The fishermen helped her out of the dhow and into the rowboat that would take her between the two vessels. Out in the Gulf of Mannar, there were undoubtedly much heavier waves, but the little islands of Adam's Bridge protected the water here, so it was only slightly choppy.
Which was just as well. There was a faint nausea that had been with her ever since she got aboard. Vomiting was not something she needed to show these sailors. She hadn't expected seasickness. How could she have known she was susceptible? Helicopters didn't bother her, or cars on winding roads, or even freefall. Why should a bit of chop on the water nearly do her in?
The rowboat was actually better than the dhow. More frightening, but less nauseating. Fear she could deal with. Fear didn't make her want to throw up. It only made her more determined to win.
Peter himself was at the side of his boat, and it was his hand that she took to help her climb aboard. That was a good sign. He wasn't trying
to play games and force her to come to him.
Peter had her men tie the dinghy to his craft, and then brought them aboard to rest in relative comfort on the deck while she went inside the main cabin with Peter.
It was beautifully and comfortably decorated, but not overly large or pretentious. It struck just the right note of restrained opulence. A man of taste.
"It's not my boat, of course," said Peter. "Why would I waste FPE money on owning a boat? This is a loan."
She said nothing--after all, saying nothing was part of who she was now. But she was just a little disappointed. Modesty was one thing; but why did he feel compelled to tell her that he didn't own it, that he was frugal? Because he believed her image of seeking traditional Indian simplicity--no poverty--as something she really meant, and not just something she staged in order to hold on to the hearts of the Indian people.
Well, I could hardly expect him to be as perceptive as me. He wasn't admitted to Battle School, after all.
"Have a seat," he said. "Are you hungry?"
"No thank you," she said softly. If only he knew what would happen to any food she tried to eat at sea!
"Tea?"
"Nothing," she said.
He shrugged--with embarrassment? That she had turned him down? Really, was he such a boy as that? Was he taking this personally?
Well, he was supposed to take it personally. He just didn't understand how or why.
Of course he didn't. How could he imagine what she came to offer him?
Time to be Virlomi. Time to let him know what this meeting was about.
He was standing near a bar with a fridge, and seemed to be trying to choose between inviting her to sit with him at the table or on the soft chairs bolted to the deck.
She took two steps and she was with him, pressing her body against his, entwining the arms of India under his and around his back. She stood on her toes and kissed his lips. Not with vigor, but softly and warmly. It was not a girl's chaste kiss; it was a promise of love, as best she knew how to show it. She had not had that much experience before Achilles came and made Hyderabad a chaste and terrifying place to work. A few kisses with boys she knew. But she had learned something of what made them excited; and Peter was, after all, scarcely more than a boy, wasn't he?
And it seemed to work. He certainly returned the kiss.
It was going as she expected. The gods were with her.
"Let's sit down," said Peter.
But to her surprise, what he indicated was the table, not the soft chairs. Not the wide one, where they could have sat together.
The table, where they would have a slab of wood--something cold and smooth, anyway--between them.
When they were seated, Peter looked at her quizzically. "Is that really what you came all this way for?"
"What did you think?" she said.
"I hoped it had something to do with India ratifying the FPE Constitution."
"I haven't read it," she said. "But you must know India doesn't surrender its sovereignty easily."
"It'll be easy enough, if you ask the Indian people to vote for it."