After dinner, we talked about the rains and the news. Willy opposed the Helsinki Accords, recently signed by NATO and the Warsaw Pact. It would only encourage the Soviets to pursue their expansionist policies. He cited the fall of South Vietnam as a warning of things to come if the West appeased the Communists. Sushmita asked if we could talk about something more fun.

“What about the Emergency?” I said. “Willy, what do you think of the recent parliamentary votes? The ones that erased the PM’s crimes?”

Like a priest absolving sins, he waved his hand. “I don’t concern myself with Indian politics, but Mrs. Gandhi has got nerves of iron.”

“Steel,” corrected Sushmita. “Nerves of steel and will of iron.” She stood to leave. “And if you two boys are going to talk politics, I must have misjudged you both. You’re a couple of old bores.”

“Mita, don’t go off like that,” said Willy.

“I’m afraid my presence here might be a nuisance,” I said once she’d gone. “I know it’s stressful to have guests in the house.”

“Not at all. Mita is very fond of you, Danny.”

If he only knew.

“So what I’d like to ask you,” I said, “is if there’s a suitable hotel nearby. A boardinghouse, perhaps. It doesn’t have to be fancy. My needs aren’t great.”

“What rubbish,” he said, almost indignant at the suggestion. “You’ll stay here.”

“Are you sure Sushmita wouldn’t prefer—”

“Ridiculous. Anyway, Mita and I are heading back to Bombay in two days. You’ll have the place to yourself for a spell. Take some time to think about what you want to do.”

SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1975, 12:07 A.M.

The scratching at my door came as I’d expected shortly after midnight. She slipped inside, and I rose from bed to take her in my arms. But she held out both hands as a stop sign. Her glare unsettled me.

“You should never have come,” she whispered. “These things have to be planned and prepared carefully. Improvising will only bring disaster. You’ve got to understand that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could tell her that this was in no way a spur-of-the-moment visit. I wasn’t improvising. My stay had been carefully planned.

“Please, love. You must be more careful,” she said, a touch softer now, but I confess I hadn’t really paid attention after she called me “love.”

I apologized again, and she pressed against me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Willy told me you wanted to go to a hotel. Or leave.”

“I thought it might be for the best.”

“You stupid man. You should never have come,” she repeated into my chest. “But if you leave now, I’ll die. I swear it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1975, 1:23 P.M.