The mariachis began to play more loudly. Harnam Singh brought out bottles of whiskey he had hidden in his satchel, smuggled up from Mexicali. More lemonade was mixed, liquor poured surreptitiously into the lemonade glasses. Bellies were full now, guests were satisfied, and whiskey flowed silver-gold. Two Mexican couples got up to dance. A group got up to join them, young and old, children.

Karak pulled Rosa out to the dance floor. The trumpet blared louder. The women smiled, and the men tapped their feet, catcalling, clapping in time, faces glowing with perspiration. For a few moments, Karak felt their resentment disappear. Rosa’s face flushed with pleasure; her eyes grew wide, and she tipped her head back and laughed, leaning into him. He was not an expert dancer, but he could pretend he was. As he danced and held Rosa’s waist and spun his wife under the tent, the calls grew louder. He was conscious of Ram’s even stare, of Jivan’s hesitant smile. He saw Clive observing him intensely, as if to record the moment in his mind. That was odd, he thought. With a flourish the band stopped playing, putting down their instruments to rest for a few moments.

From inside Jivan’s house, Amarjeet brought out Jivan’s phonograph and Ram cranked it. They played five Punjabi love songs that the men knew from village life, and the men sang along, slurring their words. Sikander Khan brought out three more records, and when those were finished too, Harnam Singh brought out his dholki, hung the drum around his neck, and joined with another song on the phonograph, picking up the rhythm, making it loud and vibrant. The Punjabi men danced in a circle, arms raised. “Va!” the cry went out, “Va!” on the beat. The whiskey was the red in their cheeks, the brightness of their eyes.

Karak watched Rosa. He could sense her simultaneous attraction and revulsion to their loudness, their masculinity—he saw her and Esperanza exchange a glance. Perhaps the men alarmed her. Perhaps Esperanza was uncomfortable too.