The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page B

were incredible, and for a fraction of a second I wondered if Master had broken our agreement and told his defiant daughter about my past.
    I took a long pull on my smoothie, set it down, and nodded. “Okay, Sukshmi, here is the deal. I will tell you why I stopped dancing, why I stopped wearing cool, Western clothes everyone in this club seems to want so much. I will tell you why I came to Varanasi to study and sit by myself all day with a pile of dusty books. Okay? The short, not-very-pretty version of my past. Then I will dance with you to one more song and we will choose other topics to talk about. Does that sound fair?”
    She smiled. “That is a plumb fair deal, Bhim.” I winced at that one.
    “Oh yes, One more thing. I get to choose the song, otherwise no deal.”
    We carried our drinks to one of the back rooms, as far from the pounding speakers as possible, and in a high-backed booth I told her. I didn’t offer up all the details. That would have been too hard, but at some point I described how Lilia laughed when we swam in our favorite cove and how she made the best chili rellenos north of Tijuana. I talked about her death.
    Sukshmi didn’t utter a word. She nodded here and there, but didn’t ask a single question or offer up comment. She watched my eyes and I watched hers. The earlier games of witty responses and clever retorts were gone, and when I finished, she reached across and very simply, very gently, laced her fingers in mine. It was a warm current of friendship, and that undemanding, uncomplicated gesture was the first physical contact I’d had with a woman in four years. Then she asked me the only question I didn’t feel any reluctance to answer. “How do you make chili rellenos?”
    Sukshmi excused herself to go to the restroom, and I went to discuss a selection with the DJ. I had a hunch he might have what I wanted. The tune was old, but it had been part of a soundtrack in a recent movie, and if it was on a soundtrack, it could be found in Haroon’s.
    Sukshmi returned, dabbing a tissue at the corners of her eyes. I realized that, as much as she had veered outside her family’s sphere in recent days, she still retained one of their best habits. Like her father, just below the surface was a deep well of compassion.
    She slid in next to me and with a frown, whispered, “He wants to arrange my marriage, you know.”
    I wasn’t totally certain what she meant but had a pretty good idea. “Who?”
    She flicked her fingernail against the empty glass. “Father, of course. He wants me to marry a young, well-to-do Brahmin from Delhi. Some perfectly boring clerk who works in a perfectly boring bank, has perfectly boring parents, and probably hasn't danced once in his entire boring life. While I've been away at university, Father has been writing the boy’s parents, whom he already seems to know quite well. It is a horrible abuse of old tradition and the modern postal system if anyone asks me, but no one does. No one asks me anything at all. They just all agree that it will be a right fine union. Like prized cattle—a most desirable match. Everyone agrees except the bride-to-be.” She looked at me and blinked back tears, and for the first time I saw the real Sukshmi— beautiful, intelligent, and petrified of a cage she was being goaded into. She had wanted to tell me earlier but had run headlong into the tale of Martin and his flight to India.
    I took her hand, and this time I lead us to the parquet floor.
    The song started slowly and stayed that way all the way through. It had all the classical features: a ripping, bluesy guitar, Joe Cocker’s unmistakable voice, and the soul-baring lyrics of Eric Burdon. We danced slowly, hand in hand, not too close. I mouthed the lyrics “Baby do you understand me now? . . . I’m just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.”
    With that, my first date in a very long time was brought to an end.
    I saw Sukshmi safely to