By
Joan M. McCabe
A Serial release brought
to you by KotaPress
All right reserved internationally,
(c) 2003
In the fall of 1989, Paul
was in the midst of a staff
meeting when he got a call
from his Uncle Stephen in
their San Francisco office.
He looked around the table
at his staff busily munching
biscotti and sipping lattes
freshly brought up from
the Buzz espresso cart in
the lobby. He turned to
his new head architect,
Michael and said, "Well,
Mr. Takatsuka, I must leave
the bridge to you. Starfleet
Command is on the phone
and I should take it in
my office."
"Aye, aye, Captain,"
Michael said, saluting him.
Paul and Michael had been
avid Trekkies during their
college years. After hiring
him away from Marbanks’
competitor, they'd been
using Star Trek lingo to
refer to the company and
its operation. Paul was
drawn more and more into
the administrative side
and needing to leave the
creative decisions up to
Michael, his "Number
One". Uncle Stephen's
office naturally was Starfleet
Command, since on the TV
series Star Fleet was also
headquartered in San Francisco.
"Carry on," said
Paul to his crew, using
his best Captain Jean Luc
Picard voice.
"Paul, you have to
come to San Francisco. I'm
booked for a flight to India
next week, and I've slipped
a disc. You're the only
one in the company who can
substitute for me."
Uncle Stephen's voice sounded
convincingly urgent.
The "only person",
yeah, right, thought Paul.
More like the only convenient
person in the company, since
everyone in the San Francisco
branch probably has tickets
to the World Series. He
wondered if his Uncle had
really slipped a disc. He
knew the company was making
strides with their international
connections; he hadn't realized
India was one of their contacts.
"What's happening in
India?" Paul asked,
stalling an answer to his
uncle's request.
"Chakawarti and Sons
is building a development
outside Delhi and we won
the bid. Mr. Chakawarti
was in the Bay area last
month to discuss the project
with me, and I agreed to
fly to India to view the
site and finalize the contract."
Last month. Before the A's
won the Pennant, thought
Paul. Paul heard office
noises in the background
while his uncle spoke. He
slipped a disc and he's
at work?
"And, Paul, they require
a visa and shots to go to
India. We’re working
on getting your visa through
the consulate here, and
I took the liberty of calling
your doctor up there about
the shots. You have an appointment
for noon today for the first
series and next Monday for
the second. That should
give you plenty of time
to catch the shuttle down
here. You’re booked
on Alaska Airlines leaving
at 2:00 PM this coming Monday,
the sixteenth. I trust your
passport is up to date."
His uncle could tell Paul
was hesitating. "There'll
be a big bonus in it for
you," he added.
He had pushed all of Paul's
buttons. Of course his passport
was up to date. He'd gone
with Maggie on their honeymoon
to St. Lucia in the Caribbean.
As he thought about Maggie
a wave of guilt swept over
him. She was short and had
black curly hair. A doctor
who, when her biological
clock went off, switched
her specialty to pediatrics.
He’d met her in the
Harborview hospital emergency
room when he'd taken the
boy he was Big Brother to
had gotten hit over the
eye with a baseball. She’d
watched him interact with
the kid, decided he was
father material, and asked
him out. She was so unlike
Moira, that he decided it
would be healthy to say
yes. When she asked him
to marry her a year later,
he decided it would be healthy
to say yes to that, too.
Anything to force himself
to accept reality.
Then followed five agonizing
years of Maggie trying to
get pregnant. A year and
a half of sex by the calendar
and temperature taking,
followed by a horrendous
period of hormone shots
and in vitro fertilization.
Poor Maggie, torn by pain
and disappointment, the
hormone shots making her
completely wacko with continual
PMS. Paul became more moody
and withdrawn. Finally,
as they each approached
their fortieth birthdays,
Paul decided to put them
both out of their miseries.
He gently explained to Maggie
that she was a wonderful
woman and deserved to have
a child, but not with him.
She deserved to have someone
love her for the unique
and wonderful things about
her, and not be married
to someone who chose her
in the first place because
she was the opposite of
the woman he truly loved.
(This did not go over well).
She kicked him out of their
Lake Washington house, kept
the Pathfinder, got a restraining
order, sold all his belongings
and sued him for every dime
he was worth. All he had
left now that the divorce
was finalizing was a ten-year-old
Honda Prelude and the little
house in Ballard that he'd
kept as a rental. Not much
to show for a forty-one
year old man.
So of course, the bonus
enticed him. And maybe a
trip to India would be good
experience in international
relations, since Paul was
beginning to lead the Seattle
office in that direction
himself.
"Yes, Uncle, I'll do
it," Paul found himself
saying into the phone. Seven
days later he was on a southbound
flight with an arm sore
from inoculations and his
passport in his side pocket.
The details were pretty
simple; his uncle had worked
them out the month before
when Mr. Chakawarti had
visited. But there were
subtle points. It turned
out that Mr. Chakawarti
was a family man. Uncle
Stephen had shrewdly guessed
that he would respond more
favorably to Marbanks' brilliant
nephew and president of
the Seattle branch replacing
him than to someone lower
down the ranks in the San
Francisco office. His uncle
had indeed slipped a disc
but coped very well being
wheelchaired around by a
buxom redheaded nurse. Still,
the old codger did have
World Series tickets and
was taking his nurse there
the following afternoon,
about the same time Paul
would be flying off to India.
The next day Paul returned
to the San Francisco International
Airport. After checking
in, he went straight to
his gate. They were already
boarding his flight, so
Paul went directly on. The
plane was full; people stuffed
in like sardines. He was
grateful that his uncle
had reserved first class
(although it was sold out
there, too). Paul decided
to immerse himself in the
glossy airline magazine
to see what movies he would
watch during the flight.
Snatches of a conversation
wafted up from the coach
section behind him. "Do
y'all mind if ah have this
aisle seat? Ah need to stretch
mah legs." A man said
with a Texan drawl.
"No, that's fine with
me," a woman's pleasant
voice replied.
Paul froze. That voice --
he knew that voice! He tried
to twist in his seat to
see the speaker, but people
putting baggage in overhead
bins blocked his view.
It had to be her. It couldn't
be her. Paul began to use
the deep breathing techniques
Sonya Morgenstein had taught
him years ago in order to
control panic attacks (which
usually just came whenever
he glimpsed blondes in crowds;
this was the first time
he'd hallucinated a voice).
He stared down at his magazine.
His eyes blurred and he
couldn't focus on anything,
but Paul just pretended
to read while he breathed
in - one - two - three,
and out - one - two - three
-four. In - one - two -
three, out - one - two -
three - four. Breathing
wasn’t helping. A
drink? They hadn't taken
off yet; the flight attendants
weren't going to serve anything
when they were busy telling
people how to buckle their
seat belts. Paul’s
stomach started to somersault.
Airsickness pills! He had
some extra-strength ones
in the carry-on bag at his
feet! Paul dived forward
and rammed his head into
the back of the seat in
front of him as he reached
into his bag.
The expiration date on the
package was the year before,
but he didn’t care.
Paul swallowed the pills
without water and just the
thought of taking them relaxed
him before the drug could
kicked in. He dozed into
thoughtless oblivion before
the plane even left the
US mainland.
He woke up just as they
were landing in Hong Kong.
The First Class flight attendant
smiled at him cheerily.
“Glad to see you’re
awake. I was a little worried
when you didn't wake up
for lunch, or dinner!"
she said as she made sure
everyone’s seat backs
were upright and tray tables
closed. "You must have
really needed the rest."
"Ah, yes, must have,"
said Paul, sitting up. It
must have been a dream.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
His stopover in Hong Kong
was a little under two hours.
He stayed in the transit
passenger holding area,
catching up on the paperwork
he had intended to do on
the plane. He was absorbed
in the stats regarding the
Chakawarti project when
he heard a woman’s
deep but melodious laugh.
Paul’s head jerked
up just in time to see a
golden-haired woman disappearing,
he thought, through the
departure gate. He dropped
the plans to the floor,
papers scattering everywhere,
and raced to the gate.
The agent at the gate stopped
him. “I’m sorry
sir, we’re not ready
to begin boarding yet.”
Shaking, Paul returned to
his bags and began picking
up the papers he’d
spilled. This could not
be possible. Not on both
planes. This was a completely
different flight. He must
be having some kind of mental
breakdown.
Moments after he’d
gotten the plans back into
his briefcase, they began
boarding his flight. He
followed the stream of passengers
like a zombie, and kept
his head down as he got
on the plane. He managed
to find his seat and stow
his baggage without having
to look up once.
They began the meal service
shortly after takeoff, which
effectively diverted Paul’s
thoughts about Moira. He
hadn’t eaten since
leaving San Francisco seventeen
hours ago. For the first
time in his life, airplane
food tasted wonderful. His
mood immediately improved
when drinks were offered,
and he settled in with a
scotch to watch the movie
without headphones. It was
about some cantankerous
old lady being driven around
by a long-suffering chauffeur.
Halfway through Paul realized
he had to piss like a bandit,
and if he didn't get up
soon --
"Oh, no sir, please
remain seated until the
seat belt sign goes off,"
the Flight Attendant said
firmly. “We’re
encountering turbulence,
but should be through it
shortly.”
Paul went back to watching
the movie, gritting his
teeth. In two eternities'
times ten, the seat belt
sign dinged and went off.
Seven people immediately
lined up in front of the
first class toilets. Screw
it, thought Paul, and he
headed towards coach.
Fourteen miles of crying
babies and legs sticking
into the aisles, he finally
reached the middle of the
plane. All these toilets
were occupied, too. He plowed
onward; sweat beginning
to stand out on his forehead.
Did anybody just have a
Coke bottle? Ah, he saw
someone leave a stall at
the back of the plane and
he broke into a trot. From
behind the corner a ten-year-old
kid walked straight into
it.
"You look like you’re
in pain," an amused
voice came from behind him.
He turned and there she
was. He wasn't hallucinating.
There was Moira standing
in the aisle behind him.
He suddenly didn't have
to go anymore.
A door opened. "Quick,
go in there before you explode!"
chuckled Moira as she pushed
him in there.
He had to deep breathe and
relax before anything would
happen. When he finally
finished and came out there
were about ten people in
line. A rather unpleasant
man glared at him and barely
waited for him to get out
of the toilet before pushing
his way in. Moira was nowhere
to be seen.
He must be hallucinating.
Was this a psychotic episode?
"Barbecued chicken
or beef cannelloni?"
A flight attendant asked
somewhere back in coach.
"I've special-requested
vegetarian." Her voice
wafted down the aisle.
The food and beverage carts
blocked his way so Paul
headed down the opposite
aisle. He circled through
the galley at the back of
the plane and spied Moira
sitting several rows up.
Across the aisle from her
he spied a miserable businessman
sitting next to a woman
holding a crying infant
on her lap. Paul went up
to him.
"You look like you
could use a break,"
Paul said, affably. "Would
you like to exchange seats
with me?"
The man eyed him suspiciously.
"Why, where are you
sitting?"
"Seat 4B," Paul
said, without saying why.
"You can leave your
dinner here. They're serving
lobster tail with filet
mignon and champagne up
in First Class.”
The man broke out into a
huge grin. "Well, sure,
mister, you can have my
seat. I don't care why you
want to trade, just take
it!" The guy pulled
his bag out from under the
seat in front of him headed
up the aisle. "Enjoy
the cannelloni!"
Paul took his place by the
infant, now peacefully breast-feeding.
He could retrieve his stuff
later in the flight.
"Pretty swift negotiating."
He looked over to see Moira
grinning at him.
"Hiya, handsome --
long time no see,"
she said playfully.
A surge of anger rose in
Paul. You'd better believe
it. It's been almost nine
years. He wanted to shake
her and kiss her at the
same time. Instead, he simply
said, "Hi, Moira. It
has been a long time."
He looked at her, trying
to see if anything had changed.
Little tiny laugh lines
had formed around her eyes,
but that was all.
"Nice beard,"
she said.
Paul frowned. He'd had this
beard the last time he saw
her. He'd deliberately kept
it, even though Maggie had
hated it. He hadn't understood
why until now. He'd wanted
to remain recognizable to
her if he ever saw her again.
Nine years had changed him
a little, slight flecks
of gray were forming at
his temples, and his stomach
wasn't as firm as it could
be. He suddenly regretted
losing his gym membership
in the divorce.
"Going to India?"
he asked, praying that she
wasn't going to stay with
the flight, which continued
on to London.
She smiled, a broad, heart-warming
smile. "Yes."
"Staying there long?"
he asked, feeling his pulse
beginning to race.
She paused. Then she said,
"I'm transitioning
assignments, so I'll have
a little layover time in
Delhi, yes." She continued
grinning from ear to ear.
Paul struggled to recall
his itinerary. "I'm
there ... five days ...
I think." He reached
into his jacket pocket to
find his ticket.
"I think I can manage
five days," she said.
At midnight New Delhi time
they landed at Palim Airport.
As he disembarked, Paul
felt a blast of warm air.
The whole countryside was
tinged in moonlight, and
there was an eye-watering
odor he couldn't identify.
"Cow dung patties,
they burn it for fuel."
Moira whispered behind him.
Paul walked down the steps
into another world. Fortunately,
they both only had carry-on
luggage, so were among the
first to arrive at immigration.
Immigration officials wearing
gray jackets over saris
perfunctorily checked his
passport and asked the basic
questions.
"How long on you planning
on staying in India, Mr.
Marbanks?" A well rounded
woman with pudgy fingers
and dozens of silver bangle
bracelets flipped though
his passport.
"Five days." Paul
tried gazing over at Moira
talking with the next agent
over.
"Ah-cha. Business,
or pleasure?" Her bangles
jingled as she stamped his
passport.
"A little of both,"
said Paul, concealing his
excitement.
"Welcome to India,
Mr. Marbanks,” she
handed his passport to him,
“we hope you enjoy
your stay. Namaste."
The agent turned her attention
to the next person in line.
Paul wandered out from the
customs area to look for
Moira amongst a sea of black-haired
people. Voices yelling --
calling people, selling
things, asking for alms
-- it didn’t seem
to matter that it was the
middle of the night. Paul
spotted a blond head sticking
out of the crowd at the
taxi stand near the entrance.
As he approached, he could
see Moira chatting in Hindi
with the little cab driver
sporting a large, elegantly
combed beard and an oversized
turban. He looked like a
dark version of Yosemite
Sam. They seemed to reach
some agreement, and he took
her compact suitcase and
put in the back of the black
and yellow cab.
Moira looked up as if she'd
known Paul was coming, and
waved.
"Where are you staying?"
she called over the crowd.
"I have no idea!"
he called back, reaching
for his itinerary again.
She chattered to the cabby
and ended the sentence with
"Ashoka Hotel."
They got in the cab and
as it tore off into the
stream of humans on bicycles
and buses and cows, Paul
glanced at his itinerary.
He had a suite at the Ashoka.
"How did you know?"
Paul asked, incredulous.
"Madame Zola knows
all, sees all." Moira
wiggled her eyebrows. She
leaned back against the
sticky vinyl seats and rested
her head on his shoulder.
"I'm so glad to see
you again."
Paul looked out the window,
as the countryside whizzed
by. Water buffalo with enormously
swollen stomachs lolled
in murky gullies. Modern
apartment buildings stood
alongside little mud huts.
Suddenly he was in a different
world with the woman he
loved more than the entire
world next to him. The one
who had abandoned him -
twice - without a word,
or a trace. Yet here she
sat beside him as if she
had just seen him a week
ago. He closed his eyes.
The cabdriver put on the
radio and a high-pitched
nasal wailing assaulted
his ears. He turned to Moira
and opened his mouth to
speak. ‘Why? Why did
you leave me? Where the
hell have you been?’
he wanted to say. Instead,
he found himself pressing
his face into Moira's hair.
She put her arms around
him, and he started to feel
the years drain away again.
All his rage, all his depression,
flowed out of him. How did
she do that? How could she
make the years evaporate
and leave him feeling as
if they'd been together
always? There were too many
things happening at once
for him to process everything.
All his confused feelings
about Moira mixed up with
all the overwhelming sensations
of India. The heat made
him sweat through his shirt
and through his jacket.
If it was this hot at night,
what was it like when the
sun was up? The odors were
fascinating, or delicious,
or revolting. The cab itself
had a mixture of scents:
hot, unwashed plastic, the
remnants of previous passengers
with bathing habits differing
from Paul's, the delicate
aroma of sandalwood - or
was that a stick of incense
on the dashboard? And the
strong, spicy-sweet cologne
that made Paul slightly
queasy must be coming from
the cab driver himself.
Along the way they passed
a temple glowing in the
light of street lamps swarming
with insects. The cab raced
by it at full speed, but
the driver took his hands
off the wheel, turned to
the temple and bowed as
he went by, then grabbed
the wheel and kept driving.
"That was a Sikh temple
- the religion Mr. Singh,
our driver, belongs to.
That's why he bowed.”
Moira whispered into Paul's
ear.
"I see. Pretty religious
fellow," Paul said
through gritted teeth, his
white knuckled hands gripping
the seat.
They arrived at the Ashoka,
a magnificent red sandstone
building surrounded by immaculate
greenery. The monsoons had
just passed through Delhi
and all the vegetation seemed
very lush and green in contrast
to the ever-present yellow
dust on everything else.
The moment Paul and Moira
got out of the cab, children,
mostly barefoot young boys,
mobbed them. What are they
doing up so late at night?
"Baksheesh Mem-Sahib,
Baksheesh Sahib!" the
boys cried, waving their
cupped hands in front of
them.
"Watch your wallet,"
said Moira, gripping her
purse, "No baksheesh,
no baksheesh, chalo - jaldi!"
She waved her hand at them
dismissively.
Paul already had his hand
on his wallet to pay the
cab driver, but he felt
little fingers reaching
for it as well, he whirled
around but was unable to
identify who it was in the
mass of boys.
The cab driver gave Paul
a price for the cab fare,
and Paul automatically started
reaching for the rupees
in his wallet. Moira spun
around and started arguing
with the cab driver in Hindi,
hotly debating the price
he quoted and finally leaning
into the cab to prove that
the meter was broken.
The cab driver went through
a charade of emotions ranging
from indignant, insulted,
and angry finally to mournfully
resigned. These tourists
are bleeding me, his expression
seemed to say. But with
the smaller amount of rupees
in his hand, he broke into
a wide, brown stained toothy
smile, clasped his hands
prayer-like in front of
him and made slight bows
to Paul and to Moira. Before
he got into his cab he shot
Moira a smiling look, almost
shaking his finger as if
to say to her "ah,
you are one savvy haggler,
Mem-Sahib."
Paul turned back to Moira
and found her standing protectively
over their luggage, gesturing
for a bellboy, who had been
languidly observing the
scene with an amused air.
The front doorman appeared
at that moment also, a short
fellow in a fancy turban
and elegant uniform with
gold braid on the shoulders
and sleeves, and a broad
sash around his waist. He
grandly motioned for the
bellboy, who hopped to it
when he saw his boss. Then
the doorman opened the door
and stood smartly at attention
as Paul and Moira entered.
Paul had the feeling that
the doorman expected a tip
for simply opening the door
and getting the bellboy
to do his job.
The interior of the Ashoka
was a lavish mixture of
marble, silk, and velvet,
with magnificent oriental
carpets adorning the floors.
Behind the front desk were
several women whose elegant
red and gold saris swished
about as they walked from
one place to another. The
woman who checked them in
had a little diamond in
her nose, and a bindi -
a little red dot in her
forehead. He thought of
the immigration agent, who’d
also had a bindi, except
it was black.
“I think the red bindi
is when you’re unmarried
and the black one is when
you’re married. I’m
not sure,” Moira said
to him as they walked towards
the elevators.
Paul looked at her in surprise,
"I thought you knew
everything," he kidded.
"Not everything, Paul
darling, just your thoughts."
She squeezed his arm as
they got into the elevator.
In the elevator up to their
suite Paul became very aware
of Moira standing beside
him, her hand resting gently
on his arm. He always had
a tingling sensation standing
beside her, as if she emitted
some low-voltage electricity.
He also noticed the bellboy,
standing with his face intently
staring at the floor numbers.
He wished the elevator were
empty save for him and Moira,
and that it was stuck between
floors.
They arrived at their floor
and followed the bellboy
down the lushly carpeted
hallway to their suite.
The boy unlocked their door
with a flourish and wheeled
the baggage cart into a
sitting area with furniture
made of beautifully carved
wood inlaid with ivory.
Large brass spittoons held
giant palms on either side
of the enormous picture
window. Moira went over
and looked out through the
gauzy drapes at the view
of Delhi - a mixture of
high rise buildings and
empirical British architecture
as well as domes and spiral
towers.
The bellboy made a great
show of opening the double
doors to reveal the bedroom
area with the king-sized
bed covered with a brightly
colored, intricately embroidered
bedspread inset with tiny
mirrors. On top of the bed
were assorted stuffed pillows
embroidered with tassels
and more mirrors. The bellboy
opened a door off the bedroom
to indicate the bathroom
and then walked up to Paul
with an ingratiating smile.
Paul glanced at Moira, who
looked at him knowingly.
The figure "ten rupees"
popped into his head, so
that's what he tipped him.
The boy bowed with great
ceremony while stuffing
the money in his pocket,
backed out the door and
was gone.
They were alone. Paul glanced
at his watch. It was now
3:45 AM, Delhi time. His
meeting with Mr. Chakawarti
was not until the following
morning, his uncle having
allotted a days’ rest
to adjust to the jet lag.
What now?
There were so many questions
to ask, so many things he
wanted to tell her, but
he had a strong fear that
this might be their only
time together. Who knows?
She could disappear if he
fell asleep. So he walked
over to her at the window
and kissed her -- a kiss
that erased the time they’d
been apart, that evaporated
the years of loneliness
and resentment, replacing
them with inner calmness
and acceptance. It felt
like all time stopped moving
and the only thing that
would ever exist was now.
She slipped her arms around
his waist.
He kissed her again inside
the bedroom. She caressed
his back, sending shivers
up his spine. Her hands
found their way inside his
shirt and slid around to
the front to feel the hair
on his chest. Her fingernails
lightly rasped against his
nipples and he found his
whole body temperature rising.
Trembling, he led her to
the bed and carefully lay
her down. He stood over
her, taking in her appearance.
She wore a white cotton
blouse and a short, blue
skirt with white stockings.
He could see the outline
of her bra through the blouse,
her nipples hard and erect.
"Nice look," he
muttered as he fumbled with
her buttons. He opened the
blouse and admired her.
Moira’s fingers went
to his neck and swiftly
undid his tie. "Nice
look yourself," she
said.
Then she gasped, for Paul
had slipped her breasts
out of her bra. He leaned
his head down and started
to rhythmically suck her
brownish-pink nipples. She
wrapped her arms around
his head and pressed her
face into his hair. Meanwhile
he slid his hands up her
skirt and did his best to
pull down those white pantyhose.
She laughed and helped him
by unzipping her skirt and
Paul pulled both of them
down. He pressed his face
into her little curly V
and said, to it as much
as to her, "you smell
wonderful." She giggled,
but Paul couldn't hear it
as her thighs were now around
his ears.
His hands gripped her buttocks
as he used his tongue to
work miracles inside her.
She writhed and moaned and
pressed herself into his
face. Then his hands reached
up to her breasts and started
tweaking both nipples at
the same time, and she started
crying out. He kept it up
while she called his name
over and over. When she
had finished coming, he
lifted his face up.
"I'm very glad to see
you!" he grinned.
She laughed her melodic
laugh and pulled him up
onto the bed. She unbuckled
his belt, unzipped his pants,
and reached in to pull out
her prize. She leaned forward
and began to kiss his abdomen
and inner thighs, studiously
avoiding his achingly erect
fellow. Paul groaned in
agony as she took his balls
into her mouth and began
to gently suck them. When
his brain truly had drained
out of his ears, she moved
up to the shaft itself.
With little tiny flicks
of the tongue she worked
her way up from the base
to the head, and little
tongue flicks around the
rim. She paused for a brief
moment that seemed like
a lifetime to Paul, and
then placed both her lips
on the head and slowly drew
him into her mouth. She
seemed to take him all the
way into her throat, and
then her tongue and mouth
sealed around his entire
member and she began suck
him with strong pulling
motions from her tongue.
Paul felt his teeth fall
out and his fingers and
toes curl into little balls,
as he lay helpless on the
bed. Then, when he knew
he was about to have a brain
hemorrhage, she began to
quickly nurse him in and
out of her mouth, clamping
her lips over her teeth
as she moved. That did it;
Paul choked out her name
and the name of his Maker,
and nearly passed out as
he exploded into her.
"That was fantastic."
He kissed her on top of
her head.
"You weren't half bad
yourself, lover boy,"
she chortled, her face pressed
into his chest. "Did
I ever mention that you
smell like apricots here?"
"Don't think so. Nope,
neither in DC or Seattle
do I recall you ever saying
that," he said, smiling
into her hair.
She looked up at him, an
unreadable expression on
her face. Her hand stroked
his beard, and then his
chest. Then she seemed to
gather her thoughts together
and cheerfully asked, "Well
then, what are you doing
in India?"
"I could ask you the
same question, Moira,"
he said sincerely, his hand
resting on her smooth hip.
He noted with some pleasure
that she had her little
tummy again, with its intriguing
silver lines. Yummy tummy,
he thought, and slid his
hand down to rest on its
cushiony comfort. He looked
up at her face, which held
a bemused smile.
"I'm here on business,
of course. I have a meeting
with a Mr. Chakawarti of
Chakawarti & Sons tomorrow
morning; about a project
my firm is collaborating
on with his office. I have
no idea how long it will
last. Some time after that,
we'll be going out to his
proposed building site,
and then meeting again to
work out a contract. I'm
hoping the process won't
take the whole five days.
I'd like a chance to do
a little sightseeing."
Paul suddenly realized that
all the sights he wanted
to see where here in this
room.
She laughed that unique
laugh and ran her hands
through his hair. "I'd
love to do some sightseeing,"
she said. "And I'd
love to sleep, too,"
she added, "I've been
going pretty nonstop since
San Francisco, and I, unlike
some people, didn't get
a nap on the plane."
Paul noticed she had little
purple veins in her eyelids,
and small dark circles under
her eyes. Her head nestled
in the crook of his arm.
He leaned down and softly
kissed both eyes. "Sweet
dreams, my love," he
said, huskily.
"Night, night sweetums,"
she said drowsily, snuggling
into him, and drifted off
to sleep.
He lay for a while staring
at the ceiling. His body
was fatigued, but his eyes
could tell it was morning.
Pale pink light streamed
in through the windows,
and the street was getting
noisy. He didn't want to
sleep because he wanted
her to be there when he
woke. Perhaps if he held
her tightly in his arms,
he could get just a little
shut-eye. He snuggled down
and wrapped both arms around
her, her face burrowed into
the hollow of his neck.
Soon he snored loudly over
her head, and she smiled
in her sleep.
When Paul woke, orange-red
sunlight filled the room.
His watch told him it was
late afternoon. Moira snuggled
against him. His arms were
numb; his bladder a watermelon.
He gingerly extricated himself
and dashed to use the bathroom.
He finished as fast as he
could, wanting to get right
back to her. What if she
vanished before he returned?
But she was still asleep,
her hair spread out behind
her like gold-spun threads,
the sunlight catching it
and filling it with orange-red
glitter. Her face looked
soft and angelic, with long
light-colored eyelashes
resting on pale pink cheeks.
Rosy lips were slightly
parted and she seemed to
be whispering in her sleep.
In getting out of bed, Paul
had pushed the bed sheets
down, and they were below
her waist. She lay on her
side, her breasts spilling
onto the sheets, the nipples
large and relaxed. Her slender
waist gently expanded and
contracted with her breathing,
making her breasts ever
so slightly jiggle. Below
her abdomen, curly golden
hairs peeked out beneath
the sheets, which covered
her shapely legs. Paul felt
both horny and famished
at the same time. Her eyelids
fluttered and then opened,
blue eyes gazing at him.
She surveyed his naked body
with the same hunger and
smiled at his hardened and
erect penis.
"Mm-mm. Come to mama,
sweetheart," she said,
kicking off the covers.
Paul's little head won over
his hungry stomach, and
he came to mama in one joyous
bound.
Only moments later they
were both satiated, all
the pillows were on the
floor, and all the covers
were there too. Paul lay
on her, trying to stay in
for as long as possible,
while she stroked his hair
and gave his ear and side
of his face little kisses.
When he finally had to slide
out, she whispered, "hungry?"
"Did my rumbling tummy
give me away?" he asked,
his stomach adding its emphasis.
"Uh-huh," she
said. "Me too. Let's
go check out the food in
this joint." She started
to wiggle out from under
him.
"Wait, wait,"
Paul said, painfully getting
up. "I have to take
a shower." He rolled
off the bed and lumbered
toward the shower.
"Me too, me too!"
she cried, leaping up and
scampering after him.
So dinner was postponed
while they enjoyed a steamy,
soapy shower. Fortunately,
Moira did nothing that would
precipitate their drowning
this time, and they were
able to emerge clean and
fresh-smelling, ready to
dress for dinner.
The restaurant at the Ashoka
had everything you'd expect
from a five-star hotel:
cloth table linens, crystal
glasses, ornate silver.
The menus were in large
leather folders, with gold
tassels separating the pages.
Paul reached for his water
glass as he studied the
menu. Moira stopped him.
"Not a good idea, unless
you want Mr. Chakawarti
to meet with you in the
bathroom," she cautioned.
"After the monsoon
season it’s especially
easy to get a case of ‘Delhi
Belly’. I’d
avoid drinking unboiled
water and anything with
ice in it."
They ordered tea, which
was surprisingly refreshing
considering how hot the
day still was. There may
have been air conditioning,
but Paul couldn't feel it.
The ceiling fans were too
high up for any breeze to
be detected. Moira ordered
Tandoori chicken, then went
on to request dahl and biriyani
and pullao and chappati.
Paul didn't know or care
what this stuff was, as
long as it was edible and
arrived soon. The dishes
did appear with amazing
speed. Flat tortilla-like
things that were slightly
puffy. Lentils and rice
and chicken and probably
lamb. A curry with peas
and potatoes and carrots.
"Don't drink any tea
until you're finished,"
Moira cautioned as Paul
began eating.
As the first flames hit
his tongue and ran down
his throat, Paul ignored
her warning and reached
for his cup.
"No, really. Let your
mouth get used to the spiciness.
If you keep drinking, it'll
keep tasting hot,"
Moira insisted.
So Paul heeded her advice
and eventually the flames
died down, and he began
to notice the intricate
flavors of the feast before
him. There were even little
raisins in the curry, he
hadn't noticed before. He
used bites of chapatti -
flat bread - to help separate
the flavors, and a dollop
of yogurt on things to cut
their hotness. As the plate
cleared, he started downing
the tea. A couple bites
more, the flames returned.
Ah, she had been right,
he realized.
They both were stuffed and
so refused dessert and took
walk around the grounds.
It was a clear evening;
the stars were magnificent.
It was still warm, but not
so sweltering as it had
been earlier. Clay pots
with etched designs lined
the walkway through the
gardens. Paul was wondering
about them when suddenly
they all lit up with electric
lights inside shining through
the slitted openings.
"Those are dawali lamps,"
Moira noted, "for their
annual Festival of Light,
happening this month."
"Have you been here
before?" asked Paul,
amazed that he got a direct
question out of his mouth
to her, and curious to see
if she'd answer it.
"Oh..." she hesitated,
thinking of the right words
to say, "no, not really."
"Not really, what is
that supposed to mean?"
Paul asked. "But how
do you know the language?
How do you know so much
about the culture?"
Moira grew very quiet and
part of Paul wanted to retract
the question, but part of
him wanted to push forward.
Instead, he waited patiently;
they continued to walk,
arm in arm. They came to
a stop in front of a tree,
seven feet tall, covered
from roots to its top with
long, broad leaves. She
turned to him, put her arms
around him and looked him
directly in the eyes.
"I can't explain to
you why I know what I know.
Maybe some day I can; I
hope to. But right now ...
" She shook her head,
looking down for a moment.
Then, looking directly into
his eyes again, "I
will never lie to you, I
will answer your questions
as honestly as I can, but
there are some things I'm
... not at liberty to answer.
Can you understand this?"
Maybe she works for the
CIA, thought Paul with trepidation.
At the same time relief
filled him. He kissed her
forehead, and said, "I
can't understand but I can
accept. Is it kind of like
your organization's Prime
Directive?"
Her face lit up with a smile.
"You do understand!"
she cried, hugging him close
to her.
He chuckled, "Well,
now I have another question
for you," his tone
switched to mock seriousness,
"I know you may not
be able to answer it, but
try."
She looked at him, puzzled,
"What?"
He nodded his head towards
the tree they were standing
beside. "What is this
thing? It looks to me like
one of those tree-beings
of ‘Lord of the Rings."
She scrutinized the tree.
"I never thought of
Ents like that: it's an
avocado tree, but"
she grinned, "don't
ask me how I know."
They walked on, with her
pointing out other plants
on the way. Paul particularly
liked the row of Mimosa
trees, with their feathery
soft pink flowers. We have
trees like that in Seattle,
he thought. He decided to
try another question.
"You said you were
transitioning assignments.
When I first met you, you
said you were in between
assignments. Is this the
same thing?" Paul asked,
feeling her stiffen. He'd
asked too much.
She gulped. "No, it
isn't. I'm still ... on
assignment right now, but
I know it's ending. I know
I have to stay here for
a certain amount of time.
The last time ... I mean,
in DC… oh, it's too
complicated. I really, really
can't ... " her voice
trailed off, sounding genuinely
torn.
"That's okay, I understand,
sort of ... "Paul patted
her hand on his arm. "I'll
try not to ask too much."
She leaned her head against
his shoulder. "Thank
you."
Paul stopped and pressed
his face into her hair.
"I love you, Moira.
More than anything on earth,"
he said fervently. He surprised
himself by adding, "and
I'll accept any time we
have here together, whenever
we have it together."
Moira held him tightly with
her face hidden in his chest.
From the little movements
of her shoulders, he could
tell she was crying. He
held her and rocked her.
He went on, "I was
so broken-hearted each time
you left me, especially
so the last time. But now
... " he searched for
the words to describe his
feelings. "If we have
to part this time, I think
I'll be able to handle it."
But as he said it, it didn't
feel right. "No, I
mean, I won't be happy about
it, but I know I'll survive."
There, that's what he meant.
As Moira looked up at him,
Paul felt a twinge of pain
to see the deep, deep sorrow
in her eyes. "I never
left you because I wanted
to, but because I had to.
And when we part this time,
I won't be happy, either.
But I'll survive, too. The
hope of seeing you again
will keep me going."
Then Paul's eyes filled
with tears. They stood there,
clinging to each other,
willing the moment to last
forever.
Paul awakened the next
morning with the phone ringing.
He thought it was his wake-up
call from the front desk,
but it turned out to be
Mr. Chakawarti's secretary.
"Good morning, Mr.
Marbanks. Mr. Chakawarti
called to tell you that
he is sending a car for
you and Mrs. Marbanks."
The lilting Indian voice
came across the receiver.
"Car for me and who?"
he echoed, rubbing the sleep
from his eyes. "Oh,
Mrs. Marbanks. How did he
know about Mrs. Marbanks?"
"Oh, Mr. Chakawarti
knows everything,"
her voice was irritatingly
cheerful. "He is a
very, very well informed
man. He says to tell you
that Mrs. Marbanks is welcome
to sit in on the meeting,
or she may use the car and
driver to see our most beautiful
sights in Delhi. The car
will be at your hotel in
approximately 45 minutes."
Forty-five minutes? Paul
glanced at his watch. It
was 7:30 AM.
"Uh, thank you. We'll
be there," Paul said
and quickly got off the
phone.
He patted Moira's sleeping
rump. "Wake up, sleepyhead.
We have to be downstairs
in forty-five minutes."
He swung out of bed and
headed to the bathroom.
Moira's voice came from
underneath her pillow. "Why?"
she asked plaintively.
"Mr. Chakawarti expects
both of us," he called
from the shower. If she
asked anything else, he
couldn't hear -- he had
shampoo in his ears.
Moira didn't have to use
words to express what she
thought of having to get
up. She walked into the
bathroom and flushed the
toilet. After Paul stopped
screaming and the water
temperature stabilized,
she climbed in as Paul finished.
He kissed her, his wet beard
dribbling little cold drops
on her, so she wriggled
under the main stream of
warm water. He playfully
grabbed her buttocks, and
drew her close.
"We don't have time,"
she protested.
"Yeah, you're right.
I'll take a rain check."
He patted her butt. "Hold
that thought," he told
her, and got out, leaving
her to wash her hair.
Clean but still damp-haired,
they met Mr. Chakawarti's
driver in the Ashoka's lobby.
The fellow bowed slightly.
"Mr. and Mrs. Marbanks,
I'm Rajinder, Mr. Chakawarti's
personal driver. I will
be having the pleasure of
driving you to your wishes."
His head tilted from side
to side as he talked.
Paul noticed Moira start
at being called Mrs. Marbanks,
grateful that she didn't
say anything. As she climbed
into the car, she whispered
to him "Moira Marbanks?"
He cocked an eye at her.
"Paul Gottsdotter?"
She looked at him, and put
her hand to his cheek. "Paul
Godson."
The driver launched into
a monologue about the beautiful
sights of the city, so Paul
pondered her comment in
silence. They passed pitiful-looking
Himalayan black bears, dancing
upright on swollen hind
feet, being hit with a stick
if they made a mistake.
People with missing or deformed
limbs sat on the sidewalk
calling for baksheesh. There
were bullock carts going
five miles an hour, blocking
the traffic, and emaciated
white Brahmin bulls wandering
wherever they pleased. They
passed one in the street
that had been dead quite
a while.
"Excuse me," Paul
interrupted the driver.
"Why hasn't somebody
removed that dead cow?"
"Cow is sacred, holy
animal. They may go wherever
they please. When truck
-- bam, hits Cow! Cow is
very holy, we cannot touch."
The driver said in punctuated
sentences as he wove in
and out of traffic.
They passed a long hedgerow
that several men were facing,
their dhotis -- baggy white
loincloths -- hitched up
one leg. Moira averted her
twinkling eyes, but Paul
stared -- he'd only seen
men pissing outdoors on
camping trips.
The office building of Chakawarti
and Sons was large and white,
with tinted windows. Inside
it had an open-roofed atrium,
filled with a great pond
and all manner of plants.
Fish flitted beneath lotus
pads, and there floated
four black swans. Mr. Chakawarti's
administrative assistant,
a serious young man whose
thick glasses made his eyes
look unusually large, met
Paul and Moira. The swans,
he explained, were new.
At first there were geese,
but then Mr. Chakawarti
had added giant turtles.
One by one the geese disappeared,
and so did all the fish.
Finally, Mr. Chakawarti
removed the turtles and
replaced the fish. The geese
had been too noisy before
their demise, so he added
swans instead. The executive
offices and conference rooms
were on the far side of
the pond.
Mr. Chakawarti appeared
from behind a large, polished
teak door. He was about
five feet tall, quite rotund,
wearing a Nehru jacket and
cotton trousers with sandals.
He walked towards Paul with
his hands extended in welcome.
"I am so pleased to
meet you, dear boy. And
I am so sorry to hear about
the devastation in San Francisco.
I have been unable to get
a telephone call through
to your dear Uncle, but
we received a telegram this
morning saying all is well."
Paul stared at the old gentleman.
"I beg your pardon?
What happened in San Francisco?"
"Did you not hear?
Oh, my goodness, you must
have entirely missed it
during your flight. The
earthquake, my dear boy,
the earthquake. Shook the
baseball stadium, broke
one of your bridges, and
an overpass completely collapsed.
Completely. I am surprised
they did not contact you
at your hotel." He
gestured towards the doors
to his office. "If
you would like to attempt
a telephone call, please
use the one in my private
office."
Paul hurried into the office
and tried calling San Francisco.
“All phone lines are
busy,” the operator
said. After the fifth try,
Paul put down the receiver
and joined the others.
"You are having no
luck, eh what?" Mr.
Chakawarti, "Well,
as I was telling your lovely
wife here, your uncle assured
me in the telegram that
negotiations can continue
without pause. He said that
your Seattle office would
be able to fill in if the
San Francisco office were
unable to."
Paul wondered how Michael
and the others would take
that news when they were
already booked for the next
five years with local projects.
But he said, "Of course,
of course, my office would
be happy to fill in, but
let us both hope that the
San Francisco branch has
not been too affected by
this ... " Paul searched
for a neutral word to cover
his anxiety. "situation.
Shall we begin our meeting?"
Mr. Chakawarti's five sons,
taller and more slender
versions of himself, met
them in the conference room.
They all sat around a large
teak table, while a woman
in a pale blue, cotton dress
and pants, a silk scarf
slung across her neck, with
the ends hanging down her
back, poured tea for them
all. As they sipped their
tea, Mr. Chakawarti recounted
his meeting with Stephen
Marbanks. Several points
he made were not what Uncle
Stephen had told Paul, and
Paul said so. Deadline dates,
job specifics and even set
fees were completely altered
in favor of Chakawarti’s
company. Mr. Chakawarti
brushed his comments aside
and continued talking. Moira
sat up a little straighter,
but said nothing. His secretary
sat at the end of the table
typing the meeting notes
into a computer. His administrative
assistant came and left
at varying intervals, obviously
keeping track of other business
in the outer office. When
the older gentleman finished
his monologue, he nodded
to Paul. Paul took a deep
breath and repeated his
comments; Mr. Chakawarti
nodded his head non-committally.
The secretary was not typing
Paul's comments. One of
the sons leaned over and
said something in Hindi
into Mr. Chakawarti's ears.
Mr. Chakawarti nodded to
his secretary and she typed
something into the laptop.
The morning went on this
way, with Paul getting more
and more frustrated, as
the talks all wove into
Mr. Chakawarti's version
of the truth. Then it was
time for lunch, and they
all stood up. Mr. Chakawarti
smiled at Moira and said,
"I hope we were not
too boring to you with all
this business talk."
Moira leveled her gaze at
him. Her reply to him was
in fluent Hindi, causing
a shock wave through Mr.
Chakawarti and the others.
Mr. Chakawarti recovered
himself and said, "I
must apologize for my son’s
" he emphasized, "rudeness.
We did not know that Mr.
Marbanks possessed himself
such a talented wife."
One of his sons whispered
something else. Moira responded
directly to him in another
language, and then directly
to Mr. Chakawarti in a third.
Paul stood by her side,
dumb-founded.
"Urdu and Sanskrit.
I am most impressed,"
Mr. Chakawarti said. "Of
course, you have no need
to worry about the use of
Sanskrit," Mr. Chakawarti
assured them, "it is
quite a dead language and
none of my sons have mastered
it."
"Except for the National
Anthem, I hope?" Moira
said.
"But of course, of
course." Then with
the seasoned skill of the
most tactful ambassador,
Mr. Chakawarti led them
into another topic of conversation
and another room for lunch.
They dined on samosas, little
triangular pastries filled
with curried lentils, and
a delicious coconut soup.
Paul found himself able
to respond to Mr. Chakawarti's
questions on various subjects
with some degree of intelligence.
Little got by the old fellow,
and he quizzed Paul to see
how he stacked up against
his Uncle Stephen. Satisfied,
he turned to Moira and offered
amusing anecdotes on his
various grandchildren and
how his wife and daughters
were such devoted mothers.
In addition, his daughters
each had their Ph.D.s; one
was an engineer for Boeing
in Kansas and the other
was a university professor
in southern California,
but both made their family
their top priority. Paul
glanced sideways to check
Moira's reaction to this.
Moira responded that she
knew that Indian women did
indeed seem to be superb
mothers. How impressed she
was that Indira Ghandi had
been able to make such a
sizable contribution to
world history while managing
to remain a devoted mother
and grandmother. She had
been a mother to all India,
Moira noted. Mr. Chakawarti
gave her a Cheshire cat
smile and segued the conversation
into art and literature.
After lunch all the Chakawarti
sons disappeared, leaving
Mr. Chakawarti alone with
Paul and Moira. His secretary
handed Mr. Chakawarti a
copy of the meeting's minutes,
which he glanced over. Mr.
Chakawarti handed them back
to her. "Make a copy
of these for Mr. Marbanks
to take back to his hotel,
please." Then he turned
to Paul and heartily thumped
him on the back. "Well,
that was not so difficult
a morning, eh what? And
tomorrow we shall see the
property. I'll send my driver
for you at the same time."
The secretary returned with
the copy, which Mr. Chakawarti
handed to Paul. "Now,
if you'll excuse me, I have
to go into another meeting,
but please let my driver
show you the beautiful sights
of the city. If you have
not had the opportunity
to see Old Delhi, you really
should do so, it positively
reeks of history."
He smiled at Moira, "It
was most fascinating to
meet you Mrs. Marbanks.
I hope you will enjoy your
stay. You simply must visit
the Chandi Chowk Bazaar;
it is my wife's most favorite
shopping area."
Moira beamed a smile at
him that took him slightly
aback. "Oh, it was
a pleasure to meet you Mr.
Chakawarti, and most educational.
I learned so much about
your country's art and literature."
"Thank you for your
kind offer of your driver,"
said Paul, "but I'll
have to decline the tour
today. I'm anxious to get
back to the hotel and contact
my uncle." He shook
hands with the older gentleman.
"We look forward to
seeing you tomorrow,"
Paul emphasized the 'we',
as Mr. Chakawarti had pointedly
not invited Moira for the
following day. Paul had
enough knowledge and expertise
to assess the building site
and ask the right questions,
but he knew Moira's help
would get him the real answers.
On the way back, the driver
took the scenic route via
buildings that were a collage
of mud huts built up against
Moghul ruins. There were
modern-looking houses and
apartments a block away
from Imperial Palaces that
displayed the grand English
Colonial architecture and
design at its best. Paul
marveled that, even today,
India was a country of such
stark contrasts. On the
street there were well-dressed
people standing beside people
in rags. Mercedes-Benzes
drove past bicycle cabs.
The caste system seemed
still to be evident, birth
still defining much about
who one was, rather than
education or economic status.
Moira and Paul talked little
during the ride back to
the hotel. Paul didn't want
to say much about the meeting
in front of Mr. Chakawarti's
driver. Moira looked out
the window, absorbing all
the passing sights and sounds.
She seemed to be taking
pictures with her eyelids,
as they kept flickering.
Paul figured it must be
the light and made a mental
note that they both needed
sunglasses.
When they arrived at the
Ashoka, Paul checked the
front desk for messages.
Finding none, they went
to the elevators.
“So what were Chakawarti’s
sons saying during our meeting
today?” Paul asked
at the elevator doors closed.
He was dying to know.
“Oh, just derogatory
comments about me,”
Moira said, vaguely.
Paul felt a flush of defensiveness.
“What sort of comments?”
“Oh, Paul, this is
India. Women don't have
the same equality as in
the States.” Moira
wasn’t in the least
bit offended. “They
were uncomfortable with
my energetic presence, and
made comments to make themselves
feel more powerful.”
She looked at Paul with
a twinkle in her eye. “Didn’t
work though, did it?”
The twinkle diffused Paul’s
anger as the doors opened
at their floor. “It
certainly did not.”
he chuckled as they went
to their suite.
Inside, Paul headed for
the phone by the bed and
Moira sat in the nearest
chair and began meditating.
Paul dialed the San Francisco
office.
"You have reached Marbanks
Architects. Our office hours
are from 8:30 am to 5:30
PM. If you know the extension
of the person whom you wish
to dial..."
Paul hung up. "Moira,
what time is it on the West
Coast right now?"
Without opening her eyes,
she said, "It's about
thirteen and a half hours
earlier. So it's about one
thirty in the morning."
That meant they had to wait
until nine PM to call his
uncle at home before he
left for the office. Six
hours to kill. Paul stood
up, went to the window and
looked down at the street
below. There were taxis
and also auto rickshaws
at the curb.
"Moira, how'd you like
to check out Chandi Chowk?"
"Fine with me."
Moira bent over and touched
the floor by her feet.
They chose an auto rickshaw,
a three-wheeled scooter
with room for two passengers
on the back. As soon as
they took off, Paul regretted
his choice. The driver was
fearless -- or insane. He
cut off buses and swerved
around bullock carts, all
at what seemed like 100
MPH. Whenever a traffic
light forced him to stop,
they were invariably right
beside or behind a truck
laden with rotting fruit
and emitting black billows
of exhaust. Then there were
the potholes. He'd scarcely
noticed them on the way
in from the airport, but
the black-and-orange cab
they'd been in had shock
absorbers, which this vehicle
did not. By the time they'd
arrived at Chandi Chowk
in Old Delhi, Paul thought
he seriously needed a chiropractor
and a neck brace.
Chandi Chowk was an open
air bazaar with a million
little shops, selling everything
from sandals to silks, food
to books. Paul kept finding
things he wanted to buy
to give to Moira, but each
time she stopped him.
"I don't want any things,
Paul. It's too hard to travel
as often as I do with things."
Moira seemed distracted.
As they walked along the
street outside the bazaar,
a group of women approached
them, one very pregnant
and in great pain. They
pulled on Paul's arm and
chattered at him, using
a little broken English
and another language. They
were asking for rupees so
they could see a doctor.
Paul said to Moira, "We
should give them some money.
It's obvious she needs a
doctor."
Moira shot Paul an exasperated
look, and then began addressing
the women in their language,
which turned out to be Urdu.
She gestured towards Paul
and the expressions on the
women's faces turned from
urgency and pain to ones
of surprise and then smiles.
Moira reached for Paul's
hands and started to push
them towards the pregnant
woman, but her friends pulled
her back and instead they
clasped their hands, prayer
style and started to back
off. Moira said something
else and they all nodded.
"Shukria, shukria,"
they said, and disappeared
into the crowd.
"What was that all
about?" asked Paul,
totally mystified.
"Well, you were right.
They were asking for money
for their friend to see
the doctor. I told them
you were a doctor and would
be glad to examine their
friend for free. When they
started protesting, I offered
to share a cab with them
to the hospital, and that's
when they started thanking
us and backing off."
Moira smiled at Paul. "You
were being had, darling."
Paul's forehead wrinkled
in confusion, totally thrown
for a loop. This was definitely
not Seattle.
"No, it's not Seattle,"
Moira chuckled, and took
his arm. "I'm tired
of shopping. Let's go get
some dinner."
They hailed a black-and-orange
taxi, and went to a cafe
in the Santushi Shopping
Center, which turned out
to be two blocks from the
hotel.
"If I'd known this
were here, I'd have suggested
walking to go shopping instead
of hiring that scooter cab,"
muttered Paul, rubbing his
neck. Several hours of jostling
through traffic, and then
several hours of being jostled
by people in marketplaces,
had gotten to him. Also
the incessant cries of "baksheesh,
baksheesh" from beggars
(some hideously deformed)
had worn his nerves thin.
Moira had explained to him
that they were professional
beggars, being born into
the beggar caste, and that
most were purposely mutilated
at birth to enhance their
earning capabilities. He
was having a hard time understanding
India.
They sat down to jasmine
tea and a delicious meal
he couldn't pronounce. The
hot tea restored him, or
perhaps it was the restaurant
fans cooling his sweat soaked-shirt.
Again there were chapatis
and rice and curry, mango
chutney and yogurt sauce
with mint. The food definitely
improved his spirits. He
looked at Moira, matter-of-factly
nibbling on a chapati and
looking indifferently around
the marketplace, as if she'd
lived there all her life.
It added to his sense of
unreality. Was he really
in this strange, foreign
place? Was she really here
in front of him? He reached
forward and touched her
arm, just to make sure.
She smiled at him. "You
know, Paul, after this meal
we really should walk back
to the hotel so you can
take a nap. It's now five
thirty in the morning your
time, and you've been going
for almost twelve hours
nonstop."
Ah, that explained his intense
exhaustion. But Moira looked
radiant and tireless.
"What's your secret,
Moira? Why aren't you as
exhausted as I am?"
Paul asked.
Moira shrugged her shoulders.
"I do get exhausted,
but I'm not right now. Maybe
it's because I meditate."
She gave him an impish smile
to imply she wasn't entirely
serious.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps
her meditation was what
made her seem so serene
and effortless most of the
time. Maybe that was why
she was so different from
anybody he'd ever known.
Paul took a sip of tea.
"Moira, what was your
impression of today's meeting?"
"What do you mean,
exactly?" Moira's blue
eyes were unreadable.
"Well, it was just
so bizarre! I've never been
in a business meeting like
it. And those minutes! I
looked them over in the
car and they only show Chakawarti's
statements. It was as if
I wasn't there. What was
the point?" Paul swatted
a fly away from his food.
"I mean, the most important
thing in a meeting is clear
communication, especially
if there's a language difference.
This is supposed to be a
cooperative project, after
all. We both want it to
be a success. I just don't
understand their behavior."
Moira smiled. "Some
of today was due to Mr.
Chakawarti's personality,
but a lot of the confusion
you're experiencing is due
to cultural differences."
Paul wrinkled his forehead.
"Cultural differences?"
"You know, like with
the Japanese. Besides their
overt politeness and precise
attention to detail, there's
a myriad of unspoken expectations
based on thousands of years
of Japanese culture. A similar
thing is going on here,
Paul. You have to suspend
your own judgments in order
to deal with them clearly.
Do you follow me?"
Paul shook his head. "I
wish Michael were here.
Not that he could help me
with understanding India,
but he's been the one to
handle any negotiations
we've had so far with Asians
in Seattle. I feel like
a fish out of water. I've
never done anything like
this, and I have no idea
how to proceed." Paul
thought he saw a flicker
of surprise flash through
Moira's eyes, but when he
looked again they were as
unreadable as ever.
"I'll try to help in
whatever way I can."
Moira squeezed Paul's hand.
"What else do you have
to do here?"
Paul smiled his thanks.
"Tomorrow we'll meet
Chakawarti at the building
site. That reminds me, I
need to go over the preliminary
design plans when we get
back to the hotel. We still
have to negotiate details
on the final working drawings
-- God knows how long that
will take if today's meeting
was any indication of how
things get done in this
part of the world."
Moira laughed. "Well,
I can offer some advice
on how to handle tomorrow,
if you'd like to hear it."
"Please."
"Release your expectations
of how business is supposed
to be conducted. As you've
already noticed, the way
things are done in Seattle
is completely different
from the way things are
done in Delhi."
Paul nodded. "Anything
else?"
A Mona Lisa smile traced
across her lips. "Just
... go with the flow."
Paul pounced on the phrase.
"Go with the flow!
You've said that before.
What do you mean?"
Moira stared down at her
hands. "I asked a teacher
of mine, a long time ago,
how to handle unexpected
situations. And my teacher
told me, 'go with the flow.'"
Moira looked up into Paul's
eyes. "Don't resist
what's coming at you. Respond
to what is going on, but
don't create friction with
your own actions. Do you
understand?"
The heat suddenly started
to get to Paul and he was
quite dizzy. "I think
so."
Moira reached across the
table and touched his forehead
with her finger. The dizziness
faded. "Eat your dinner,
it will help your body feel
better."
They finished their meal
with a discussion of various
places to sightsee in the
coming days, if Paul's work
finished by tomorrow as
he anticipated it would.
There were a few sights
around Delhi that Paul wanted
to see, simply because of
the historic architecture.
Moira also suggested the
Taj Mahal, which would be
a day trip as it was a hundred
miles outside of Delhi.
With those possibilities
in their minds, they returned
to the hotel.
The walk had done Paul some
good, and he was quite relaxed
when they got to their room.
The air conditioning was
a welcome treat. Paul decided
to take a nap above the
sheets with his clothes
on, with the provision that
Moira wake him in two hours
to call his uncle. Moira
sat in the chair in the
living area and closed her
eyes to meditate, and Paul
closed his eyes in the bedroom
and was out within seconds.
At 7:45 AM PST, Paul tried
his uncle's home number
in Palo Alto. His Aunt Sarah
answered.
"Oh Paul, how are you?
It’s been too long!"
Aunt Sarah greeted him.
"Good heavens, Stephen
hasn't lived here for six
months. The old coot left
me for some legal secretary,
although I've heard she's
dumped him now. She must
be smarter than the other
ones," Aunt Sarah said
flippantly.
"Oh, Aunt Sarah, I'm
so sorry to hear that. I
had no idea." Paul
said. Uncle Stephen had
told no one in the family
that he and Aunt Sarah were
split up.
"Oh Paul, you sweetheart,
nothing to be sorry about.
I'm having the time of my
life. As for Stephen, I'm
sorry to say this, he is
your uncle after all, but
good riddance to bad rubbish.
He gave me a gift by leaving
me, he really did."
It was true, Aunt Sarah
sounded happier than she
had in all the years Paul
had known her. "Sorry
I can't help you out with
finding him -- I have no
idea where he is or who
he's living with now. Why
don't you try your Seattle
office, if you can't get
through down here?"
Paul took some time to collect
himself after talking to
his aunt. He looked at his
watch. It was forty-five
minutes until either West
Coast office opened for
the day. He hadn't considered
that his uncle would ever
leave Aunt Sarah. He looked
over at Moira, who sat peacefully
with her eyes closed, a
slight smile to her lips.
How casually people took
their marriages, it seemed.
Here he was, halfway around
the world with the woman
he loved and wanted to be
with more than anyone or
anything else. He couldn't
imagine why someone wouldn't
value their marriage. Then,
the image of Maggie hit
him square between the eyes
and he sank his head into
his hands. He'd forgotten
Maggie. He got up and took
a long, hot shower.
Still dripping and wrapped
in a terry bathrobe, he
dialed Seattle.
"Good morning, Marbanks
Architects." A familiar
voice came over the receiver.
Paul struggled to recall
the new receptionist's name.
"Alice! Hi, it's Paul.
Is Michael in?"
"Oh, Mr. Marbanks,
are you okay??? We didn't
know if you made it out
of San Francisco before
the earthquake!" Alice
exclaimed over the line.
"Francis told everybody
it was just about the time
your plane took off!"
Paul had been so preoccupied
with meeting Moira again
that he'd completely forgotten
to check in at the office.
If he had, he'd have known
about the earthquake right
away. He should talk to
Francis, his administrative
assistant. But Michael was
the one left in charge,
and would be the one to
receive any direct communication
from San Francisco.
"I'm in Delhi. I didn't
even know about the 'quake
until this morning."
Paul said into the phone.
"Well, we are so glad
you're okay," said
Alice, speaking as if she'd
told the office already.
Considering how loud her
voice could be at times,
she probably already had
by answering his phone call.
"I'll put you on to
Mr. Takatsuka. Hold, please."
"Paul! Man, it's so
good to hear your voice.
We didn't know if you’d
made it out of there or
not." Michael's voice
came strongly over the line.
"I'm fine. But I can't
get a line into San Francisco.
Have you heard from Star
Fleet?" Paul asked.
"Oh, yes. The Admiral
is alive and kicking. The
baseball stadium he was
in got pretty shook up,
but nothing can kill that
old buzzard." Michael
laughed. "Their office
building got a little damaged.
They're still assessing
it. And it messed up the
computer system bad, man.
Totally screwed everything."
"What about their backup?"
Paul automatically asked.
Backing up the day's data
was a closing ritual for
every Seattle employee.
"Well, Steve baby doesn't
run as tight a ship as you
do. Seems his administrative
assistant was new and not
entirely computer literate.
She maybe did back up once
a month, and the rest of
the office staff varied
with how often they did
it. Stephen's main files
are a disaster, as far as
they can tell. Each time
they start to look into
it, the power goes down.
It's bad news."
Paul whistled. "Well,
I won't tell Mr. Chakawarti
that. So how is communication
between the branches going?"
"It's touch and go.
Sometimes they can call
out, but we can't ever get
a line in. Several employees
who live in the suburbs
have been e-mailing us from
their homes. We've taken
on a lot of their projects.
It's a bitch, man."
He could hear Michael sipping
his coffee.
"Well, keep me informed.
Oh, and the next time you
get through to Star Fleet,
have the Admiral contact
me at the hotel. Anything
else, Number One?"
Paul asked.
"Nah, nothing that
can't wait until you get
back. Enjoy India man, work
on your tan. Find a guru."
Michael chuckled.
"Well, I've found someone
else, but I'll fill you
in when I get back."
Paul smiled.
"I can hardly wait.
Take care, okay? Oh, Francis
wants to talk to you."
Michael transferred the
phone over.
"Mr. Marbanks? Oh,
thank goodness you're all
right. I realize I should
have contacted the hotel
in New Delhi, but I didn't
think of it. I kept trying
to contact the airlines
in San Francisco and didn’t
get anywhere." Francis
sounded relieved.
"I'm fine, Francis.
Sorry I didn't contact you
-- I've been busy. How is
everything going?"
Paul asked with concern.
"Oh, like clockwork,
Mr. Marbanks. I just wanted
to tell you that I'm going
to change your airline reservation
to a direct flight back
to Seattle. The Bay Area
is still having aftershocks."
"Good thinking, ensign."
Francis laughed. "Well,
um, aye, aye Captain,"
she said gamely. Francis
was more of a Masterpiece
Theater fan herself; a lot
of the Star Trek jargon
went right over her head.
"See you soon."
Paul hung up the phone.
Moira opened her eyes and
stretched. Then she bent
forward and touched her
hands to the floor. Then
she sat back up and waved
at Paul who sat on the edge
of the bed in the other
room.
"How are things?"
she walked over to him.
"Oh, not as bad as
I feared. It sounds like
Star Fl -- I mean, the San
Francisco office is in kind
of a mess, but no one was
hurt, thank God. Since I
can't get hold of them directly,
I asked Michael to have
them contact me here. I'm
afraid that means no sightseeing
for today, at least. I'll
be hanging around here until
tomorrow morning."
Moira sat down near him.
"That's fine with me."
She hesitated, "I didn't
know Michael worked with
you now."
Paul was surprised. He hadn't
known she knew who Michael
was.
"Well, I'm assuming
he was your college buddy
who lived in Seattle. But
I think the last time we
were together he worked
for someone else. Am I right?"
"Yes. Michael's a good
friend, and my Number One
at the company. It was strange
you never met him when we
lived together." Paul's
stomach had butterflies
thinking about then.
"Well, we were pretty
wrapped up in each other."
Moira grinned and lay back
on the bed. She propped
her head up with her hand.
"You've changed a lot
over time," she mused.
Paul looked at her, "Ripened
like a fine wine? Or aged
like cheese?" He grinned.
"Oh, you were such
a cutie in DC." Moira
smiled as if it were yesterday
"A young hunk. So --
buff." She reached
out and touched his arm.
"In Seattle,"
she screwed up her face
as if trying to remember,
"you were still a hunk
but more ... of a person,
I think. I mean, you were
a more full person, you
know what I mean?"
"I think so,"
Paul didn't really understand
but he loved hearing Moira
talk about him. "And
what am I now, a flabby
old man?" he teased.
She laughed, slipped her
hand under his robe and
caressed his stomach. "Hardly.
I love your stomach. It's
not as rock hard as it used
to be, but it's not a potbelly,
either. It's," she
rolled over and kissed it
through his robe, "soft
and fuzzy and I like it."
Paul sensed his interest
rising, but he wanted to
keep talking. It seemed
like so many of their potential
conversations were sidetracked
by intense lovemaking. He
wanted to get to know this
woman that he felt so bonded
with. "And who do you
like best, the cute hunk,
the more full person or
the soft and fuzzy guy?"
She laughed, "Well,
you were really something
in Los--" she stuttered,
"I mean last night."
She reached up and touched
his cheek, "last night
you were really something.
But I love you each time,
so it's hard to favor one
time more than the other."
Paul reached out and stroked
her golden hair. "And
I've loved you from the
moment I first set eyes
on you."
"Nah, you didn't. It
was lust at first sight.
Simple, college-boy lust,"
she teased.
"No, Moira," Paul
held her head between his
hands, "I remember."
He gently kissed her forehead.
She cuddled up against him,
playing with the front of
his robe, softly fingering
his chest hair. "I
do, too."
He held her in his arms,
enjoying the gentle arousal
he was feeling. He kissed
the top of her head. "Moira,
do you remember us saying
something about cosmic timing?"
"Like it was yesterday,"
she grinned, rubbing her
chin against his shoulder.
"Well, do you think
that Fate, or the Universe,
or whatever, will ultimately
allow us to be together?"
"We're together now,"
she observed.
"No, I mean that we'll
be able to be together for
-- I don't know if I'd say
forever, but -- yeah, I'd
like it to be forever."
Paul’s his heart started
to beat a little harder.
She rolled over and looked
him in the eyes. "I
don't know what the Universe
has planned for us. It's
always a surprise to me.
I do know I can't go back
to Seattle when you're scheduled
to, though."
Paul's heart sank; a that
was what he'd been getting
to.
"Well, then, I'll just
have to accept being with
you now." He kissed
her on the lips. "And
pray for the future."
Rajinder picked them up
early the next morning and
drove them out through the
suburbs to the building
site. The houses and paved
roads gave way to fields
and dusty lanes, mud hut
villages with dung fires
burning, emaciated goats
and muddy pigs chased by
toddlers naked from the
waist down.
Mr. Chakawarti and his sons
were waiting for them by
a large field bordered by
tall trees and a stream.
He welcomed Paul and Moira
warmly and led them on a
walk around the site. He
explained to Paul that the
stream only existed at this
time of year, after the
monsoons. By December or
January it would return
to a dusty gully. Paul asked
perfunctory questions and
received an education about
building in India, glad
that he wasn't a contractor.
Paul and Mr. Chakawarti
stood out in the middle
of the field looking at
the plans, while the others
took refuge in the shade
of the trees. It was a productive
morning. By the time the
inspection was over they
had decided to divert the
stream away from the parking
area into a small lake behind
the building. An outdoor
sitting area and extra windows
for the lower floor restaurant
near the lake were added
to the plans as well. It
turned out that Mr. Chakawarti's
nephew was a landscape designer,
and they decided to hire
him to landscape the area.
Before the sun had reached
its midpoint in the sky,
they were on their way back
to Chakawarti and Son's
offices.
They finalized the contract
over lunch and made some
alterations to the previous
days' minutes as Paul pointed
out the several discrepancies
in them. Moira had little
to say or do, but it seemed
that her mere presence kept
their hosts well-behaved.
By two o'clock that afternoon,
Paul's business was done.
He had two days left in
India before his flight
back to Seattle.
Rajinder cheerfully took
them on a driving tour of
both old and New Delhi.
Weaving in and out of traffic,
dodging those ubiquitous
bullock carts and bicycle
cabs, he gave a little narrative
on the history as well as
the interesting sights.
It turned out that there
have been many Delhis. With
each successive ruler an
old one was abandoned and
a new one built, sometimes
in a different location,
sometimes on top of the
old city, so there were
many layers of history.
Paul’s face was glued
to the window.
American cities were infants
compared to Delhi; even
Washington, D.C. didn't
have the same depth of past.
It was so different from
anything he'd ever seen
or experienced. He glanced
over at Moira several times.
Most of the time she had
her eyes closed, meditating.
When her eyes were open,
she seemed to be looking
beyond all the people and
animals and things. He wondered
what she was seeing, and
how it differed from what
he saw. The driver pulled
up to Lodi Gardens and Tombs
and parked the car.
"Very, very beautiful
place," Rajinder said,
"you simply must take
a little walk. I will be
waiting here when you return."
He shooed them toward the
place, and went to join
some people he knew in the
shade of a young banyan
tree.
At the entrance to the gardens,
there was a young man with
a large cooler cart on wheels.
"Pani Wallah, Pani
Wallah," he cried.
"He's saying 'Water
Seller, Water Seller'."
Moira translated for Paul.
"That certainly doesn't
look like water." Moira
said to the Pani Wallah,
looking at his cart.
The very dark fellow flashed
white teeth. "Yes,
Mem-Sahib. I am selling
bottled water, very cold,
very delicious." He
held up two bottles of mineral
water with ice dripping
off them.
Paul reached into his pocket
for some rupees, but Moira
stayed his hand. "Have
you any cola or orange soda?"
"Certainly, Mem-Sahib."
He pulled out a bottle of
each.
Moira turned to Paul and
said, "I highly recommend
a brand name soda with a
cap that looks factory sealed."
Recalling the bit about
water at their first dinner,
Paul took her suggestion
quickly. They both purchased
sodas and went in through
the red-bricked walls to
the Lodi Gardens.
"They tend to make
their own mineral water,
or get it from the black
market. You'd find that
it would be less pure than
water from a tap on the
street," Moira said,
taking a sip of her soda
from a paper straw.
Paul nodded and looked back
at the Pani Wallah. "He's
darker than most of the
people around here. Is he
Indian, or from some place
else?"
"His accent was from
Madras." Moira said,
absently. "That's down
south towards the tip of
the continent. People are
fairer around here in the
north, and get progressively
browner as you get closer
to the equator. Well, you'd
find that anywhere -- Africa,
as well."
The Lodi gardens were well
kept, with vast stretches
of extremely short green
grass bordered by neat rows
of marigolds. There were
people sitting on the grass
having picnics here and
there, and a group of school
children in white shirts
and blue shorts or skirts
over by some leaning date
palms. Several were laughing
excitedly under one tree;
a schoolboy had climbed
halfway up and triumphantly
waved his arm in a cast
over his head.
"Look at that boy with
the broken arm!" Moira
said, "What would his
mother say if she saw him
climbing that way?"
Paul had to laugh, "Moira,
I've never heard you so
maternal!" She sounded
so like his own mother,
or his sister talking about
her own kids.
Moira glanced sharply at
him, and then grinned. "It
looks like boys will be
boys, no matter where in
the world you are!"
They walked to Mohammed
Shah's tomb, which Paul
recalled from his reading
as a prototype of later
Moghul tombs. With its octagonal
form, sloping buttresses
and projecting eaves, he
could see in its style the
design that would eventually
develop into the Taj Mahal.
He was absorbed in thought,
studying its lines and noting
the design of the brick,
when he realized Moira was
standing beside him, softly
laughing.
"Sorry," he said.
"It's the architect
in me."
"I know. But check
this out." Moira grabbed
him by the arm and led him,
not up the stairs into the
main part of the tomb, but
down through the darkened
tunnel beneath it.
A few yards into the tunnel,
they no longer had the daylight
behind them and Paul could
see nothing but blackness.
"Listen," whispered
Moira.
Paul strained his ears,
but detected nothing. Then
a slight wind blew through
the place, and there was
a rustling over his head.
Leaves? he thought, but
nothing could grow in this
darkness. Then a few squeaks
made the hairs on the back
of his neck stand up.
"Bats!" Paul croaked.
"Run!" Moira let
go of his hand, and took
off into the darkness.
Paul froze for a millisecond,
but the rustling of wings
jolted him into movement.
He raced after her footsteps,
with the image of thousands
of bats chasing him. Moments
later they were both out
in the glaring sunshine
again, and less than a dozen
winged rodents followed
them out of the tomb.
Moira held her sides, laughing.
Paul looked at her indignantly.
"That was not funny!"
Paul said hotly. "I
nearly wet my pants in there."
But Moira was so helpless
with laughter that Paul
had to join her. He gathered
her into his arms and kissed
her, her lips slightly salty
from perspiration. He noticed
how pale she was. They had
been in Delhi for three
days, and Paul already sported
a tan. Moira, who had been
going around in sleeveless
dresses and no suntan lotion
that Paul had noticed, remained
translucent -- although
her cheeks were slightly
flushed from laughing. If
her hair hadn't been golden,
and her eyes not blue, Paul
would have suspected she
an albino. She looked up
into his brown eyes.
"I love you."
She smiled a contented smile.
He rested his forehead against
hers. "I love you,"
he said, huskily, "with
all my heart and soul."
Rajinder took them the long
route back to their hotel,
so it was dark by the time
they arrived. He was on
loan to them for the next
two days, so they decided
to take a side trip to Agra
the next day. One couldn't
visit India without seeing
the Taj Mahal.
They left at dawn the
next morning, with box lunches
as the drive was going to
take several hours. It was
a long, dusty drive, and
Paul was grateful to be
in an air-conditioned car
as opposed to one of the
rickety tin buses that lumbered
by with people hanging out
the windows. It must be
like an oven inside one
of those, thought Paul.
The traffic was heavy the
entire way. Their car was
one of the swiftest vehicles
on the road, most people
being on bicycle or bullock
cart; even the buses were
making a top speed of only
35 miles an hour. But the
trucks came zooming by at
nearly a hundred miles per
hour, creating several hair-raising
incidents.
"I think the truck
drivers must get paid by
how quickly they deliver
their goods, not how far
they travel," Moira
commented, after one close
call that nearly drove them
off the road.
"They drive like they're
on drugs." Paul muttered.
"Oh, they probably
are." Moira said, matter-of-factly.
They arrived in the city
of Agra around noon. The
city itself, with its crowded
alleys and crazed rickshaw
riders, looked like an extension
of Delhi. They drove through
without stopping, munching
on their box lunches. The
road to the Taj Mahal passed
a golf course and many imposing
hotels.
Rajinder dropped them off
at the main gate and drove
away to find a petrol station.
Paul and Moira followed
the crowd through the main
gate’s red sandstone
arches and stopped to get
oriented inside. There was
a large pond with white
marbled lotus fountains
dotting its placid water.
Past a white stone bench,
steps went down to a long,
slender canal flanked by
cypress trees that led directly
to the base of the Taj Mahal
itself. It was a majestic
sight, with its central
white dome flanked by smaller
domes and minarets, all
standing out starkly against
the clear blue sky. Paul
started walking towards
it as if drawn by its spell,
not noticing the ornamental
gardens on either side.
It seemed to be pure white
until he got closer and
noticed the elaborate pattern
of white and dark marble
around its many arches.
He ascended the steps, pausing
to notice the semiprecious
stones inlaid in the walls.
Running his hand over the
cool marble, he felt it's
delicate ridges and outlines.
He found himself at one
of the doorways into the
tomb, surrounded by people
removing their sandals.
Paul looked around for
Moira. She was halfway up
the stairs behind him helping
a small, bent woman whose
white sari sash covered
her gray-white hair, scale
the steps. She looked up
and waved. It took a few
minutes for her to catch
up to him, while guards
in khaki uniforms kept gesturing
for him to remove his loafers.
"Thank you, my dear.
I am most grateful for your
kind assistance," the
elderly woman said in a
well-bred English accent.
"Oh, it was nothing.
Thank you for your charming
story." Moira smiled
and half bowed.
Then the woman disappeared
into the crowd and Moira
joined Paul.
"A missionary from
Lucknow." Moira explained
to Paul. "She's lived
here sixty years, but she's
originally from Brighton.
Oh, don't leave your shoes
here -- they mightn't be
here when you come out."
She picked Paul's expensive
loafers up from the ground
and stashed them in a plastic
shopping bag she'd had wadded
in her pocket. She slipped
off her chappel sandals
and added them to the bag.
Barefoot, they both wandered
into the tomb.
It was dark and cool inside,
even in the swarm of people.
The ceilings gracefully
curved upwards under the
soaring marble dome, with
light filtering in from
finely cut marble screens.
A tour guide demonstrated
the echo in this high chamber,
his voice going round and
round and fading into the
air.
Paul wanted to stand there
and study its lines and
arches forever. He moved
from one side to another,
noticing how the view changed
with each different angle.
Finally he felt Moira's
hand slip into his.
"I'd like to see the
Red Fort before we head
back." she whispered.
Reluctantly, Paul left with
her, realizing that one
day wasn't long enough for
him to absorb the beauty
of the place. He would have
liked to see its exterior
in the morning light, and
wished he could stay to
see the sunset. But the
Red Fort would be another
visual feast, so they slipped
their shoes back on and
went to find Rajinder.
Their well-rested chauffeur
(they found him sleeping
in the car with the motor
running to power the air
conditioning) was only too
pleased to drive them up
the road along the river
to the Red Fort. A sprawling,
sandstone structure of many
turrets and domes and stairs,
it was quite a climb to
get inside. By this time
of day, Paul wasn't that
interested in architecture,
but more in enjoying wandering
the ruins hand in hand with
Moira.
Paul took Moira's hands.
"If you can't come
home with me, then I'll
stay here with you. My visa
is good for fifteen days.
If you need to stay longer,
I'll extend it."
Moira shook her head. "How
about your work, Paul? Won't
they need you back in the
States?"
"Oh, they're managing
now, they can manage a bit
longer. What are your plans
after Delhi?"
Holding his hand, Moira
started walking towards
the edge of the Fort. "Well,
I was thinking it might
be a nice break to go up
to Srinager." She looked
over at him. "That's
in Kashmir, the foothills
of the Himalayas. So it's
cooler up there than here."
She grinned. "I'm thinking
of renting a houseboat.
Or maybe I'll go over to
Bombay. I really miss the
ocean." Her voice trailed
off as they came to a slit
in the wall. Through it
they could see the Yamuna
River and, farther down,
the Taj Mahal.
"Did you know there
could have been two Taj
Mahals?" Moira traced
her fingers over the reddish
stone wall.
"No, I didn't."
The view distracted Paul
from their other conversation.
"Well, the Shah Jahan
built the white Taj Mahal
as a resting place for his
wife, and nearly bankrupted
his Shahdom or whatever
you call it. It's been described
as the most extravagant
monument ever built for
love." She grinned
at Paul. "Then he started
to build an identical one,
only in black marble, for
himself. So his son had
him imprisoned here for
the rest of his life, looking
out at the tomb of his beloved."
They came to a secluded
grassy nook and sat down
for a rest. The sun beat
mercilessly down on them
and Paul considered the
possibility of both of them
coming down with heat stroke.
" ‘Mad dogs and
Englishmen go out in the
midday sun’."
Moira brushed a strand of
hair from her eyes. She'd
braided her hair into one
thick braid and pinned it
up on her head to get it
off her neck. Sweat glistened
on her white shoulders.
"Well, I'm not English
and it's not noon anymore
but I know what you mean."
Paul said. "I wonder
if we should go check out
one of the restaurants in
those hotels, just to get
out of the sun."
"You know, we have
the driver until tomorrow.
We could check into one
of those hotels and see
the Taj Mahal again at dawn,
before going back up to
Delhi." Moira leaned
back on her elbows in the
grass.
"We don't have a change
of clothes." Paul did
not like the idea of having
to wear the sweat-soaked
clothes he had on for the
rest of the afternoon, much
less having to put them
back on tomorrow.
"Oh, we can give them
to the Dhobi Wallah at the
hotel, and they can have
them back to us freshly
laundered in the morning,"
Moira said, brightly. "Who
needs clothes in the hotel
room."
"Dhobi Wallah -- is
that laundry service? What
a brilliant idea! What are
we waiting for?" Paul
wondered if old Rajinder
had used up his tank of
gas running the air conditioner
while he waited for them.
They headed back down towards
the car.
Rajinder was happy to drive
them to a hotel for the
night. It turned out he
had family in Agra that
he could stay with until
the morning.
Paul chose the hotel with
the most elegant exterior.
It was fashioned after the
Red Fort, with thick vines
creeping down the brickwork
of its facade. It turned
out to be the most expensive
of all the five-star hotels
there, but Paul didn't care.
If he couldn't buy Moira
anything, at least he could
give her the gift of a night
in the best hotel in Agra.
"I reserved us the
Moghul Chamber Exclusive,"
Paul told her as he walked
away from the front desk.
"It has the best view
in the hotel."
"Well, let's go and
peel out of these clothes.
How about room service for
dinner?" Moira took
his arm as they entered
the elevator.
"I'll give you room
service." Paul said
under his breath and they
got on the elevator with
a group of Japanese tourists.
Their room turned out to
be a suite grand enough
for the Shah Jahan himself,
with a huge picture window
overlooking the Taj and
the Yamuna behind it. An
overstuffed couch with silk
cushions sat facing it,
and Paul plopped himself
down.
"I'm getting old,"
he groaned. "Every
muscle in my body aches."
Moira came up behind him
and started kneading his
shoulders. "Well, you
can call the concierge to
send up a masseuse if you'd
like," she said. "This
place has everything you
could dream of -- they're
giving elephant and camel
rides around the grounds,
and they even have an in-house
astrologer."
"Mmm. Forget the masseuse,
nothing could feel as good
as what you're doing to
me right now." Paul
flopped his head back so
he could look up at her.
"We could have our
astrological charts done.
We could see if we're star-crossed
or soulmates or whatever."
Moira hesitated for a moment,
and smiled down at him.
"We don't need any
charts to tell us that."
She leaned down and kissed
him. "Why don't we
give our clothes to the
Dhobi Wallah and go check
out the Jacuzzi tub in the
bathroom?"
With their clothes on the
way to the laundry, Paul
and Moira relaxed in a bathroom
that was as regal as the
suite itself. There were
gold fixtures and pink tiles,
plush burgundy towels, and
a spa bathtub that looked
like it could seat eight.
"You could swim in
here." Paul plunged
in. Moira slipped in beside
him.
"Ooh. Nice and hot.
Let's not do the air jets
-- it makes the temperature
drop." She lay back
into the steaming bath.
Paul admired the way her
breasts floated, nipples
barely peeking out of the
water. He noticed by the
faucet a little wicker basket
with complimentary shampoo
and also a tiny bottle of
bubble bath. He reached
over and grabbed the bubble
bath.
"No air jets, yes bubbles!"
he exclaimed, and emptied
the contents under the running
water.
"Paul!" she squealed,
"I think that stuff's
concentrated!" A huge
volume of foam appeared.
Soon white bubbles covered
the whole surface of the
tub six inches thick. Paul
regretted adding the stuff;
he couldn't see Moira's
body in the water any more.
Obligingly, she sat up,
bubbles sliding off her
wet skin, and slid over
to him.
"Mm." She rubbed
her body against his firmness.
"I didn't think you
could do that in hot water.
Or is it cold water?"
"Moira, you could raise
the dead in any temperature."
Paul sputtered over the
bubbles.
He slipped his arms around
her and drew her close.
The action squished the
foam between them and set
off little bubbles floating
through the air. She giggled
and buried her face in his
neck. He had bubbles stuck
to his beard, and made a
mental note to shave the
damn thing off. Then Moira
started to massage his shoulder
blades with her fingertips,
each touch releasing little
knots of tension from his
tight muscles.
"Ahh, ahh," Paul
moaned, torn between wanting
to melt into the water and
wanting to rise and take
action. Her hands moved
down to his lower back,
where he hadn't even known
he was tight. It felt odd
to have all the muscles
in his lower body relax
-- except the six-inch one.
She gripped his buttocks
and kneaded them, but then
her fingers crept around
to the crack between them.
That was invitation enough.
Paul grabbed Moira's waist
and lifted her out of the
water. She slid up the front
of his body until her breasts
were in his face.
"Dinner!" He ravenously
began to suck one breast
and then the other. Her
hands clutched his shoulders
for support, while her legs
gripped his torso. She made
little cooing sounds in
her throat. He could feel
her crotch, hot and wet,
pressing against him, pushing
into him as he stimulated
her nipples with his hard
tongue. She cried out with
pleasure when he lowered
her down on him. As entered
her, her muscles gripped
him, as if pulling him in.
There was no stopping her
then; she began to pulsate
against him, driving herself
into him over and over again.
Paul found himself pinned
against the edge of the
tub while she satisfied
her raging desire. As she
began to climax, Paul felt
himself drawn with her,
his own passion surging
as hers erupted. A few final
thrusts and he joined her
in ecstasy. A shuddering
moment of paralysis; total
release; and then they both
melted into the steaming,
sudsy water.
The sun was beginning to
set when they came out of
the bathroom wrapped in
thick, burgundy bath towels.
Through the picture windows
they could see the white
surface of the Taj Mahal
tinged in pink. Even the
air was a hazy pink, blurring
the outlines of things.
They sat on the couch, watching
the colors change as the
sun went down.
"You know, I've loved
you from the moment I first
saw you crossing the street
in D.C. From before I'd
even seen your face."
Paul smiled at the memory.
"For me, it was my
first kiss." Moira
smiled nostalgically, also.
"Our first kiss? In
Dumbarton Oaks?" Paul
tried to recall Moira's
reaction to his kissing
her then.
Moira giggled girlishly.
"It was a very good
kiss."
Paul's heart contracted.
He found himself asking,
“Why me?"
"Why you what?"
Moira nuzzled against him.
"Why me of all the
men in the world?"
He did not want to use a
lot of words.
"Why me of all the
women in the world?"
He could feel her eyeing
him quizzically.
"Why you? Moira, you
are unlike any other woman
I have ever met. It would
be impossible not to fall
in love with you. But me,"
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm just a regular
guy. Nothing special. Why
would a woman like you even
give me a second glance?"
Moira's jaw dropped open.
"Paul, what a question!"
She sat up straight. "You
are not a regular guy to
me." Her gaze took
in all of him. "Besides
being strong and tall and
dashingly handsome”
-- she smiled at the way
she'd made him squirm --
"you are kind, and
gentle, and big-hearted."
Paul started to turn his
head away in embarrassment,
but she took his chin in
her hand and made him look
at her. "And the most
wonderful lover." She
softly kissed his lips.
"You are definitely
special." She kissed
him again. "I love
being with you. I love how
I feel beside you. I love
your energy." She looked
towards the now bluish-purple
Taj Mahal. "You are
the only man I have ever
loved and ever will love,"
she whispered as if confessing
a deep, dark secret.
Paul wrapped his strong
arms around her and kissed
the top of her head. "And
you are the only woman I
have ever loved and ever
will love," he vowed
to her.
They had requested an early
wake-up call, because Paul
wanted to see the Taj Mahal
one more time when it opened
at 6:00 AM. There was one
little problem: the Dhobi
Wallah wouldn't be returning
their clothes until 8:00
AM.
"We could wear the
bed sheets," Moira
joked. "If you wrap
them the right way, they
look like a traditional
Indian woman's sari or man's
dhoti."
Paul shook his head. "I
don't think so. I could
just see the whole thing
dropping around my ankles
if I so much as sneezed."
Moira gave him an admiring
look. "Ooo. I'd like
to see that."
"I'd like to see you
wrapped up in one of these."
He got out of bed and headed
towards the bathroom.
"But seriously, could
you call the Concierge and
see what they can do about
getting our clothes? I want
to get to the Taj as early
as possible."
"Can do," he heard
her say as he shut the bathroom
door behind himself.
Paul took a little longer
with his morning ablutions
as he had decided to use
the complimentary plastic
razor and shaving cream.
Halfway through, he wondered
if he should have warned
Moira that he was going
to shave off his beard.
Then he wondered if he should
at least have warned her
that he was going to take
so long in the bathroom.
With his face half bare
and half covered with shaving
cream, he stuck his head
out of the bathroom to tell
her what he was doing. The
room was empty.
"Moira?" He stepped
into the room. Then he heard
the door handle move and,
being undressed, he stepped
back behind the bathroom
door, peeking out through
the crack.
Moira came in, dressed in
a pure gold sari and carrying
some clothing. She was stunningly
beautiful. The little gold
shirt came down just below
her breasts, baring her
midriff, and her hips and
legs were swaddled in yards
and yards of shimmering
spun gold, with one end
swept up and over her shoulder.
Her hair was in a thick
braid down her back, and
he noticed the color blended
with her sari. Paul wanted
to say something as she
hadn't noticed him, but
words wouldn't come out
of his mouth. He noticed
he was dripping shaving
cream down his front onto
the floor, so he ducked
back into the bathroom and
finished shaving as quickly
as possible.
When he came out, he was
surprised to see Moira sitting
on the couch wrapped in
the burgundy towel from
last night. What had happened
to the sari?
She looked up at him in
surprise. "Your face!
It's naked!"
Paul instinctively touched
his own face. "Oh,
uh, sorry -- I should have
warned you. I just couldn't
stand it anymore, with the
heat and all. Does it look
okay?"
"It looks very sexy."
She walked over to him and
touched his face. "I
like it."
"Uh, speaking of naked
-- " Paul began, looking
down at her towel.
"Oh, our clothes aren't
here yet. The concierge
said he couldn't reach the
Dhobi Wallah, but I managed
to get him to send up these
clothes from the gift shop
in the lobby. It's not open
yet, but they got these
especially."
Paul looked down at the
matching T shirt and shorts
with the logo of the hotel
on them. Two sets -- one
for him and one for her.
"Uh, they sent these
up? But what about the sari?"
Moira gave him a shocked
look. "What?"
In his head Paul heard Moira's
voice from the other day,
'I will never lie to you,
I will answer your questions
as honestly as I can, but
there are some things I'm
... not at liberty to answer'.
Well, she'd better answer
this question.
"I saw you come into
the room wearing a sari,
a gold sari. It looked exquisite
-- where is it?" Paul
demanded, looking around.
Moira looked around the
room, not so much for the
sari as for an answer. Then
she looked back at him.
"Are you sure you saw
me wearing a sari?"
As she asked, doubt entered
Paul's mind. "Well,
yes, I think so." Or
had it been some kind of
vision? "I mean, I
stuck my head out of the
bathroom to tell you I was
shaving off my beard. You
weren't there, and then
you came into the room wearing
a sari. I'm sure I saw it,
I mean, if I didn't see
it, what did I see?"
Now he was beginning to
babble and doubt his sanity
at the same time.
Moira reached up and smoothed
his forehead and temple.
The motion cleared away
his concern for his sanity
as well, and he felt oddly
at peace inside, as if he'd
accept any answer from her,
however strange. Maybe he
just dreamed her in a sari.
Maybe she was wearing a
sari and it disappeared.
She smiled at him. "Maybe
you saw me and maybe you
didn't," she said softly.
"Does it matter?”
Suddenly it didn't matter.
It was just one of those
mysteries about her that
wasn't going to be answered,
right away at least; one
of those incidents with
her that wasn't going to
be explained. He had to
file it in his mind under
"acceptance",
and let it go.
They both dressed in the
tee shirts and shorts and
got ready to go to the Taj
Mahal.
"We look like the Bobsey
Twins," Paul teased.
Moira responded, "Or
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle
Dum."
When they got there, the
gates had just opened and
there were very few people
about. It was magical, wandering
through the gardens in the
early morning mist. The
Taj gave off a rosy aura
as the first morning rays
gently touched it.
Paul whispered to Moira,
"This is Islamic, isn't
it? So do they call their
early morning prayers from
those minarets?"
Moira shook her head. "The
Taj Mahal can't be used
as a mosque; it doesn't
face Mecca."
Going inside was a completely
different experience from
the day before. With the
building nearly empty, it
was easier to study its
graceful symmetry and beautiful
inlaid patterns without
any jostling or pushing.
This time they were able
to explore the other areas
inside including the tombs
of Shah Jahan and his wife
in the basement (as opposed
to the false tombs in the
main chamber). They found
they were unable to go up
any of the minarets, for
bats congested the stairways.
Paul and Moira wandered
out onto the marble platform
and around behind the Taj
for a view of the Yamuna
River. The atmosphere was
one of total serenity, total
peace.
Something happened to Paul
as he stood there next to
Moira at the base of the
Taj Mahal, watching the
Yamuna River and the countryside
beyond slowly awaken in
growing sunlight. It was
hard to put into words;
it was more of a spiritual
feeling. He didn't think
of it as enlightenment,
for he didn't feel lighter.
Quite the opposite: he felt
more solid and more real.
Perhaps it was an awakening,
as he did feel fully awake
and alert to his surroundings.
It was as if he became aware
of everything at once. The
world around him seemed
vibrantly alive -- even
the trees and the marble
beneath him. All things
seemed clear and sharply
defined. It wasn't the light;
they were standing in the
shadows and the mist was
still rolling off the river.
It seemed like more of an
internal focus. He turned
and looked at Moira, who
simply stood there, with
a slight smile on her lips,
taking in the beauty of
it all. She was there, really
there. She was real. None
of this was an illusion;
it was all really happening.
His whole body felt alive,
as if he could feel every
nerve ending, every molecule
tingling. His bare feet
were firm against the marble
floor; he felt connected
to it. He opened his mouth
to speak, and then he felt
light-headed, so much so
that he thought he was going
to fall over. Then Moira
turned and put her hand
on his shoulder, which immediately
steadied him.
"Too much of a good
thing, huh?" she asked,
breaking the spell.
"Uh, yeah. You know,
I just realized we skipped
breakfast. Maybe I just
need something to eat."
It was time to go. They
returned to the hotel to
pick up their clothes, grab
a bite, and check out. There
was much more to see in
Agra, but Paul sensed the
need to return to Delhi,
so they hit the road.
It seemed to take more time
going back to Delhi than
it did coming to Agra. Perhaps
the sights were no longer
new. Paul's thoughts weren't
on the countryside now;
they were on work. More
importantly, how to reschedule
his work so that he could
remain in India with Moira,
for however long she was
going to be there. After
a while he had to give it
up, because there were just
so many conversations he
could have in his head with
Uncle Stephen, Michael and
Francis. He couldn't predict
how the office was doing
in his absence, or what
plans his Uncle had in mind
for him. So he turned to
Moira and asked her to elaborate
on her ideas where to go
next.
"Well, I'd like to
take the train. It would
be fun to try traveling
by train in this country,"
she mused. "I'd really
like to see Bombay, and
the ocean, but the mountains
are looking more and more
appealing."
"You said something
about a houseboat?"
"Yes, in Srinager,
you can rent these beautiful
houseboats to stay on Lake
Dal, where they have the
most wonderful floating
gardens. But further north,
there's this village called
Pahalgam, and you can camp
and go hiking..." her
voice trailed away. "Remember
hiking in the Olympics?"
Paul suddenly saw the mountain
hot springs where they'd
spent a leisurely afternoon.
"Oh, yes, oh yes I
do," he smiled nostalgically.
"So I don't have any
firm plans yet. Maybe all
the houseboats are booked;
maybe the weather is too
cold in October up there.
I'm not going to make any
decisions until you leave
town."
"Well, I may not leave
town," Paul said. "I'm
going to see if I can wrangle
a few extra days out of
this trip. How long are
you planning to be in India?"
Moira's smile brightened
at the thought of Paul staying
on then faded with his last
question, shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't really know."
"Would you be open
to coming back to Seattle
with me when you're done
here?" A little seed
of anxiety grew in his stomach.
Don't say no!
Moira looked at him directly.
Her eyes were bottomless
pools. "There's nothing
I would like to do more
in the whole world than
to go back to Seattle with
you. But I'm afraid I'll
probably be assigned somewhere
else."
"Then do you have an
address, some way I can
keep in touch with you?"
Paul fought to keep some
future connection to her,
and to the way he felt right
now. "An APO, even
a work number?"
She tenderly touched his
newly shaven cheek. "Oh,
Paul. All I can tell you
is that you will meet me
again, but that I can't
stay in contact with you
after we leave India."
"Are you married?"
Paul bluntly grasped for
a reason he could understand.
Her eyes widened in surprise
and Paul immediately felt
guilty for even suggesting
it. Of course she wouldn't
be married. She had many
secrets to her, but none
of them seemed dishonest.
Besides, he didn't even
want to consider that she
could be married to anyone
other than him. She shook
her head no in response
to his question, but it
wasn't necessary.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I-- I guess I'll have to
accept what little time
I can have with you here,
and have faith that we'll
be together in the future."
Paul's shoulders slumped.
She slid across the seat
and rested against him.
He put his arm around her
and kissed the top of her
head. Well, he had her now,
and probably for another
week or two, if he could
swing it. Instead of torturing
himself with visions of
returning alone to the States,
he decided to concentrate
on enjoying his time with
her now, at this moment.
They arrived in at the Ashoka
in Delhi shortly before
lunch. Paul found a stack
of messages waiting for
him at the front desk: several
from Michael, several from
Francis, one from Mr. Chakawarti,
and about fifty from Uncle
Stephen. He heaved a deep
sigh and went up to the
room to return their calls.
"You have reached Marbanks
Architects. Our office hours
are from 8:30 am to 5:30
PM. If you know the extension
of the person whom you wish
to dial..."
"Shit. What time is
it in San Francisco?"
He started to hang up the
phone.
"Hello, hello?"
A voice cut in on the answering
machine.
"Oh, hello. This is
Paul Marbanks of the Seattle
office, and I'm calling
from India, so I have no
idea what time it is there."
"Oh, hi, Paul. I'm
Bob Seller, I met you before
you left." Bob was
one of Stephen's right hand
men. "It's about eleven
thirty at night here. I'm
pulling an all-nighter trying
to get caught up with the
mess around here. You know,
Stephen's in the hospital."
"No! I didn't, what
happened? Was it the quake?"
Paul exclaimed.
"Nah, it's surgery
on his disc. But he's laid
up there and we're all,
well, running around like
chickens with our heads
cut off. We've had to send
work up to Seattle, you
know."
"Oh, yes, Michael said
that would probably happen."
Paul saw his extended stay
in India evaporating. "Well,
is there anything you can
tell me regarding why my
Uncle has left about fifty
messages for me?"
The man chuckled, "Fifty
sounds about par for Stephen.
He probably wants to get
you back here as soon as
possible so he can send
even more work up to Seattle."
"Is that necessary,
or will you guys be able
to handle things for a week
or so?" Paul hoped
he could postpone his own
work that long.
"Ahhh, I can't say.
I'm just digging out of
the piles of paperwork on
my own desk, and trying
to reconstruct my hard drive.
Sorry I can't help you."
"That's all right.
I'll call Seattle. I hope
I can get my Number One,
er, main architect at home,
and not at work."
"Good luck. Seattle's
probably even busier than
we are, since you guys are
handling your own stuff
and our extra stuff as well,"
Bob said, and they hung
up.
Coral answered the phone
when Paul called.
"Sorry to call so late,
Coral. I hope I'm not waking
you up. Is Michael there?
I'm returning his calls."
"Oh, Paul, he's downstairs
at the computer. He'll be
so glad to hear from you!"
He heard Coral put the phone
down and then call down
to her husband.
"Paul!" Michael
came on the line. "Any
way you can cut your trip
short?"
Paul was taken aback. "Well,
my flight leaves tomorrow.
How much shorter do you
want it?" Paul suddenly
feared he'd have to leave
that night.
"Nah, I guess that's
soon enough. We're sinking,
man. We need you bad. I'm
an architect, not an administrator.
I can't handle this shit.
We have all these jobs coming
in from California. At first
they were only sending the
international stuff. I can
handle the international.
But now we have this California
stuff. There are only two
guys in the office who know
the building codes and regulations
in California, and they're
so busy answering everybody
else's questions, they can't
do their own work. It's
a zoo." Michael stopped
to take a breath.
"Okay, Michael, here's
what you do. Until I get
back, postpone all jobs
that can wait a week, but
make our own clients the
priority. As far as California
is concerned, I'm sure the
clients there can understand
the impact of the earthquake.
But if there is stuff from
there that can't wait, pull
the California guys off
their own projects; reassign
the projects if you have
to, and have them act as
full-time consultants. How's
that?"
"Perfect, man, just
perfect," Michael sounded
relieved.
"Now, I have messages
here from Francis. Is she
calling about the same thing?
Do you know?"
"Probably. No, wait;
she wanted to remind you
something about your airline
ticket. I can't remember
what it is. Better call
the airline, because she
changed it, right?"
Michael said.
"To Seattle instead
of San Francisco, that's
right. Oh, I’ll bet
that changes my departure
time. Well, I know my next
call. Hang in there, Number
One. I'll be back soon,"
Paul assured him, and put
the receiver down.
Moira lay on the bed opposite
him, watching him with a
sad smile on her face.
Paul looked at her and sighed.
"Well, I guess it's
just not meant to be."
He couldn't face another
phone call at that moment.
He crawled across the bed
and rested his face in her
stomach. She stroked his
hair. The phone rang.
"I'll get it."
She picked up the receiver.
"Hello, yes, er, this
is Mrs. Marbanks. Oh, Mrs.
Chakawarti, how lovely to
speak to you. Yes, dinner
tonight? I'm sure that would
be delightful. I'll talk
to my … husband. Yes,
we just got back from Agra...
Oh, it was magnificent.
Thank you for the generous
loan of your driver... Yes,
we just picked up our messages
and there's one here from
your husband…? Oh,
he was calling about dinner
so there's no need to call
back... Yes, you'll send
Rajinder at 6:30? Thank
you, we're looking forward
to it. We'll see you tonight."
She hung up the phone. "Paul,
we're going to have a home-cooked
Indian dinner at the Chakawarti's."
"Great," grumbled
Paul, his face still in
her stomach. He wanted to
hide there and hope that
all the business troubles
would magically disappear.
"Paul. Call the airlines.
It would help to know exactly
how much time we have left
together so we can spend
it enjoyably, and not moping."
Moira sounded gentle, but
firm.
Like a schoolboy ordered
to do homework, Paul pulled
himself up, grabbed his
ticket from his jacket pocket,
and called the local number
printed on it.
"Hello, I'd like to
confirm my flight out from
Delhi to Seattle tomorrow
morning. Paul Marbanks...
Yes, it was changed from
San Francisco to Seattle.
Does that change the departure
time?… Oh, one thirty.
One thirty in the afternoon?…
What? One thirty in the
morning? What time to I
have to be at the airport?…
Two hours for international
travel? Are there any other
flights?… Only 11:55
PM tonight or tomorrow night?
No, no I guess not."
Paul hung up the phone.
Moira sighed and crossed
her arms across her chest.
"One thirty in the
morning, huh? I should have
known."
Paul looked at her. "Any
way we could skip the Chakawarti's?"
Moira shook her head. "I
wouldn't recommend it. That
would be extremely rude,
after they've loaned us
their driver for most of
our trip. Let's just get
you packed, and make the
best of it. We have six,
no five hours before Rajinder
picks us up."
Paul was in shock. He thought
he'd have one more day with
Moira, but now it was a
just few more hours. He
felt like a man given a
five to live. How do you
make the most of five hours,
without obsessing about
the hours to come after
that?
Moira put her arms around
him and held him.
"How can I do this,
Moira? How can I get on
a plane and leave you behind?"
His voice filled with agony.
Moira said nothing, but
began to gently rock him,
and gave his head little
kisses. Paul complied for
a little while, but then
rose up with all his strength.
He pushed her down onto
the bed and rolled on top
of her. He kissed her hard
and full on the mouth. He
found her yielding and open
to him. All his frustration,
all his anxiety came erupting
to the surface, and he poured
it into crude kisses and
groping. Moira received
his tormented passion willingly,
seeming not to absorb his
pain and rage, but letting
it pass through her. Amazingly,
his roughness aroused her
quickly, and she came the
moment he entered her. Her
rapturous cries surprisingly
soothed his own anguish,
and he found in his own
orgasm an emotional release.
They lay quietly for a while,
Moira shivering under him
with little spasms as she
finished.
"Are ... you okay?"
Paul worried that he'd hurt
her in some way.
"No, no, just ... aftershocks."
Moira whispered blissfully.
Paul propped himself up
on his elbows and looked
down at her. Her cheeks
were glowing and a rosy
pink flush spread across
her chest. "I was afraid
I was being too rough."
"God, no. That was
-- mind-blowing. The earth
moved," she laughed
weakly. "What a going-away
gift to give a girl."
"Well, I'll see if
I can give you a few more.
Heck, we have hours until
dinner!" Paul lay down
beside her.
"If I survive until
dinner. I don't know if
I could handle any more
'little deaths' like the
last one." Moira laughed,
curling up next to him.
"But what a way to
go." Paul kissed her.
The Chakawarti's lived
in the exclusive section
of Haus Kaus. It was an
enclave of large houses,
each surrounded by six foot
brick walls. A chowkidar,
security guard, met them
at the gate. The house was
white stucco, with pink
trim and a pink tile roof.
A small pond crossed by
bridge was beside the patio.
The sweeper bearer met them
at the door, and showed
them in to the main room
where Sahib Chakawarti and
Mem Sahib were sitting.
"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Marbanks,
I am so pleased you are
able to come to our humble
home," Mr. Chakawarti
said. "I understand
that you have a departing
flight very early tomorrow
morning, so I will make
sure that Rajinder takes
you back to your hotel with
good timing." He shook
Paul's hand warmly. "May
I present to you Mrs. Anjuli
Chakawarti, my wife?"
Mrs. Chakawarti was a foot
shorter than her husband,
and a foot wider, too. "We
are so terribly pleased
to have you both here. My
husband has been telling
me all about you. Especially
you, Mrs. Marbanks, you
have made quite an impression
on him."
"Please, call me Moira,"
Moira shook her hand warmly.
"What a lovely home
you have here. Is this where
you raised your sons?"
"And are still raising
them," Mrs. Chakawarti
replied. "Besides the
boys you already met who
are in business with their
father, and our daughters
in the United States, we
have six other children
still in school. Let me
present them." She
clapped her hands and the
sweeper bearer appeared.
"Tell the Ayah to show
in the children."
A capable, middle-aged woman
in a white sari appeared.
There were six children
ranging from four to fourteen
following her. All were
clean and neatly dressed.
The boys wore blue shorts
or trousers, depending on
their age, with white button-up
shirts. The girls had on
tight cotton leggings under
knee-length cotton dresses
with three quarter-length
sleeves, each with a light,
gauzy scarf across her neck.
They bowed politely and,
given permission to play
outside, scampered away
with the Ayah hurrying after
them. Mr. Chakawarti took
Paul aside to show him the
books in his library, while
Moira joined Mrs. Chakawarti
at the window, watching
the children play.
"Quite a handful,"
Moira observed.
Mrs. Chakawarti laughed.
"Oh, yes, my children
have a lot of spunk. This
is the fourth Ayah they've
been through this year.
They just wear them out,
my dear."
Paul stood by Mr. Chakawarti
while he showed off his
extensive library, straining
to hear what Moira and Mrs.
Chakawarti were talking
about in the other room.
It seemed to be child rearing.
Paul wanted to know what
Moira knew or thought on
the subject far more than
he wanted to hear about
Mr. Chakawarti's complete
works and first editions.
Then another servant, the
Bearer (apparently a step
up from the sweeper bearer)
appeared and relayed the
message that Cook announced
dinner was served.
The Chakawartis and Paul
and Moira went into the
dining room, where the table
was set for eight. The younger
children had already finished
their tea, really an early
dinner, and were being sent
off to bed. The ones older
than ten were permitted
to dine with the guests.
Dinner was an amazing experience.
Dish after dish was set
upon the table, a mingling
of scents and visual delights.
The children dutifully spoke
when spoken to, showing
off a remarkable amount
of knowledge in response
to their parents' specific
questions. Paul asked a
question directly to the
oldest daughter, who blushed
and looked down, while her
brother piped up an answer.
The parents seemed pleased.
Moira complimented Mrs.
Chakawarti on the menu,
and she flushed with pride.
Paul looked at the Indian
family, and everything seemed
so… orderly. All the
children well-behaved, each
one having their place in
the family and acting within
expectations. The parents
were appropriately proud,
and the children appropriately
happy. He thought of his
own childhood, where his
father dominated the dinner
table, firing questions
to the kids to see if they
were listening. His sister
Susan always knew the answers,
and Paul was always daydreaming.
He looked at Moira. What
would it have been like,
if they had been together
all this time? Would they
have six children? Would
they be happy?
He caught himself on that
last train of thought. Six
children?!?! What a ridiculous
idea. Then Mr. Chakawarti
caught his attention with
questions about business,
and Paul pushed the thought
away.
The evening ended very pleasantly,
with Paul realizing that
the dinner had been an astute
political move. He had unconsciously
said several complimentary
things about his uncle and
the business, and could
see Mr. Chakawarti now considered
Marbanks Architects a solid
associate to his company.
As Rajinder drove them to
the hotel, Paul asked Moira
a question.
"When I used the rest
room by the front door,
I noticed it had an extra
door to the outside itself.
Why is that?" He was
so tired, having been up
before dawn and with the
drive back from Agra (not
to mention the afternoon's
exercise) he couldn't believe
he was even interested.
"Oh, that's from the
days when the Untouchables
cleaned the toilets. The
Untouchable caste couldn't
enter through the front
door and interact with the
other servants, so they
had to have separate doors
for the toilets. I think."
Moira said.
They got to the hotel in
time for Paul to pick up
his bags and catch a cab
to the airport. He quickly
dismissed the thought of
having Moira come with him
to see him off. He didn't
like the idea of leaving
her in the airport at one-thirty
in the morning. They stood
on the steps of the Ashoka
to say good-bye.
Paul thought his heart would
break. He could not be doing
this, and yet he was. He
was the one who was leaving
now, not her. He had so
much he wanted to say; where
could he begin?
"I hate leaving you
like this. We're just getting
to know each other again.
I wish there were some way
we could have a normal relationship."
Paul stopped himself in
frustration.
"I wish we could, too,
Paul darling. It just doesn't
seem meant to be."
Moira's eyes echoed his
own pain.
"I remember my Aunt
Sarah telling me once that
life doesn't happen according
to our personal plan; that
a power greater than ourselves
calls the shots. At the
time I was still living
in D.C. and very anti-religious,
so I dismissed what she
said as being `Californian,'"
Paul's smile was more like
a grimace. "Maybe India
has gotten to me, but I'm
beginning to understand
what she meant. Do you think
some higher power is behind
all this, and that the timing
of us being together is
out of our hands?"
Moira smiled at him. "I
know that all things occur
according to a higher plan,
which I'm not always aware
of. And I accept that, if
we are meant to be together,
we will be together. Unfortunately,
neither you nor I get to
control the timing.”
The cab driver coughed noisily
and looked at his watch.
"Well, I guess this
is good-bye," Paul
felt his heart sinking in
despair.
"Until we meet again."
Moira kissed him.
Until we meet again. Until
we meet again. Until we
meet again. The words echoed
in his head all the way
to the airport.
*****MOIRA'S TRANSMISSION********************************************
ASSIGNMENT 328: SAN FRANCISCO/NEW
DELHI, 1989
Hello!
Thank you for this assignment.
I am so grateful for this
experience! Now I see that
my previous 'overstays'
were all part of the Infinite
Plan. I wish I had known
how to compensate for the
imbalance in Nature before.
I am learning and understanding
Unconditional Love and Acceptance.
I await my next assignment.
Response:
Dear One:
You are most welcome. Be
aware of time and space
when dealing with linear
Human Beings. Their bodies
do not adjust to change
as rapidly as yours. Sometimes
Nature's imbalance does
not require compensation,
although it was beneficial
during this instance. Go
in peace.
**************************************************************************
Joan M. McCabe, CPC is a
professional life coach,
ordained minister, accredited
Transformation Game®
workshop facilitator and
Living Your Vision®
coach. She has over twenty
years' professional experience
in the spiritual and personal
growth field. As a coach,
Joan assists clients with
living the life that makes
their heart sing. With Living
Your Vision®, clients
discover their inner vision
and life purpose, and create
a Master Plan for success
and fulfillment in all areas
of their lives! Joan offers
Customized Transformation
Games® specifically
designed for small groups
of up to five people to
discover intuitive solutions
to life issues. Ordained
in 1983, Joan performs weddings
and commitment ceremonies
throughout the Puget Sound.
And there's even more! Joan
is also the author of Tapestry
of Time Trilogy -- if you
enjoyed this chapter, check
back next month for the
next installment!!! For
more about Joan, go to www.jmmccabe.com
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