Raji, Book Three. Charley Brindley

would be great.” I pulled my foot away from the painful crush of Raji’s weight. I looked at her to see her right hand make a quick motion toward her ear, then she flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “However,” I said to Mr. Maidan, with my eyes still on Raji, “I won’t be able to accept your generous invitation, because…”

      “You promised the children you would help them with…” Raji looked around the room. “With their acrobatics tomorrow.”

      “Right, acrobatics.” I turned back to Mr. Maidan. “And anyway, Raji is a much better tennis player than I am.”

      “Is that a fact?” He looked Raji up and down. “A lady tennis player?”

      She nodded.

      “All right, then. While Mr. Fusilier teaches gymnastics, perhaps you will teach me a bit about the game of tennis.”

      If the scene before me had been a smiling contest, I believe Raji would have lost out to her mother.

      * * * * *

      I suppose Mr. Maidan’s tennis game wasn’t very good, because he apparently needed lots of instruction on that Saturday afternoon. It was very late in the evening when Raji returned, and the two of them were back at the game the next day, and the day after that.

      Early on Tuesday morning, Raji and I sat on the veranda, sipping tea and watching the sunrise.

      “Raji,” I said, “there’s a riverboat going up the Irrawaddy from Rangoon next Wednesday.”

      She looked at me, raising an eyebrow, her way of asking, “And?”

      “I have to move on. The boat is bound for Mandalay, then on through northern Burma to Myitkyina, on the Chinese border.”

      For a moment, she watched the bright morning sunlight filtering through the banana trees, while I watched the warm glow of her beautiful face.

      “All right,” she said. “Wait for me in Mandalay, and we’ll go see what those Chinese guys are up to.”

      I’d hoped she would say something like that. We traveled well together, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to leave her family, or Mr. Maidan. However, I also knew Raji better than her parents did. They were nice people, and somewhat prosperous in spite of the economic downturn. Mr. Devaki was a professor of history at Jawaharlal Nehru University, and his wife worked in some sort of government office, so they had a reasonable income. But once Raji caught up on all the family history and her mother and father went back to their respective offices, Raji would become bored without the intellectual stimulation she was accustomed to; at least that was my hope. Of course, if she found other sources of stimulation, I’d probably be traveling to China on my own.

      Raji’s father, who made frequent trips to Mandalay for reasons that varied from “commercial ventures” to “scenic excursions” or “leisurely studies of nature,” recommended a hotel called the Nadi Myanmar, on 62^nd Street, just off the City Center, as a convenient place for me and his daughter to meet in Mandalay.

      I knew from Raj that her father was deeply involved in the struggle against the English as both India and Burma tried to throw off the yoke of the British Empire. He not only helped arrange funding for opposition groups, but he also traveled to Burma to help organize clandestine meetings with rebel organizations. A year earlier, I would have told him I knew quite well what he was doing in Burma, and I probably would have taken the side of the British in trying to hold on to their far-flung colonies. But as he, his wife, Raji, and I, along with their nine other children and a multitude of nieces and nephews, sat on the floor around the low table, eating curry and khatta mango dal—mangoes with beans and red chilies—I thanked Mr. Devaki politely for the information as I made a mental note of the hotel name and street address in Mandalay.

      Two weeks later, I met Kayin in the lobby of the Nadi Myanmar hotel.

Chapter Two

      A smiling young lady tapped the bell sharply under her palm to call the next bellhop forward.

      “Have nice stay we hope, Mr. Busetilear,” Kayin said as she handed me a three-dollar receipt for a week’s stay at the hotel. She could never quite get her tongue around the pronunciation of my last name, Fusilier.

      I screwed the cap back on my fountain pen and put it away, but before I could thank her for the pleasant remark, the bellhop grabbed my suitcase and snatched the room key from our joined hands. Kayin had pressed the key into my hand but seemed as reluctant to let it go as I was of losing her touch.

      “Make haste with Po-Sin this way, and quickly,” the boy said, dragging my heavy suitcase across the floor. “Jump on lift before ascends away to top, if it pleases you.”

      Po-Sin was apparently in a hurry to be finished with me and my luggage so he could collect his dime tip and get back to the lobby and his place in line with the other boys awaiting the next big spender. He was around fifteen years old and smartly dressed, wearing a cap with no bill—similar to a fez without a tassel—a tight-fitting, maroon waist-jacket with three yellow stripes on each sleeve. He also wore a brightly colored longyi, the traditional wraparound skirt-like garment worn by both men and women in Burma.

      I took my cap from the counter and turned to follow Po-Sin. A few steps away, I glanced back to see Kayin watching me. A brief frown crossed her lips before she revived her commercial smile for the next guest.

      “Welcome to Hotel Nadi Myanmar,” she said to a stiff young Englishman who flourished his furled umbrella before him as if it were some sort of benign weapon used to clear his path of any undesirables. The man wore spotless white ducks and a matching pith helmet, with a long albatross feather sprouting from the band.

      I looked down at my dirty old sailor’s cap, then back at Kayin. Her words and smile for the Englishman were the same as she gave me only moments before.

      * * * * *

      It was an accident, my bumping into Kayin at the hotel’s front door—she coming out as I returned to the hotel after a walk down to the river. This was the day after I first met her at the front desk. Earlier, when I left my room and went out, I’d looked toward the desk, hoping she’d be unoccupied and I could ask some aimless question about where to find the nearest Buddhist temple or how far was it to the river. But she was busy with the hotel manager, an Englishman, and I thought it better not to interrupt.

      “My sorry, Mr. Busetilear,” Kayin said to me on the street outside the front door of the hotel after we collided. “I am so awkward.” She knelt to pick up her packages.

      “No, no.” I knelt down and deliberately bumped my head against hers. “It was my fault.”

      She laughed and rubbed the side of her head as I rubbed my forehead. “Perhaps better next time,” she said, “that we should steer clear of each other so not to bring more harm.”

      Her laugh was beautiful, and exactly the response I’d intended.

      “Do you happen to know,” I asked, “where is the nearest Buddhist temple?”

      Her eyes widened. “You are Buddhist?”

      “No.” I took her elbow to help her to her feet. I couldn’t lie to her. I’d already deceived her with the head-bump, but that was justified. “No, I’m not a Buddhist, but I would like to see the inside of a temple.” I was certain she was Buddhist, as most Burmese are.

      “I have only right now one hour for lunch, and I must run the errand at bank for that Mr. Haverstock, our manager, then also to American Express office.”

      “Oh.” I was crestfallen. This was unpretended. I really was disappointed that she’d be otherwise occupied. “I see.” I had a sudden inspiration. “May I walk with you to the bank? Then you can point me in the direction of a temple.”

      If she’d made up the story of the errands for the hotel manager and she was actually going to meet her boyfriend,