They were surrounded by scraps of cloth, reams of material, spools of thread, the extra sewing machine. Mrs. Belvidere had been a child in Georgia during the Civil War. She did not discard things. They felt protected by her collections, by the trust that the imposing woman had placed in Adela.

They lay among the unmade clothes and the striped sunlight that shone through the blinds. The fabric was witness to their communion, a life outside society. It was witness to everything. His blood would quicken at the thought of that room; it would race if he walked past the street with Karak on a weekday errand.

Did Adela think of it in the same way? He did not know. She had purchased a sheath so that a baby would not come; he imagined that was her concession to his life in India. She neatly folded the blanket when they left. She locked the door so they would not be discovered and showed him the hidden exit from the back. How was it that she was not ashamed? It was the looser morals of western women, he concluded. In America, so much freedom and power was given to them.

He had always thought himself an honorable man. He had spent years condemning Karak’s visits to the brothels, how free he was with women. The simplicity of his condemnation had been a luxury. He had never before felt temptation. Now pieces of himself were scattered everywhere, and he could not gather himself up and make himself whole.

The first time he realized that Karak knew, they were climbing back into the car to go home from the park. A moment before Jivan joined them, Karak looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You have a new interest, is it?” Ram looked away, he could only look away, but Karak slapped Ram’s knee affectionately, forgiving the transgression and dismissing it all at once, as if Ram’s infidelity were nothing. Ram was filled with a hot shame, a knife in his gut as he thought of Padma, but he could not help going back to the Mexican—that was how he thought of her in those moments. The Mexican. He felt shame for that too.

He sensed Jivan growing more and more distant with him, but he was not certain. Did the man know about him? Was he disgusted? He had spoken with Jivan so often about Padma, about his son. Ram began to avoid Jivan, never spending any time alone with him. One day Jivan asked Ram to drive him into town. As they passed the barrio, Jivan said, “You know that area well, don’t you?” Ram’s muscles tensed.

Ram said only “Bhai-ji,” and his heart hammered against his ribcage. Of course he did not know the barrio well; he did not go there openly, the Mexican men and Adela’s family would never tolerate it. But he knew what Jivan meant. He did not wish to lie, to him of all people.