‘They don’t want to, child, but nature punishes those who give in to lust. They can’t control themselves: their eyes, their fingers, their breath, their womb. They are like leaves that yellow, dry up, and fall to the ground.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Ah, no one tries to understand.’

‘Why do you do it?’

Sumarni’s lips turn up slightly at the corners. She seems almost to smile, but no smile is reflected in her grey eyes. Gita watches as those eyes become the sky. Clouds gather within; they let loose rain, but no thunder.

‘Child, for the sake of one life, sometimes you have to extinguish another. Some birds must destroy themselves in flame to give birth to a new generation. We consider it natural, even noble, to be born to sacrifice. Like Sinta in the Ramayana. And therein lies your value. You never knew, child, that dead birds surround you, breathing the same air as you. They look alive, but maggots, invisible to the eye, gnaw their rotting flesh. They are only present as givers of life; like water, sometimes polluted, which gushes forth continuously formless. Water can only mould itself to the vessel.

‘And I, child, I have indeed been an ally of the devil. Because I know that some birds don’t want to destroy themselves in flames. I know that there are waters that simply want to freeze rather than become wellsprings for the sake of a stillness that they have never known.’

Rain falls in the yard, soaking into the earth. Not a downpour, but slow, drop by drop. A long, soft tone, like a bow sliding against a violin string. Gita feels a chill. Fog is on its way.

‘So, the lewd seek your services.’

‘Those fine fingers of yours, child, were not made to point in accusation. It is not only the lewd. A mother of four came to see me. A woman you wouldn’t suspect, a nice girl, like you. She was no tourist at the beach, but a wanderer in the desert. She had grown hunchbacked from carrying too many heavy loads. She needed to do what she did to remain strong and accompany her master, who had to find a means of subsistence until they reached their destination.’

‘What do you require?’

‘Money, of course. I need to live, my dear. Then fabric for a sling. So that the baby can feel the mother’s embrace in the world beyond. The fabric can serve as a link if the soul of the baby longs for its mother or the mother longs for the baby. A bridge of sorts. But sometimes, the bridge is cut off. Sometimes, the mother goes crazy. The baby becomes an angel. They don’t need to know each other.’

‘But why?’