CHAPTER 22

Saturday morning dawned dry and cloudy. The sky, streaked with gray, grew electric as Gene stepped onto the sleeping porch, his limbs tight from slumber. For a few moments, he forgot what had happened the day before, and it was blissful to have nothing but the weather to think about. This was not the usual mildness of early spring in Bengal, but no doubt it was good racing weather. Better than the sweltering, humid heat. He knelt and thrust a hand under his bed for his spikes. He tossed the shoes into a canvas bag, their laces knotted so they would be easy to pick out from his brothers’. He stretched his legs one more time, readying for the crowded ride to Calcutta.

Suddenly, a slammed door down the hall—Ellis’s room—and thoughts of yesterday rushed to the fore of his mind. A moment later, his mother appeared at the banister, letting out a heavy sigh. “Come on,” she said to Gene, breezing by him and down the stairs.

John appeared in their bedroom doorway, poking his head out of his T-shirt and tucking the hem into the band of his shorts. He ran to the banister. “Uncle Ellis is coming, right?” he called down.

“Says he’s not feeling well,” Mrs. Hinton said.

Gene shrugged. But John thumped down the stairs after her, already spilling out arguments of how he can’t stay back, not again, forget what he said to Dad, this is the meet. But the door at the end of the hall remained closed, silent. Lee and Will emerged from the cookhouse bearing leftover naan from last night.

“Can we fit this into the bag?” Will said. Gene opened the zipper and held it out.

“What’s the matter?” Lee said.

“Uncle Ellis isn’t coming,” Will said. “I knew it.”

Mr. Hinton already sat at the wheel of the car, waiting. Gene slid in behind him and rested his elbows on the worn leather seatback. “Do we really have to go, Dad? You know, with what’s . . . happened and all?”

His father started the car. “We haven’t missed it in all the years we’ve been in India. We’re not going to miss it now. What would everyone think?”

Gene closed his eyes and felt the car shift as more bodies crammed in. In no time, they were all packed into the car and rolling past the guards, their clouded faces reflecting the sky.

They parked the car and walked down to the ghats, a dozen ferrymen clamoring for their business. They took the man who reached them first, his sweaty hand beckoning them down the steps to the water, not resting until a five-rupee coin was tight in his fist. On the other shore, the low brick walls of Fort William rose to greet them, show them the way to the dry grass of the maidan beyond.

To Gene, the maidan was how he imagined America. Its long, orderly fields and wide-open space had room for everything, for families to stretch out on picnic blankets, for children to play games with no boundaries. As they walked the dirt path that led to the center, he breathed in the scent of sulfur from the fort, where soldiers practiced shooting on the leafy grounds. To his right, the rickshaw traffic turned a corner and approached with frenzied bells and honks—whether to warn them to make way or to offer them a ride, Gene could never make out.

He came to a stop at the edge of the path, where his mother waited for a break in the traffic. He turned his head one moment to watch the flow, and in the next, Mrs. Hinton had dashed into the road, paying no mind to the oncoming carts and rickshaws. Gene thought she had lost her mind—the drivers swerved around her, horns blaring as her skirt billowed and swirled with every turn. For a split second, she looked back, the whites of her eyes shining, twinkling, and from somewhere behind him, he could hear his father shouting. “God in Heaven!” Mr. Hinton yelled, running into the road after her, flailing his arms like a sensible person in order to be seen. But before he could reach her, she was on the other side, miraculously unscathed, the tram pulling up slowly yet not quite halting. Mrs. Hinton climbed aboard without so much as a wipe from her brow.

With traffic at a full stop, the boys scooted across after their father and boarded the tram, the conductor making a hasty namaste when he saw the Padre Sahib. Gene glanced at Mrs. Hinton as he shuffled past her. She cast her eyes low as though there was something fascinating under her fingernails. Mr. Hinton paused next to her, but when she didn’t move over, he sat in the seat behind. Gene made his way to the back, where two Indian men got up to offer him a seat.

“Dhanyavaad,” Gene said.

“The hell was that?” Will whispered, glancing at their parents as he slid next to Gene.

Gene didn’t answer but looked out the window. He couldn’t worry about that now; the race had him nervous and jittery all through the night.

Blue, the shade of topaz, the tram dazzled against the verdant life of the maidan. It snaked around cricket fields and park benches on a one-way track that paralleled the roads, where rickshaws raced from corner to corner. From the window, Gene watched the children run, though never very fast, to catch its lazy progress. The tram shifted around turns and creaked from side to side, never quite picking up enough speed to generate a breeze through the open windows. Occasionally the bell rang to warn the rickshaw pullers of its crossing, and over the treetops Gene could just make out the buzzing traffic of Chowringhee Road.

They disembarked at the royal horse track on the south end of the maidan, a crowd of Britishers and Indians alike on the central field, carving out their own spaces for stretches and sprints. Gene marveled at their pace, some sprinting so fast that the earth seemed to rumble beneath their powerful strides. He turned every which way and felt immediately sick at the sight of everyone sweating, pushing hard, and the races hadn’t even begun.

“Satarka hōna!” Out of nowhere, a giant mass of glossy skin blasted into Gene’s shoulder and sent him reeling, face meeting grass, the wind knocked out of him. A few seconds later, he gathered himself just enough to notice a body hovering over him.

“Very sorry, sir,” a voice panted.

Gene blinked and looked up at the half-clothed Indian boy, his hand extended.

“He’s all right,” Will said, waving the boy off but offering no help himself. “Watch out for that one,” he muttered to Gene once the boy was gone.

“No kidding,” Gene said.

“Can’t show ’em you’re weak, not today,” Will said.

“I’m not,” Gene said, though he still hadn’t fully recovered his lungs. They’d only just arrived and already he was out of breath. He felt a squeeze on his shoulder and looked up to see his father, a reassuring smile on his face. The next second, it was gone, as Mr. Hinton looked up at the stands where Mrs. Hinton was already headed.

“Think we’ll go up in the seats,” his father said. “Saubhāgya. Good luck.”

The boys found a spot in the grass and sat down, setting to work untangling the shoes from the bag. Gene extracted his pair and began unlacing them.

“Get mine for me,” John said.

But Gene wasn’t listening. His ears rang, perhaps from getting knocked down, or was it the bugs in the low grass or the traffic horns on the esplanade? He paused and faced the grandstand, the shadowy depths of the seats still empty save for the odd spectator keen on viewing the warm-ups. Gene spied his mother in the upper corner, leaning forward with her elbow on one knee, chin in hand. She stared straight at the field, and Gene felt the impulse to give a big wave with both hands, the way he used to when he was younger. He tried it, because why not. His mother’s expression did not change—no recognition, no startled smile, no “oh!” of excitement, no wave returned. Yet Gene felt sure she looked right at him, seeing him plain as day. He dropped an arm and tilted at the hip, passing it off as a stretch.

“Hello?” John said, eyes wide in exasperation.

“Sorry,” Gene mumbled. He tossed the bag at John’s feet. John sighed and fished his pair out.

“Think the first race starts soon. I’m going to check the event board,” Will said over his shoulder as he jogged away through the crowd.

The rest of them sat in the grass, lacing up. “I don’t see anyone else wearing spikes,” said Lee.

“Well, they aren’t disallowed,” said John. “If nobody else has caught on to using them, it’s not my fault. Though, you’d think the ingraj would have enough money to buy real ones.”

Gene examined his own, the heel well worn, the hammered nails sticking out of the sole every which way. He stuck his foot into one and tugged the laces tight. The other runners swirled around them, the Britishers clad in sleeveless shirts, Indian boys in too-large kurtas. He recognized some boys from school, though nobody from his year.

“There’s Veddie,” Lee said. He nodded toward the starting line. Sure enough, a familiar face looked their way.

“Shouldn’t we say hello?” Gene said.

But Ved Hari had already come over, a white smile on his sweaty face. “Hello, Hintons! Not like you to be running late, the first race is about to start. Any of you running it? Hundred-meter dash?”

“Will is. I’d expect he’d be at the start already.”

“Defending the title, na? No doubt been training hard all break. Tough competition though. Indians are out for blood this year.”

“Yourself included?” Lee said.

“Ha.”

“I’m serious,” Lee said. “If you had to pick a side, are you India or Britain?”

“I’m both,” Ved answered, hands on hips. “What about you?”

“Neither,” Gene said.

“Fair enough. You have God on your side,” Ved said. “But they have hundreds on theirs.”

“Come on then, let’s cheer Will on,” Lee said.

As they bounded over, Gene glanced again at the grandstand. His father was seated next to his mother now, both of them looking uncomfortably close. Mr. Hinton had one of her hands in both of his, as if to hold her there for fear she could float away. They looked straight ahead at the proceedings when Mr. Hinton leaned over to whisper something. She came to life then, her face animated, jerking her head in little movements the way one does when expressing a strong point of view. But Mr. Hinton responded with something short, no more than a word, and the two of them looked straight ahead again. Gene felt he had seen this somewhere before.

Will sprinted in short bursts up and down the track, the other runners following suit. He looked elated, electrified by the crowd itself, downright giddy at getting to race in front of so many people, in such a place as this. This was no ordinary field in some backwater missionary outpost. This was a real course in the old Raj capital, with the shining dome of the Victoria Memorial looming over the treetops to the east, stark white against the glowering sky. Tiny flags waved from the stands as if it were the Olympics, except there was only the Union Jack, like they were all on the same team. But from the looks of the competitors, they couldn’t be more different.

“See those two?” Ved said to Gene, indicating two tall boys stretching in the middle of the track. They looked nearly identical, gold, wispy hair and unnecessarily muscular shoulders. “They’re twins, just arrived from England last month. Their father is the commissioner general, and one of them is to take over once he keels. Though, don’t know how long they’ll last in India. Fresh off the boat, looks like. May have yellow fever in no time.”

Their faces, gaunt and sweaty, did give Gene the impression that they’d already received the royal welcome of mosquitos and untreated water. They stood with their arms crossed, as though waiting for the race to start just so it could be over and done with.

“Can you imagine?” Lee said. “Won’t be much competition for us, from the looks of them.”

“Now those fellows over there,” Ved said, pointing at the large Indian boys already in their lanes. “They’ve got the talent. From Howrah, kushti wrestlers. Thighs as thick as my stomach. The Hindu Hope, I heard a fellow say. My money’s on them.”

“What about Will?” Gene said. “This is his forte.”

“What about your own?” Lee said. “Any Anglo-Indians in this?”

“Nah. Long distance only, I’m afraid. Except the last relay—I’ll be leading off.”

“Me too,” said Lee.

The runners of the first race, with Will in the middle lane, took their places at the starting line and turned toward the infield, where an officer stood on a platform in front of a microphone. The crowd quieted as the man began to speak in a tinny voice.

“On behalf of his royal highness, the King of the United Kingdom and Emperor of India, it is the esteemed honor of the Organizing Committee to present to you, the people, the eighth Bengal-Orissa Games! Peoples of Britain and India come together on this day in the good faith of the Raj, in enduring friendship, and in celebration of our eternal bond.”

The crowd cheered, and Ved leaned toward Gene. “He forgot you Americans again,” he said.

From behind the platform came a flurry of trumpets, followed by a shuffle from the crowd as everyone rose to their feet. The first bars of “God Save the King” fluttered over the grounds, and everyone, British or not, took up the words. To his left, John sniggered at the Britishers in the stands, their lips moving with more enthusiasm than necessary. Around them, a few dark-skinned Indians stood stoic and grim, and Gene thought back to the day of the protest in the Midnapore bazaar. It felt strange now to be at something so convivial when weeks ago, people had been rioting in the streets.

In the stands, he could spot Mr. and Mrs. Hinton side by side, pith helmets in hand. Beside them, Mrs. Hari looked spirited in a lilac sari next to her husband, the two of them singing along to the words. Gene took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. The anthem ended. Another cheer.

“Today and every day, we celebrate unity under one crown, prosperity in competition, and friendship in sport. Let the games begin!”

Will took the lead easily, getting a clean start from the moment the gun went off. Even without the blocks they’d been practicing with—which weren’t allowed yet in official races—he sprung from his lead foot practically a whole step before the others, who seemed to startle under the sudden sound. Will hit his stride not a quarter of the way down the stretch, perfection in motion. He was not particularly tall, no taller than the others, but he moved with fluid limbs. Gene gaped at his brother and felt a surge of pride.

The race finished just as soon as it began, Will the clear winner with a bevy of spent runners full steps behind him.

“Will Hinton, ladies and gentlemen!” a British voice announced from somewhere near the finish line. “The American missionary defends his reign over the hundred-meter dash again this year, smoking the rest!” The announcer didn’t bother calling out second and third place.

They found Will with his hands on his hips, panting with a sheen of sweat over every visible part of him but otherwise looking fit and ready to go again.

“Bravo!” Ved exclaimed from beside Gene. “Not a bad start at all!”

“Easy,” Will said.

“Certainly looked it,” said John. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“Congratulations,” Gene said. “They all look more tired than you do.”

It was true; the other runners lay spent in the grass as if they had just finished a marathon, not a sprint. They’d clearly given it all they had, but it still wasn’t enough to beat Will. Again, Gene felt the pride swell in his chest.

“Only wish Uncle Ellis were here to see it,” said Will.

Neither Gene nor his brothers were in the long-distance races, so they had plenty of time to prepare for the final relay. Ved came a close third in the 1600-meter, losing out to two British boys practically twice his height. As the races continued, Indian runners won in the mid-distance heats and kept a close tally with the Brits. The sun had started to sink by the time the last event finally approached.

“OK,” Will said, “we still need to practice handoffs. It goes Lee, Gene, John, then me. Remember, Gene, you run a whole lap—”

“I know what the four-hundred-meter relay is,” Gene said, scowling.

“Let’s just try it,” Lee said with a sigh. He grabbed the baton from the grass. “Gene, start right about there, and I’ll run up to you. Go when I get about five paces close.”

They tested out the pass, Lee yelling “Stick!” practically in Gene’s ear before he turned around, the baton passed off so clumsily that he dropped it. As he bent to retrieve it from the grass, he could hear snickering from other racers practicing nearby. He glanced up in time to catch their churlish faces before they feigned away.

“You gotta go way faster, Gene,” Will coached. “It’s a race, you know?”

“I got it,” Gene said, handing the baton back to Lee. “There are just too many people around.”

They practiced a few more handoffs, all of them just as shaky for Gene as the first.

“It’s just nerves,” Lee assured. “Don’t think about it so much.”

But there would be no more time to think about it. From the starting line, the announcer called for all relay teams to assemble in order. The Indian team took the inside line, although there were no lanes drawn on the grass course. Gene had done well enough in the dirt at home, but he worried he’d slide around the grass turns. He wiggled his toes to be sure his shoes were tied. He prayed they wouldn’t fly off.

Some of the boys on the other teams looked familiar, and Gene guessed he’d seen the British boys around town during some state celebration or other. The Anglo-Indian teammates, of course, were Ved and his other classmates home from boarding school. They were Lee’s year, tall but skinny, their width not quite caught up to their height.

“Best of luck, Gene,” the second-leg Anglo-Indian boy said, a light-skinned arm extended in good sport.

“Same to you,” Gene said, regretting that he didn’t know the boy’s name in return. He gave the boy’s hand an extra shake to make up for it.

“Isn’t John getting too old for this sort of thing?” the boy said, bouncing on his toes. “He’s years above us.”

Gene laughed, nervous. “Well, they let us do whatever we want because we’re missionaries. All in the name of God, you know?”

“Ha! You’re right. Who knows what goes on at that Hinton house?”

Gene’s heart lurched into his throat. Had the boy heard something? Gene searched his face for any sign of accusation, judgment. But it gave up nothing, save perhaps race jitters. The boy stopped his bouncing and looked at Gene, raising his brow, waiting for an answer. Or was it rhetorical? Gene managed a weak smile and couldn’t help but steal a glance at his parents in the stands. “Just a lot of running.”

Everyone but the first-leg runners was ushered off the track. The leads took their starting positions, staggered from inside to out, Lee the farthest ahead. He dropped his head down, clutched the baton in his right hand. The crowd softened, a collective breath held in wait for the starting gun. To his credit, Lee appeared calm as could be, as if he’d been here a million times before. Between the crowd, the fellow racers who looked ten times more fit, his parents’ eyes on them, and the jitters of his own body, Gene wasn’t sure he himself would even be able to take the first step.

“Set,” the starter called.

Lee’s head snapped up, his body tensed, baton raised. Then, bang. They were off, a flurry of cheers erupting all around, Lee’s simple khaki shirt in stark contrast with the pristine white tank the British boy to his left wore, as though outfitting for the Olympics. Lee’s strides, confident and even, carried him ahead, while the British boy soon fell behind Ved, who held the second lane. The Indian boy seemed to be keeping pace, but his sweaty grimace betrayed his effort.

They rounded the back stretch, where Gene lost them in the wave of spectators and overly enthusiastic fathers. Mr. Hari chased his son nearly down the whole way before he gave it up, winded from the sprint.

“Seconds! Take your positions,” came the starter’s voice.

But Gene’s feet had seemed to plant roots in the grass, watered by his own sweat and sheer panic. John slapped him on the back with a look that said Lord help us. Gene stumbled onto the track with the others, the officials arranging them in order as the lead-off runners barreled around the curve and hit the final straightaway. Lee still clung to first place, several strides ahead of the next runner. All Gene had to do was maintain the lead. He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, shake his arms, roll his shoulders in the masterful way he saw the other racers do. He dropped his head and tightened his laces one last time. When he looked up again, Lee was closer than he’d expected. He could make out his brother’s expression, eyes narrowed in determination, hair flying in the wind. The sight of Lee’s mouth wide open, like a fish gasping in air, sent a shiver down Gene’s spine. If Lee was in this much excruciation, how would it leave him at the end of his leg? But that was it. The faster he ran, the faster he’d finish. Then he could go a whole year more before ever having to race again.

“Go!” Lee’s voice shattered through his nerves. For a split second, Gene glanced at the runners next to him, one having bolted already. He took a few feeble steps forward, cautious of going too fast, too far for Lee to reach. He turned back to gauge his position, and there was Lee on top of him, spikes skidding in the grass, the baton nearly at his hip. Gene grasped it and clutched it to his chest, turning forward at the open track before him. This was it.

Be like Will—be Will, he thought, pumping his legs and arms like a machine. He went all the way around the first curve before he realized he’d kept his eyes on the grass below him. He jerked his head up and made a beeline for the inside track, one smooth and gradual line inward. He could hear Lee’s voice in his head. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He didn’t dare look back; it would be a waste of energy. But he could hear the other runners at his heels. He was losing their lead, fast, and all he could do was pray he had enough steam to pass the baton off to John before their lead disappeared entirely.

Indian girls with braided, black tresses lined the track at the second curve. Tan in the Bengal sun, they cheered louder than their modest, fair-skinned counterparts and waved their Union Jacks with so much ardor, and it was in that moment that Gene stopped thinking about running. Everything seemed to slow as his eyes locked on the girls, a fire in their eyes that he recognized was not for him or the flags they waved or the fair-skinned boys in the race. It burned for the Indian boy that passed him, barefoot and all muscle, overtaking him with ease and chugging onto the straightaway, the girls screaming after him, sun in their eyes and on their glistening skin.

Gene’s lungs burned as he gulped the air down, propelling his legs to the finish line, where he could see John waiting. His whole body ached from the heat, the relentless sun, the shoes that didn’t fit right. It was all wrong, this race. He didn’t belong here, among them. Another runner passed him, an English boy. Then another, as he felt his legs turn to lead. But already John took off, far too soon. There was no way Gene could reach him in time.

The runners ahead of him had passed their batons off without error. Their thirds were well onto the next leg. It seemed to only frustrate John, who turned around and bellowed, “Come on!”

Gene thrust the baton out ahead, where it hovered pathetically in the space between them, nowhere near close enough to cover the five or so more paces he had to go. John screeched to a halt, the other runners racing ahead on fresh legs. They were last now. Four more steps, then three, two, and the baton was snatched out of his sweaty fingers. He was finished, finally, yet there came no relief. As he stumbled off the track, he could feel the blisters forming on his swollen feet.

He collapsed in the grass, unable to even lift his head to follow the race. He dimly noticed a hand on his shoulder, and Lee, saying something in some reassuring tone. “We still have Will. He’ll make it up in no time.”

“Great effort, Gene,” Ved said, standing over him with his other arm extended to Gene and not a hint of irony. He was still out of breath and had a light sheen on his face from the run, but otherwise looked lively. Why was it so hard for Gene?

“John and Will are going to kill me,” Gene mumbled, gripping Ved’s hand and coming to a stand.

“Don’t count on it yet. They’re just coming to the straight,” Ved said, steering him toward the edge of the track for a better view. The feel of his hand still on Gene’s shoulder reassured him.

But over the heads of the crowd, he could just make out John in third place, close behind the strawberry blond Brit in second. Will, already waiting on the line, shook his arms and legs out. It would be a tough sprint, but John was making moves. The strawberry blond had lost steam, and John swiftly snuck up on the Anglo-Indian, who’d left a pocket of space inside the second curve. John passed him easily, a whole head taller than the others, so obviously, shamelessly, too old.

The handoff to Will went smoothly, and then Will went to work. He moved down the track, compact and efficient, his arms and legs synchronized in perfect motion. The Indian runner was still a ways ahead, but he was all that remained in front of Will and the finish line. Gene stood alert, but he wasn’t watching Will. His eyes searched the crowd for the girls with the braids, to see their faces again. They had moved down the track to follow the runners to the finish line, but Gene could not mistake their faces, red with longing to see an Indian team win.

He thought back to the day of the protest, the day that the Indian boys had beaten and robbed them. It felt so long ago, and today was different, new. These weren’t the same boys, and this wasn’t the same fight. This was merely meant to be fun, a day of games, where people could forget their color or their accents or their names, even.

As the runners curved into the homestretch, Gene turned away from the finish line. With his gaze upward, he took in the expanse of the sky and the hazy, humid air that hung over the maidan. The hard, marble dome of the Victoria Memorial rose in the east, itself a cloud of white, presiding over the games. He heard the crowd swell as the runners approached the finish, but still he did not turn. Instead, he shut his eyes and breathed deep the smell of the coming storm, the sound of voices cheering together, and the first raindrops falling on his eyelids, and for a moment he forgot everything else, forgot the judge, the leopard, his mother, his father, the riot, the stolen bicycles. He was just there, alone but not alone, in a crowd of people most of whom he’d never met before and yet who’d come here just as he had. One roar went up from the crowd and he knew it was over, and he imagined he could hear the cheers of the girls in the braids.

The noise from the Indian crowd never seemed to die down after that. All around, the air buzzed, a victory at long last through all the frustration. Gene couldn’t help but feel relieved and happy for them. He caught the proud eye of one of the winners and nodded congratulations. The Indian boy’s face softened. He nodded in return.

“Complete embarrassment.” Will spat in the dirt, hands on his hips. His chest still heaved from the race.

“Solid effort, boys,” Ved said, shaking Lee’s hand. “Finally let someone else win for a change. Suppose that’s the end of the Hinton dynasty.”

“Terrible way to go out,” John said. He collapsed onto the grass. “And no chance to redeem myself next year.”

Mrs. Hinton and the padre appeared, hats in their hands. “Right then,” Mr. Hinton said. “Can’t win them all.” He fixed his eyes on the winners, huddled close and still on the track, cracking brilliant smiles as roars of laughter rushed over their brown heads. “Bless them.”

“My feet are swelling. Let’s get back,” said Mrs. Hinton. “Ellis won’t believe it.”

“Just a second,” Gene said. He bounded over to the Indian boys and wiped his hand on his shorts. Extending it to one of them, he said, “Well done.”

The boys stared at him, the whites of their eyes in stark contrast with their Bengal skin. For a moment, Gene flashed back to the men at the ruins, their stares, their flat unsmiling lips. But in the next, the boy took his hand and in a heavy accent said, “We finally defeated you!”

The other boys laughed and patted Gene on the back to show it was all in good fun. Suddenly, they fell silent, plain faced, hands withdrawn abruptly behind their backs. A British officer walked past, paused. He leaned in toward Gene. “These boys troubling you?”

“Not at all . . .,” Gene said, but the boys had already dispersed, retreating to the crowd of other Indians, their countrymen, their kind. The officer gave him a stern look and passed on.

“Let’s go, Gene!” his father called. “It’s a long drive home.”

As they left the racing green and headed for the road, Will tossed him the duffle with all their shoes. The raindrops multiplied into a curtained drizzle, so Gene held the duffle over his head, trying to avoid the spikes of the shoes that poked out through the canvas.

“Kindly, sahib,” a voice called out from behind him. Even as Gene watched his family move on ahead, Gene stopped and turned. An Indian man stood a few paces behind him, dressed in a clean, white kurta and leather slippers. He looked about middle-aged with graying temples and the bent stature of one who was getting on in life.

Gene didn’t know how to address him, so he cleared his throat and nodded at the man.

“Kindly,” he said again, “you are the Hinton family? Tell me, is your servant, Arthur, with you?”

“Er, no. He’s at home looking after our guest.”

The man lowered his eyes. “Ah. Thank you, sahib. Will you please tell him his friend Neer is asking after him. And—and that he’s worried for him.”

Gene took a closer look at the man’s face and tried to remember if he had ever seen him before. In all his years, he couldn’t recall meeting any friend of Arthur’s.

He nodded again at the man. “I will,” he said. As he turned to keep walking, Gene wondered what Arthur must be doing back home at this very instant.