My Nine Lives by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

office in New Delhi. She continued to send newspaper photographs of Vijay being taken from jail to court—each time he looked more worn, more tattered, unshaven and unkempt, until he was indistinguishable from any long-time prisoner. The last but one clipping that Lucia sent was just a few lines from some back page to say that Vijay had died from kidney failure while in custody. The last clipping announced a change of government, the reinstatement of the minister to his cabinet post, and the annulment of the case against him and his co-accused.
    When she returned to New York, Lucia looked as harrowed as if she too had served a long sentence. During all her time in India she had been able to see Vijay only very rarely. She had visited him in jail as soon as she arrived and had found him cheerful; he had made friends with his jailers and was in a position to pay for all sorts of perks. He assured her that his confinement would soon be over and asked her not to visit him again. She realized that he was embarrassed byher presence and the amusement it caused to both jailers and fellow prisoners. However, when he was not released as quickly as expected, she attempted to see him again: only to be refused admittance to him while other prisoners whistled and made sweet sounds to invite her into their cells. By this time she had run out of money and had to vacate the lodging she had taken in a transit hotel. While waiting for me to send her more money, she slept under the arcade outside the American Express office, along with other foreigners waiting for their checks from home. She was still refused admission to see Vijay in jail, and there was no news of his next court date; so when her money came, she took the train to the little town where her dance teacher had gone to stay near her teacher, her revered guru, her transference god.
    Here another disappointment awaited Lucia, for her teacher had in the meantime had a falling-out with her guru and was attempting to set up a rival school of her own. She welcomed Lucia with her usual fervent kisses, smearing her with her melting lipstick and mascara, but instead of teaching her about disinterested love, she drew her into the feud. With one shabby little school intriguing against the other, all the students were involved, and the affair had become a local scandal. In this atmosphere it was difficult for Lucia to keep her own ideals intact, and abandoning the dance, she got the train back to Delhi. On the way she was diverted by the sort of adventures young girls alone in India always have, and she went with various people who invited her to their homes, some out of a spirit of pure hospitality, others with more mixed motives. She felt she was getting to know the country of her heart on another level—a deeper level—and continued to make her way toward her original destination.
    Although she arrived at a time when Vijay was out on bail, she had no opportunity to meet him. She did what I used todo—lingered at a corner of his street to watch him from a distance shepherding his family of stout ladies. Once she went into his shop, but he pretended not to see her, so she took a cup and saucer and carried them where he sat by his cash desk. He took her money, and when he gave her the change, said, “Lucia, go away; go home.” Before she could speak, another customer came up to pay, so she left with her purchase unwrapped. She stood outside his shop, blinded by tears, not knowing what to do; finally she smashed the cup and saucer on the sidewalk, watched by two hawkers—one selling pens and watch-straps, the other demonstrating mechanical toys—both of them shaking their heads and laughing at yet another crazy foreign girl.
    After several weeks out on bail, Vijay had to appear for his next court date. It was easy for Lucia to slip into the chamber, dense and sweaty with relatives, reporters, scribes and a crowd of onlookers. She was too far back to hear the