“I know Ravi Shankar,” I said. “The sitar player. Taught George Harrison how to play it. But who’s the other one?”

“Ustad Alla Rakha,” repeated Sushmita slowly for my benefit. “Ustad is Urdu for master. He’s a master of the tabla. You know, those small drums that make impossibly beautiful music. And, by the way, referring to Pandit Ravi Shankar as a sitar player is like calling Paganini a fiddler. He’s a virtuoso, Danny.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “I’d love to hear that.”

Willy fussed and made a big show of compromising. He rose and went to the hi-fi where he stopped the music.

“Fine, fine, I’ll change the Brel,” he said. “But let’s listen to this instead of your Indian music.”

He cued up some Wagner. Overtures. My chances of winning the girl were improving. Sushmita sulked as Willy pretended to conduct the music from his chair. But then, not ten minutes later, he changed his mind and put Brel back on the turntable.

“Good night,” said Sushmita, almost in tears. She caught my eye while Willy was lost in a rapture over “Le plat pays,” Brel’s paean to his native land. One of his most beautiful songs. She was furious.

Once she’d left the room, Willy began singing in Flemish “Mijn vlakke land.” And then in French—“Le plat pays qui est le mien.” I felt bad for the man. He was so generous and kind to me, and I was playing around behind his back with his lover. I felt guilt and disgust with myself. My behavior turned my own stomach. But that didn’t change a thing. I still wanted Sushmita in my bed.

I picked out a Wodehouse novel to help me sleep. The Mating Season seemed a good choice, but I couldn’t get into the spirit. I didn’t much feel like laughing that night. And I wasn’t going for Mills and Boon.

At midnight, I switched off the light and folded the pillow over my head, covering my eyes and ears. Ten minutes later, no closer to sleep, I sat up in bed and realized I was not alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 12:10 A.M.

She whispered to me from a few feet away. “I’ve been watching you for five minutes. How can you sleep with a pillow on your head?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, ignoring her question. I doubted she truly wanted to know the answer. It was more a way to deflect attention from yourself when you slip into a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night.

She took a step toward me. “I didn’t want to surprise you for fear you’d scream. I was beginning to think you were actually going to sleep through the night with the pillow on your head.”

I repeated my question. What was she doing there?