“Where did you go to school, Sush?” I asked.

“What?”

“I’m impressed by your vocabulary. Your wit. Everything.”

“Because I’m Indian? You don’t think I might be a clever girl without some fancy schooling?”

“No, not at all. I meant—”

“Sorry, Danny,” she said. She couldn’t very well reach out and caress my cheek or hold my hand, what with the two business associates able to see everything we did. But I sensed she wanted to. “You Westerners have assumptions about us, the same way we do about you. But I want you to know I’m a product of my heritage, my experience, and my choices. I’m neither a credit to my people nor a brown little sister for you to civilize. Even if it’s with the best intentions.”

I gulped. “Got it.”

“Cambridge.”

“Sorry?”

“I studied at Cambridge, you ass. And St. Mary’s, here in Poona, before that. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Where did you get to be so smart? How did a Jewish boy manage to be accepted in American society?”

“How do you know I’m Jewish?”

“I had a friend in London named Jacobs. She was Jewish.”

“It’s not as bad as all that back home. Sure, there are bigots, but I—”

“Oh, Danny, please stop. If you’ve skated through life without people calling you the foulest names, I’m glad for you. But that hasn’t been my experience.”

“I love you, Sush.”

“You can say that, Danny. But I don’t want to hear it if it’s a concession. Or a mercy, or a step down.”

“It’s not. I can’t think of anything, anyone but you. I want to take you away from all this.”

“All this?” she asked. “This is mine. This is my life.”

“But why, then? Why Willy? Why does he live in your penthouse in Cuffe Parade and in this gorgeous bungalow here in Poona?”

“Don’t ask me that. Not now.”

I nodded. This wasn’t the moment. “Yale,” I said.

“Kya?”

“I studied at Yale, you ass.”

She laughed. A truly happy laugh. Then she kissed me, but only with her eyes. “Mazha Danny,” she said.

“Wh—?”

SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 8:16 P.M.

The cocktail hour was tense. Willy had invited Chhotu to stay for dinner and the night without having consulted Sushmita. She was stewing and, though she couldn’t exactly broadcast it, I was her ally and the only one who made the evening bearable.

Twice, when Willy and Chhotu were serving themselves drinks, backs turned to us, Sushmita grabbed my hand and threw me a smoldering look of desire. I knew Chhotu was sleeping in Willy’s study, well clear of the other bedrooms, so I had reason to think she might visit me again after midnight.