It was something in between the NASA mission control center and a medieval torture chamber. All the walls were bare. Some were painted black, and some were painted bright white. The floors were deep black marble without a hint of veining. Directly to the right was a cube-shaped area consisting of a black desk with a black leather chair and a black set of filing cabinets. Across from the desk were black shelves that held a microwave and a coffeepot. Next to the shelves was a black refrigerator, and next to the refrigerator was a partially opened door that looked like it led to a bathroom.

I stepped forward and saw straight ahead a bank of monitors—about a dozen stacked screens along with a control panel with dials and buttons and several keyboards. There were gadgets and gizmos that looked very important, but I had no idea what they were. Behind the controls was a captain’s chair—in black leather, of course—on a raised platform. This was no doubt where he ran the entire system, whatever it was.

Next to mission control was a nine- or ten-foot extra-wide black leather couch. I don’t know why he bothered with the couch in a place where no one ever came up. It certainly didn’t make the place look homey.

I glanced to my left and saw that the floor had been covered with black mats. There were weight racks, each one holding numerous barbells on either side stacked like a wedding cake. There were also racks with multiple dumbbells. On the floor were kettlebells of different sizes. Hanging from a long black pole that stretched across the weights were straps and chains and other accoutrements that I couldn’t name. There was also a stationary bike, a treadmill, and an elliptical machine.

Like Chris, everything was meticulously organized.

I said, “Your torture chamber?”

“Except the only one I’m torturing is myself.”

“What are all the straps for?”

“Weight belts.”

“The chains?”

“Strength exercises.”

“If you say so.” I shook my head. “You’ve heard of Fifty Shades of Grey. This is One Shade of Black.”

“I like to keep things simple.”

The surroundings were so dreary, especially after the vibrancy of India. “You’re an artist, Chris. Where is the color?”

He lifted up a pants leg and showed me a royal-purple lizard-skin boot. That’s right. He loved boots, especially those with heels that gave him even more height. All coming back to me.

He said, “You know that I work primarily in pencil, charcoals, and pen and ink.”

He was correct. “I suppose you don’t have much need for a woman’s touch.”

“No women in my life.”

“What about your secretary? What’s her name?”