He would, he must, find Ayah.
As if in a dream he unhurriedly made his way to the house of the Franciscans. There was no difficulty in obtaining the directions he needed. Native converts were not so many that the Fathers lost track of them.
When he turned the corner, she was standing by the entrance to her compound, one hand on a lintel, the other shading her eyes against the sun’s stabbing brilliance to look along the alley away from him. Though her face was hidden, he had no doubts. This was her outline, her stance, though the saree was white. Yet he could scarcely get the words out to greet her. As though she knew, the old woman who once was Ayah turned to face him, holding out her arms.
‘So fine young man,’ she sighed at last, fingers smoothing his wet cheek. ‘Always best, Ruddy Bab
