They both looked back at Hari. He was goofing around, telling a story to the gang.
“If he was friends with you he was always cool.”
“Oh, smooth.” She changed the subject. “Anyway, what’s up with your name. Wadia. You’re not Parsi, are you?”
“No.”
“So?”
“There’s a story to that. I’ll tell you sometime.”
“Tell me now.”
“It’s too intimate.” He removed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket—Treasurer London—and offered her one.
“This is an intimate setting.” She took a cigarette. “Looks fancy.” Crunched the one she was smoking underfoot. He lit the new one with his Zippo. She nodded to the lighter. “Can I see?”
It was silver, engraved. She read the writing on the front. “70–71.”
“It’s from Vietnam.”
“Oh, no way! You fought in the war?”
She said it so earnestly, with such a straight face, he almost fell for it.
“Very funny.”
She flipped it over, narrowed her eyes, read the other side. “35 Kills. If You’re Recovering My Body, Fuck You.” She handed it back. “Charming.”
He opened it to show the inner chimney, diagonally cut away. “See this?”
“What am I looking at?”
“It was cut like that to light opium pipes.”
“You’re into opium?”
“No, no. I’m just a student of history.”
“Ah, I see.” She had to hide her amusement. His use of the term was quaint, gauche.
He picked up on it.
“So what are you doing standing out here?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Separating myself from the herd.”
“I get it. You’re a loner, like me.”
She laughed. “Yeah, just like you. You’re the loneliest guy in the room.”
“Where are you from?” he went on.
He had that look a guy gives, a look of pursuit.
“Right here. Delhi. I’ve lived here all my life. I’ll probably die here too. What about you?”
“Me? I’m a citizen of the world.”
“A student of history and a citizen of the world,” she teased. “Next you’ll be telling me you studied at the university of life.”
She detected some kind of hurt in his eyes—she’d slighted him.
She knocked back the vodka to do something with herself.
He was still watching her intently.
She smiled as he refilled her glass.
“You look like you want to kill me.”
He said nothing.
“I did enjoy your speech though,” she went on. “I mean it. It was rousing. Even the cynic in me was roused.”
“What do you do?” he said.
She decided to stop playing. She fixed him with a firm, cool look.
“I’m a journalist. I write for the Post.”
He met her gaze. “I better watch what I say.”
She was aware—intensely aware, intensely aware that the rest of the room was probably aware—that they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“I’m off duty,” she said.
“No one’s ever off duty.”
Before she could reply, one of the girls at the table cried out his name.
Neda nodded at the room. “They’re missing their hero.”
He broke eye contact, turned to go back in. “You can smoke in there too, you know.”
“You go ahead,” she said. “We wouldn’t want to start a rumor.”
* * *
—
More people arrived. A handsome minor film actor always in the gossip pages came with a TV star who played good girls in the soaps. It was a veritable who’s who of bubblegum, not a camera in sight. All of them paying fealty to Sunny, who soaked up their attention and radiated it back out at them. More chairs were found. More vodka brought, some bottles of red wine were opened. More food. She felt she was backstage at a performance of Delhi, watching its players remove the paint, their masks. She was on the inside, the other side. The guy next to her said, “How do you know Sunny? He’s the man of the hour.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jagdish. Full of ideas.” “You or him?” More voices were cutting in. “What this city needs.” Neda smiled. They were all drunk. He curled his Dalí mustache. “A firm hand.” “What?” “What do you do?” “I write.” “I paint on walls.” “What happened to your nose?” “I fell off a wall.” Everything was spinning. Hari was smiling at her with fraternal pride. “Murals of a Future Delhi.” “What?” “That’s what I paint.” “He has a grant from my foundation,” Sunny shouted. He’d been listening in. “I got a grant from Sunny’s foundation,” Jagdish shouted. “?ūnyatā. Do you like the name?” Sunny said. “It means nothing. Literally ‘Nothing.’ Do you understand? Everything is connected.” “That’s what I tell myself,” Jagdish said, “when I spend all his money.” The room was red velvet and fairy lights of psychedelic wire. She watched the talk show on TV with great seriousness, men smoking cigarettes in armchairs, and below it all she saw Sunny raising a glass. “Neda here is going to write about me . . .” A bottle was knocked over. She grabbed another glass of vodka, and the room was falling out of orbit and she was spinning on her axis. She looked up and Sunny was looking at her . . . She saw the red lampshade sideways on the horizon . . .