“Which is why I’m asking. Do you know where your shoes have been today?”

I considered his question. Then I answered him, ticking off my errands one by one, and I realized the son of a bitch was right. Why would I put my filthy shoes on the furniture? I removed them immediately.

“I never thought of that before,” I said. Then, to salvage some measure of authority, I added that if I wanted to put my feet on the furniture, I’d do it.

“By all means,” he said. “Remember that smell from the platform at Churchgate Station this afternoon? Whatever it was is on your table now.”

“Crap.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. By the way, if you’re interested, and not too proud to accept a gift, I’ve placed a pair of new rubber chappals in your room. I suggest you wear those only in the flat and leave your shoes at the door from now on.”

On top of everything else, Ranjit was a smart guy, too.

That night, he moved into the second bedroom. He’d been sleeping on the floor in the tiny pantry behind the kitchen. There was a dark little servants’ bathroom back there, too. I felt awful for having let him sleep and bathe back there before, but I’d been following blindly what I’d been told. Servants ate and slept on the floor and did not use the same bathrooms as the sahibs and memsahibs. He must have been horrified by my poor hygiene while he was being treated as the dirty one.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 1975, 11:20 A.M.

I could get used to this. Ranjit was making all my meals—keeping up the appearance that I still had my servant—all the while providing pleasant companionship every night. And, of course, he had a gun and gave me great peace of mind where Bikas was concerned.

Work, too, was going well, mostly because Frank Muller was on vacation. Why anyone would visit Goa during the monsoon was beyond my ken. Maybe he was that cheap and couldn’t resist the off-season prices. Or maybe he was holed up with his new lady friend. Why should I begrudge him the same escape I’d enjoyed with Sushmita in Lonavala? Maybe he’d let off some steam and come back a better man and boss for it.

“That policeman phoned this morning looking for you,” said Janice, tilting her little cup to touch mine as we enjoyed our late morning tea from Vikky. “He wanted to know if you were still alive or had been blown up.”

I chuckled.

“It’s not funny, Mr. Jacobs. What if that Bikas tries to find you?”

“I’m taking precautions.”

“What about the pictures?”

“I told you there’s no film.” That, unfortunately, was true, in the sense that it was lost.