The Temple Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page A

then! All the better!" Carlos had answered. He said it sincerely, of course, but stiffly. His table was neat today, his shirt starched,
and he sat upright in his seat. Lucinda looked around, suddenly aware that
he had guests.
    One was a Portuguese soldado-middle-aged, paunchy, with ill-kept
clothing and an amused demeanor-who slouched casually in one of Carlos's big wooden chairs, a glass of brown wine balanced on the carved lion's
head of the arm. He twisted around for a better look at Lucinda, lifting
himself half-sideways with a nod and hearty grin, as though this were the
best courtesy he could manage. A half-dozen pistolas poked out from his
wide leather belt.
    The other man was already on his feet: tall, slender with a face shaped
like an almond, and skin the color of polished teak. He wore a tightly
wound turban. His bright eyes and long, narrow nose made Lucinda think
of a hunting bird. Lucinda tried to hide her surprise. The man was Muslim.
    "Lucinda, please greet my guests. This is Captain Pathan, of the court
of Bijapur." The Muslim lifted his folded hands to his chin. His face, Lucinda realized, had a self-important air that was really quite annoying. She
made him a very brief curtsy, but he didn't seem to comprehend its hinted
insult. Or if he did, he was too smug to care.
    "You've met this other rascal before, though you probably were too
young to remember."
    "I knew your father, Lucy," the soldier growled, finally managing to
place his well-worn boots on the floor, and approximate a gentleman's bow.
"You were a baby. He was a good man. A great man. I see you've turned out
well. Beautiful like your mother." She realized that his eyes, which had
seemed sleepy when she first saw them, were shrewd and full of life. His face
was so unguarded that she blinked and nearly forgot to curtsy in response.
    "Watch out for him, niece, he's a charmer of the old school," her uncle
laughed.
    "But, Uncle, you haven't said his name," Lucinda said.

    "Jebtha Albuquerque Da Gama at your service, Lucy," the man said,
lifting his bowed head. "Or should I now say, Senhorita Dasana?" He took
her hand in his sun-browned fist and kissed it with a tenderness she had
not expected.
    "I'd be pleased if you'd still call me Lucy," Lucinda said, surprising
herself.
    "Good, good," her uncle said, as if wanting to be on with business.
"Well, now you've all met, and I daresay you'll know each other better by
the end of the trip. But I forget-you can't manage to be ready in time?
Wasn't that what you came to tell me?"
    "Me? No, Tio Carlos! I'll be ready, of course! In fact, I must be going.
So nice to meet you all!" Da Gama kissed his fingers in a wave as she left,
but the Muslim, Captain Pathan, just stared at her, his lips pursed like he'd
bitten something sour.

    On the eve of their departure, Carlos Dasana set a feast. Lucinda sat at the
end of the table as hostess. As usual, Dasana's secretary, Carvallo, sat to her
right, next to his fat wife, Maria, who had painted her face with oil and lead
oxide. Arsenico could only do so much to improve the complexion, and
past a certain point lead was needed, for it not only whitened the face, but
was thick enough to fill the pits and gaps of age. Supposedly. Why doesn't
she do something about her hair then, thought Lucinda-use a lead comb,
at least, to darken the gray.
    On her left sat the soldado she'd met a few days before, Da Gama, the
adventurer who said he'd known her parents. He'd had a bath and a shave,
and his queue was oiled and tied in a bow, but despite his clothing, which
was proper, and his manners, which were pleasant, he looked out of place
amid the china and crystal. He seemed almost to be seated in a taverna, as
though the blown-glass goblet in his leathery hand were a metal tankard
and the tiny roasted pigeon on his gilded plate were a haunch of boar.
    At the other end of the table Tio Carlos sat next to Geraldo, who had the
polished look of a