against the wall, her hands clasped behind her. The collar of her white blouse strained over etched bones at the base of her neck with a little dip between them. A slender gold chain rested its excess length in that dip. Mila smelled of a just-risen sun, still cool and fresh. Sam saw and felt all of this and yet seemed not to see any of it. He leaned against the other wall of the corridor, and from the way they were positioned, their feet were just a few inches apart, Sam's scuffed army boots more gray with dust than black, Mila's riding boots with their three-inch heels still shiny from all of Sayyid's ministrations with a brush and polish.
Mila had forgotten her need to flee from Sam; like him, she too wanted to be here and nowhere else, but for her the thought was merely instinct. She did not know that she was flirting with Sam, inviting his gaze upo n h er face and her neck, searching his own face for a smile or a crinkle of skin around his eyes.
"We had a young army officer here whom Ashok pestered so much with all of his America questions that he preferred to leave Rudrakot itself. I hope that you will stay, Captain Hawthorne."
Sam was still staring at Mila with a grin on his face, and in the midst of that haze of joy, the question finally searched for and found his brain. "I have only a few days of my leave, but"--his voice dropped to an overcasual tone--"who was this man? Was he American?"
And Sam waited for the answer with his heart banging in his chest. Something though, about the way he had posed the question, about what he had said, or left unsaid, rose to curdle the air around them.
"Yes," Mila said as she straightened from the wall. "But you would not know him. America is a big country, isn't it?"
She led the way to the drawing room, waved him to a chair, gave him a quick smile, and ran out of the room, leaving him suddenly stunned and out of breath.
Sam sank into the stuffed armchair and bent his head. He was tired; his mind was playing tricks upon him. He had left Mila at the road and pushed her firmly out of his mind, thinking that he would never see her again, that the encounter had been one to remember and cherish. He raised his hands to his face, and spread out his fingers, palms downward, and watched as his hands shook slightly, trembling in midair. Mila. What a lovely name, whatever her other names might be. Swept away by an exhilaration he could not identify, because he had never felt this before, Sam still wondered if he was merely being stupid. And all at once, he compared her to his other loves, if such a word could be used with them. He had dated many women, and there had been one her name even escaped him now, who when she knew he was going to India and Burma, had offered him marriage. They liked each other, she had said (they had), they were both reasonably attractive (they were), and if he never came back, at least he would know he had had her. Everyone must marry at least once. But something in Sam rebelled against this arrangement without sentiment or emotion, even though he was too academically trained to think of sentiment or emotion as being attractive. And he did not think of marriage in terms of at least once, he thought of it as at most once. And so that had ended, the most serious relationship Sam had ever had. With that woman , he had hiked in the Cascades, kissed in the rain, fumbled at her clothing on the sofa in his apartment.
He sat in the drawing room waiting for Mila to return and thought of her without realizing that he thought only of her. Trivialities really. She was not very tall; her head came up only to his shoulder. A drop of sweat had run down along her cheek and dispersed wetly into the collar of her white shirt.
When he remembered this second meeting later, he realized that he had seen her like an artist studying his subject limb by limb, hair by hair, and for Sam this was an astonishment, for he usually saw the entireties of people--what they said, how they used
Mila had forgotten her need to flee from Sam; like him, she too wanted to be here and nowhere else, but for her the thought was merely instinct. She did not know that she was flirting with Sam, inviting his gaze upo n h er face and her neck, searching his own face for a smile or a crinkle of skin around his eyes.
"We had a young army officer here whom Ashok pestered so much with all of his America questions that he preferred to leave Rudrakot itself. I hope that you will stay, Captain Hawthorne."
Sam was still staring at Mila with a grin on his face, and in the midst of that haze of joy, the question finally searched for and found his brain. "I have only a few days of my leave, but"--his voice dropped to an overcasual tone--"who was this man? Was he American?"
And Sam waited for the answer with his heart banging in his chest. Something though, about the way he had posed the question, about what he had said, or left unsaid, rose to curdle the air around them.
"Yes," Mila said as she straightened from the wall. "But you would not know him. America is a big country, isn't it?"
She led the way to the drawing room, waved him to a chair, gave him a quick smile, and ran out of the room, leaving him suddenly stunned and out of breath.
Sam sank into the stuffed armchair and bent his head. He was tired; his mind was playing tricks upon him. He had left Mila at the road and pushed her firmly out of his mind, thinking that he would never see her again, that the encounter had been one to remember and cherish. He raised his hands to his face, and spread out his fingers, palms downward, and watched as his hands shook slightly, trembling in midair. Mila. What a lovely name, whatever her other names might be. Swept away by an exhilaration he could not identify, because he had never felt this before, Sam still wondered if he was merely being stupid. And all at once, he compared her to his other loves, if such a word could be used with them. He had dated many women, and there had been one her name even escaped him now, who when she knew he was going to India and Burma, had offered him marriage. They liked each other, she had said (they had), they were both reasonably attractive (they were), and if he never came back, at least he would know he had had her. Everyone must marry at least once. But something in Sam rebelled against this arrangement without sentiment or emotion, even though he was too academically trained to think of sentiment or emotion as being attractive. And he did not think of marriage in terms of at least once, he thought of it as at most once. And so that had ended, the most serious relationship Sam had ever had. With that woman , he had hiked in the Cascades, kissed in the rain, fumbled at her clothing on the sofa in his apartment.
He sat in the drawing room waiting for Mila to return and thought of her without realizing that he thought only of her. Trivialities really. She was not very tall; her head came up only to his shoulder. A drop of sweat had run down along her cheek and dispersed wetly into the collar of her white shirt.
When he remembered this second meeting later, he realized that he had seen her like an artist studying his subject limb by limb, hair by hair, and for Sam this was an astonishment, for he usually saw the entireties of people--what they said, how they used
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