* * * *
Fuse
I spent a very tense week with Raji and her family in Calcutta. She and her mother were exactly alike in temperament and frankness, each one speaking her mind on any matter that arose. Her grandmother of eighty-seven was just as outgoing, but without the energy to carry an argument to conclusion she often fell asleep in the middle of a discussion.
On a warm Friday evening in October, a young man arrived at the Devaki home.
“This is Panyas Maidan,” Mrs. Devaki said, leading him into the living room, where Raji and I sat on the floor, teaching some of the children to play chess.
Raji was on her feet before I was, and it seemed to me her smile was a bit more lively than necessary.
“I am Vincent Fusilier.” I spoke in Hindi and reached to shake his hand.
“This is my daughter, Miss Rajiani Devaki,” her mother said, pushing Raji forward.
Mr. Maidan looked at Raji, then spoke to me. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”
His English was perfect and precise. His handshake was firm, but not overpowering. I must admit, it was somewhat of a relief to hear my native language after a week of endless conversations in Hindi. His build was athletic, and his complexion a light tan. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-ten, and maybe three or four years older than I, making him about twenty-five.
“Mr. Maidan is an architect,” Mrs. Devaki gushed. “He has built many beautiful buildings all across India.” Her radiant set of dentures was outshone only by Raji’s dazzling white teeth.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Maidan said. “I only draw the pictures of buildings. I must leave the difficult tasks of construction to more capable hands.”
He looked at Raji. She still had that ridiculous grin on her face, and now she tilted her head to the side in a cutesy but rather awkward motion.
Mr. Maidan glanced at Raji’s hands, then mine. “Do you play cricket, Mr. Fusilier?”
“I’m not much for sports. I play tennis occasionally.” I felt the edge of Raji’s sandal pressing down on my little toe.
“Really? Perhaps you could come to my club for a few sets of tennis tomorrow afternoon.”
I would love to be on a tennis court. After five weeks on the freighter, then being cooped up in the Devaki home for another week, a few hours of strenuous tennis was exactly what I needed.
“That 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 62nd 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
