation of blood on the sheets as a token of that night of love.

11
    The clock at the station in Jalandhar is about to strike ten in the morning when the train appears amid clouds of steam, its arrival announced by loud blasts of the whistle, generously provided by the engine driver. The station is small and is decorated with blue-and-white bunting. It is typical of a cantonment of the British army. Jalandhar is a poor little town, although since the railway was built it has been growing. The raja did not want the railway to run through the city of Kapurthala, a little farther to the west, because he was afraid he would have to go to the station every time some top British or Indian official passed through; that is, almost every day because the Punjab lies on the way to Central Asia. It seemed to him it would be a nuisance that would disturb his placid existence as monarch. So he used his influence to ensure the line ran through Jalandhar.
    As soon as the train stopped, an officer kitted out in the uniform of the Kapurthala army comes into the carriage and, after paying his respects to the distinguished passengers, begs them to be patient for a few minutes. The train has arrived early and a few minor details are still unfinished. “Is it all for me?” asks Anita, seeing four Indians unrolling a red carpet between two rows of palm trees forming an avenue.
    â€œYes, Memsahib …” the officer replies. “Welcome to the Punjab.”
    As soon as she comes down the steps from the carriage, garlands of white flowers, which turn out to be a type of lily, are placed round her neck. Anita closes her eyes. Their fragrance brings back the memory of the tuberose perfume that the raja had brought back from London for her. “This is what Kapurthala smells like in winter,” he had told her. “If you like it, I would be pleased if you wore it.” For the rest of her life Anita would identify the smell of lilies with her early years in India. With that fragrance floating in the air, it is as though she already had her prince standing before her; but no, he is nowhere to be seen. Every couple of steps an Indian in a turban, a woman, or a girl gives her a garland of flowers and then places his or her hands together in greeting: “Namaste!” Everything is smiles and friendly looks mixed with curiosity. And music. An orchestra, hidden away in the station porch, plays the national anthem of Kapurthala, while a corps of soldiers from the raja’s guard march on