"I won't, I won't," Peggy promised wildly. "It's just that I can't bear to think of that lecher getting his filthy hands on you again."
"He's not a lecher, he's a man," Rina said. She looked down at Peggy.
A faint note of contempt came into her voice. "A real man. Not an imitation!"
"I have shown you more than you would learn from all the men in the world."
A sudden knowledge came to Rina – the first faint revelation of self-truth.
A cold fright ran through her.
She looked down at the dark-brown head pressed against the front of her skirt.
"That's what's wrong.
You're so anxious to show me love, to teach me love. But it's all from the outside in.
Why can't you teach me to feel love, to give love?" Slowly she pushed Peggy away from her. And then, for the lack of a better place to do it, she dropped to her knees and turned her face into Peggy's bosom and began to cry.
"Cry, lover, cry," Peggy whispered. "Cry it all out. I’ll always take care of you.
That's what love is for."
It was early when Amru Singh arrived at the party that Pavan was giving to celebrate the unveiling of his master statue.
It was about six o'clock when Amru Singh made his obeisance to his host, politely refused a drink and took his usual place against the wall in the empty room.
As was his habit, he took off his shirt and folded it neatly and placed it on the floor. Then he took off his shoes – he wore no socks – and placed them next to the shirt.
He took a very deep breath and placing his back against the wall, slid down until he was seated squarely on the shirt with his legs crossed beneath him.
It was thus that he could observe, without turning his head, the actions of every person in the room. It was also from this position that he could most easily fill his mind.
He thought about many things, but mostly about the vanities and ambitions of man.
Amru Singh was seeking a man whose vanities and ambitions transcended the personal, aspiring only to the glory that had been buried by the centuries deep in the human spirit.
That he had not yet found such a man did not discourage him.
He felt his muscles lock in the familiar tension which was at the same time relaxed and comforting; he felt his breathing become slower, shallower.
He closed off a corner of his mind for a few minutes, though his eyes remained open and alert.
It could be any night, perhaps tonight, that his search would be ended.
But he could already feel the evil spirit of the goddess Kali unleashed in the room.
With an inward shrug of his shoulders, he cast from him the feeling of disappointment.
There were so many little people in the room.
On the floor, in the corner behind the big sofa, a man and a woman were committing an act of fornication, hidden, or so they thought, from the others.
He thought of the positions of obscenity carved high into the walls of the temple of the goddess and felt a distaste seep through him.
This ugly copulation, which he could observe through the space between the high Regency legs of the couch, was not justified by even a holy worship of the evil one.
In a niche near the door, with a single light shining down on it from above, stood the draped statue on a pedestal.
It stood there very still, like a corpse in a shroud, and did not even stir when the door opened for two newly entered guests.
Without moving his eyes, Amru knew them.
The blond American girl and her friend, the dark woman.
He closed his mind to them as the clock began to toll the hour and Pavan began his speech.
It was nothing but a repetition of what he had been saying all evening, and many times before, but at its finish, he suddenly began to weep.
He was very drunk and he almost fell as, with a quick gesture, he tore the covering from the statue.
There was a silence in the room as all looked at the cold marble form of the statue.
It was scaled to two-thirds life size and carved from a rose-blush Italian marble that took on a soft hue of warm life from the light in the room.
The figure stood poised on tiptoe, the hands held over her upturned face, reaching for her lover, the sun.
Then the silence was broken as all at once began to comment and congratulate the sculptor.
That is all except one.
He was Leocadia, the art dealer.
A small, gray man with the thin, pursed lips of the money-changer.
In the end, no matter what anyone said, his was the final judgment.
It was he who determined its value. It did not matter that the price he set might forever prohibit a sale, his evaluation was the recognition of art.
Pavan approached him anxiously.
"Well, monsieur?" he asked. "What do you think?"
Leocadia did not look at Pavan.
He never looked at anyone while he spoke to him.
The artists claimed that he could not meet their gaze because he was a parasite living better from the proceeds of their life's blood than they themselves did.