It must have been almost two months after the meeting with Bhagmati that Fraulein Weskermann was dining with me in my apartment. A certain strangeness, loud conversation and forced laughter indicated that she had made up her mind to say ‘Yah.’ Half-way through the meal we had emptied her bottle of Moselle. She agreed to try a ‘tear-drop’ of cognac with her coffee. As soon as my cook-bearer left we went to the sofa and proceeded to fondle each other. I whispered into her ear, ‘Shall we?’ She murmured, 1f you wish. Let me prepare myself.’ She picked up her handbag and hurried into the bathroom. I repaired to the bedroom and switched on the air-conditioner. Irma Weskermann emerged draped in my dressing-gown. She looked coy. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she pleaded. ‘Switch off the light, please!’ I laughed and put my arms round her waist—’We have a saying in Hindustani, “If you are pregnant you have to show your belly to the midwife.” If you are going to make love you have to bare your body,’—disrobed her and led her to my bed.

Fraulein Weskermann lay on her back and parted her thighs. I entered her without much emotion. She was not a virgin; she was damp but not very excited. All she did was to let out a moan—aah—and shut her eyes. Welay interlocked without a word or movement. Neither of us seemed to be getting very much out of it. But neither seemed to have, the courage to call it off. How different it had been with Bhagmati!

Through the hum of the air-conditioner I heard the doorbell. I looked up. It rang again. ‘Somebody at the door?’ asked the Fraulein a little alarmed. ‘Sounds like it,’I replied. To reassure her I added, ‘Who cares!’

She pushed me off. ‘Might be a telegram or something important like zat.’

I got up,’ slipped on my dressing-gown and tiptoed to the door. I peeped through the Judas hole. It was Bhagmati.

The ringing became more insistent. I tiptoed back. Fraulein Weskermann was sitting up in bed. ‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

‘A woman,’ I replied foolishly. ‘I owe her some money.’

‘What a time to visit a man!’ she said very acidly.

‘It is nothing like that,’ I protested. ‘She is a sick woman I picked up on the road one morning . . . . ’

The bell continued ringing.

‘I haf been a big fool,’ she said standing up. She picked up her clothes and went into the bathroom. She came out fully dressed. ‘Nice to have known you, Mr Singh. Good-bye and haf a naice time.’ She opened the door and looked the dazed Bhagmati up and down. ‘Excuse me, Madam!’ she exclaimed and marched out to her Volkswagen.

I slumped on my sofa and covered my face with my hands. I heard the door close and then Bhagmati’s voice pleading, ‘If your slave has been guilty of indiscretion she begs a thousand pardons.’