But first, you and I must come to an agreement. For my part, you may have no doubt about that. I am very impressed by your talent and I want to use it. But you will be working for me." She was quiet for a moment. I wondered what she was thinking, if she was going to let the man of the moment have his way with her. I had heard the story of the courtesans of Calcutta a thousand times by now. They were either very strong-minded women who managed their own businesses, or very stupid or very desperate ones. Finally, with some reluctance, she spoke again. "All right, sir." And that was all. I was disappointed. But then I was not as much in love with her as the previous night, and besides, I was thinking about my future with Puri. Perhaps I would do well to get back into his good graces. I rose to my feet, as we sat on the floor. "Thank you for a lovely evening, sir. And may I ask you a question?" "Anything." "It's about money. I have been sent here with a present—how much will that be?" "You will receive as much as you need." "It's not so much for my needs," I said. "I don't want to waste a gift. What will it be—a thousand rupees? I should like to buy some clothes." "Whatever you like, darling," he said. "I'll make sure you get your money." I had no idea what to do next, and so I took her hand and held it tight. She took mine as well. I kissed her on the cheek and then on the lips. And then, in another moment, she was getting up to go. She put on her kameez and got up to leave. She told me once more to take good care of myself and then stepped out into the street. I followed her with my eyes and saw her disappearing into the crowd that lined the narrow lane. And then, in a few moments, I was alone. The world seemed very large and very crowded. I thought for a moment of going back to Puri. But in another moment the thought passed and I was overcome by a sharp regret for what I had done. He had said I could work here, for as long as I liked, and make as much money as I pleased. I stood in the street and turned my face to the east. Perhaps, if the evening was clear, I could see the Taj Mahal, that symbol of love and beauty. It was as tall as my eyes could see and stood in the middle of a lake as if to stand guard over it. And I thought that in spite of all my misgivings, perhaps all was not over for me. # 3 IT WAS A few months after that that I met the American woman again. I was passing through the back lane of the neighborhood one evening when I saw her entering the house of a man who I knew was a merchant of gems, gemstones, and gold. She looked back over her shoulder as if she had a companion, a younger woman or a servant, and then disappeared into the house. I was wondering if I should just go on, when a young bearer boy came up and spoke to me in a friendly manner. "Hello sir," he said. "Excuse me, sir, but the mistress says you are a very intelligent man. She says you know all about Hindu history and Sanskrit." I smiled at the boy, and he told me to wait a moment, and then disappeared into the house. I was curious to see the woman and her companion, but I waited patiently. The boy returned a few minutes later. He was followed by a young servant girl who carried a jug of milk and a plate of fruit, and who curtseyed to me and waited by me. The boy handed me a glass and poured milk for me. We sat on the ground and drank the milk while the boy told me that the mistress, who had disappeared into the house, had found a letter waiting for her. In it there was a note written in English and signed by a woman in Calcutta. She said she was glad to know that she had made some of her friends in this distant place, and she asked me to visit her when I was in town. "She will be very pleased to know you, sir," said the boy. "She has never been introduced to a foreigner." This American woman was a big woman. She was fat and heavy in the hips and shoulders. She wore a blue sari which had short sleeves, and over it she had a blue salwaar suit. I wondered if she would be willing to help me, and I felt a great confidence in myself. I was a stranger to the place, and this was my first visit. It was a small, quiet neighborhood of the merchants and the traders. There was not a single European in sight. Only the occasional Indian from the bazaar came by. But for all that, I felt very lonely. I had come with my friend Puri and stayed overnight in one of the finest houses in the neighborhood. I had passed the night on the floor with the women of the house. We had sat under mosquito nets and drank rum and whisky, and then I had been invited into the women's rooms and offered a place beside one of them. She was a fine woman who had borne three children and was a married woman, the mistress of the house. I had done well. She gave me the most loving and affectionate look. But we had done nothing. I had no real business to be at her house, though, and no one else was in the room when I came into the room. I went to the window and watched the market, with the men returning from work, and the children playing in the streets. Some of the men rode past in rickshaws. The mistress did not think it right to return to her room, and she was very concerned that I should leave. I felt I owed it to her to go, so I did. But as I left the room, I thought of her. I wondered what she had intended to do with me. I wondered how she had planned to spend her time, and whether there had been others in the room. I found myself wondering what she had been thinking of during the past hour and whether there had been any thoughts of other men. I wondered what a man might have done who was in my place. And then I was frightened at the thought that she might have planned to give herself to me, in spite of all the reasons she might have had to do so. I walked through the streets, feeling lonely and out of sorts, and wishing that I could have gone to her room again. Instead, I spent my days with Puri in the bazaar and in a bar called the Queen Victoria. The men of the neighborhood were more friendly to me than before. When I came home that day, I felt a great wave of loneliness come over me. I sat on the roof and thought for a long time. I thought of the one who was gone. I thought of the way she smiled when she gave her orders, and when she was being tender and affectionate, and in her anger, her wrath, her disgust. I thought of how quick she was to take offense, and how quick to forgive. I thought of the way she took her coffee in the morning, with such a delicate and ladylike finger, and her taste in everything. She was a good woman. She worked hard at her profession. She put her life into her work, the way she had put her life into that house. I remembered the look on her face when she gave her orders to the servants. I was certain that she had felt that she could trust me. And it was true that she had a great deal of trust in me. She trusted me with her body, and she trusted me with her secrets, and perhaps she trusted me with her life. I was sure that she was a good woman. And in all my life I had never met a woman like that. For all these reasons, I decided to go to see her again. That night, I went into the woman's room. It was the second time I had been there in a few months. She was sitting there in the room, and I went over to her. She came out of her silence at once, and she moved with a very serious air. She sat down with a notebook and asked me to sit down beside her. She asked me how I was, and she wrote a few words in her notebook. She gave me a card with her name and address, and told me to leave it with her son. "That is all?" I asked. "Yes, that is all," she said. "When you come back, ask for me." I stood up and put the card in my pocket. And then I looked at her and asked her if she knew that I knew how to read and write. "Don't talk that way to me, my friend," she said. We sat in silence for a moment, and then she stood up. She put her hands on my shoulders and smiled at me. She reached her hands out and looked in my face. "I know who you are," she said. "You are the one who can speak to the dead