I opened my eyes, disappointed it had only been a dream. I climbed out of bed and splashed some water on my face. I needed a moment to prepare myself for drinks with Willy and Chhotu. And I wondered if Sushmita had returned. I soon discovered she had not.

Willy and Chhotu were standing at the main entrance, engaged in a discussion with a fireng, a man of about thirty with dark hair, who was on his way out the door. The atmosphere I’d intruded upon was tense. Willy was wagging his finger at him and speaking in a low, hard voice. Chhotu told the man to go. He’d see him in Bombay.

“But listen to me,” the man said.

“The matter is decided, Clive,” said Chhotu, shaking his head.

The Westerner noticed me across the room and changed his attitude. He nodded to them and apologized.

“Of course, Willy. Sorry. I understand,” he said with what sounded like an Australian accent. Then he left.

“Danny Boy,” said Willy, once he’d realized I was there. Gone was the tension of a moment before. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at me. “And now it’s time for a cocktail.”

“Who was that?” I asked. “An associate?”

“A potential buyer. Visiting India for the first time. He doesn’t understand how things work here. I’m not sure we can do business with him.”

It was just the three of us, Willy, Chhotu, and me, and I was miserable. But the poker face I’d learned—or tried to learn—from Sushmita was as good as a mask. I laughed at their insipid jokes, and I even offered a few stories of my own. Willy seemed to appreciate my efforts, but I couldn’t help but notice a shade of doubt in Chhotu’s eyes, especially when I was speaking and he was watching Willy. That subtle loss of concentration that weakens the smile in one’s eyes. He was wondering how to get rid of me. How to turn me in to his precious Willy. But his hands were tied for the moment. How he must have regretted slipping that note under my door. If only he’d known that it no longer existed, he’d have put a knife in my back.

Dinner was even more painful. Watching Zadya stuff his face, as if eating were a sport. I listened to his stories, always a boast about a job he’d held in Toronto or Manchester—never New York or London—or a chap he’d bested at cards in Amsterdam, or a nautch girl he’d bedded in Bombay. But I grinned and pretended to enjoy his haw-haw accent, as Sushmita had called his horsey British affectations.

“Chhotu and I had a little chat about you this afternoon, Danny Boy,” said Willy once we were seated with our after-dinner drinks in the drawing room.

“No wonder my ears were burning.”

“Ears … burning?”