Sinbari's fourth shower room. Pivoting on his heal he hurried back towards the gym in time to see Sinbari's body disappearing under the glittering water of the indoor pool. A strange and utterly devastating feeling of alienation enveloped Sadrettin as he watched his lean Italian boss swim back and forth across the rectangular space like a caged shark. When he could bear the tearing sound of his own heart no longer, he turned and almost ran from the room.
*
Karmel had often run from things, since he was a boy, and now he wanted to fling his pack down on the dry, cindery path and fly from this place with its whispering women and its suspicious, taunting houses.
Instead of fleeing, however, he placed his hands together and faced the villagers with a smile curving his lips.
'Greetings' he called, with a ceremonial bow that he had dreamed of making when he was a child to the parents who never came to claim him. It seemed somehow fitting to treat these women with great respect – these inscrutable girl children who clutched at household objects and each other like talismans that would guard against him, these near-sighted, bent grandmothers with shining mountain caps and voluminous skirts. All around him the gesture was echoed slowly – reluctantly even – but it was echoed and he felt his poise return.
He was a member of the police force, a trained man, a city-dweller with more power and knowledge than these mountain people could ever dream of. There was nothing to fear here, surely. Why was he allowing a tale told by two naïve and inexperienced foreign tourists to affect him so much?
The young boys he had met had also been from this village. Their grandfather resided here and had only been gone some weeks, they'd said; there must be other men around the place, as well as boys who went up to higher, less forested areas during the daytime. And, now that he thought about it, there were no stout middle-aged women visible either which made the remaining villagers simply those too young or old to work. With a reassured shrug, he selected a lane that looked wider than the others and hoisted his pack.
The village would most probably have some central point or gathering place. He would rest there until a woman invited him in or until the heads of some households returned. True, it was unusual that he had not been greeted with more warmth but then, with his smouldering eyes, grimy clothing and week-old growth of beard, he must look an awe-inspiring sight to these fresh-faced, fair-haired people.
Seemingly lost in thought but actually quite alert, he descended along the path and a few girls followed him at a slight distance, stopping cautiously when he paused to look around. Most simply stayed where they were and followed his progress with their eyes. He had his back to them, or he would not have missed the unspoken communication between two of the watchers who stood, eyebrows raised, shoulders hunched against the cold, just inside a darkened doorway.
That same evening, at a table in a noisy joint on Demello Street, Aguada's prime tourist haunt for those bored by the sterility of other Goan resorts, the two erstwhile tourists were well into their fifth round of beer.
Although they were in Goa, nothing much about the room spoke of the Asian subcontinent. Apart from the obsequious and ubiquitous waiters, who seemed to watch everyone's every move and anticipate requests by a fraction of a second, there were no other Indian clientele.
A football match was being shown on a small screen across the room and most of the British patrons were absorbed in its progress. A Russian couple whispered to each other in a corner, clearly disappointed by the lack of local colour: during the evening they had requested some Goan music and been booed by a couple of drunks. After that they'd conceded defeat and were eating their shrimps and curried pork in hurried, furtive jerks. Shouts of 'Ged on it, Forrester, you dickhead!' and 'Off
*
Karmel had often run from things, since he was a boy, and now he wanted to fling his pack down on the dry, cindery path and fly from this place with its whispering women and its suspicious, taunting houses.
Instead of fleeing, however, he placed his hands together and faced the villagers with a smile curving his lips.
'Greetings' he called, with a ceremonial bow that he had dreamed of making when he was a child to the parents who never came to claim him. It seemed somehow fitting to treat these women with great respect – these inscrutable girl children who clutched at household objects and each other like talismans that would guard against him, these near-sighted, bent grandmothers with shining mountain caps and voluminous skirts. All around him the gesture was echoed slowly – reluctantly even – but it was echoed and he felt his poise return.
He was a member of the police force, a trained man, a city-dweller with more power and knowledge than these mountain people could ever dream of. There was nothing to fear here, surely. Why was he allowing a tale told by two naïve and inexperienced foreign tourists to affect him so much?
The young boys he had met had also been from this village. Their grandfather resided here and had only been gone some weeks, they'd said; there must be other men around the place, as well as boys who went up to higher, less forested areas during the daytime. And, now that he thought about it, there were no stout middle-aged women visible either which made the remaining villagers simply those too young or old to work. With a reassured shrug, he selected a lane that looked wider than the others and hoisted his pack.
The village would most probably have some central point or gathering place. He would rest there until a woman invited him in or until the heads of some households returned. True, it was unusual that he had not been greeted with more warmth but then, with his smouldering eyes, grimy clothing and week-old growth of beard, he must look an awe-inspiring sight to these fresh-faced, fair-haired people.
Seemingly lost in thought but actually quite alert, he descended along the path and a few girls followed him at a slight distance, stopping cautiously when he paused to look around. Most simply stayed where they were and followed his progress with their eyes. He had his back to them, or he would not have missed the unspoken communication between two of the watchers who stood, eyebrows raised, shoulders hunched against the cold, just inside a darkened doorway.
That same evening, at a table in a noisy joint on Demello Street, Aguada's prime tourist haunt for those bored by the sterility of other Goan resorts, the two erstwhile tourists were well into their fifth round of beer.
Although they were in Goa, nothing much about the room spoke of the Asian subcontinent. Apart from the obsequious and ubiquitous waiters, who seemed to watch everyone's every move and anticipate requests by a fraction of a second, there were no other Indian clientele.
A football match was being shown on a small screen across the room and most of the British patrons were absorbed in its progress. A Russian couple whispered to each other in a corner, clearly disappointed by the lack of local colour: during the evening they had requested some Goan music and been booed by a couple of drunks. After that they'd conceded defeat and were eating their shrimps and curried pork in hurried, furtive jerks. Shouts of 'Ged on it, Forrester, you dickhead!' and 'Off
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