The wine pops open. The man places the bottle down and begins to remove the cork, and when he’s done he places the cork next to the bottle and holds the corkscrew in his hand as if he just might use it as a gouging device.
“Go on then,” Gautam says, “pour the damn thing.”
The man places the corkscrew on the table, picks up the bottle and glass, and pours. Pours the wine slowly, slowly it fills, keeps filling to the brim.
“Steady on!”
It fills past, spills over, starts splashing onto the hot stone.
“What’s wrong with you?!”
Gautam lurches up from the sun lounger, makes a lunge for the wine.
“For Christ’s sake.”
But the man just keeps pouring. Half the bottle is gone.
“Are you mad?”
“A little.” He has a thick Israeli accent. He extends the glass to Gautam. Gautam reaches out to take it.
* * *
—
The next thing he knows he’s coming up for air.
“What the hell!?” Gautam yelps. “You threw me into the pool!”
He splashes about, grips the side with his aching arms. The Israeli squats, balances his shades on the top of his head. His eyes are hazel, his expression hard. He nods toward a paper bundle wrapped in string.
“This is your clothes. We go inside and you put them on.”
“Or what?”
The Israeli looks at the fort wall.
“We see if you can fly.”
“You and I,” Gautam says, “both know I can’t fly.”
4.
Half an hour later, the Israeli delivers dyspeptic Gautam through the fort grounds, along a path marked private that skirts the hillside, through a wooden gate, down a few steps onto a hidden terrace cantilevered over the plains.
Adiraj’s terrace.
But Adiraj is not here.
It’s an older man, spritely so, quite debonair, wearing an inconspicuously expensive cotton suit, his eyes protected by narrow shades. He sits at a wrought-iron table in the middle of the terrace, examining a sheet of paper. A decanter full of whisky, a water jug, and two tumblers sit in the middle, a manila envelope by his left hand.
Another chair is open, waiting at the side.
The Israeli stops at the bottom of the steps, holds his hand out, indicating Gautam should go on. “Keep walking, Johnnie.”
Gautam, now dressed in his own salmon pink suit, says, “It’s not really up to you, is it.”
He has regained his bluster.
It’s the clothes.
Also the understanding that this is a game.
* * *
—
The debonair man stands on cue, notes the time on his pocket watch, holds a hand to the waiting chair, calls out, “Please.” To the Israeli he says, “Thank you, Eli, that will be all.”
Gautam walks forward, running his hands over his jacket. “You picked one of my best.”
“I assure you,” the debonair man says, “I had nothing to do with that. But your driver was very helpful. He seems to know your taste.” His accent is vaguely public school, clipped, impossible to place. “Please,” he goes on, “have a seat. We’ve much to discuss and time is a factor in all this.”
“How,” Gautam replies, “did you get into my apartment?”
A pleasant smile. “Why, with your keys, Mr. Rathore.”
“Ah, yes. I was wondering where they went. I’d very much like to have them back.”
“All in good time.”
Gautam considers the TB scars pitting the man’s face.
“And you are, exactly?”
“My name is Chandra,” the man says. “That’s all you need to know.”
Gautam splutters with forced jollity. “I need to know a hell of a lot more than that!”
Chandra smiles, takes his own seat. “Would you like some whisky, Mr. Rathore?”
“I would, as a matter of fact,” Gautam says, his voice dripping with disdain. “I was on the verge of enjoying some mediocre wine earlier, but your Neanderthal in the bushes saw fit to throw me in the pool instead. You’re lucky I’m suffering a particularly intense hangover or my ire would be worse.”
Chandra takes the decanter and pours Gautam a large measure, adds the merest splash of water, slides it carefully across.
Gautam takes the glass, brings it to his nose.
A smile.
A frown.
“I know this.”
“I’m sure you do. No doubt you’re a connoisseur.”
Gautam brings the glass to his lips, lets the whisky play on his tongue a moment before swallowing all of it down. “Yes. I’d recognize this anywhere. It’s Japanese.”