The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page B

bugger me, Marty. I never took you for a fooking Mainer. Always figured yous a West Coast boy, a SoCal surfer type.”
    It was the first time he’d pried even gently at my history, an innocent remark meant as an opener if I wished to take it. I didn’t, but still answered, “I grew up there. In San Diego, so you figured pretty well.”
    He nodded. “So ‘ow’d you get into all this bloody Sanskrit shite?”
    That surprised me a little. First, it was another probe. Second, it was an acknowledgment that he knew what I did all day long. It wasn’t as if it was a secret; everyone in the city seemed to know I was Devi's student, but it surprised me that he'd asked. As if reading my thoughts, he added, “A lot of folks say you’re one of the best, Mate. I think that’s the dog’s ollocks, you know, being able to read all them fookin’ words. I mean, it's soooo old.”
    “I’ve been working at it for a long time, Mej. It’s like a huge set of word puzzles to me. History, law, politics, it’s all written in the mother tongue. And to be honest, I just like the sound of it.” I decided it was my turn to ask something. “So how’d you learn Hindi so well? I mean, it was like going from Latin to Italian for me after knowing the Sanskrit. How’d you learn it?”
    He looked at his fingernails and answered quickly, “Me Mum taught me mostly. It was ‘er first language, not mine, so I sort of picked it up ‘ere and there. I figured I needed to improve on it when I got ‘ere, so I bought meself a teach yourself book last year.”
    As we reached my gate he asked, “So whatcha working on now, Bro? Any juicy shite? They say that Kama Sutra can give you a right fine woody.” It sounded a little boring when I told him I was translating a play about a monarch with family problems, but he told me quickly that he wanted to hear more about it when he returned from Delhi. We set a time to meet in a few days, and then I watched as he bounced buoyantly down Sonapura Road towards the Asi River. Just before the bridge he turned and grinned back at me.

     
     
    Eighteen
    I pushed Ugly Bike through Devi’s gate with a cushy six-minute margin. My backpack contained my HP Pavilion laptop, the flash drive with our photographs, and the previous day’s notes scanned with my portable DocuPen scanner and saved on a file. I’d arrived early, hoping to chat with Sukshmi about her marriage predicament. Instead I found Soma.
    She was squatting in the space behind the right side of the tool shed and the wall, and I could tell from the way her shoulders slumped forward and her hands shook that she was crying. I leaned Miss Ugly against the wall and squatted next to her in the dust. Her hands moved up to hide her face, but as I lowered myself with a groan from the morning’s exercise, her fingers spread into a childish vee. Between her dusty knuckles I saw a smear of black kohl and tears. One eye peeked at me.
    Suspecting her mother-in-law as the cause, I asked, “So, Little Sister, is your Sas angry with you again? You mustn’t listen to her puffing, you know. She grumbles at you from jealousy because you are young and beautiful and she is a fat camel with foul breath.”
    Soma sniffled wretchedly and mumbled through her fingers, “Oh Bhimaji, Sas always grumbles at me, but it no longer bothers me.”
    “So what is causing all these tears to fall from those pretty eyes this morning?”
    She drew in a choppy breath and in an uneven voice, whispered, “It is Sri Ralki. He…” She broke into a fresh round of sobbing.
    I inhaled sharply, that name typically having that effect upon me. Madru Ralki was a first inspector and assistant to the Varanasi Chief of Police. He was a fat weasel, and a purported spy for the Cabinet Minister Qereshy, which did not make him particularly popular within his own Hindu community. He denied being a turncoat, but not vehemently enough to convince me or anyone else. Unfortunately, he was also the first in a