He made a sour face, probably wondering which was worse, the fact that I was a heathen or a Jew. He swallowed the foul taste my words had caused him, and I was happy with my small victory.

He tacked in another direction. “You know, you and I come from different worlds, Dan. But where it counts, we’re the same.”

“Really? You voted for Nixon—twice, no three times—and I voted for McGovern. My parents voted for Humphrey, Johnson, Kennedy, Stevenson—twice—Truman, and Roosevelt before that. I’d say we’re quite different.”

Harlan chuckled. “My folks threw a party when Roosevelt died. So don’t you think it’s remarkable that we’re sitting here together in this back-of-beyond, godforsaken country, visiting so amiably?”

Surely he couldn’t fail to notice the disbelief on my face. He lit a cigarette.

“That’s why I worry about you, Dan. That German girl, Birgit. Now there’s a filly worth your wild oats.”

“Birgit? She’s not even in the country. And we’re just friends.”

“Well, if I were a young man and hadn’t met Barb, that cute German girl—Christian, too, mind you—she’d be on my radar.”

I sighed. “The Christian thing isn’t necessarily a plus in her column for me.”

He thought it over for a bit. Then he suggested I might want to reconsider that, as well.

“So if Sushmita were a Christian,” I said, “you wouldn’t object? They have those here, you know. Indian Christians.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t condone it. Nothing against her kind. There’s six hundred million of them, after all. But I believe God intended for the races to remain separate.”

“Russ,” I said, blinking as slowly as I could manage. “You’ve somehow worn me down. Yesterday, I would’ve thrown my plate in your face and stormed off. I hate everything you say. But right now, I just want to pick at this food.”

He smiled, then asked if Sushmita wasn’t Christian, what about her boyfriend? Was he a Hindu or a Muslim?

I dashed back across the marg around seven, skipping over the puddles and through the rain. Once again, I marveled that the road didn’t have a name. At least not that anyone knew. I’d asked plenty of times. It was often that way in India, at least for smaller streets. People navigated using landmarks instead of addresses.

I figured I’d read a book or listen to the radio until Sushmita contacted me. But my exciting plans for the evening were ruined when I found Inspector Lokhande waiting for me at Sagar Darshan. Sitting in the chair usually occupied by the liftman, he was frowning straight ahead at the wall.