“It’s a private matter.”
She hesitated. She should hang up now.
“And where does he want to meet?”
“He’d like to see you in his office.”
“Which office?”
He gave the address of a place out of Delhi, across the Yamuna into Western UP, out on the Greater Noida Expressway. The desolate farmland regions being developed by Ram Singh.
“What office is this?” she asked.
“The headquarters of our property division.”
“Your property division?”
“Indeed. Wadia InfraTech.”
“And that’s where he’s working?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why can’t he call me himself?”
“I make his appointments.”
“And he wants to meet me when?”
“Today.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Indeed. It’s his only free time.”
“It’s a little far out for me, this office.”
“It’s perfectly easy to find. There are signs along the way. Shall I confirm, let’s say four p.m.?”
She checked the clock on the wall. It was 2:30. It would take an hour or more to drive out there with the bad roads. It was the kind of place she didn’t want to be driving alone around after dark.
“I’d really like to hear from him myself.”
She could hear the fear and sadness in her own voice, and it made her flinch.
“My dear,” the man laughed, “he’s a very busy man and he has only a small window. If you can’t make it, I’ll just cancel, and that will be the end of things.”
“No,” she replied. “I’m coming.”
“Excellent. Give your name at reception when you arrive.”
She hung up and cursed herself and then him.
* * *
—
She knew it was a bad idea. “This is a bad fucking idea,” she told herself, crossing the Yamuna into East Delhi, lighting a cigarette. Over the river she turned south into Noida. The new city was still sprouting—there were tower blocks and apartment buildings interspersed with vacant plots of land and fields. By the time she got onto the highway it was already 3:15. Already the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. As she drove along the highway, the smooth construction of road began to fall away, and on either side the land turned into derelict waste, bulldozed mounds with diggers and workers, then there were long stretches of nothing, fields and farmers carrying loads on bullock carts. She’d been out here a few times, but not recently, and never on her own. As she continued south along the highway, she hit stretches where the tarmac was replaced with potholed sections through which she had to pick her way at a crawl. At some of these spots, men stood on the roadside or sat at stalls with umbrellas protecting them from the sun, holding out brochures for property developments. Their eyes fixed on her, alone in the car. What the hell was she doing here?
* * *
—
Finally, about thirty kilometers down, on the side of the expressway, a dreadful black cube looming in the middle of nothing, was the Wadia InfraTech HQ. She pulled inside the complex, past a guard who waved her into the parking lot. The difference from the outside was stark—the lot was perfectly paved in dark asphalt, with parking spaces demarcated by bright yellow lines. There were a handful of cars, mostly shiny SUVs. She locked hers and headed toward the main entrance. The building was imposing in an anonymous way. Aside from the glass doors of the main entrance, inside which she could see a lobby green with tropical plants, all the windows were tinted, impossible to see through.
* * *
—
The receptionist was a young man with baggy eyes, a high forehead, and gelled hair. He looked at her without smiling.
“I’m here to see Sunny Wadia,” she said.
“Ma’am, do you have an appointment?”
“I’m expected,” she said.
“You can’t see him without an appointment.”
“I have an appointment. I spoke with someone on the phone.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“Mr. Sengupta. He told me Sunny wanted to see me today,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.
“I don’t know Mr. Sengupta.”
Just then the reception phone began to ring. The man picked it up and listened. He looked her over. “Miss Kapur?”
“Yes.”
He put the phone down and held out a hand. “Please, take a seat. Mr. Wadia will be with you when he’s free.”