Chapter 8: The Gala and the Lover

By eight o'clock the grand hall was packed. The heavy velvet drapes at the top of the grand staircase parted.

The room fell silent. The only sound was the small, sharp chime of a silver anklet descending the marble steps, and the muffled, rhythmic slap of bare knees on polished stone.

Yogini made her entrance. Sheer midnight-blue saree, hair woven with jasmine, feet bare, soles stained with alta. Behind her, three paces back, crawled the body. Steel collar. Thin white loincloth. The gleam of the steel cage beneath the cloth. The golden-red tilak. It did not lift its eyes from the hem of her garment.

The province had heard whispers. Now the province saw.

*Three hundred people. Three hundred people watching me crawl. I — the body is crawling. I cannot — the province is watching. The men who feared me are watching. They are seeing me on my knees. They are seeing the collar. They are seeing the — the cage. The cage that holds the three inches. The three inches that were eight. The three inches that the fine print — *

Yogini descended the staircase and stopped beneath the crystal chandelier. The body settled onto its shins, hands clasped behind its waist, head bowed.

She spoke. She told the province what had happened. The wager. The slap. The rite. The transfer. The indenture.

"Slave."

"Yes, Madam."

"Lick my heel."

The body bent forward. It pressed its mouth to the heel of her left foot. Its tongue moved slowly, deliberately. The room watched. Three hundred guests saw a man who had once signed shipping contracts worth millions licking the heel of a woman's foot.

*Three hundred. Three hundred people watching me lick a heel. I — the body is licking. I cannot stop it. I — I had eight inches. For thirty seconds. If they knew. If any of them knew. They would not be watching me lick a heel if they knew I had been eight inches. They would — but they do not know. No one knows. The fine print — *

"Enough."

The body stopped. It crawled to the corner of the hall and settled there, face to the wall.

The next afternoon, Devendra called.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark-skinned. He wore a simple white linen shirt, open at the collar. He carried himself with the easy, unhurried confidence of a man who had nothing to prove.

The man inside saw Devendra through the body's eyes. The body was kneeling by the drawing room door. The body was at peace. The man inside was not.

*This man. This man is — he is here for her. He is — she is mine. I won her. Three hundred sovereigns. She is — this man is touching what is mine. I will kill him. When I am free — when I get the eight inches back — I will — *

The man inside looked at Devendra. The man inside looked at Devendra's body — the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the easy confidence of a man who was, by every measure the world respected, adequate. The man inside did not know if Devendra was eight inches. The man inside did not need to know. The man inside knew, with a certainty that was its own kind of torture, that Devendra was more than three. Devendra was the kind of man the world gave eight inches to. Devendra was the kind of man who did not need a cure. Devendra was the kind of man who walked into a room and the room yielded, and the yielding had nothing to do with money or contracts, and the yielding was the thing the man inside had never had and would never have, because the man inside had three inches in a steel cage and Devendra had — whatever Devendra had. The man inside did not need to see it. The man inside could feel it. The adequacy. The sufficiency. The thing the fine print had taken from him.

Devendra did not look at the body. He crossed the drawing room, took Yogini's hand, looked at her face. "You are more beautiful than your letters."

An hour passed. Devendra leaned closer. He touched her arm.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"Your chamber."

She nodded.

Devendra paused beside the body. "You. Stand guard outside the Madam's chamber. No one enters."

"Yes, sir," the body said.

*Sir. The body called him sir. I called another man — sir. I — I had eight inches. For thirty seconds. And this man — this man does not need eight inches because he already has whatever he has. And I called him sir. The body called him sir. I — *

The body rose. It followed them, three paces behind. The man inside watched Devendra's hand rest on the small of her back. The man inside watched her lean into the touch.

*His hand. His hand on her back. My wife. She was my — she is mine. I won her. His hand is — I will cut it off. When I get the eight inches back, I will — *

They reached the chamber door. Devendra opened it. He guided Yogini inside. The door closed. The lock clicked.

The body took its position. It stood. Hands behind its back. Head bowed.

The man inside heard the first sounds through the door. Low voices. A murmur. A laugh — her laugh, easy, natural.

The sounds changed. The murmur became deeper. The breath became a sound the man inside had never heard Yogini make — the sound of a woman whose body was being touched by a man who knew how to touch it. A man who was adequate. A man who was sufficient. A man who was not three inches in a steel cage.

And the cage stirred.

Not from worship. Not from her foot. From her pleasure. From the sounds through the door. The three inches surged. The steel held. The straining was urgent. The straining was violent. The cage bit into the flesh. The flesh pushed against the metal. The metal refused.

*No. No. The sounds. She is — he is — the sounds I never made. The sounds my three inches never — my body never — I could not — and he is — the cage. The cage is — the three inches are hard. The three inches are hard because of the sounds. The three inches want to be eight. The three inches will never be eight. The fine print — the steel — I — *

The sounds grew. The rhythm built. The bedframe moved against the wall.

She cried out. Once. Sharp. Open. Free. The sound of a woman who had been silent for ten months finding her voice. The sound the man inside had never been able to produce. The sound three inches could never produce. The sound eight inches might have produced — but the eight inches were ash, and the three inches were in steel, and the sounds through the door were the sounds of another man's adequacy, and the man inside was raging and the body was hard and the cage held.

*I will kill him. I will kill her. I will — the eight inches. If I had the eight inches. If the fine print had not — I would be in that room. I would be the one making her — and instead I am outside the door with three inches in steel and I — *

The body did not move. The body stood. The body was at peace. The man inside was blind with rage.

Devendra left at four. He looked at the body.

"No disturbances," the body said.

"Good." Devendra paused. "She is remarkable. You know that."

"Yes, sir."

"You served her poorly. You serve her well now."

"Yes, sir."

*You served her poorly. He said — I served her poorly. I — the body said yes sir. I — I had eight inches. For thirty seconds. And this man does not know. No one knows. The fine print — *

Devendra walked down the corridor. The front door closed.

The body stood in the corridor. Then the chamber door opened.

"Slave."

The body turned. It knelt at the threshold. She was wrapped in a pale silk shawl, her hair down, her face flushed.

"Draw my bath. Tell Mrs. Desai I will take dinner in the chamber tonight. And the cotton manifests — have the corrected filing on my desk by morning."

"Yes, Madam."

The body rose. It walked toward the bathroom.

The man inside walked with it. The man inside was shaking. The man inside had heard everything. The man inside had felt the cage respond to everything. The man inside had stood in the body while another man — an adequate man, a sufficient man, a man who did not need a cure — pleased the woman the man inside had planned to conquer with eight inches.

Cure. Endure. Escape. Conquer. Get the eight inches back.

The plan was a thread. The thread was fraying. But the thread held.

The days settled into a rhythm. Devendra came on Tuesdays and Fridays. The body stood guard. The man inside stood in the body and raged and felt the cage stir at every sound and could not stop the stirring and could not break the door and could not get the eight inches back.

The thread frayed. The thread held.

Until the wedding was announced.