shivered and held Ni Ni. She abandoned herself to his embrace. As sleep rose up to claim them it did not seem right to her that he dreamed himself away to a cold country. If he expected them to share their bodies, she wanted his thoughts too to be there in the strange warm bed.
In the morning when he left for the site he asked her to wait for him. At dusk when he returned she taught him how to walk. He had wanted to make love first, but she resisted. He only agreed to the lesson on the condition that they took off their clothes.
‘When you walk, be where you are,’ she told him.
‘I am here.’ He stood at the head of the villa’s shuttered lounge. Evening sunlight criss-crossed the room’s inky blue shade. ‘But you are too far away, Ni Ni, way over there.’
She moved forward out of the half-light and removed his glasses. He stretched out to touch her and she sprung back. ‘Don’t feel me; feel your feet on the floor.’
Louis felt the smooth teak floorboards and balanced himself upon them. He pictured the room about him: the palmy etchings of colonial Rangoon, the deep wicker armchair, Ni Ni’s tight form tucked into the silver shadow by the old campaign chest. Then he saw himself, prickly skin on a bony frame, short on hair and energy, a gaunt, sun-bleached English architect dislocated in the tropics, wearied by battle with the elements. Ni Ni must have noticed the furrows wrinkle his brow, for she said, ‘If you do not care for yourself, how can you care for others?’ So Louis tried to let her quiet enter him. He pushed aside his worries. ‘Walk,’ he heard her say.
He lifted a foot, felt the pull of calf and bend of knee, sensed his ankle pivot and his weight shift as he began his tread. He took the second step with even more care, swinging his other foot forward, feeling the warm air brush against his body. His toes met the floor, steadied him, made him aware of his poise. He walked the length of the room, a path of twenty paces, then returned. As he paced a thought surfaced to distract him, a flashback to the night before of Ni Ni cowering in a corner to unbutton her tapered blouse. She had released her hair so that it fell over her shoulders. ‘Come back to your footsteps,’ she whispered, recalling him to the present.
He walked on, measuring each step, relaxed yet alert to every movement, each footfall. He discovered the shape of his soles by the way they met the floor, felt the hard bone of his heels and detected the pull of his tendons. The rhythm of his breathing held his attention and then, with each swing of his arms, the minute outward twist of his wrists.
Louis was a stranger to Ni Ni. His white, hairy figure was foreign and unfamiliar. His gestures were abrupt and his movements unrefined. His snarled tangle of pubic curls repelled her. Yet as she watched his progress – the tensing then relaxing muscles, the rise and fall of his chest – she believed that for all his differences Louis shared something with her father. He was weak. He too was a man lost because he was not tied to any woman’s heart. The revelation made him seem less unknown, less the beast who had torn her out of childhood. ‘Open your heart,’ the monks had once taught her, ‘and you will realise that you belong.’ As Louis trod the hardwood pathway she willed herself to believe that there could be a kind of safety in his frantic passion. The thought helped her to accept that she could belong in the shuttered company villa, in the springy bed, with him. He was her escape, if she was willing to pay the price. She watched his half-blind walk and told herself, ‘This is the man I must love properly.’
Ni Ni reached out her arms and from across the room, traced the outline of Louis’s moving figure. She sketched the curve of his spine with her thumb, and the man shivered then missed a step. ‘Don’t stop,’ she hissed from behind the chest. She was frightened, but moved forward to walk behind him, her hands
In the morning when he left for the site he asked her to wait for him. At dusk when he returned she taught him how to walk. He had wanted to make love first, but she resisted. He only agreed to the lesson on the condition that they took off their clothes.
‘When you walk, be where you are,’ she told him.
‘I am here.’ He stood at the head of the villa’s shuttered lounge. Evening sunlight criss-crossed the room’s inky blue shade. ‘But you are too far away, Ni Ni, way over there.’
She moved forward out of the half-light and removed his glasses. He stretched out to touch her and she sprung back. ‘Don’t feel me; feel your feet on the floor.’
Louis felt the smooth teak floorboards and balanced himself upon them. He pictured the room about him: the palmy etchings of colonial Rangoon, the deep wicker armchair, Ni Ni’s tight form tucked into the silver shadow by the old campaign chest. Then he saw himself, prickly skin on a bony frame, short on hair and energy, a gaunt, sun-bleached English architect dislocated in the tropics, wearied by battle with the elements. Ni Ni must have noticed the furrows wrinkle his brow, for she said, ‘If you do not care for yourself, how can you care for others?’ So Louis tried to let her quiet enter him. He pushed aside his worries. ‘Walk,’ he heard her say.
He lifted a foot, felt the pull of calf and bend of knee, sensed his ankle pivot and his weight shift as he began his tread. He took the second step with even more care, swinging his other foot forward, feeling the warm air brush against his body. His toes met the floor, steadied him, made him aware of his poise. He walked the length of the room, a path of twenty paces, then returned. As he paced a thought surfaced to distract him, a flashback to the night before of Ni Ni cowering in a corner to unbutton her tapered blouse. She had released her hair so that it fell over her shoulders. ‘Come back to your footsteps,’ she whispered, recalling him to the present.
He walked on, measuring each step, relaxed yet alert to every movement, each footfall. He discovered the shape of his soles by the way they met the floor, felt the hard bone of his heels and detected the pull of his tendons. The rhythm of his breathing held his attention and then, with each swing of his arms, the minute outward twist of his wrists.
Louis was a stranger to Ni Ni. His white, hairy figure was foreign and unfamiliar. His gestures were abrupt and his movements unrefined. His snarled tangle of pubic curls repelled her. Yet as she watched his progress – the tensing then relaxing muscles, the rise and fall of his chest – she believed that for all his differences Louis shared something with her father. He was weak. He too was a man lost because he was not tied to any woman’s heart. The revelation made him seem less unknown, less the beast who had torn her out of childhood. ‘Open your heart,’ the monks had once taught her, ‘and you will realise that you belong.’ As Louis trod the hardwood pathway she willed herself to believe that there could be a kind of safety in his frantic passion. The thought helped her to accept that she could belong in the shuttered company villa, in the springy bed, with him. He was her escape, if she was willing to pay the price. She watched his half-blind walk and told herself, ‘This is the man I must love properly.’
Ni Ni reached out her arms and from across the room, traced the outline of Louis’s moving figure. She sketched the curve of his spine with her thumb, and the man shivered then missed a step. ‘Don’t stop,’ she hissed from behind the chest. She was frightened, but moved forward to walk behind him, her hands
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