“He’s twenty-two years older than my mom,” I said, fearing what her response would be.

And, as expected, it was the worst I’d imagined.

She laughed.

That reaction pierced my heart as it had a thousand times when I was a kid. People didn’t do it to be mean. At least not all people. But the smirks, the jokes, and the ribbing all hurt like hell. And I hated myself for feeling ashamed of my father. That fine man didn’t deserve it.

“Danny, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“He’s eighty-eight years old,” I said. “I’m twenty-six. When I was young, my friends razzed me, said he was my grandfather.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. I didn’t realize.”

I tried to brush it off. “It’s all right,” I said.

I’d thought her eyes had kissed me two days before, but there in the German Bakery café, I could have sworn they were hugging me.

We set off back for the bungalow a little past five, in no hurry to join Willy, but with no other choice. North Main Road was bustling at that hour. No rain was expected until later that evening, so shoppers had turned out to run their errands. Offices were starting to fold tents for the day, and those lucky enough to finish early were heading home on their two-wheelers or on foot. I thought how nice it would be to return to Sushmita every evening, even more so in such a pleasant corner of India. I doubted she was thinking the same, but I had the right to my own fantasy. A fantasy that shattered in an instant as I spied a maroon-robed fireng across the road picking out fruit from a slight man selling on the footpath.

Noticing I’d gone white—even whiter than usual—Sushmita asked what was the matter. I took her by the elbow and pulled her along, shading my face as I did.

“What is it, Danny?” she whispered.

“Harlan,” I said, picking up the pace.

“Harlan?”

“Russ Harlan,” I said as we turned into our lane. “The guy we met at Ash Pethe’s dinner party. And at Bombay Gym.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MONDAY, JULY 14, 1975, 5:22 P.M.

“Are you sure? There are so many goralog here. And he was across the road.”

“Positive,” I said.

“Don’t panic. He’s probably just another Western pervert who wants to experience free love.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t think he’s following us.”

“Next time, Danny,” she said, “if you’re fearful of being followed, don’t lead your pursuer to your lair.”

“Sorry?”

“Take a different route. We should have turned into the next lane, or the one after that.”

“We’ve brought you some of that mawa cake you like so much,” said Sushmita.