LITMIR.BIZ

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couldn’t keep from grinning. “What did you do?”

      “I told that pompous fool that I wouldn’t marry him if his mother paid me a dowry.”

      I laughed.

      “And then I told my mother exactly what I thought of her as I packed my suitcase and left for Mandalay.”

      “When we were introduced to him,” I said. “I thought he was a rich gentleman.”

      “Yes, and an architect. Do you remember when he said he drew pictures of buildings, then left the construction to more capable hands?”

      “I do.”

      “He draws pictures of buildings all right. He’s a street artist, and a poor one at that. And his so-called club is the municipal park where we had to wait an hour for a vacant tennis court.”

      “When will your mother ever learn?” I took my pipe from the inside pocket of my jacket and began to fill it with tobacco.

      “When will I ever learn, you mean. And when did you start smoking a pipe?”

      I struck a match and drew on the stem. “Last week.” I went out to the telephone mounted on the wall in the hallway and rang up room service for tea and coffee. The night waiter brought the tray up to my room, and a few minutes later, Kayin came in, followed by a man.

      “I would like for you to meet someone,” she said to Raji and me. I don’t think Raji noticed it, but I thought I heard a slight tremor in Kayin’s voice.

      We stood up to greet him. He wasn’t dressed in traditional Burmese clothing, but instead wore a Western-style gray suit, nicely cut but inexpensive. His posture was very straight, his bearing almost military, and he was taller than most Burmese men. I guessed his age to be late twenties. With the front brim of his black hat turned down, he could have stepped right out of a Charlie Chan movie.

      “This is Major Kala-Byan,” Kayin said.

      He removed his hat as he stepped forward to take Raji’s hand, bowing slightly. He then took my hand in a firm handshake. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Fusilier.” His English was good and strongly British.

      “I’m glad to meet you, Major. Are you in the Burma Rifles?” I knew many Burmese men joined that unit of the British Army, but I hadn’t heard of any being promoted to officer rank.

      I saw him bristle, and he almost made a quick reply but then caught himself. “No, sir,” he said slowly. “I am not in the Burma Rifles.”

      Kayin also saw the major’s reaction. “Major Kala-Byan is in the Burma Movement for Independence.”

      I was surprised by the look in Kayin’s eyes as she watched the major. I can’t say it was so much admiration as it was pride, like a mother seeing her son do well on the football field.

      “I see,” I said, not really seeing at all. Why had Kayin brought a man to us from the underground? And how did she know him?

      “Won’t you have a cup of tea?” Raji asked the major as I motioned for him to have a seat on the couch.

      “Thank you,” he said as he laid his hat on the couch and glanced at the coffee pot. “But I would prefer coffee.”

      Well, I thought, at least he’s a coffee drinker. He was the first person I’d met in the East who asked for coffee.

      The major sat in the center of the couch, while Kayin sat on the end, angling herself toward me. As Raji poured coffee for him, I sat back in my chair.

      “You and Miss Devaki went to Theodore Roosevelt University medical school in Richmond, Virginia,” the major said, taking the cup and saucer from Raji and helping himself to some milk from the creamer on the tray.

      Although his words sounded more like a statement than a question, I glanced at Raji as she took her seat in the other chair.

      “But you didn’t complete your degree program?” He sipped his coffee.

      I shook my head. This was a question.

      I tapped my pipe on the edge of the ashtray, then filled it from the tobacco pouch. I held the pouch out to him, but he declined and took a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes from an inside jacket pocket. He broke the cellophane wrapper, opened the pack, and offered a cigarette to Raji. She shook her head, then he offered one to Kayin. She surprised me by taking one of the cigarettes. I struck a match and held it out toward her. She leaned forward and tilted her head for the light. I watched to see if she would inhale the smoke; she didn’t.

      I lit my pipe, then shook the flame from the match and struck a new one to offer a light to the major. He took the light, cupping his hand over mine, as if to protect it from the wind.

      “Three on a match?” he asked as he leaned back and inhaled deeply.

      Strange, I thought. How does one learn a culture's beliefs and superstitions?

      This business of not lighting three times on the same match stems, I think, from the World War of 1918, when three American soldiers were in a foxhole one night. One of the solders opened a pack of cigarettes, took one for himself, and gave one to each of his buddies. The first soldier lit his smoke, held the match out to the second man to light his, then to the third soldier. A German sniper, catching a glimpse of the match flame across the battlefield, took careful aim and fired just as the third soldier took his first, and final, puff.

      Perhaps this was a military, rather than a cultural belief. But I had no military background. How had it come to me? I made a mental note to talk with Kayin about this the next time we were alone. If she and I were going to be together, then I wanted to learn her belief system, as well as her language.

      I crushed out the match in the ashtray. “No,” I said in answer to his question about me and Raji not completing our degree programs. “We left school in our third year.”

      “Why?” he asked.

      I puffed my pipe and waited a moment. I didn’t mind talking about school or why Raji and I had quit, but I did resent being interrogated.

      “Oxford,” I said as I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs.

      A puff of cigarette smoke obscured the major’s face for a moment, but from Kayin’s look, I imagined he glanced at her.

      “Pardon me?” he said as the gray smoke drifted away.

      “You went to Oxford University,” I said as I examined the bowl of my pipe, then looked back at him.

      “The accent?” He took a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue using his thumb and forefinger.

      “Yes.” I smiled and inquired further. “What was your field of study?”

      “I have degrees in engineering and mining,” he replied as he dropped the bit of tobacco into the ashtray.

      “Why mining? I should have thought political science would be of interest to you.”

      He sipped his coffee and regarded me over the rim of his cup for a moment before he replied. “My primary interest was in the latest developments in explosives.”

      “I left school,” I said, “because I no longer saw any point in it. How about you, Raji?”

      “I suppose, to me,” she said, “it is really no more than a sabbatical leave. I will probably go back and finish my degree at some point.”

      I looked back to the major. “Does that answer all your questions?”

      “I’m sorry,” he said as he put his cup back on the saucer. “I didn’t intend to be rude. Sometimes I’m too direct and forget my manners. I hope I didn’t offend either of you.”

      “No offense,” Raji replied, with a smile.

      I waved away his concern.

      “I know,”

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