The Henna Artist(31)

I rubbed my eyes. “You know I did nothing wrong, Samir, don’t you?”

“I know.” With a sigh, he lowered himself to the floor and lay down beside me. He pulled a pack of Red and Whites from his suit pocket and lit a cigarette. “But we have to go easy on the sachets for a while. What happened to Mrs. Harris has made people nervous.”

I swallowed.

“So what’s going on? Malik said you needed to talk,” he said.

“I owe a great deal of money.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“And I’ve run into some...unexpected expenses.”

“Like?”

I cleared my throat. “A sister.”

“The girl who was in your bed?”

“Yes.”

“She lives here in Jaipur?”

“She does now. As of a month ago.” I turned to look at him.

He studied my face. He knew our rules: we only revealed what the other needed to know. He turned back to the ceiling.

For a while, he was quiet, now and then taking a puff from his cigarette. A man of business, he thought before he spoke. “To whom do you owe money?”

“The builder, for one.”

“How much does he want?”

“Doesn’t matter. I just need more time to pay him.”

“Why not let me—”

“No,” I said, perhaps too forcefully. “It’s my debt. I’ll take care of it.”

He blew out cigarette smoke noisily. We’d had this discussion before. The only time I’d borrowed money from him was during my first week in Jaipur, when I needed to pay for henna supplies and my herbs. I had paid him back within a week and never asked for another paisa.

I reached for his hand and shook it lightly. “Sorry to take you away from cards.”

Samir chuckled. “How did you know I’d been playing?”

“You haven’t been playing. You’ve been losing.” I looked at his profile. “You drink more when you lose. You start buying rounds for everyone so they won’t feel sorry for you.”

He squeezed my hand. “I have one wife already, Beauty.”

I turned my eyes back to the ceiling. He smoked.

“Who’s your builder?”

“Naraya.”

Samir groaned. “He’s third-rate. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could have let me hire mine.”

“And it would have cost me twice as much. This is what I could afford, Samir. It’s my house. And Naraya has been fine.” He’d been difficult, yes, but I was too stubborn to admit I could have done better.

He sighed.

“Do you know Mr. Gupta?” he asked after a pause.

“I did his daughter’s bridal henna.”

“Gupta wants to build a hostel near the Pink Bazaar. I think your builder is just the man for the job.”

Puzzled, I looked at him. “How will that get him off my back?”

“Gupta’s loaded.” Samir sucked on his cigarette. “He’ll keep Naraya busy for a few months and pay him well.”

“To do what?”

He smiled at me. “Install WCs—hundreds of them. To a clerk a bribe; to a Brahmin a gift.”

I laughed. The irony was not lost on me. Naraya was willing to build toilets, which the Shudra caste normally did, for the handsome profit to be made. Like me, he, too, was a fallen Brahmin.

My hand, loosely knotted with Samir’s, rose and fell in rhythm with his breath. I could have stayed like this forever. He turned his head toward me. I turned mine, too, until our noses almost touched and his warm breath floated over my cheek.

We were alone, our bodies touching. It was late. It would be so easy. I felt myself yearning to press my body against his. As if in response, he turned on his side to face me, one arm supporting his head. He lifted his free hand and smoothed my hair away from my forehead, the touch as delicate as a feather.

“So beautiful,” he said in a voice so soft I barely heard him.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I released it.

I forced myself to look away. I heard him sigh. He lay on his back again but he didn’t let go of my hand.

I’d already decided not to tell him about Hari. My husband was my problem, a problem I had created by running away. Samir didn’t need to know about him, didn’t need to know more about my past than I was willing to share.

“How are the courtesans of Agra, Samir?”

“They were asking about you just last month. It’s been ten years, and Hazi and Nasreen have never let up. I stole you, their best-kept secret, they always claim. They finally imported a girl from Tehran. They say her henna is almost as beautiful as yours.”

“Liars!” I laughed.

Samir blew smoke at the ceiling and pointed to it with his cigarette. “You should do one of your designs on the ceiling. Bloody spectacular that would be.”

“I’ve already designed a floor I can’t afford.” I unwound my hand from his and sat up to fix my hair. “Once I pay that off, I’ll think about the ceiling.”

He stood and reached down with his hands to help me up. As he pulled me, I lost my balance and tumbled toward him. He twirled me, pinning me to the wall. His lips, so close to mine, were wet. If I put my mouth on his, would his lips part softly, gently, or would they crush mine, eagerly, hungrily? Then, as always, I remembered his wife, Parvati, my other benefactor.