She signaled to the second servant, Jagdish, who was hovering nearby. Speaking in Hindi—I could tell by the word hain, which came up three or four times—she gave him instructions for my drink. The young man wagged his head then set off to fulfill the errand. I felt flattered she was taking care of me.

“Now,” she said, “there’s so much happening in the news. Tell me.”

“The political situation is dicey. We’re trying to do our jobs and report as honestly and fairly as we can.”

“But?”

“But there’s a censor now. A chubby babu who sits in our office, reviewing every word we write.”

“Really?” she asked, unable to suppress a grin. “A babu?”

I blushed. I’d wanted to impress her, trying to pass off the word as my own.

“Yes,” I said, stumbling over my response. “You know … a functionary. Lazy. Entitled.”

Jagdish returned with a large glass of whisky and a couple of ice cubes. “I know what a babu is, Danny.”

I took the drink and sipped it as if licking a wound. Jesus, she thought I was an idiot. And I was. But then I realized she’d called me Danny. For the first time.

“Nothing for you?” I asked.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” she said.

Then she did something I almost wish she hadn’t. At least not at that moment with so many people around. She reached out and touched my wrist with her fine fingers. Regarding me with her sparkling eyes, she told me she was sorry. Willy had asked her not to tease me. Or laugh at me. If I’d been alone with her, I’d have shown her I wasn’t an idiot to be pitied, but a smoldering, romantic, take-charge kind of guy who would teach her a thing or two about love.

Okay, even I had to laugh at myself for that. Relax, I thought. You’re making conversation with her. Not trying to get her into bed.

“What’s so funny?” she asked. Apparently, I was grinning.

“Nothing,” I said, finally relaxing. “Let me tell you about my job instead. It’s actually quite interesting.”

Dinner was served at 10:35. Willy—or was it Sushmita?—had decided to make it casual. Chaat, samosas, bhel, pani puri, and other Indian snacks. The guests sat where they wanted and with whom they wanted. The Norwegian couple made feeble attempts to disguise their displeasure. They moved the food around on their plates, but never really ate much. The Russian captain was shoveling it in like a fireman feeding a hungry steam engine. He was particularly partial to the samosas, which were filled with potato and peas, but he sampled everything with gusto. There were three middle-aged German businessmen who, gulping their beer, chatted amiably with the other guests.