“A very American attitude. Canadians are even worse. It’s as if they feel they don’t deserve to be comfortable. But that’s a habit you must break here. Servants are one of the pluses we enjoy in India, even if they’re always underfoot.” He sipped his drink then winked at me. “Provided they don’t slit your throat in the night.”

A pretty German woman, Marthe, interrupted us to speak with Smets. I assumed he was German since he spoke the language as effortlessly as he did English. Only later did I find out he was Belgian. Flemish, but he also spoke French perfectly.

I studied him as he entertained the lady with what sounded like a humorous story. Bony and toothy, he was, by any objective standard, a homely man. Of average height and weight, he managed nevertheless to project a wiry magnetism that was mismatched to his unremarkable frame. His baritone voice, seasoned by what I was sure were decades of wine and brandy and black-tobacco cigarettes, bore witness to a lifestyle well enjoyed, if not healthy. Yet, despite his want of physical gifts, Willy Smets had confidence and natural social facility in spades. An unexpected charisma.

Sandip returned with my drink, which was sloshing about in a crystal tumbler on a salver. He balanced two glass bottles on the tray as well. They were identical in every detail except for the crown caps. One was red, the other yellow.

“Do you take soda, or would you like some ice?” Smets asked.

“Soda, please,” I said.

Ice never lasted long in that heat, of course, and you were never sure how safe it might be. Soda was the wiser choice. My host must have read my mind. He assured me that all the water was boiled in the kitchen and the ice was perfectly pure.

“Soda’s fine,” I said.

Smets smiled to indulge me, then told Sandip to add some soda to my whisky. The kid reached for the bottle with the yellow cap.

“No, Sandip,” said my host. “That’s tonic water. Never serve tonic with whisky.”

Sandip said nothing. He poured from the red-capped bottle instead, then slipped away.

“He’s new,” said Smets as he raised his glass to mine. “Welcome to Bombay.” We sipped our drinks. “Is it true you’re a reporter for United News?”

“Yes. But how did you know I was with UNI?”

“The fellow who occupied the flat before you. He was also UNI.”

“Eric Nielsen? Did he come to your parties?”

“Only once,” he said with a frown. “He behaved badly. Didn’t understand that Indian girls are not as liberal-minded as Americans. I didn’t invite him back.”