A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. ‘But you are idiot. She saw his face change, how he regretted. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. She kept her eyes closed. Her skin prickled. The door leaned inward. ’ She shook her head sadly. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture.
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