I hadn’t. And even though he’d never been invited to one himself, Flaherty said they were the best gatherings for foreigners in Bombay, with beautiful women and free-flowing liquor—a scarce and expensive commodity in India. Eric Nielsen—the guy who’d occupied my flat before me—had been obsessed with the parties, according to Flaherty. He’d talked about this Willy Smets constantly.

And then one day, I received a handwritten note inviting me for cocktails in the penthouse flat. I’d made the grade. Now I stood beside the celebrated Willy Smets, still thinking about his first words to me.

“What was that you said before?” I asked him. “Something about Indians and happiness?”

“Some friendly advice for a boy who looks lost in a strange land. India is an enchanting place, but it can be overwhelming to foreigners.”

That hardly cleared up my confusion. He took note and explained that he was advising me to take the second path. Let Indians be the means to achieving my happiness.

Smets signaled to a young servant across the room. Domestic help was ubiquitous in India. Middle-class households—even lower-middle-class—always had one or more servants. The rich had several. I didn’t like the word, servant, when I first heard it. An outdated and condescending way to refer to people. But that’s what they were called in India.

Willy Smets’s guy was outfitted in wrinkled white livery a few sizes too large for his frame. He glided over to us on bare feet. Smets called him Sandip.

“Yes, sahib?” he said. When he opened his mouth, I saw his teeth were stained red from paan, a betel leaf preparation that some folks chewed like tobacco.

“A drink for my guest,” said Smets. Then he turned to me. “What will you have, Danny Boy?”

I didn’t drink a lot, but I enjoyed the occasional scotch. My dad always said, “One to whet your appetite and one to rinse down dessert.”

“Whisky, please,” I said. “I mean, if you have any.”

“Of course we do.”

He relayed the order to Sandip, then waved him away. “Jaldi, jaldi.”

“You don’t want the local spirits,” said Smets. “The beer and rum are okay, but not the whisky. If you find yourself running dry, I can help you.”

I thanked him, feeling like a charity case. He asked if I was satisfied with my servant.

There was that word again.

“He only started this morning,” I said. “I’ll have to let you know.”

“You’ve been without help all this time? I wish we’d met sooner; I could have arranged something for you.”

“My office is handling it, thanks,” I said. “I’m still getting used to the idea. I never thought I’d have someone taking care of me.”