Raji, Book Three E-Book

Charley Brindley

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Raji, Book Three

Leseprobe

Raji

Book Three: Dire Kawa

by

Charley Brindley

[email protected]

www.charleybrindley.com

Edited by

Karen Boston

Website https://bit.ly/2rJDq3f

Cover art by

Charley Brindley

© 2019

All rights reserved

© 2019 Charley Brindley, all rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition February 2019

This book is dedicated to

Tatta Marie Brindley

Some of Charley Brindley’s books

have been translated into:

Italian

Spanish

Portuguese

French

Dutch

Turkish

Chinese

Ukranian

and

Russian

The following books are available in audio format:

Raji, Book One (in English)

Do Not Resuscitate (in English)

The Last Mission of the Seventh Cavalry (in English)

Hannibal’s Elephant Girl, Book One (in Russian)

Henry IX (in Italian)

Other books by Charley Brindley

1. Oxana’s Pit

2. The Last Mission of the Seventh Cavalry

3. Raji Book One: Octavia Pompeii

4. Raji Book Two: The Academy

5. Raji Book Four: The House of the West Wind

6. Hannibal’s Elephant Girl

7. Cian

8. Ariion XXIII

9. The Last Seat on the Hindenburg

10. Dragonfly vs Monarch: Book One

11. Dragonfly vs Monarch: Book One

12. The Sea of Tranquility 2.0 Book One: Exploration

13. The Sea of Tranquility 2.0 Book Two: Invasion

14. The Sea of Tranquility 2.0 Book Three

15. The Sea of Tranquility 2.0 Book Four

16. Sea of Sorrows, Book Two of The Rod of God

17. Do Not Resuscitate

18. Hannibal’s Elephant Girl, Book Two

19. The Rod of God, Book One

20. Henry IX

21. Qubit’s Incubaator

22. Casper’s Game

Coming Soon

23. Dragonfly vs Monarch: Book Three

24. The Journey to Valdacia

25. Still Waters Run Deep

26. Ms Machiavelli

27. Ariion XXIX

28. The Last Mission of the Seventh Cavalry Book 2

29. Hannibal’s Elephant Girl, Book Three

See the end of this book for details about the others

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Raji

In the fall of 1932, Fuse and I walked through the near-deserted campus of Theodore Roosevelt University, in Richmond, Virginia.

We were third-year students in the medical school and would have been at the top of our class–had there been a class. Two days earlier, the two of us sat in the rigid wooden chairs in front of Dr. Octavia Pompeii’s desk. She was chancellor of the medical school, and she looked as if she carried the weight of the entire university on her tiny shoulders. Her beautiful red hair was thinning, and during the past two years, streaks of gray had crept into the curls from her temples. Dark circles saddened her eyes.

Dr. Pompeii took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Raji, Fuse, I have bad news.”

Fuse and I glanced at each other. We knew the university was in dire financial straits, just as all the schools were. Faculty and students had been drifting away ever since the crash of 1929.

“We’re closing the medical school,” Dr. Pompeii said.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Why?”

She toyed with a yellow pencil for a moment. “We’ve lost seventy percent of our funding and enrollment for next semester is next to nothing.”

Fuse was quiet, but I knew he was in shock, just as I was. We had talked about this very event over the past semester, but I don’t think we really believed it would happen. No one spoke for a while.

“Dr. Pompeii,” Fuse finally said. “What will you do?”

My old pal Fuse, always thinking of others first.

“Strangely enough,” she said, “I’m going back to school.”

“That’s wonderful, Dr. Pompeii,” I said. “Where will you go?”

“Cornell University. I’m going to study ortho-pedics.” She looked through some papers on her desk. “I’ve prepared a list of ten schools where I want both of you to apply. I’ve mailed letters of recommendation, along with your transcripts, to all of them. I have no idea what the scholarship situation is, but you have to try.”

“Dr. Pompeii,” Fuse said. “I don’t think…” He paused to look at me. “I don’t think any of them have money for scholarships.”

“You don’t know that. If none of these ten will take you in, then we’ll find ten more. There’s no one in this country more deserving of scholarships than you and Raji.”

I took the list of schools. “Thank you so much, Dr. Pompeii,” I said, then stood. “We’ll get right to work on these.”

Dr. Pompeii rose from her chair and reached across the desk to take my hand. “I wish both of you all the luck in the world.” She held her other hand out to Fuse.

“Thank you, Dr. Pompeii,” Fuse said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”

* * * * *

I don’t know why, but our rambling walk took us to the nearby campus of Octavia Pompeii Academy. I thought about that day in August 1926, when I had joined the junior class. Fuse didn’t finish the competition in the top fifty, but he was invited to attend when one of the other students had to leave due to a death in his family.

Now the once lively academy was a depressing sight, with the windows and doors boarded up and weeds overgrowing the sidewalks and tennis courts. We stopped in front of Hannibal House to watch a trio of crows pecking at the disintegrating parapet above the door.

“I wrote a letter to Mom,” Fuse said, keeping his eyes on the crows.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He nodded, still not looking at me. I turned to walk along the sidewalk, watching the cracks in the crumbling cement. He walked beside me.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He stopped to face me, and I saw that crooked grin I knew so well.

“I’ve always wanted to see India.”

“Me, too.” I returned his grin.

It had been fifteen years since I was taken from my home in Calcutta. Thinking back over my life in America, I truly believe I should be thankful to those thugs who grabbed me, along with twenty other girls and young women, from the streets in 1912. We were shipped to New York in the hold of a cattle boat like so much livestock, then sold off to become indentured servants. After my thirteenth birthday, I ran away from the house in Queens where I had been held. Two days later, I ended up sleeping in a barn in rural Virginia.

How fortunate for me that the barn belonged to the Fusilier family. Fuse, who was a boy of fourteen at the time, discovered me the next morning, then I spent the most wonderful year of my life with him and his family. Marie Fusilier took me in as if I were her own daughter.

“I should write to Mama Marie, too.” I took Fuse’s hand.

“I told her you were going with me.”

“Well, how presumptuous of you.”

“Uh-huh.”

That night, Fuse and I packed what little gear we had and hitched a ride to New York City on the back of a potato truck, then we walked along the docks of lower Manhattan.

Two days later, we shipped out on the Borboleta Nova, under the command of Captain Sinaway. The Borboleta was a beautiful new freighter only six months out of the shipyards at Lisbon. She was bound for Calcutta with a cargo of dynamite, and since neither Fuse nor I had any sailing experience, the captain assigned Fuse to the engine room, shoveling coal, and I went to work as a deckhand. We didn’t care what we had to do—we just wanted to escape. From what, I don’t think either of us knew.

I was very apprehensive about seeing my family, especially my mother, Hajini. Seven years earlier, she had written to me at the Fusilier farm, informing me that she had arranged a marriage for me. This was quite a shock, at age fourteen to learn my mother had betrothed me to a man of forty-seven. Mama Marie Fusilier was equally surprised. She told me if a man married a child in America, he would go to jail.

Marie helped me write to my mother in India, explaining that I would like to wait for marriage until I was at least eighteen, then I wanted to pick my own husband.

My mother wrote back, telling me I was being disrespectful and this sort of behavior was not allowed. And in addition, she and my father had purchased passage for me on a ship leaving America for Calcutta. The ticket would arrive soon.

The ticket did indeed come to me in the mail. I sent it back, telling my mother I was old enough to make my own decisions. After that, it was four months before I heard from her again. This time, she said my grandmother was dying and I should come to see her as soon as possible, but she made no mention of paying my passage. I wrote back, saying if I had enough money, I would pay my way to India to see grandmother, but it would be a roundtrip ticket.

It was a year before I received another letter, in which my mother gave me news of all the family. She included many details about my nieces and nephews, and she said my grandmother was still alive, but growing weaker. I wrote back to her about my progress at the academy and said I planned to go to medical school.

Five years passed with no more letters from my mother.

* * * * *

Fuse

I spent a very tense week with Raji and her family in Calcutta. She and her mother were exactly alike in temperament and frankness, each one speaking her mind on any matter that arose. Her grandmother of eighty-seven was just as outgoing, but without the energy to carry an argument to conclusion she often fell asleep in the middle of a discussion.

On a warm Friday evening in October, a young man arrived at the Devaki home.

“This is Panyas Maidan,” Mrs. Devaki said, leading him into the living room, where Raji and I sat on the floor, teaching some of the children to play chess.

Raji was on her feet before I was, and it seemed to me her smile was a bit more lively than necessary.

“I am Vincent Fusilier.” I spoke in Hindi and reached to shake his hand.

“This is my daughter, Miss Rajiani Devaki,” her mother said, pushing Raji forward.

Mr. Maidan looked at Raji, then spoke to me. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

His English was perfect and precise. His handshake was firm, but not overpowering. I must admit, it was somewhat of a relief to hear my native language after a week of endless conversations in Hindi. His build was athletic, and his complexion a light tan. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-ten, and maybe three or four years older than I, making him about twenty-five.

“Mr. Maidan is an architect,” Mrs. Devaki gushed. “He has built many beautiful buildings all across India.” Her radiant set of dentures was outshone only by Raji’s dazzling white teeth.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Maidan said. “I only draw the pictures of buildings. I must leave the difficult tasks of construction to more capable hands.”

He looked at Raji. She still had that ridiculous grin on her face, and now she tilted her head to the side in a cutesy but rather awkward motion.

Mr. Maidan glanced at Raji’s hands, then mine. “Do you play cricket, Mr. Fusilier?”

“I’m not much for sports. I play tennis occasionally.” I felt the edge of Raji’s sandal pressing down on my little toe.

“Really? Perhaps you could come to my club for a few sets of tennis tomorrow afternoon.”

I would love to be on a tennis court. After five weeks on the freighter, then being cooped up in the Devaki home for another week, a few hours of strenuous tennis was exactly what I needed.

“That would be great.” I pulled my foot away from the painful crush of Raji’s weight. I looked at her to see her right hand make a quick motion toward her ear, then she flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “However,” I said to Mr. Maidan, with my eyes still on Raji, “I won’t be able to accept your generous invitation, because…”

“You promised the children you would help them with…” Raji looked around the room. “With their acrobatics tomorrow.”

“Right, acrobatics.” I turned back to Mr. Maidan. “And anyway, Raji is a much better tennis player than I am.”

“Is that a fact?” He looked Raji up and down. “A lady tennis player?”

She nodded.

“All right, then. While Mr. Fusilier teaches gymnastics, perhaps you will teach me a bit about the game of tennis.”

If the scene before me had been a smiling contest, I believe Raji would have lost out to her mother.

* * * * *

I suppose Mr. Maidan’s tennis game wasn’t very good, because he apparently needed lots of instruction on that Saturday afternoon. It was very late in the evening when Raji returned, and the two of them were back at the game the next day, and the day after that.

Early on Tuesday morning, Raji and I sat on the veranda, sipping tea and watching the sunrise.

“Raji,” I said, “there’s a riverboat going up the Irrawaddy from Rangoon next Wednesday.”

She looked at me, raising an eyebrow, her way of asking, “And?”

“I have to move on. The boat is bound for Mandalay, then on through northern Burma to Myitkyina, on the Chinese border.”

For a moment, she watched the bright morning sunlight filtering through the banana trees, while I watched the warm glow of her beautiful face.

“All right,” she said. “Wait for me in Mandalay, and we’ll go see what those Chinese guys are up to.”

I’d hoped she would say something like that. We traveled well together, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to leave her family, or Mr. Maidan. However, I also knew Raji better than her parents did. They were nice people, and somewhat prosperous in spite of the economic downturn. Mr. Devaki was a professor of history at Jawaharlal Nehru University, and his wife worked in some sort of government office, so they had a reasonable income. But once Raji caught up on all the family history and her mother and father went back to their respective offices, Raji would become bored without the intellectual stimulation she was accustomed to; at least that was my hope. Of course, if she found other sources of stimulation, I’d probably be traveling to China on my own.

Raji’s father, who made frequent trips to Mandalay for reasons that varied from “commercial ventures” to “scenic excursions” or “leisurely studies of nature,” recommended a hotel called the Nadi Myanmar, on 62nd Street, just off the City Center, as a convenient place for me and his daughter to meet in Mandalay.

I knew from Raj that her father was deeply involved in the struggle against the English as both India and Burma tried to throw off the yoke of the British Empire. He not only helped arrange funding for opposition groups, but he also traveled to Burma to help organize clandestine meetings with rebel organizations. A year earlier, I would have told him I knew quite well what he was doing in Burma, and I probably would have taken the side of the British in trying to hold on to their far-flung colonies. But as he, his wife, Raji, and I, along with their nine other children and a multitude of nieces and nephews, sat on the floor around the low table, eating curry and khatta mango dal—mangoes with beans and red chilies—I thanked Mr. Devaki politely for the information as I made a mental note of the hotel name and street address in Mandalay.

Two weeks later, I met Kayin in the lobby of the Nadi Myanmar hotel.

Chapter Two

A smiling young lady tapped the bell sharply under her palm to call the next bellhop forward.

“Have nice stay we hope, Mr. Busetilear,” Kayin said as she handed me a three-dollar receipt for a week’s stay at the hotel. She could never quite get her tongue around the pronunciation of my last name, Fusilier.

I screwed the cap back on my fountain pen and put it away, but before I could thank her for the pleasant remark, the bellhop grabbed my suitcase and snatched the room key from our joined hands. Kayin had pressed the key into my hand but seemed as reluctant to let it go as I was of losing her touch.

“Make haste with Po-Sin this way, and quickly,” the boy said, dragging my heavy suitcase across the floor. “Jump on lift before ascends away to top, if it pleases you.”

Po-Sin was apparently in a hurry to be finished with me and my luggage so he could collect his dime tip and get back to the lobby and his place in line with the other boys awaiting the next big spender. He was around fifteen years old and smartly dressed, wearing a cap with no bill—similar to a fez without a tassel—a tight-fitting, maroon waist-jacket with three yellow stripes on each sleeve. He also wore a brightly colored longyi, the traditional wraparound skirt-like garment worn by both men and women in Burma.

I took my cap from the counter and turned to follow Po-Sin. A few steps away, I glanced back to see Kayin watching me. A brief frown crossed her lips before she revived her commercial smile for the next guest.

“Welcome to Hotel Nadi Myanmar,” she said to a stiff young Englishman who flourished his furled umbrella before him as if it were some sort of benign weapon used to clear his path of any undesirables. The man wore spotless white ducks and a matching pith helmet, with a long albatross feather sprouting from the band.

I looked down at my dirty old sailor’s cap, then back at Kayin. Her words and smile for the Englishman were the same as she gave me only moments before.

* * * * *

It was an accident, my bumping into Kayin at the hotel’s front door—she coming out as I returned to the hotel after a walk down to the river. This was the day after I first met her at the front desk. Earlier, when I left my room and went out, I’d looked toward the desk, hoping she’d be unoccupied and I could ask some aimless question about where to find the nearest Buddhist temple or how far was it to the river. But she was busy with the hotel manager, an Englishman, and I thought it better not to interrupt.

“My sorry, Mr. Busetilear,” Kayin said to me on the street outside the front door of the hotel after we collided. “I am so awkward.” She knelt to pick up her packages.

“No, no.” I knelt down and deliberately bumped my head against hers. “It was my fault.”

She laughed and rubbed the side of her head as I rubbed my forehead. “Perhaps better next time,” she said, “that we should steer clear of each other so not to bring more harm.”

Her laugh was beautiful, and exactly the response I’d intended.

“Do you happen to know,” I asked, “where is the nearest Buddhist temple?”

Her eyes widened. “You are Buddhist?”

“No.” I took her elbow to help her to her feet. I couldn’t lie to her. I’d already deceived her with the head-bump, but that was justified. “No, I’m not a Buddhist, but I would like to see the inside of a temple.” I was certain she was Buddhist, as most Burmese are.

“I have only right now one hour for lunch, and I must run the errand at bank for that Mr. Haverstock, our manager, then also to American Express office.”

“Oh.” I was crestfallen. This was unpretended. I really was disappointed that she’d be otherwise occupied. “I see.” I had a sudden inspiration. “May I walk with you to the bank? Then you can point me in the direction of a temple.”

If she’d made up the story of the errands for the hotel manager and she was actually going to meet her boyfriend, or husband, then she’d tell me to mind my own business and find a temple by myself. A woman as beautiful as she was must have a boyfriend, if not a husband.

“Of course,” she answered right away. “I would be happy for your company on walk to the bank. It is quite long way to go.”

We chatted easily along the way about Burma, Mandalay, the hotel, her job, her boss, and just as we neared the personal information I really wanted to know, she stopped me.

“Well,” she said, “here it is, the bank where I must leave hotel money.”

I looked up at the imposing Romanesque building rising four stories above. Chiseled into a marble slab over the doorway were the words “Reserve Bank of India.” At that time, Burma was still part of India, and the British used the same currency throughout the area.

“Already!” I was genuinely surprised we were there. “But you said it was a long way.”

“We have come more or less twelve blocks, probably.” She stood beside the bank door, smiling sweetly.

“Oh,” I said after a moment. “Where is that temple?”

“Just go down here this way two or more blocks, then on your left side, walk a bit until you see bright color yellow side of house. Stop and try to see small bridge right just ahead of your left-hand side, another few minutes you will be presented in front of Shwe Nadaw temple.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I had the distinct feeling she tried to disorient me with her rapid directions.

“Did you say on my left was the yellow store, or right?” I tried to make it even more confusing.

“Wait right here three minutes or little more, then we shall walk by that place together.”

With a bright smile, she went inside the bank. I watched her through the window as she handed over the hotel’s money to a teller, then went to a young lady sitting at a desk and leaned over to tell her something. The lady glanced in my direction, and I looked away to watch a policeman ride by on his bicycle.

After leaving the bank, we walked along Yadanar Street to the banks of the Nadi Canal, where I purchased ohno khauk swe from a street vendor for our lunch. The food consisted of rice noodles and chicken cooked in coconut milk. It was very spicy, as most Burmese food is, and delicious.

We were late in getting back to the hotel, but Kayin assured me it was all right. I told her if she got into any trouble with the manager, I would make it up to her with a nice dinner at a nearby restaurant.

“Well,” she said, “might be just a bit of trouble I get into.”

At 6 p.m. when she got off duty, she would go home to change, she said, then meet me in front of the restaurant at eight.

It was a long wait for me, and I realized during that interminable afternoon that I’d never been on a date with a girl. Raji and I had done many things together, but nothing one could actually call a date. I was twenty-one and uninitiated, as my father would say. I wondered if Kayin was initiated. Why had I never been out with a woman? Why had Raji and I never made love? What was it like to make love? And why was I thinking about it so much now, since I never had before? And much more of the same, for many hours.

Finally, the evening came, and I’d already been pacing in front of the restaurant for forty-five minutes, wondering if I were on the wrong street. But there she was, promptly at eight, coming along the sidewalk toward me, her heels clicking a quick cadence.