One More Time by Damien Leith

game of solitaire with my miniature playing cards. Mani noticed the silence and took on a daydreaming air. But blatantly ignoring somebody was never my way of doing things. A part of me felt guilty.
    The masseur broke the impasse. ‘You have had a long day walking, maybe you would like a massage, very cheap price?’
    ‘Ah, it’s okay,’ I said pleasantly, trying not to hurt his feelings. ‘Thanks for the offer, but my muscles feel good today.’ I squeezed happily on my calf for effect, to show him how supple they were. He seemed resigned with this. I, on the other hand, was secretly surprised at how much pain I’d squeezed out.
    ‘Okay,’ he sighed reluctantly. ‘So you feel good today. That is good!’ He looked about the room and then returned his attention to me. ‘I hope you enjoy Nepal and I am happy to meet another Irishman. I like Irish very much.’
    Just at that moment Akio emerged from his shower, fresh and dressed, his hair wet and fuzzy.
    ‘Oh you trick-o me,’ he said, wagging a finger in my direction. ‘Water very cold!’
    I considered explaining about Africa and the ocean, but since he saw humour in it, I let it go.
    ‘Next time I trick-o you. Next time my turn.’
    ‘You from Japan?’ the masseur addressed him. I watched with interest. Akio hesitated before answering. ‘Yes, but I no interested in massage.’
    How could he have known the man’s intentions? Perhaps he’d overheard us; on the other hand, I was learning that Akio was strangely resourceful.
    ‘You have met me before?’ The masseur, too, was surprised and I could tell he was now curious about Akio.
    Akio held a towel in his hand and began to dry his hair as he spoke, barely making eye contact with the man. ‘We not meet but I know what you are selling because I read about men like you in my books.’
    ‘I am a good man.’ The masseur became emotional. ‘I mean you no harm!’
    ‘I know you are man in business,’ interrupted Akio. ‘That is why I am honest with you. Massage is not for me tonight.’ The finality in his words was unarguable and the masseur was clearly defeated.
    ‘Good night.’ He nodded at Akio and again at me before leaving the house.
    It was just after six o’clock. The evening had come upon us fast. In the dark outside a dense fog had enveloped the teahouse and added to the blackness. I continued my games of solitaire, while Mani stretched out and Akio entertained himself with a book. All of us awaited our evening meal.
    In the content atmosphere that had settled over us, any niggling dread of the Maoist’s expected return was invisible. Shortly after seven, pastimes discarded,Jagan served us our meals. While Akio and I ate, she and Mani spoke quietly to one another in Nepali.
    ‘Do you like?’ she suddenly asked in clear English, her words directed at me.
    I hadn’t eaten much yet, too distracted with watching the children and their mother. Her personal tragedy continued to play on my mind.
    I smiled. ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’
    She nodded her head, but her lips pouted in a way not uncommon among disapproving teachers.
    ‘I can make you something else,’ she persisted. In all my time in India and Nepal, never once had somebody volunteered to replace a meal with something else. Every meal would have been the equivalent of a day’s earnings to whoever served it.
    ‘No, honestly, it’s lovely.’ I began to fork food into my mouth to show my fondness for the dish, perhaps overdoing it a little. But she seemed to get the message and returned her attention to Mani, who strangely wasn’t making much headway either with his beloved dal bhat.
    ‘Mine is not so good-o. Many lumps!’ Akio raised the spoon from his bowl to show how badly the yellow liquid flowed. It was true that the meal wasn’t as fluid as it should have been, but I was shocked byAkio’s unkindness. Who eats custard with potato soup anyway?
    Jagan immediately sprang to her feet, took the bowl of custard with a smile and told