The Temple Dancer Read Online Free

against the wind
to slow it, it began to shriek like an old lady in ecstasy. The ship was, after
all, only teak timbers lashed together with ropes of hemp.

    Da Gama leaned against the railing, watching the captain bark out orders. From time to time he snapped a leather thong for emphasis. Sailors
scurried in practiced chaos. Soon the ship groaned against the worn pilings of the pier. Da Gama turned and waved at a cluster of ragged boys
waiting expectantly at the dock. The birds flapped off, disappointed.
    "Baksheesh! Baksheesh!" the boys cried, extending their hands. "Christian!" they cried, when they saw he was a farang, pointing to wooden crosses
they'd strung around their necks. They'd seen plenty of farangs before.
    "Fetch me three palkis!" Da Gama shouted. "Good ones!" He tossed a
tanga toward the boys, as a man might skip a stone. They all ran off at once,
snatching at the boy who'd caught the coin. Da Gama knew they'd soon be
back; dozens of palanquins would be waiting for him on the dock, with boys
and bearers with hands out for baksheesh; just as he knew without looking
how the steersman now eyed him, hoping for baksheesh as well.
    Baksheesh be damned, Da Gama thought. In Hindustan, everyone
stuck out his hand. At first it had been only Hindis, but now even farangs
had caught the disease. And there was never an end, never! Give the watchman a tanga for opening a door, and he'd stick out his hand again for closing it behind you.
    Nowhere was the practice more obnoxious than Goa.
    In Goa, baksheesh was no longer a request; it was a demand, even a
threat. One had to think ahead: Am I likely to see you again? the diner
must consider as he looks at the waiter. Do I really want to find a glob of
your phlegm clinging to my tankard next time I drink here?
    Already the cargo hatch was open. Thin, bare-chested Hindis humped
great sacks of Cochin peppercorns from below, while the captain watched
and swore. With each thump as they landed on the deck, the sacks exhaled a
spicy, tang-filled cloud. A young sailor began to sneeze, and the old hands
laughed.
    Da Gama moved to the rear hatch and called, "Senhor Slipper, come
up! We've docked!" The only answer was a miserable, high-pitched moan.
Da Gama chuckled. "You'll feel better once you're on land, senhor!"
    Da Gama glanced along the docks. Two elephants walked in lazy unison through the city gate, their mahouts ignoring the curses of the oxcart
drivers stuck behind them unable to pass.
    Without waiting for the gangplank, Da Gama leaped to the pier. Nearby
a sailor eyed him icily-the gangplankwallah, no doubt, now realizing that Da Gama's jump had just cheated him of his baksheesh. He didn't think I'd
make it, Da Gama thought, pleased with himself.

    On the dock a gaggle of boys mobbed Da Gama. They pointed to the
crosses hanging from strings on their necks. "Hello, brother! Hello,
Christian!" they shouted in Portuguese. They pointed to the palanquins,
whose bearers waited eagerly beside them. "Palki to city only three rials!
Christian!"
    "Two rupees only!" Da Gama roared in Hindi. Some of the boys cowered
in surprise; others more insistent pressed closer, holding up their crucifixes.
Da Gama scowled, pushing through them. He strode down the pier, past
mounds of shiny green-skinned coconuts stacked like polished cannonballs, past gulls arguing with skinny cows over some scrap of garbage.
Thin, dark-faced men with fierce, determined eyes staggered past, backs
bent beneath huge gunnysacks holding twice their weight of cinnamon.
    Da Gama frowned. The port was busy, to be sure, but not as busy as it
ought to be. If he needed further proof that the Dutch were strangling the
Portuguese trade, here it was: the dismal movement on the dock, far slower
than it should have been, particularly at this time of year, right after the
monsoons. The pier should be sagging with goods. But no.
    Suddenly Da Gama found himself surrounded by the dock boys, who
swept