He called to Govind in Hindi, affecting the same posh English accent as he spoke. Who did this guy think he was impressing? Then he told him in English to fetch me a glass of whisky. Govind nodded, then handed me my glass, which he was already carrying on a salver. I noted it was filled just right with two ice cubes. Chhotu was impressed, but withheld comment.

“Willy and Sushmita-ji are due home tomorrow,” he said finally. I didn’t think any answer was required. He hadn’t asked me a question. “A sweet reunion, no doubt,” he added.

“You said something about bygones, Chhotu, but your bys haven’t gone anywhere from what I can tell.”

That worked. “I was only having a little fun, Dan. Forgive me. Tonight, it’s just the two of us. We shall have a nice dinner and then maybe smoke some stick afterward, what?”

I couldn’t remember when I’d spent a less pleasant evening. As insufferable as Chhotu was in company, he was ten times worse one-on-one. When he wasn’t boasting of some bet he’d won, or a young girl he’d debauched, he was boring me with tales of his halcyon days at Oxford. I didn’t buy for a second that he’d studied there. He had a knack for mimicry, a fancy accent. But there was no substance or training in his bluster.

Still, as repulsive as I found this guy, he was Willy’s right-hand man. As we enjoyed our after-dinner drinks—only one for me—I decided to loosen up and feign a growing affection for him.

“We’re not so different, Dan,” he said. “I think we shall be fast friends.”

Not bloody likely, I thought.

“You may be right, Chhotu. This has been nice, chatting and putting our differences behind us.”

We clinked glasses and I wished I could spit in his eye. Or in his drink. But, taking a cue from my lovely Sushmita, I smiled as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Maybe one day I’d get the hang of lying without batting an eye.

“Did you play cricket or row in your days in London?” I asked. Jesus. He would have sunk any boat he boarded. And forget about “leg before wicket.” He’d have been called out for “belly before wicket.”

“I wasn’t always so rotund,” he said. “But I never rowed. More interested in the fish than in the water. Like a proper Bengali.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

FRIDAY, AUGUST 8, 1975, 5:09 P.M.

I spent the morning and most of the afternoon avoiding Chhotu. After a long run, and later a leisurely walk, I noticed some things had been touched in my room. And not as if someone had been cleaning. This was different. The paranoiac in me suspected Chhotu.