“No one’s seen him, no one’s heard from him.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“He’ll be somewhere. Singapore. London. He was always shady. Should have known from the start he’d cut us loose.”
“This is why you’re going to Bombay?”
“Yeah. Fuck Delhi. It’s too heavy these days.”
* * *
—
Fuck Delhi. She drove back to his mansion that evening, parked her car a little way from the gates. Hesitated lighting the first cigarette. Wound the window down and killed the engine, put the seat back like a common driver waiting for a master and fixed her gaze on the comings and goings of the many dozens of staff, in and out. Where had Sunny gone?
* * *
—
Then he began to appear in public life again, but never in the flesh. He was an image, a projection. She saw his photos in the newspapers, his hair cut shorter, more precise, bringing out the sternness of his face, his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His eyes were blanks to her. She’d open the newspaper and there he was in the society pages, at some glitzy event, some grand wedding in Rajasthan, the opening of a new hotel, a Polo Club event, a charity gala, glad-handing everyone. A forced smile. Gone was the Neapolitan debonaire youth. He had been cinched and armored by Savile Row suits.
* * *
—
She was out again at night in her car, out in front of his mansion smoking. She was wearing down her third cigarette. What was she waiting for? He’d never step out. She’d only see cars. All their windows were blacked out. She could pick one, follow it, hope that it’d be him. It would give her something to do. One time she might get lucky. Then what?
She was angry with herself. But she couldn’t let it go. Now that it was confirmed he was safe, she wanted to confront him for vanishing like that. For being a coward. At the same time, she couldn’t forget that image—his father with his foot in his chest. What kind of father did that to his son?
* * *
—
She finished her fifth cigarette. She’d been there an hour. She’d broken her three-cigarette rule. It was stupid. She was wasting her time. She flicked it out the window. She almost hit a man passing by. He glared at her for a second before walking on. Her blood went cold. She recognized him instantly. It was the froggish goon from the resettlement colony, the Caravaggio boy. He was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. His boyish body seemed grotesquely muscled. He walked on ten or twelve paces, then stopped again, turned around slowly, and stood dead still, staring into the front windshield of her car. It was dark. He couldn’t see inside. But he was just staring at her. What was he doing? Memorizing her plates? Trying to place her?
She dare not move. Dare not drive away. She moved her hand to the ignition just in case. She thought she could detect a smile on his face as he lit a cigarette and walked. All the way to the Wadia mansion. The guards opened the gate without question, and he stepped inside. She stared at the gate.
The fact of it sank in. She was still piecing together the connections—the goon, the resettlement plots, the Wadias—when Caravaggio emerged again, this time with three others. They walked straight toward her car. She panicked, turned the ignition on, and drove off fast, leaving them stranded in the road. She pulled a left and accelerated, turned left and right and left again through the colony maze, sped for several minutes before she pulled down a service lane. Even then she checked the mirror, kept the engine running. Her heart was pounding. She lit a cigarette. That was definitely him. This was proof. But proof of what?
2.
That Sunday she received a call on her mobile. A gentleman with a clipped, privately educated accent.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Who is this?” she replied.
“Am I speaking to Ms. Neda Kapur?”
“Yes,” she said. She sat on her bed, watching the street.
“Very good.” His voice was delicate. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wadia.”
She half expected something like this, but still she was caught unawares.
“Mr. Wadia?”
“Sunny,” the voice clarified. “He’d like to see you.”
She checked the street doubly hard, answered cautiously, tried not to betray herself. “He wants to see me?”
“That’s correct.”
“Who are you?”
“An employee.”
“Could I get your name?”
“Mr. Sengupta.”
“OK, Mr. Sengupta, can you give me any idea of what he wants?”