Page 30 of The Henna Artist

“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. Istoleyou, 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.

I fastened one hand on his chin and eased it downward toward the floor. “You haven’t admired my work yet.”

Samir groaned and pushed himself off the wall, then felt his pockets for his silver lighter. Using its flame, he looked more closely at the spot where we had lain.

He snapped his fingers. “You hid your name in this!”

I suppressed a smile. Of course he would know. He’d been aroundnautchgirls who concealed their names within the henna design on their body. If a man found it, he won a free night in their bed. If he didn’t, the women were paid double rate.

“What if I find it?” he asked.

“You don’t have to do me the second favor.”

“Is there no end to your demands?”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The cigarette glowed orange and red as he drew in the smoke, surveying the floor. “I give up.” He scratched behind his ear.

“Word has it the palace might need my services.”

“Whose word?” Smoke curled up from both sides of Samir’s mouth.

“Your wife’s. Something about the Maharani Latika not feeling well. Parvati thinks I could help her.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Could you whisper my name in the right ears there?Two echoes in a well are louder than one.”

He blinked, and I knew he wasn’t thinking whether he would do it but how and when. With his cigarette, he pointed at the floor. “This was worth whatever you paid for it.”

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