The phone, I learned, was in Sushmita’s name. Deshpande, S. I wasn’t sure what that meant for my safety. To my mind, everything came down to the question of whether Ramu had overheard, understood, and would talk. And that was only if Bikas actually got his hands on him.

The odds were long. I drew a deep breath and relaxed.

For dinner, Kamal, the cook, served dal, rice, ladyfingers (okra), chole, and palak aloo—potatoes and spinach. Pure veg. Dessert was gulab jamun, a kind of fried dumpling, swimming in thick, sugary syrup. I put all thoughts of Bikas behind me and enjoyed the meal.

After dinner, we sat quietly in the drawing room with our drinks, and I found myself scheming. How might I manage it, I wondered. How might I steal Sushmita from Willy without breaking his heart? Without inspiring in him a deep hatred for me? Maybe he secretly liked men, and Sush was an adornment, not a lover. Maybe he was dying of cancer and would welcome me as a successor.

Sushmita roused me from my thoughts and suggested we play a game. “Do you know carrom?” she asked.

I had no idea what that was.

“Maybe bridge?” I asked.

“We’re only three.”

“How about some music?” asked Willy.

A few moments later, we were listening to Jacques Brel. Sushmita was not a fan. Some of the songs were quite good but, like opera, Brel can be an acquired taste. The melodramatic numbers turned some people off.

“I know him,” said Willy.

“Who?” I asked.

“Jacky. Jacques Brel. We called him Jacky.”

“Really?”

“He never stops bragging about it,” said Sushmita. “Tell Danny how you sat on the same bench in school with the famous Jacques Brel.”

“We were in class together. In Brussels. At the Institut Saint-Louis.” Willy smiled to himself. “He was a nice boy. So talented, even then.”

“But Jacques Brel makes me want to cry,” whined Sushmita. “Can’t we change it?”

Willy feigned a heart attack, then chastised her. “How can you say that, mon amour? How can you listen to ‘Ne me quitte pas’ and not feel your heart break?”

“That’s the point, Willy. It breaks my heart.”

“That’s how we know we’re alive, my dear,” he said. “That song reminds me that I would die if you left me.”

Great. This wasn’t going to be a clean break.

“I won’t leave you, darling,” she answered. Ouch. That hurt. “Provided you change the music to something less depressing.”

Maybe there was hope, after all. Willy seemed committed to the Brel.

“Just listen, darling,” he said. “And Danny’s enjoying it.”

“I mean it, Willy. Please, may we listen to something else? How about the record I bought? The one with Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Alla Rakha?”

Willy made a face.