He was like a little boy, full of wonder, wanting to share his wisdom. She found it endearing.
“Will it cure me of my sins?”
“Take a seat,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
* * *
—
He vanished through an arch, and she was alone. She settled herself into the sofa, noticed how cool the air was, how the AC was hidden, as in a luxury hotel. Yes, that’s what it felt like, a mishmash of gallery and hotel. She made an inventory of the magazines and books tastefully laid out on the coffee table: an array of Taschen’s Living In series; back issues of Architectural Digest, Robb Report, National Geographic; The Tale of Genji, Camera Lucida, The Art of War.
She picked up a Taschen, Living in Japan, flicked through it idly.
“Madam?”
The servant, Ajay, stood before her, head bowed. “Drink, madam? Chai, coffee, juice, cold drink?”
Sunny approached. “Something stronger?” He’d changed, thrown on a fresh white shirt, wool pants. “What about a spritz? Ajay makes a great spritz.”
“I . . . don’t know what that is.”
He placed himself back in the Falcon chair.
“Sprezzatura,” he said grandly.
“Yeah, I don’t know what that is either.” She looked to Ajay. “I’ll have a beer.”
“Heineken, Asahi, Peroni . . .” He reeled off the names.
“No, no,” Sunny waved his hand dismissively, “she’ll try a Venetian spritz, with”—he cocked his head in delicate consideration—“Mauro Vergano Americano.”
“Sir.”
“I can’t get drunk,” she said.
“You won’t.” He looked to Ajay. “And I’ll have an Asahi. Very cold.”
She watched Ajay walk away. “He’s a good one.”
Before he could reply, the front door clicked open, and the driver who had been in the market passed through, followed by a procession of servants carrying the boxes from the store.
“And here come the toys.”
Ajay emerged from the kitchen to direct proceedings, chastising the driver in a low, calm voice for some new offense he had committed, before returning to complete the drinks.
“Yeah,” she said, “he’s definitely a keeper.”
“I rescued him,” he said.
She looked puzzled. “From where?”
“The mountains.”
“What, like, from an avalanche?”
“No,” he laughed, “a backpacker café.”
“Ah . . . so he rolls your joints for you?”
“Actually, it was the coffee that hooked me. He makes the most incredible coffee. In the macchinetta. He learned from some Italian guy.”
“I didn’t know coffee was so difficult.”
“You should try it. He has a way, he has a, how do you say, international . . .” He clicked his fingers impatiently.
“Sensibility?”
“Exactly.”
“And at the end of the day, he still rolls your joints for you, right?”
He smiled. “If he did, you wouldn’t know about it.”
“Discretion is very important in your line of work.”
He nodded to himself, as if affirming a first principle. “It’s important that I recruit my own people.”
“I’d say it’s essential.” She thought: Is he toying with me? Does he talk like this with everyone?
“My father is . . . he has his ways.”
“All fathers do,” she replied, encouraging him to go on, but thinking of her own father and his ways or lack of, and how blessed she was.
“He brings people in from the villages,” Sunny went on. “The workers. In from our”—he picked the next word carefully—“territories. They’re very loyal, they have a network of loyalty, but”—he lit a cigarette, offered her one, which she took—“they’re loyal to him, and I prefer—”
“Someone loyal to you.”
“This is my sanctuary. I refuse to live a double life in here.”
She nodded. “There’s enough of a double life to live outside.” She lived a double life all the time. Even in her own heart. Almost everyone did. It was just how things were. Someone was always watching, keeping a record of things to be used against you later. Who wouldn’t want to be free in their own home? “India . . .” She sighed. “Land of traitors and double agents.”
“Tell me something,” he said, “be honest.”