Lips Touch: Three Times by Lips Touch; Three Times Page B
Authors: Lips Touch; Three Times
Ads: Link
long time, and sometimes the demon had
feared that she would never die, that he would be hamstrung by her human
sensibilities forever. But now she was fading. Growing papery. Pain became
plain in every furrow of her face and in the way she moved gingerly down the
onyx tunnels to their morning meetings. She was dying at last! Vasudev wanted
to gloat, but the curse restrained him. It was unthinkable he shouldn't have
the satisfaction of it while the old bitch was still alive to suffer from it!
He sat opposite Estella and drummed his fingers on the table,
unable to triumph at her pain and pallor. Furiously he wondered
82
how he might finally tip the balance. How he might make the girl
speak at last.
He had no way of knowing, as he scowled and muttered, that at that
very moment a soldier on a train from Bombay was discovering a lost diary
wedged between the seat and the wall, and not just any lost diary, but the lost
diary of the cursed girl herself. And even as that train wended its way toward
Jaipur, the soldier was flipping it open to the first page.
Some would assert that Providence was at work, shaking out its
pockets in Humanity's lap. Others would argue for that mindless choreographer,
Chance. Either way it was a simple thing: A lost diary fell into the hands of a
soul-sick war hero on a train from Bombay to Jaipur just when he'd grown tired
of the scenery and needed something to keep his thoughts from the minefield of
his wretched memories.
In such mild ways is the groundwork laid for first kisses and
ruined lives.
83
FOUR The Solders
he soldier's name was James Dorsey, and he had dropped his lighter
down between the seat and the wall of the compartment. It was the lighter his
friend Gaffney had told
him to take off his corpse if he became a corpse, and then he had.
Six hundred thousand men had died at the Somme, but James had not. What
remained of his regiment had been torn apart in the Second Marne, and again,
somehow, James had survived. He'd joined the Foreign Office after the War and
come to India for another try at death -- a more interesting one than mortars
and gas, perhaps. Here among the tigers and the dacoits' long knives there were
many to choose from, not the least of them the marvelous fevers with names like
exotic flowers.
Digging out the dropped lighter, James found the diary wedged down
between the seat and the wall and he fished it out too. It was bound in floral
linen and filled with girlish script. "The secrets of a blushing maiden,"
he quipped with a smile that brought his dimples out, and he flipped it right
open with no scruple to preserving the maidenly modesty of its writer. Indeed,
he expected none. He had endured his sea voyage in the company of the
"fishing fleet" -- English ladies hying themselves to India to catch
husbands -- and
84
he felt as if he had barely escaped being drugged and dragged to
the altar. He thought he knew the character of English girls in India, and
surely this diary would be more of the same.
Tucking Gaffney s lighter back into his pocket, James began to
read.
His smile wavered. It clung for a time in disbelief and then fell
away in stages. The little book did indeed hold the secrets of a blushing
maiden, but they weren't the sort of secrets he'd expected, and by the time his
train arrived in Jaipur, James had read the diary through twice and found
himself -- against all expectation -- to be half in love with its writer.
That was ridiculous, of course. Certainly a man couldn't fall in
love with cursive on a page, could he? He scanned the inside covers of the
little book for some hint of the girl's identity but found no name.
So, a mystery.
He held the book tenderly as he stepped off the train and into his
new life, and later, in his lodgings, he read it a third time, mining it for
clues as to who the girl might be. There was enough to suggest she had lived in
Jaipur, though whether she still did was uncertain. The diary had been lost on
a train, after
feared that she would never die, that he would be hamstrung by her human
sensibilities forever. But now she was fading. Growing papery. Pain became
plain in every furrow of her face and in the way she moved gingerly down the
onyx tunnels to their morning meetings. She was dying at last! Vasudev wanted
to gloat, but the curse restrained him. It was unthinkable he shouldn't have
the satisfaction of it while the old bitch was still alive to suffer from it!
He sat opposite Estella and drummed his fingers on the table,
unable to triumph at her pain and pallor. Furiously he wondered
82
how he might finally tip the balance. How he might make the girl
speak at last.
He had no way of knowing, as he scowled and muttered, that at that
very moment a soldier on a train from Bombay was discovering a lost diary
wedged between the seat and the wall, and not just any lost diary, but the lost
diary of the cursed girl herself. And even as that train wended its way toward
Jaipur, the soldier was flipping it open to the first page.
Some would assert that Providence was at work, shaking out its
pockets in Humanity's lap. Others would argue for that mindless choreographer,
Chance. Either way it was a simple thing: A lost diary fell into the hands of a
soul-sick war hero on a train from Bombay to Jaipur just when he'd grown tired
of the scenery and needed something to keep his thoughts from the minefield of
his wretched memories.
In such mild ways is the groundwork laid for first kisses and
ruined lives.
83
FOUR The Solders
he soldier's name was James Dorsey, and he had dropped his lighter
down between the seat and the wall of the compartment. It was the lighter his
friend Gaffney had told
him to take off his corpse if he became a corpse, and then he had.
Six hundred thousand men had died at the Somme, but James had not. What
remained of his regiment had been torn apart in the Second Marne, and again,
somehow, James had survived. He'd joined the Foreign Office after the War and
come to India for another try at death -- a more interesting one than mortars
and gas, perhaps. Here among the tigers and the dacoits' long knives there were
many to choose from, not the least of them the marvelous fevers with names like
exotic flowers.
Digging out the dropped lighter, James found the diary wedged down
between the seat and the wall and he fished it out too. It was bound in floral
linen and filled with girlish script. "The secrets of a blushing maiden,"
he quipped with a smile that brought his dimples out, and he flipped it right
open with no scruple to preserving the maidenly modesty of its writer. Indeed,
he expected none. He had endured his sea voyage in the company of the
"fishing fleet" -- English ladies hying themselves to India to catch
husbands -- and
84
he felt as if he had barely escaped being drugged and dragged to
the altar. He thought he knew the character of English girls in India, and
surely this diary would be more of the same.
Tucking Gaffney s lighter back into his pocket, James began to
read.
His smile wavered. It clung for a time in disbelief and then fell
away in stages. The little book did indeed hold the secrets of a blushing
maiden, but they weren't the sort of secrets he'd expected, and by the time his
train arrived in Jaipur, James had read the diary through twice and found
himself -- against all expectation -- to be half in love with its writer.
That was ridiculous, of course. Certainly a man couldn't fall in
love with cursive on a page, could he? He scanned the inside covers of the
little book for some hint of the girl's identity but found no name.
So, a mystery.
He held the book tenderly as he stepped off the train and into his
new life, and later, in his lodgings, he read it a third time, mining it for
clues as to who the girl might be. There was enough to suggest she had lived in
Jaipur, though whether she still did was uncertain. The diary had been lost on
a train, after
Similar Books
Return to Winter: Russia, China, and the New Cold War Against America
Douglas E. Schoen, Melik Kaylan
