I was shown to a room in the back of the one-floor house. A large bed stood against the wall opposite a window that looked out on the garden and the gravel drive. The flat-painted walls were covered with colonial-era etchings and paintings of Bombay and Poona. And there was a writing desk and a bookcase full of paperback novels. Mills and Boon, mostly, with some Agatha Christie and P. G. Wodehouse mixed in. A ceiling fan spun overhead, but the temperature was already much cooler than what it had been in Bombay. Poona was one of the traditional hill stations that provided respite from the heat of the coastal cities. Finally, I noticed a black Chinese wardrobe. I could store my clothes or lock any valuables inside. That reminded me of my precious roll of film. I hoped I hadn’t ruined it in the rain the night before with Sushmita.

And that’s when I realized I didn’t have it. Not in the pockets of my slacks, not in my bag. Had I left it in my soiled clothes the night before? Maybe it had fallen out during my wrestling match with Sushmita. Or when we rubbed my pants on the tire. Jesus Christ, if that film was gone, I was screwed.

I thought back to those heady moments with Sushmita in the rain. The excitement of the chase, grabbing her, laughing, pressing my body to hers on the hood of the car. I must have transferred the film from my wet pants to the dry ones after that, but I couldn’t be sure. Sushmita’s peeping as I jumped into my clothes had somehow obscured the chain of events in my mind. I simply couldn’t remember. All I knew was that it wasn’t in my pocket now.

I tried to put it out of my mind until I could ask Sushmita if our clothes had been washed. I had a tepid shower in the attached bathroom. I didn’t trust the small water heater, what the Indians called a geyser, pronounced geezer. Somehow, I thought it might explode and scald me to death. As a result, my shower hardly qualified as a five-star experience—not quite the President Hotel—but I could stand up straight and wash myself with two hands for a change.

I was ready to rejoin my hosts, but I dragged my feet, waiting to be sure Sushmita emerged before me. Checking my bag one more time, I found no roll of film. Without the pictures of Bikas, my story would be toothless. And, if I ever needed to return the film to him to save my skin, that would be impossible, too.

At length, I smoothed my hair and stepped outside to join my hosts. Sushmita was nowhere in sight. There was only Willy, lounging in a Bombay fornicator in the drawing room, reading the newspaper.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said.