"Of course. I'm sorry." I nodded, blinked, but still could not look away. I realized that I was still clinging tightly to the edge of the table. The splintery wood connected me to reality somehow. "My God," I repeated dully, "how did this happen? How can I help?"

"I have read your book, Mr. Luczak," hissed M. Das. "You are a sentimental poet."

"How did you get a copy?" Idiot. Get a grip on yourself. "I mean, why do you think the verse is sentimental?"

Das blinked slowly. The ruined eyelids came down like frayed window shades and never completely covered the whites of his eyes. With the intelligent gaze hidden, the apparition before me was a thousand times more horrible. I resisted the impulse to run, and held my breath until he was looking at me again.

Das's voice managed to sound wistful. "Does it really snow that much in Vermont, Mr. Luczak?"

"What? Oh, you mean . . . yes. Yes. Not always, but some winters. Especially in the mountains. They mark the roadsides and mailboxes with batons and little orange pennants." I was babbling, but it was either that or stuff my knuckles in my mouth to stifle other sounds.

"Ahhh," sighed Das, and the sound was air escaping from a dying sea creature. "I would have liked to have seen that. Yesss."

"I read your poem, Mr. Das."

"Yesss?"

"The Kali poem, I mean. Of course, you know that. You sent it to me."

"Yess."

"Why?"

"Why what, Mr. Luczak?"

"Why are you sending it out of the country for publication? Why did you give it to me?"

"It must be published." For the first time Das's odd voice conveyed emotion. "You did not like it?"

"No, I did not like it," I said. "I did not like it at all. But there were parts that are very . . . memorable. Terrible and memorable."

"Yesss."

"Why did you write it?"

M. Das closed his eyes again. The awful head bowed forward, and for a second I thought that he had gone to sleep. The lesions on his scalp glowed a gray-green in the lamplight. "It must be published," he whispered hoarsely. "You will help me?"

I hesitated. I was not sure if the last thing he had said was a question. "All right," I said at last. "Tell me why you wrote it. What you're doing here."

Das returned his gaze to me, and in the electric contact of it he somehow communicated that we were not alone. I glanced to the side but there was only blackness. Sweat dripped from my cheeks in the terrible heat. "How did you . . ." I hesitated. "How did you come to be like this?"

"A leper."

"Yes."

"I had been one for many years, Mr. Luczak. I ignored the signs. The scaly patches on my hands. The pain followed by numbness. Even as I signed autographs on tours and led seminars at the University, the feeling fled my hands and cheeks. I knew the truth long before the open sores appeared, long before the week I went east to my father's funeral."

"But they have drugs now!" I cried. "Surely you must have known . . . medicines! It can be cured now."

"No, Mr. Luczak, it cannot be cured. Even those who believe in such medicines claim only that the symptoms can be controlled, sometimes arrested. But I was a follower of Gandhi's health philosophy. When the rash and pain came I fasted, I followed diets, I administered enemas and purified my body as well as my mind. For years I did this. It did not help. I knew it would not."

I took a deep breath and wiped my palms on my trousers. "Well, if you knew that —"

"Listen, please," whispered the poet. "We do not have much time. I will tell you a story. It was the summer of 1969 — a different century to me now, a different world. My father had been cremated in the small village of my birth. The bleeding sores had been visible for many weeks. I told my brothers it was an allergy. I sought solitude. I did not know what to do.

"The long ride back to Calcutta gave me time to think. Have you ever seen a leprosarium in our country, Mr. Luczak?"

"No."

"You do not wish to. Yesss, I could have gone abroad. I had the money. Doctors in such enlightened nations as yours rarely see advanced cases of Hansen's Disease, Mr. Luczak. Leprosy does not truly exist in most modern nations, you see. It is a disease of filth and muck and unhygienic conditions forgotten by the West since the Middle Ages. But it is not forgotten in India. No, not in my beloved India. Did you know, Mr. Luczak, that there are half a million lepers in Bengal alone?"

"No," I said.

"No. Nor did I. But so I have been told. Most die of other causes before the disease progresses, you see. But where was I in our story? Ah, yes. I had arrived in Howrah Station in the evening. By then I had decided upon my course of action. I had considered going abroad for medical help. I had considered enduring the years of pain as the disease followed its slow encroachment. I had considered submitting myself to the humiliation and isolation such treatment would demand. I considered it, Mr. Luczak, but I rejected it. And once I had made my decision, I felt very calm. I was very much at peace with myself and the universe that evening as I watched the lights of Howrah Station through the window of my first-class coach.

"Do you believe in God, Mr. Luczak? I did not. Nor do I now . . . believe in any god of light, that is. There are other . . . but where was I? Yes. I left the coach in a peaceful state of mind. My decision allowed me to avoid not only the pain of being an invalid, but also the pain of parting. Or so I thought.

"I gave away my luggage to a surprised beggar there in the railway station. Ah, yes, you must forgive me my method of transferring the manuscript to you yesterday, Mr. Luczak. Irony is one of the few pleasures left to me. I only wish that I could have seen it. Where were we? Yes, I left the station and walked to the marvelous structure we call the Howrah Bridge. Have you seen it? Yes, of course you have. How silly of me. I have always considered it a delightful piece of abstract sculpture, Mr. Luczak, quite unappreciated as the work of art it truly is. The bridge that night was relatively empty — only a few hundred people were crossing it.

"I stopped in the center. I did not hesitate for long, because I did not wish to have time to think. I must confess that I composed a short sonnet, a farewell verse you might say. I too was once a sentimental poet.

"I jumped. From the center span. It was well over a hundred feet to the dark water of the Hooghly. The fall seemed to go on forever. If I had known the interminable wait between execution and culmination of such a suicide, I would have planned differently, I assure you.

"Water struck from such a height has precisely the consistency of concrete, Mr. Luczak. When I hit, the impact was like a flower blossoming in my skull. Something in my back and neck snapped. Loudly. Like a thick branch breaking.

"My body sank then. I say 'my body' because I died then, Mr. Luczak. There is no doubt of that. But a strange phenomenon occurred. One's spirit does not depart immediately after death, but, rather, watches the disposition of events much as a disinterested spectator might. How else can I describe the sensation of seeing one's twisted body sink to the mud at the bottom of the Hooghly? Of seeing fish preying on the eyes and soft parts of one's self? Of seeing all this and of feeling no concern, no horror, only the mildest of interest? Such is the experience, Mr. Luczak. Such is the dreaded act of dying . . . as banal as all of the other necessary acts which make up our pitiful existence.

"I do not know how long my body lay there, becoming one with the river mud, before the tides or perhaps the wake of a ship brought my discarded form to shore. Children found me. They poked at me and they laughed when their sticks penetrated my flesh. Then the Kapalikas came. They carried me — tenderly, although such distinctions meant nothing to me then — to one of their many temples.