Lord of Light

"Ah!" said Hawkana, knowingly. "I have the thing, the very thing! Only one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you."

He bowed then, and backed from the hall.

When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.

"Burgundy!" he exclaimed.

"Just so," said Hawkana. "Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago."

He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.

The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He closed his eyes.

There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.

Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.

The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana, saying, "Who is the oldest musician in this house?"

"Mankara, here," said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man who took his rest at the serving table in the comer.

"Old not in body, but in years," said the prince.

"Oh, that would be Dele," said Hawkana, "if he is to be counted as a musician at all. He says that once he was such a one."

"Dele?"

"The boy who keeps the stables."

"Ah, I see. . .. Send for him." Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.

"Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him here," said the prince.

He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.

When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:

"Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?"

"That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins," said the boy.

"What was your instrument?"

"Piano," said Dele.

"Can you play upon any of these?" He gestured at those instruments that stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.

The boy cocked his head at them. "I suppose I could manage on the flute, if I had to."

"Do you know any waltzes?"

"Yes."

"Will you play me 'The Blue Danube'?"

The boy's sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.

"Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First," stated the host.

"'The Blue Danube,' on one of these flutes?"

"If you please."

The boy shrugged, "I'll try," he said. "It's been an awfully long time. . .. Bear with me."

He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial, then turned about.

He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz. As he played, the prince sipped his wine.

When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.

Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand.

"I retire to my chambers," he said to his men. "Do not gamble away your inheritances in my absence."

They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.

The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.

Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move, but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business district, heading in the direction of the harbor.

He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a little while.