“Sir, it’s past noon.”
“Are you saying if it were morning I would be indulged?”
“Sir . . .”
“Is Adiraj there?”
“Adiraj Sir?”
“Yes! Adiraj. The gentleman who pilots this static ship. Put him on the phone.”
“Sir, Adiraj Sir is indisposed.”
“Indisposed? Dispose of him then, put him on, or at the least have the decency to call him before I come down there myself! Let’s get to the bottom of this!”
* * *
—
Does he really want that?
What will he find down there?
More dirt.
Always more.
He hangs up, shoves himself off the bed, hobbles to the front window, peers out the shutters with a paranoid eye.
“What the hell am I doing here? And what in God’s name happened last night?”
He sees the terrace, empty.
Swings the door open, steps out.
It’s well past noon. Two, maybe three p.m.
The desert dissolves into a wide blank horizon.
A few tentative steps.
Warm stone underfoot.
He shuffles to the edge, past his private pool, clambers onto the thick wall.
Hands on hips.
He’s high on the far edge of the fort, looking down the sheer face of rock. The wind caressing his gown. Queasy.
His tour guide voice: The Jasmine Villa is typically employed for the discretion of nobility. And the nobility of discretion.
Looking back toward the main fort, so far away.
A deep sense of unease.
There’s no one abroad. Not a soul in the mild winter light.
All gone out for an elephant ride, no doubt.
Bob and Peggy from Kansas City.
Getting the Full Indian.
What price a sniper rifle now!
He mimics the shot.
And there’s that flash again.
Not a muzzle, a girl, and her eyes.
Her hand.
Her mouth.
Christ, I need a drink.
Something to steady the ship.
* * *
—
“I really must insist,” he says into the phone.
“Sir?”
“On something to drink. And if nothing is forthcoming, I will come down there myself. I’m certain I will make a scene. Would you like that? I don’t think you would. For a start, I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.”
“Sir, one second please . . .”
A glacial half minute.
“Hello! Gautam, dear.”
A familiar voice.
“Adiraj!” Gautam winces. “I seem to have woken up in your hotel by mistake.”
“Well now . . .”
“I know I’m technically barred, but really it’s not my fault.”
Adiraj says, “Speak no more.”
Gautam cocks his head, narrows his eyes. “Hold my peace?”
“Yes, dear. Water under the bridge.”
Something’s not right.
Adiraj has never been so accommodating in his life.
“You wouldn’t,” Gautam ventures, “happen to know how I came to be . . . ummm . . . in your abode?”
“By taxi of course, last night, yes, late last night, around midnight in fact. Definitely midnight.”
“Midnight?”
“Why, yes.”
“In a taxi, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Were you forewarned?”
“Well now. It was quite a surprise. Your spirits were high!”
“And you just . . . let me in?”
“Bygones, dear, bygones.”
Gautam scrunches his eyes.
“Was I . . . alone?”
“Oh yes, very much so.”
He’s lying.
“You’re saying I took a taxi from Delhi . . .”
“Quite alone.”
“. . . with the sole intention of coming to your hotel.”
“Quite, quite alone.”
“Alone.”
He’s lying.
“Absolutely.”
“Well, why the hell would I do that?”
“It’s not for me to say.” A sudden flatline in his tone. “I cannot see inside your soul.”
Gautam rubs his head, at a loss.
“I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.”
“Who am I to judge?”
“And my own clothes have been taken away. As has my wallet and my keys and I have no idea where I left my car. I have to say I find it all very strange and your answers are not apothecary at all!”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, please.”
An imperceptible sigh.
“I’ll send something right away.”
* * *
—