And I did-I liked everything about her. I liked the Helvetian music of her Swiss-American English, and the way she pushed her hair back slowly with a thumb and forefinger when she was irritated by something. I liked the hard-edged cleverness of her conversation, and the easy, gentle way she touched the people she liked when she walked past them or sat beside them. I liked the way she held my eyes until the precise moment when it stopped being comfortable, and then smiled, softening the assail, but never looked away.

She looked the world in the eye and stared it down, and I liked that about her because I didn't love the world then. The world wanted to kill me or catch me. The world wanted to put me back in the same cage I'd escaped from, where the good guys, the guys in prison-guard uniforms who got paid to do the right thing, had chained me to a wall and kicked me until they broke my bones. And maybe the world was right to want that. Maybe it was no worse than I deserved. But repression, they say, breeds resistance in some men, and I was resisting the world with every minute of my life.

The world and I are not on speaking terms, Karla said to me once in those early months. The world keeps trying to win me back, she said, but it doesn't work. I guess I'm just not the forgiving type. And I saw that in her, too, right from the start. I knew from the first minute how much like me she was. I knew the determination in her that was almost brutal, and the courage that was almost cruel, and the lonely, angry longing to be loved. I knew all that, but I didn't say a word. I didn't tell her how much I liked her. I was numb, in those first years after the escape: shell-shocked by the disasters that warred in my life. My heart moved through deep and silent water. No-one, and nothing, could really hurt me. No-one, and nothing, could make me very happy. I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.

"You're becoming a regular here," she teased, ruffling my hair with one hand as she sat down at my table.

I loved it when she did that: it meant that she'd read me accurately, that she was sure I wouldn't take offence. I was thirty then-ugly, taller than average, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, and thick arms. People didn't often ruffle my hair.

"Yeah. I guess I am."

"So, you went around on tour with Prabaker again? How was it today?"

"He took me to the island, Elephanta, to see the caves."

"A beautiful place," she remarked quietly, looking at me, but dreaming of something else. "If you get the chance, you should visit the Ajanta and Ellora caves, in the north of the state. I spent the night there, once, at Ajanta, in one of the caves. My boss took me there."

"Your boss?"

"Yes, my boss."

"Is he European, your boss, or Indian?"

"Neither one, actually."

"Tell me about him."

"Why?" she asked with a direct, frowning stare.

I was simply making conversation, trying to keep her near me, talking to me, and the sudden wariness that bristled in the single word of her question surprised me. "It's no big deal," I replied, smiling. "I'm just curious about how people get work here, how they make a living, that's all."

"Well, I met him five years ago, on a long-distance flight," she said, looking down at her hands and seeming to relax once more.

"We both got on the plane at Zurich. I was on my way to Singapore, but by the time we got to Bombay he'd convinced me to get off the plane and work for him. The trip to the caves was... something special. He arranged it, somehow, with the authorities, and I went up there with him, and spent the night in a big cave, full of stone sculptures of the Buddha, and a thousand chattering bats. I was safe. He had a bodyguard posted outside. But it was incredible. A fantastic experience. And it really helped me to ... to put things in focus. Sometimes you break your heart in the right way, if you know what I mean."

I wasn't sure what she meant; but when she paused, expecting a reply, I nodded as if I did understand.

"You learn something or you _feel something completely new, when you break your heart that way," she said. "Something that only you can know or feel in that way. And I knew, after that night, I would never have that feeling anywhere but India. I knew-I can't explain it, I just knew somehow-that I was home, and warm, and safe. And, well, I'm still here..."

"What kind of business is he in?"

"What?"

"Your boss-what does he do?"

"Imports," she said. "And exports."

She lapsed into silence, turning her head to scan the other tables.

"Do you miss your home?"

"My home?"

"Yeah, I mean your other home. Don't you ever get homesick for Switzerland?"

"In a way, yes I do. I come from Basel-have you ever been there?"

"No, I've never been to Europe."

"Well, you must go, and when you go there you must visit Basel.

It's really a very European city, you know? It's divided by the river Rhine into Great Basel and Small Basel, and the two halves of the city have really different styles and attitudes, so it's like living in two cities at the same time. That used to suit me once. And it's right on the meeting place of three countries, so you can just walk across the border into Germany and France. You can have breakfast in France, you know, with coffee and baguettes, and lunch in Switzerland, and dinner in Germany, without leaving the city by more than a few kilometres. I miss Basel, more than I miss Switzerland."

She stopped, catching her breath, and looked up at me through soft, unpainted lashes.

"Sorry, I'm giving you a geography lesson here."

"No, no, please go on. It's interesting."

"You know," she said slowly, "I like you, Lin."

She stared that green fire into me. I felt myself reddening slightly, not from embarrassment, but from shame, that she'd said so easily the very words, I like you, that I wouldn't let myself say to her.

"You do?" I asked, trying to make the question sound more casual than it was. I watched her lips close in a thin smile.

"Yes. You're a good listener. That's dangerous, because it's so hard to resist. Being listened to-really listened to-is the second-best thing in the world."

"What's the first best thing?"

"Everybody knows that. The best thing in the world is power."

"Oh, is it?" I asked, laughing. "What about sex?"

"No. Apart from the biology, sex is all about power. That's why it's such a rush."

I laughed again.

"And what about love? A lot of people say that love is the best thing in the world, not power."

"They're wrong," she said with terse finality. "Love is the opposite of power. That's why we fear it so much."

"Karla, dear one, the things you say!" Didier Levy said, joining us and taking a seat beside Karla. "I must make the conclusion that you have wicked intentions for our Lin."

"You didn't hear a word we said," she chided.

"I don't have to _hear you. I can see by the look on his face.

You've been talking your riddles to him, and turning his head around. You forget, Karla, that I know you too well. Here, Lin, we'll cure you at once!"

He shouted to one of the red-jacketed waiters, calling the man by the number "4" emblazoned on the breast pocket on his uniform.

"Hey! Char number! Do battlee beer! What will you have, Karla?

Coffee? Oh, char number! Ek coffee aur. Jaldi karo!"

Didier Levy was only thirty-five years old, but those years were stitched to him in lumpy wads of flesh and deep lines that gave him the plump and careworn look of a much older man. In defiance of the humid climate, he always wore baggy canvas trousers, a denim shirt, and a rumpled, grey woollen sports coat. His thick, curly black hair never seemed to be shorter or longer than the line of his collar, just as the stubble on his tired face never seemed to be less than three days from its last shave. He spoke a lavishly accented English, using the language to provoke and criticise friend and stranger alike with an indolent malignity.