I was engaged in what has been called the second oldest profession in the world. I and my partner were wet, and grappling with our paraphernalia in the middle of the night in this dark and secluded place. Two torches, crowbars, ropes and backpacks were all we had. Grave robbing did not require sophisticated equipment: a nose for locating possibly rich graves, believing your hunches and a bit of hard work was all it took. Both of us understood that it was a grave crime. But while we knew the wrong we were committing, we could no longer resist its lure. It permitted us to live in Fontainhas, the aristocratic quarter of Panaji.
We were in the cemetery near Merces near Panaji and had broken into a family crypt. The crypt was made of locally popular laterite slabs and was covered with years of moss growth. The ancient lock had posed no difficulty to break, as it had been weakened by years of rust.
The place reeked of feni. We were loaded with it. A little raw spirit helps to keep up your spirits if you have to deal with spirits, though many people would not agree with our definition of little.
My partner, Alvito Braganza, owned a bar and always had loads of stock. His clientèle was small, as most locals preferred to own their own bar rather than patronise another. He was his own best customer in terms of consumption, not sales. None of his neighbours knew what he really did for a living – they thought he ran a late night bar successfully, came home in the wee hours of the morning and slept through till lunch, in the extended susegaad * spirit. If at all we Goans learnt something from the Portuguese, it was concept of socegado*.
* Being laid back, carefree and least concerned with the world at large, especially during work or siesta
**
Of the three graves in the crypt, two were very simple and one was very ornate. Obviously, our first choice was the highly decorated one which had the legend Abbé José Custódio de Faria. We knew this name, better known as Abbé Faria, was the stuff of legend in Goa and elsewhere. It is celebrated folklore that this priest was beset with stage fear, when faced with the prospect of addressing an august audience. Noticing his discomfiture, his father had urged the young Abbé with the now famous disdain in KonkaNi: Hi sogli baji; cator re baji (these are all vegetables, cut the vegetables). And the father had created an orator out of the padre in the process. The Abbé was further reputed to be a pioneer of hypnotism.
Alvito and I, who had been schoolmates, had read Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo in school and heard of the riches to which Edmond Dantès had been guided by a monk Abbé Faria. We had a hunch that the story was not fiction after all. But his grave had never been found – till now. Alvito recommended that we open that grave first. But being a god fearing person, I felt the violation of the grave of a man of cloth would invite divine retribution. With great difficulty, I was able to persuade my partner to look at the other two graves.
Of the two remaining graves, one had the name Senhora Mercy D’Sa on it and while the other one bore the cryptic letters ED. We decided ‘Ladies first’, more out of the hope that a lady’s grave would contain more jewellery than a man’s, than out of chivalry. Chivalry is not a quality grave robbers possess – at least when pursuing their profession.
Just when we had opened her grave, after an hour of hard labour, our last torch gave out. I used the light of the torch facility of my mobile phone to look into the grave. I could only see one item of jewellery in that grave- an ornate crucifix. With the mobile clutched in my left hand, I reached out with my right hand for the cross. As soon as I touched it, I felt as if I had been hit on the head. My last thoughts as I passed out were that either a rival grave robber, who must have tailed us to our find, had hit me or Alvito had decided to foreclose our partnership.
When I came to, I found myself still inside the crypt. I had a little blood on my forehead where I must have hurt myself as I fell. I saw only two graves in the crypt, that of the priest and the lady. The other grave seemed to have disappeared. I was stunned when I realised that I had been transported into another time when the person in the third grave was yet to be interred. I went outside the crypt into a rainy day and looked at the Povitra Khuris, as the Sacred Cross was locally called, in the daylight. It was exquisitely designed. It was made out of gold with a translucent figure of the crucified Jesus. I weakly found my way to the nearest house, with my mobile and the crucifix in my hands.
**
It was a stately house in the style popular with the gentry of Estado da India of the colonial period and probably belonged to the family which owned the crypt. I knocked on the door and told the doorman that I required help since I had fallen down in the wet graveyard and was bleeding. I was taken to meet an old gentleman in the garb of a fidalgo of the times. He bade me to join him for dinner in a large chandelier lit dining room with a high ceiling. He was inquisitive about the mobile in my hands. I explained the use of the gadget, but could not demonstrate it for two reasons: there was no service provider in those times and there was no other phone anywhere on the planet.
The table had been laid with exquisite crockery and cutlery emblazoned with a coat of arms and the initials ED. Putting two and two together, I conjectured that my host was none other than Edmond Dantès. However, I kept my silence as it was too premature to ask a personal question. The dinner was a long winded affair consisting of signature dishes and vintage wine and we unwound over it. When I felt that I had established enough rapport, I made my gambit: “I am Desmond D'Souza. You must be Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo. It looks like Dumas did not tell your complete story. He refrained from letting us know where you finally went.”
“Some stories are better left incomplete,” he said, a momentary flash of lightning lighting up his face unexpectedly and catching him off guard, the expression on his face confirming the truth of my conjecture. It was indeed the Count of Monte Cristo that I was dining with.
He too was good at putting two and two together and having now been convinced that I was from another time and age, did not contradict me. He went on to reveal his story over the wine.
He had hidden his trail well. He had not left with Haydée as indicated by Dumas, but with Mercédès as his wife. Haydée had accompanied them as their daughter but had died at sea on their voyage to Goa. He explained that he had learnt the knowledge of restorative potions and powders from the Abbé and put them to good use many times in the past. He had even used the knowledge to fake the death of Mercédès to get her body loaded on to his escape ship. “Having fully satiated my desire for revenge,” he continued, “I turned to constructive work. We had this house built and named it after Mercedes. That is how this settlement here came to be known as Mercedes.” It must have later got corrupted to Merces, I thought.
“I first paid my homage to the Abbé by building an ornate cenotaph on which I had the name of the Abbé inscribed, and which I used as a repository for my riches,” he continued.
Mercédès had taken on the nearest phonetic equivalent name Mercy D’Sa and he had taken the name Eduardo D’Sa. Mercédès had died due to the ubiquitous mosquito infecting her with malaria and had been buried with her favourite cross in her hands. He had given instructions to a few trusted servants that his grave should bear just his initials, when the time came for him to be buried in the crypt.
“Tonight, I have mixed a powder with your drink to put you to sleep and send you back to where you belong,” he said. “Put the crucifix back with her,” he ordered, with his hypnotic gaze over me, “and do not violate the Abbé’s grave. Ignoring my instructions can prove to be extremely dangerous.”
“Your secret is safe with me”, I said, “at least for a couple of centuries, when you will be beyond harm. The world deserves to know the truth about you.” And then I passed out.
**
Alvito, who had still been in a drunken stupor when I got back, woke up. He questioned me on my sudden disappearance. On hearing that the Abbé’s grave was the Count’s storehouse of wealth, he aggressively demanded that we open it up. When I declined to do so, reminding him of the Count’s parting words, he set upon me. It wasn't probably the place to be cryptic, but I had a grave crisis on my hands. After the end of the fight, I left the crypt. For the first time in my career, I had left back something in the crypt instead of taking something away. When I had entered it there were two bodies in it, now there were three. I had graduated from one crime to another and the partnership had ended. My mobile flashed with another thanksgiving message from the Count for saving the Abbé’s grave from desecration. I thought it was time to retire from the profession.
***
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Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.
