Willy was reading the newspaper, sitting on the veranda outside his study. He smiled at us. She kissed him on the head and presented the small package, wrapped in paper and tied with string.

“You went to the German Bakery?” he asked. “How lovely. But I’ve had my tea, so I’ll enjoy this after dinner, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” she said. “There’s only enough for one. It’s yours, darling.”

That word stung, even if I believed she didn’t mean it. Surely this was only for show. He rose from his chair and patted me on the shoulder. Then he thanked me for taking such good care of Mita while he was occupied with work. I almost wished he’d slapped my face instead.

TUESDAY, JULY 15, 1975, 12:01 A.M.

When Sushmita came to me that night, it was only to tell me she couldn’t stay. Too risky, she said. And we only had a day and a half to find a response for Chhotu. Though disappointed at being deprived of her warm body, I was relieved that my guilt in regard to Willy would be a touch lighter come morning. The man was moving heaven and earth to sort out my difficulties. He’d never done me any wrong, yet I’d cuckolded him on several occasions—with great zeal—and would still gladly steal his lover away if given half a chance.

“You’re not dumping me, are you?” I asked to joke.

I thought I’d cut her to the bone. Her eyes gleamed up at mine in the low light, as if she was about to cry.

“Darling, no,” she said, stroking my cheek yet again. “Danny, I—Never mind. Sleep well. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

When you can’t sleep, all kinds of crazy ideas invade your head. In my case, I found myself doubting not Sushmita’s integrity, but Willy’s. What was his business with a guy like Chhotu? And what about his secretive dealings with the police? I couldn’t reconcile those doubts with the gratitude I felt toward him for his help.

It was nearing one, and the house was quiet. I wanted a drink. Figuring no one would hear me if I were careful, I sneaked out of my room and found the bar in the drawing room with little trouble. Having poured myself a short one—no ice or soda, as I didn’t want to rouse anyone with the noise—I took a seat on the divan and listened to the sounds of the night. My thoughts returned to Willy’s business. What did import-export mean anyway?

I slipped off the divan and made my way quietly to the study door. I tried the handle. Locked. Who the hell locked his study in his own home?

TUESDAY, JULY 15, 1975, 10:41 A.M.

“I’m going for a walk,” I announced as Govind cleared the breakfast dishes.