Starting at the beginning: Our first night together. At supper the food was again terrible. Our hero had ordered special dishes in advance, but though costing extra they tasted no better. Afterwards, we had a glass of cognac in the hotel bar (no other guests present except one dark one, drinking and looking always straight ahead as though alone in the world. Most unsociable).

On the wall, a little framed notice caught our eyes. Together we read it.

Although the first line had raised our spirits, the second crushed them completely.

"That's the most depressing thing I ever read," said Deborah, and wondered why they had put it up in a public place. "Perhaps to make people drink more."

We went then to our room to read. First we must change about some of the lightbulbs so that the ones operating would find themselves in the reading lamps and not illuminating the clothes cupboard. The bulbs gave a very weak light. With all our mental resources put to the question, only one pool of light adequate for easy, comfortable reading could be arranged.

The honour fell to me. This was only just, since the books are all mine, but what a challenge. With Erde I had had 250 books, not just thirty. Nearly half of these are in the German language which Deborah has difficulty understanding except conversationally. What could I read to her?

The first book into my hand was poems by Goethe (1749-1832). 1 would have loved to read her some. Here was one very little one that made me laugh, then I must translate for her, this Goethe-advertisement. "Seeking to buy a little dog that doesn't growl, doesn't bite, eats broken glass und Diamanten scheisst." (And s--ts diamonds — very comical.)

At first she could not believe the great Goethe would write so vulgar (in early 19th century, not a very young Goethe!), but then could read the poem for herself. After this she seemed to feel a little happier. "Read some more," she told me. "Some history."

My emotion, of course, was great. At last the desired opportunity had arrived to lead again the ideal life, studying, writing, reading aloud with a charming and beautiful female companion. My hands went over the books. Suddenly all seemed written in German, French or other languages even more impenetrable for Her Ladyship. At first only the highly suspect biography of Napoleon was in English. Then I found a history of famous military battles and tactics which was classed among my favorites for reference, also in English.

Was there any famous battle she would like to hear about? Yes, she would like to hear about Waterloo, admitting that she didn't know in which country that place existed, imagining it as a kind of watery swamp in which became bogged down the French army and its three-cornered-hat general. (And this a highly intelligent young woman graduated from an accredited, state-operated American university with a Bachelor of Arts degree!)

But to make her understand Waterloo it would be necessary to explain first the previous battles and the history of France starting at least with the French Revolution, of all of which she was also ignorant. Then, to understand who was Wellington and whom did he represent as military leader, it would be necessary to go somewhat into the history of the British Empire (not to mention Prussia), eventually to touch upon even Clive who opened up the riches of India — the diamonds, gold and rubies of the East — so to finance England in its rising industrialism and enormous warfare industry, particularly maritime.

She told me she had studied English history in university, remembered nothing, had never felt a need to know it beyond the day of the examination. She had been more interested in other subjects which were optional, such as astronomy and bacteriology. But she remembered little of these aside from a few Newton laws and the names of some highly deadly bacteria which she would probably never meet. Her mind she looks upon as a machine not for memory work but for solving day-to-day problems. I said she was not doing so well in this, and she laughed and admitted I was right.

Now, suddenly, she was burning with a desire to learn everything about military tactics. (Would she lead an army? No, she had only never read anything on this subject and would therefore inform herself without delay.) I read to her several pages — very badly written, a dull introduction — and soon her eyes were closing. She would to bed, would use the bathroom first, very briefly, only teeth washing, then "leave the world to darkness and to you."

As I was getting into my bed some hours later, having read to myself, for a moment I thought: How pleasant 'twould be to bend over her and kiss her lightly on the lips. She was lying so still under the sheet, only sometimes twitching, with arms and one foot outside. Her hair lay any way about her face and she slept with her cheek against the side of the pillow. But no. I would not take advantage. So rare, I was thinking, to find a single girl twenty-two to thirty years old who is neither a divorcee with several children nor rather ugly and not normal.

The next morning the other bed was empty when I opened my eyes. I found Deborah in temper on the beach. She was paining from sunburn but the sky was overcast and she would anyway go snorkeling in a long-sleeve nylon shirt over her bikini. They had told her, however, that equipment would not be available to rent until nine or ten o'clock when the man would come with the key.

"But that's terrible. Early morning is the time to snorkel," she exclaimed.

Nothing to be done. Also the hotel's glass bottom boat would not be used that day. With cloudy skies there would be no demand. Such lazy scoundrels. Then she must again rent a native boat costing fifteen rupees the half hour instead of the hotel boat for two and a half rupees. So beautiful she was in her anger. She turned to me. "Do you realize we are paying 140 rupees a day for a lousy room with cold water and miserable food and no way to get to the coral reef?"

Her black friend then gave her his mask and said he would go without. Flippers were not necessary if she would wear some rubber shoes to protect her feet from the coral. But how to get to the reef? They would swim slowly, taking their time. Most of the way the water was not deep. He would show her the way.

I had seen no sign of the English and was breathing for the moment easy. I watched Deborah stick into her lovely mouth the large plastic mouthpiece of the snorkel tube (only first dipping it into the sea) that until that moment had been between the thick black lips of the beachboy. Fortunately I do not have a jealous or perverse nature. Then they sank their faces in and began paddling on their bellies toward the reef, his hand touching her arm for steering.

Then suddenly a hand was on my arm. The English. O horror. The girl and one male would go with me to our room, the other males would rent a boat and follow after Deborah. If nothing was found in the room, the signal would be sent across the water to the assassins by the reef.

Quite trembling with nervousness and thinking fast, I led the way back to the room. To turn and fight or call for help would bring eventually many painful questions from the authorities. These scoundrels were expecting my cooperation for this reason. Also they had half concealed a very dangerous-appearing knife. I would have to think of another way.

A search of the room turned up no money. I told them she must have put her money into the hotel safe. I promised to try and get her to take it out, using some pretext, and would give it to them the following day.

Then I begged them to signal to their friends to return from the reef. This, to my relief, they did. Then, for "downpayment," they took Deborah's saree given to her by Tom and the tape recorder. I could not be sorry to see go that evil recording instrument, even less since I had already once sold it, had not declared it entering the country, and would not therefore have to pay for its disappearance. (Also the love-making tape was still in my possession and might eventually be worth much more.)

When they had left I straightened the room, then went outside. It seemed that it might rain again. Sitting under a giant mushroom, I watched the packaged tourists at play. All today were red as tinned beef. The German pederasts with whom we were to go to Galle that evening (O as yet unknown horror!) came down from their grace matinée. Together they went backwards into the water, then began swimming backwards, side by side, then turned and swam out to sea doing breast paddle. There was another young pederast with long hair to his shoulders who spent the days sitting surrounded by beach boys or riding bicycles with them, enjoying himself like a girl. Nowhere did I see a man or woman with whom I could have discussed any matter deeper than the weather.

Then the English returned and would again try to interest me in some vile scheme involving drug traffic. I have never in my life involved myself in what is called "international crime," never touched anything so murderous and ugly as drugs. They had noticed that my bags have false bottoms (only arch-criminals such as these would be concerned to look for such things) and would that I take drugs with me to England for them. My percentage? Very small. The risk all mine except for the buying of the drugs for which they would be responsible. It was only I who would spend ten years in prison if caught.

We were sitting now, to avoid the rain, in one of the gem stores which line all streets in Ceylon, drinking Coca Colas. In these stores much of the smuggled money is first purchased. Trays of rings lay on the table before me for my "choice" in case a policeman or legitimate customer should happen to walk inside. Everyone was very polite, even while proposing this black business. English influence has made polite criminals in all nations where the Empire has reached. So all the more they are rascals.

Of course I spurned their offer with disgust, crying "What kind of dirty scoundrel do you take me for? Once in my life I was in difficulties and was forced to deal with traveler cheques, but I do not do this sort of thing every day."

My words impressed them and they spoke no more of illicit drugs. Now the brother of the jewelry-store owner came in, would talk to me privately. We went into another room. Here he told me that for 100 rupees he would arrange a rendezvous between myself and any virgin girl of the village that I would choose (!!!)

Could I believe my ears? Had he proposed that Flaminio de Conningsfield, Knight of Honour and the Fortune, should buy a so young and innocent child? I regretted suddenly that I was not wearing gloves, for I would have struck this criminal across the face.

"Any girl," he told me. "You can walk through the village and when you see one you fancy, tell me and I will arrange it with the parents."

Arrange with the parents the sale of their virgin daughter? "What parents," I demanded indignantly, "would sell their child's virginity for so small a sum? And I am sure you will keep at least half as panderer's fee."

He told me times were hard, hymens were anyway doomed in one way or another to go, it was best that they went at a good price.

If this is true, it is beyond imagining. I, Flaminio de Conningsfield, pay to ruin a young girl child? Impossible. For what is the good of paying for something that is only worthwhile if given freely and tenderly to an adoring husband or fiancé?

He pointed then to a bed in the corner. "If you will come here after lunchtime," he told me, "there will be a girl waiting for you there. If you do not wish to pay the money to me, you may give it to her."

What absolute lack of respect I would have had for myself had I even for a moment considered his wicked scheme. Yet he proposed it so casually, in such a friendly way, as if doing everyone concerned a great service! As I returned to the hotel I was thinking of the ruined girl; on her wedding night what would she tell her husband? That he had been cheated of his marriage right by some nameless white lord owning one hundred rupees?

Deborah had returned from bathing, had had her wash, noticing nothing amiss in the room. We ate lunch together; so hungry we were, the food was almost good. The dessert was very good. English puddings are always rather successful in former British colonies, just as the rest of the meal is usually poor. Her Ladyship was rather more red now, complaining of burning skin like needles in her back. After lunch she would go to the room and have a siesta. No, no reading together. Perhaps later. However, might she look at a few of my books which were on the table?

Of course she might. It would please me if any of them interested her. I told her not to worry about me, that I would go for a walk. Only where to go without being accosted by rascals? The beach? But there the pederasts had their eyes game. The road? But then the criminals were all standing before the shops, waiting for their prey.

I was a little wondering whether that rascal had really done what he had said — bring a virgin girl to the bed behind his brother's shop. The thought was beginning to torture me (I am a normal male, after all, and no pederast). How terrified she must be, I thought, waiting there to perhaps earn with her little body one hundred rupees — the food and clothing for her family for months.

Her predicament began more and more to obsess me. If I didn't go there, perhaps the man would not want to waste his time and would invite some horrible fat German or some English gangster to have the "honour." Being a sensitive person I became very upset at this thought. Knowing I would not otherwise be at peace, I crossed the road, intending to see for myself what were his evil intentions.

Of course as soon as I appeared on the road outside the hotel some reaction could be seen on every side. Instantly there were the usual young men trailing at right and left, offering good value in gems, tortoise shell, and so forth. Excitement was everywhere, seeing this rich white man walking by. But ignoring everyone and without a word I returned to the shop of that morning. So many useless, unemployed persons sitting around in the shop. They all jumped to their feet when I appeared in the doorway. No, the owner was not yet back from lunch. They would immediately send a boy to fetch him.

I said I would rather see the owner's brother about a certain matter. Although he had seven brothers, the one I wished to see was immediately brought, still almost with his table napkin in his hand, sucking his teeth. When alone with him I demanded angrily if he had done what he had promised regarding the girl. Just as I had expected, he had not. When I pushed open the door to the back room with the handle of my umbrella and looked inside, there were only some young men sitting and smoking smuggled American cigarettes.

The brother snapped his fingers and gave a command. Immediately one of the boys jumped up and ran off. The others, looking curiously at this white gentleman with the angry face, withdrew outside.

"I did not think you would be so low as to procure for me a young girl," I told the man. "I must say this makes me feel better about this island and its morals."

He told me to sit down for a few minutes. He would return shortly. I sat on the bed. On this very bed might have been, had I been otherwise, a young, naked, virgin girl. What a crime I had averted by following my inner conscience.

The minutes passed. It was quite hot and very humid in the dim, windowless room. The beginning, perhaps, of another storm. Why had he asked me to wait here, I wondered? Then he wouldn't mind if I lay back on the bed and shut my eyes for a few minutes. This I did. Perhaps I even slept for a few moments.

Suddenly a sound startled me. I opened my eyes to find I was not alone in the room. Standing against the door, with large, dark eyes fixed on me, was a young girl. What was my reaction to this unexpected apparition? Did I leap to my feet and rush angrily from the room to seek the scoundrel who had sent her and give him a good thrashing? No. Shameful as it is to admit, my reaction was that of any normal, red-blooded man. Instant desire.

I sat up and smiled to reassure her that no harm would come to her, for I had no intention — that is the absolute truth — of forcing her to anything repugnant. Such a monster I hope I am not. "Do you speak English?" I asked.

Her round eyes did not move from my face. After several moments, she nodded.

"How old are you?"

She didn't answer. I judged her age by her face to be between twelve to fourteen years, though the Sinhalese mature late and she might even have been eighteen.

"What is your name, my pretty?"

Again, silence. Then I repeated my question, a bit louder. Her lips moved and I thought I heard her say the name Tamila, but I was not sure. I decided, however, to call her Tamila since it was rather pretty and better than no name at all.

Now I held out my hand like a friendly doctor. Very slowly, her eyes on my face, she came across the small distance separating us until she was standing next to me. Then, with a sudden movement, she pulled her dress off over her head and stood before me holding it in her hand, dressed only in a pair of cotton panties.

"Yes," I told her, "it is very hot in here. I will do the same."

I removed then my shirt. She seemed fascinated gazing at my skin which is very white except for the arms and face which are rather tan. I, too, looked carefully at her. Such a young body, a brown, so soft skin — no marks or freckles like European girls, although moderate freckles can also be pretty at times. Her breasts were already like two perfect circles with soft brown nipples. I turned her around to see her buttocks which were partly hidden inside her panties. I could not resist (forgive me) slipping my hand under and stroking that so firm little posterior which was soft and warm as two kittens. Also I stroked her head with its long black hair falling almost to the waist.

"I would not dream of hurting you," I told her honestly, though in my mind my hot, bold penis was already working inside her. Then I very gently pulled down the front part of her panties to reveal the Mound of Venus covered by a very few hairs.

Instantly, to my amazement, her hand came up in the typical baksheesh gesture! I have never been so shocked and horrified, made her turn away while I took out the money hidden in a garter on my upper leg, then put a hundred-rupee note into her hand.

So in an instant her dress was back over her head and she was going fast as lightning toward the door. Only another was faster. Then to keep her inside it was necessary to move a table in front of the exit. She did not make any screaming because she knew she would gain no sympathy from the others once I had told them my story.

I brought her back to the bed, undressed her and had her lie down on the mattress while I stroked her back which was covered with a soft fur. I explained to her that I would never oblige her to do anything she did not want to do. She listened without saying a word. Then I explained to her something about what a man is like, asked her if she had ever seen the sex of an adult man (so many young girls are absolutely ignorant of sexual matters, a serious problem and the fault of the parents). She was lying with her cheek against the mattress — it is impossible to faint in that posture — looking at nothing in particular. Then suddenly she was looking at my penis, which I had taken out of my pants.

She then burst out laughing (!!!).

I joined in the laughing, only blushing a little. Yes, it must have been strange to see this part of the human anatomy in a reverse colour to the ordinary one.

Undressing myself completely I lay down on the bed beside her, stroking her shoulders, back and rump. How good it was for her, I was thinking, that the first time in her life it should be done with an educated, sensitive adult man and not one of those black animals which is what she would otherwise have experienced.

So then I came on top and began to introduce my penis (forgive this medical description, but it is necessary to use words of some sort) into her vagina. Only the moment that the head of the penis touched her in that place, something happened. I do not know why it is, but except for twice with Erde this has always been the rule. My organ of sex once again went completely soft as if made of pudding.

I think the reason this time was that I so feared to hurt this girl. I have never, to my knowledge, "deflowered" a virgin. Such a cruel, painful business. Of course, in some cases the hymen is already broken during childhood games und kommt sowieso nicht in Frage. With Tamila I decided this was the case, for I found no resistance when I did my work with the fingers. Was she disappointed? When I asked her she made no sign, not even a movement of the head. She put back on her dress and began to talk in a very poor, whining English about her eight brothers and sisters and the rest of her family who had had nothing to eat for five days.

I did not of course believe this one minute, for nowhere in Ceylon, unlike India, do you see human skeletons walking around. However big are the rascals in the government, they will see to giving a daily rice ration to every man, woman and child citizen, even if this costs the economy dear in other ways. But still I have a heart and was moved by this child and so gave her another thirty rupees out of my wallet, then moved aside the table and let her leave.

In a second, like a bird from a cage, she had disappeared into the air. I was straightening my clothes when the panderer appeared, all smiles. Had I been satisfied by his choice?

I assured him that nothing at all had happened to the girl and that she had not been ruined for her wedding night, that I hoped he would now let her alone in peace and not sell her as undamaged goods to the next white gentleman who put his foot into the shop.

But he was at heart an honest scoundrel and was then very worried that the girl had cheated me, had not done what she had been paid to do. I told him that on the contrary it was I who was unable to do such a wicked deed against innocence and had let the girl go back to her games and childish pastimes. (Later I was told by the beach boys that she is twenty-four years old, married, and the mother of two children (!) though how can one believe such rascals?) Having thus reassured him, I walked back across the road to the hotel.

In our room I found Deborah looking very upset. She had thought of wearing her new saree for the New Year celebration that evening, but had found it missing. Though she did not say, I could see that she had it more in her mouth to suspect of theft the absolutely innocent Conningsfield.

"Is anything of yours missing?"

I looked through my bags and "discovered" the disappearance of the tape recorder.

"We should report this to the manager," said Deborah, but made no move toward the door, instead sitting on the bed and hiding her face. "Only I hate this reporting and not reporting. I should have reported losing my money. I don't know why I didn't." She looked at me. "Why didn't I?"

"Like my tape recorder," I reminded her. "What is not declared entering the country cannot be reported lost."

"You know," she said, lying down on her side on the bed, "I think it's time for me to settle down somewhere. I can't stand traveling any more. I've been away for years." Where, she wanted then to know, should she settle?

"In your original home, Los Angeles?"

But that place she looked upon as a "nightmare." Stinking atmosphere, millions of persons on the beaches, cement covering the earth, rude women driving Cadillacs. The school she had attended as a child, all trees and brick paths and butterflies, had become a parking lot. The dry river bed she had played in had become a cement canal.

"Villefranche-sur-Mére?"

"No."

"Then here on this beach with Flaminio, reading and studying?" (I had to laugh.)

She only smiled rather kindly for reply.

I then inquired whether she did not have to work for a living, whether she could pay her way by writing articles. She told me absolutely frankly that she had never sold any article, and was living off a small yearly allowance from the estate left by her mother. The money stolen from her in Colombo was to have lasted until April.

I reminded her that she had implied at different times that her mother had not loved her. One does not leave money to someone unloved. Then she told me it had been a question of income taxes and inheritance taxes. "The accountants figured it out. Ma signed before her operation."

"What kind of operation?"

"For a brain tumour."

I was afraid that once again she would refuse to discuss the illness and death of her parent, but I think she had need to talk of it now with someone. She told me that in spite of that she had never "gotten along" with her mother, she had been very affected when death was coming near. First there had been the preliminary diagnosis, then the exploratory operation, the finding of the malignancy. After that her mother had survived another year, becoming completely senile, very small and old, finally lapsing into a prolonged stupor. The last few months she was put into a nursing home and finally Deborah was notified of her death by telephone.

"We don't believe in funerals," she told me, "so there wasn't one. I don't know what was done with her body. I never even asked."

How shocking this seemed. Why had she not?

"What was the point?"

What was the point? These words saddened me, so full they were of wisdom and error. For what really she was asking was: To what purpose are the mortal remains when the soul has departed? This question, differently phrased, has occupied philosophers and theologians for millennia. For one raised in Los Angeles it is so apt; there must be many graveyards covered by auto routes and concrete all over the city. If not, some day the children will be playing among gravestones in the parks.

And yet, there is something hard and cruel in such ideas. Not that Her Ladyship is hard and cruel, but she has come from a very recent society where the values are new and untested. Perhaps, I suggested, something is in error. But she did not agree. "Why honour a dead corpse? What is more barbaric and vulgar," she would know, "than huge funerals with speeches and flowers and tombstones and things like that?"

Very good points. How to argue them? "It is a tie with the past," I pointed out.

"Exactly." She shrugged, as if I had just defeated my own argument.

As we talked it was becoming clear that it is my role to change my ideas if anything is ever to come of my efforts to achieve greatness and power. I, rejecting my European background and sensibilities, will have to stand ready to sacrifice sentiment, to eat from plastic dishes, to turn cities into carbon monoxide gas chambers for birds, in order to live with her in the future.

I noticed that she had been reading a book about Socrates. I asked her which part she had read.

This part is a report upon the death of Socrates who drank of the hemlock poison by order of the court of "justice." Now I remembered that Deborah herself had thoughts of dying by her own hand. I asked her what she had thought of the Phaedo, written twenty-four centuries earlier.

Immediately tears were coming from her eyes. "He had the right attitude about death," she whispered.

"But he believed in the gods," I cried, "and in a life after death. He would bathe himself before taking the poison to save the others this bother, for he knew that his body would be treated after death according to ancient custom. Can man accept death otherwise?"

"It's too late to ask that," said Deborah, drying her tears. "The question has become academic."