One

   It was hot. The brown dry earth seared the feet and the large granite boulders scattered over the hillside burned the palms of hands. The sky was malevolent blue and achingly bright. Far overhead, almost near the sun, kites circled and circled and circled.
  There were two people climbing the hill. The tall, thickset man was a few yards ahead of the woman, and he stopped to rest and wait for the woman to catch up. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and flicked the moisture at a boulder. It sizzled and evaporated. He tugged at his shirt, but the sweat sucked it back against his skin. If there had been shade, even a small tree or a bush, he would have liked to rest under it. There was little except these vast boulders that seemed to have tumbled down from nowhere to rest on the side of the hill.
   A couple of hundred yards below him, pulled off the narrow tarmac road, was their car. It glittered. The road curved and wound through the landscape, passing now and then a hill such as the one he stood on, until he could no longer see where it went. There was no traffic, although now and then he sensed the movement of people in the distance.
  The woman reached his side. Her face was the color of the earth and her makeup cut by rivulets of sweat. She started to lean against the boulder and then leaped away.
   "Damn," she said. There was no vehemence. She was too breathless for that.
  "You're sure dressed wrong for this."
  "I couldn't wear trousers," she answered with irritation. "And I wasn't going to dress like a native."
   She patted her face with a tiny cotton handkerchief. The powder came off in patches, making her skin look afflicted. She wore a flowered cotton dress that pinched in on her narrow waist and then abruptly flowed out over her stiff petticoats. She had a thin gold chain around her neck, a brooch of a butterfly made of metal and cheap stones above her left breast. On her right wrist she wore two gold bangles.
She was nearly as tall as he, and was certainly pretty. Her face was small, oval, with high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and large brown eyes. Her hair had been carefully permed, but the morning's walk up the hillside had dampened and flattened it around her forehead and the back of her neck.
  "C'mon."
   He began to climb again. The path they followed was narrow and well worn. It wound around the boulders and was edged on either side by tufts of spare grass. A stone cut his foot, and Gunboat Jack hopped.
  "Did we have to be barefoot?"
  "Yes. This is supposed to be a holy hill," Gertrude said and giggled as Gunboat hopped some more. "At least that's what the natives say because of him."
Gunboat peered upwards. They had another two hundred yards to go. He caught a glimpse of a thatched roof.
  "He better be good."
  "He's supposed to be very holy."
   They reached the top. The thatch he had seen was only a roof held up by bamboo poles. It was about twenty feet square, and twenty people were sitting in its shade. They looked up with open curiosity at Gunboat and Gertrude, and two women shifted away, giving them room to sit. Gunboat moved forward, grateful for the shade.
  "You shouldn't sit with them," Gertrude said.
  "I sure as hell ain't stand in' out there in the sun," Gunboat said, and sat heavily down on the flat earth. There was a slight breeze on the hilltop, and with the shading it felt quite cool. When he craned around, he could see nearly the whole countryside: flat with small patches of bright emerald-green rice fields and shining squares of water tanks. There was a village in the distance he hadn't noticed before, and women, brightly clothed in reds and blues, working in the fields.
Gertrude sat. It was difficult 'with her starched petticoats. They billowed up and out, revealing her thighs, and she tried to hold the skirt down as if it were a blowing parachute. The women giggled, and Gertrude glared at them. She finally settled to rest in a kneeling position.
  "Where is he?" Gunboat Jack asked.
  Gertrude shrugged. There was a small cave at the top of a slight slope. There were a few fresh flowers, bits of coconut, and some fruit outside the entrance. Otherwise it looked bare and uninhabited. The others under the thatched roof were squatting facing the open mouth of the cave.
  It was quiet and calm on the hilltop. Gunboat could hear only the breeze whispering through the thatch and the occasional clink of a bangle or an anklet. Once or twice the kites high in the sky called: a long, lonely sound. They keened, as if mourning their solitude. Even Gerty, and he was grateful for that, remained silent, though he could sense her glaring at any of the natives who turned to meet her eye.
Gunboat turned when he heard voices. A couple came over the rim of the hill. They were in their late twenties, and the woman carried a child in her arms. The child appeared asleep, but the tender way in which they handled him made Gunboat suspect he was sick. He made room for them. The husband held the child until the woman was settled, cross-legged, and then laid it gently on her lap. She was beautiful. Her face was heart shaped with a sensual mouth and liquid brown eyes, tinged with sadness, that filled the face. There was a diamond in her nose and silver rings on her toes. She kept her head down as if sheltering the child from his look.
  "What's wrong?" Gunboat asked.
   The woman made no answer. The husband, sensing the meaning, turned his palms up and looked skywards.
  "They think that sadhu can cure him?" he asked Gertrude. She hesitated, wavering between contempt and belief. "Possibly. He is supposed to have many powers."
   A youth came out of the mouth of the cave. He wasn't more than fourteen. His head was shaven, and he stood straight. He wore only a flimsy cotton cloth around his waist. He came straight to Gunboat and beckoned them both.
  "No," Gunboat said. "He should see this couple."
  "He knows we're more important than them," Gertrude said and scrambled to her feet.
  "How does he know we're here?"
  "He knows," she said. "And he knows about the child too." The youth turned, and they followed.
  It was gloomy and cool in the cave. They smelled incense and fresh water. Gunboat waited until his eyes had adjusted. There was very little in the cave. A few earthenware pots, and a fireplace made of mud. The cave was a dozen feet deep, and the roof of uneven height.
  A man sat cross-legged on a worn deerskin at the farthest end. His eyes were closed; his beard, black streaked gray, began just below his cheekbones and fell to his chest. He was slim and straight and his skin, the color of old gold, appeared to shine in the light from the single oil lamp. It was a dry shine.
  The youth gestured; they sat. Gertrude knelt, trying to appear as if she were not in front of this man in a loincloth.
   "Does he speak English?" Gunboat whispered.
  Gertrude shrugged. The youth withdrew to the opening of the cave. The sadhu appeared unaware of their presence. Gunboat noticed he hardly seemed to breathe.
  "Yes," he finally said, though his eyes remained closed.
  "Shouldn't you have seen that sick child?"
  "I already have." It was an accentless voice, so soft they had to bend forward to hear.
  "Were we more important than them?"
  "No." He chuckled. "An American boxer and an Anglo lady are as important as everyone else."
  "How do you know who I am?" Gunboat Jack asked, and strained for the reply.
  "I know."
  Gunboat wished the man would open his eyes. It was disconcerting talking to him. Gertrude rustled uneasily.
 "You seen me fight?"
  "No."
  "You disapprove?"
  The man chuckled again. "Why should I? It is an honorable profession. Here we have wrestlers."
  "Back home too," Gunboat said and found he was enjoying the man's company. "I used to be pretty good. Boxer I mean. I didn't win no championship. . . but I was good." He wished now he had won a title back home. He wasn't given the breaks.
  "Only one man at a time can be champion. It was not your time." He paused. "You are a man of honor?"
  "You bet I am. I didn't take no dives. I made my money straight."
  Without warning, the sadhu opened his eyes. They looked directly at Gunboat Jack. The eyes were pale brown, almost the color of beach sand. They appeared not to look, yet they saw everything of him.
  "You are also a man of courage." It was a statement.
  "Yes."
  "Then what you have come to ask for depends on a test of these two qualities in you."
 "They won't give," Gunboat said.
  "If you hold to them, you will be victorious; if you let go of them you will be defeated." The sadhu hadn't blinked once.
  "What the hell does that mean?" Gunboat considered his own question in the long silence. "So if I want to get home," he finally replied to himself, "I will have to be true to myself."
  "That depends on you. It is going to be difficult."
  "What will this test be?" Gunboat asked. If he knew ahead of time, he could be careful.
  "It will happen soon. In your profession."
  "I haven't fought for years."
  "You will not need to fight." His eyelids began to lower slowly. It seemed as if a door was closing.
  "What about me?" Gertrude asked quickly. The lids were half closed, considering her.
  "You will leave your home to be forever a stranger, for that is your wish."
  "With Gunboat?" She glanced at Gunboat and smiled shyly.
  "You love him?"
  "Yes."
  The sadhu chuckled. It sounded pleasant, benevolent. He had been sitting, arms outstretched, with his wrists resting on his crossed knees and the palms facing upwards. The thumbs and forefingers touched to form circles. Now he closed one hand, and opened it a few moments later. There was a small pile of white ash in the center of the palm. He lifted his hand up to his face and blew. The ash was fine as dust and delicately perfumed.
  "Love is like this vibudhi. Visible one moment, invisible the next," he said. "Your love will depend on his actions."
  Gertrude snorted and shifted as if to rise. She wished she hadn't asked. Nor come to see this fakir.
  "How'd you do that?" Gunboat asked. He stared at the empty palm.
  "That was a trick," Gertrude said.
  "Isn't everything?" the sadhu said gently. He then addressed Gunboat although there was no perceptible movement to his head or to the last peep of his eyes. Only his voice appeared to shift direction. "You will meet a woman of your own race.   Be careful. She holds your destiny." He paused. "And a prince. If you wish it, he will change your life."
  "I don't know any prince." Gunboat spoke only to a silent image.
  The sadhu's eyes closed. They sat awhile, but the man appeared to have withdrawn from them. Gunboat leaned forward and reached out.
  "Gunboat." There was panic in Gertrude's voice.
  Gunboat touched the palm on which the ash had materialized. Delicately he drew his finger across the palm. The sadhu did not stir. Gunboat drew back. The ash was on his fingertip. He smelled. It was sweet and dry.

A FURTHER EXCERPT

      He looked down at himself as he dried. He was still strong, somewhat flat-bellied. The legs looked good, but Gunboat knew how deceptive the appearance was. In a ring they'd turn to jelly in two rounds. He dressed in clean cotton trousers and a shirt, took another pull on the Indian whiskey, and went out. The evening was so cool. It was difficult to remember the heat of the day now. He strolled towards the traffic island and began up Brigade Road.
     The sidewalk up Brigade Road was crowded with young people. They were college students and some schoolboys and girls. During the day, the sidewalks were nearly empty. Once the sun set they came in groups, the boys in one, the girls in another. They looked at each other, talked aloud, giggled, even exchanged jokes with the other group, but never quite met. When they tired they adjourned to Koshy's, a small coffeehouse. It served good coffee, excellent masala dosais, and it had the only jukebox in town. Gunboat could hear the juke now. The song drifting across the streets with the cafe lights was "Blue Suede Shoes."
      A few doors further up, and across the street, was Gunboat's. The signboard needed a coat of paint and was dimly lit. Gunboat turned in, climbed the narrow steps, and entered the billiards saloon. There were four tables, stagnant green in the shielded lights, and a bar at the far end with stools for the patrons. Alongside three walls were raised-wood and cane-bottomed benches and overhead a slow-moving fan. The walls were bare and needed a whitewash; the coir carpet was frayed.
     Only one of the tables was taken. A boy was playing by himself and, Gunboat noticed, he was good. Three men Gunboat didn't know stood to one side, watching with deference and admiration. They appeared to be witnessing a miracle. Gunboat  took the cold beer left for him on the counter by Krishnan the bar- tender, and settled himself on the stool.
     The boy was tall, nearly five nine. He was thickset, well muscled for an Indian, and stood very straight. He moved like an athlete, surely, confidently, around the table. His eyebrows were startlingly thick: A little finger of black hair arched above  his eyes and joined above his nose. He had a full woman's mouth and a firm jaw. There was a scar on his cheek, just above the line of the jawbone.
He didn't look at Gunboat but continued playing, firmly stroking the cue and spinning one ball against the other. He finally missed, and the three men sighed in sympathy. The boy shrugged. Gunboat guessed him to be fifteen or sixteen. One of them stepped forward and took the cue, as if it were a gift.
     " Are you Gunboat Jack?" The boy spoke from where he stood, across the length of the room.
     "Yeah."
     The boy considered the reply. It hung in the silence between them, which gave the reply a reverberation of meanings. The three men, having once glanced in his direction, now stood a few feet back, arms behind their backs, studying the boy. They
looked alike: slim, dark, servile. They dressed alike too: white dhotis, long white open-neck shirts, and slippers.
  The boy said, "You killed a man once I am told."
  Gunboat decided he did not like the boy. He was too confident, too much an adult for a child his age. There was little doubt he expected an answer; his bearing was that of someone used to giving commands. Gunboat considered throwing him out, but suspected it would not be a judicial move. There would be endless trouble. The boy suggested ripples of unseen power, which made Gunboat dislike him that much more.
   "Yeah.”
    The boy nodded, as if this expanded his understanding. He had been solemn until now. He smiled. It made him boyish for the first time; gave him a vulnerability he had not had before. He also had dimples. "I would like you to teach me how you did that.”
  "Oh Jesus!" Gunboat uttered under his breath.
   He turned his back on the boy. Remembering…
   He knew he could never forget The Tiger. The man's face was still so clear and that long fall, a moment after Gunboat's punch, would never end. A man had died and the blame lay heavy on his soul. He had no wish to be constantly reminded.
  "Go to hell," Gunboat said and turned from the boy.
   The three men looked worried, frightened even. The boy nodded solemnly but didn't move away. Gunboat felt his back studied. The beer tasted bitter and bad. He pushed it away.
   "It couldn't be helped," the boy said.
   "For Christ's sake, why do you all say that?" Gunboat shoved the glass. It fell and smashed. The liquid turned the faded coir carpet red. Blood-colored.
    The boy would have turned, except he sensed the expectations of his retainers. He felt trapped between the white man's hostile back, embarrassed and unsure how to handle that spurt of anger, and the eyes of Swami, Kanni, and Vikrant. One was his valet, the other his chauffeur, the third his father's aide-de- camp. He was also unused to rejection.
  He gestured to his men to wait and walked over to the bar. Gunboat ignored him. The boy didn't notice the barman who snapped to attention and poured Gunboat a new beer at the boy's gesture.
   "I am Nataraj," he announced formally. It sounded like an edict. He relented. "But I was given a nickname. Nicky. I am sorry I offended you." His accent was immaculately British.
   "You want to kill a man?"
    "Not particularly." He smiled. "I said it more as a compliment. I thought a fighter would take that as praise."
   "It ain't."
   "I have apologized." Nicky spoke stiffly.
   "Okay, I accept it. What do you want me for?"
   "I'd like to learn to box." He corrected himself: "I need to."
   “A guy like you doesn't need to do anything." Gunboat felt the boy's assurance, like mail armor.
    "That's true." He hadn't expected that power of observation in Gunboat. Boxers were not intelligent men. "My needs are my own. No one is forcing me."
   "Have you ever boxed before?"
   "Never. I am athletic and play nearly every sport well." He said this simply; an accepted gift of life.
   "Things come easily, huh?"
   "Yes, I play cricket, hockey, football, polo, squash, and tennis."