KARAK WORE HIS BEST SHIRT AND TROUSERS and a clean dastar of royal blue, which he tied with great care. This show of courting a girl and her family was new to him. Different from the marriage that would have been settled for him at home. Different also from visiting his favorite girl at the brothel in Manila. That was long ago, when he was an innocent, only twenty, but he realized now that he had had feelings for her. He had tried to win her favor with gifts and charm, always arriving freshly bathed, and she always let him believe that he had won her heart. He had wanted no more than that, of course. Even now, thirteen years later, he wondered about her. He would never know the truth.

He decided he would ride the mare; that would appear most dashing. Ram approached as he was saddling her.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Karak hesitated, knowing the answer would bring judgment. “To the home of that girl. The one who worked here during the harvest.”

“Rosa.” The heavy way he pronounced the syllables conveyed everything: derision, jealousy, Ram’s feeling toward anyone with whom he did not share a culture. “I wonder what type of bean they will serve you—black or brown.”

The question was meant to be petty, as if they did not have enough money to serve meat.

“I will tell you when I get back,” he said simply, before hurrying away. He would not indulge Ram’s pettiness.

THE BARRIO LAY EAST OF THE RAILROAD TRACKS, a cluster of wooden shacks at the edge of the colored part of town. Chickens and barefoot children ran freely on the dusty paths. Each year the cluster grew larger. Some homes were hovels. Rosa’s family’s was larger than most.

Alejandro answered the door, nodding at Karak, and Esperanza stood behind her husband, holding a baby on her hip. “Mi mujer,” Alejandro said, as if he had forgotten that she had met Karak already, when she invited him. Esperanza seemed unsure of herself but smiled immediately. Would he ever get used to the openness of these western women, who freely met one’s eye? In Punjab it would have been different; he could have been comfortably passive, allowing an intermediary to do the difficult talking. Immediately he wondered if he should have brought Jivan. Why did he not think of it earlier? He hesitated, standing on the threshold. Jivan was sure to be offended.

“Pásale—come in, señor,” Esperanza said, smiling. He sat on the wooden chair that she offered him.

In the room was a dining table, an iron bed, a simple couch, a sewing machine, a child-size mannequin draped with a white dress. A door led to a back room. Next to it, a table held a cluster of saints. It was not a home of wealth, but the curtains were cheerful. The tablecloth was clean. Everywhere were signs of care.