In the recessed space below the TV there was a liquor collection. Black Label, Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Patrón, Hendrick’s. Inside the fridge there were a few bottles of Asahi, a few bottles of Schweppes Tonic Water, a few of soda, a few more of his precious Belgian mineral water, a bottle of Cocchi Americano, two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. She took a tumbler from the row of glasses and poured a large measure of the Woodford. Sniffed it as she carried it through to the bedroom. Just a quick look.
The bed was perfectly made, no sign of life, no sign of hurry. She opened the wardrobe. Eight white shirts, three blue, several others of various colors. Eight suit jackets, five pairs of trousers, several jeans. She ran her hand across the tailoring, the expensive material. She leaned in and inhaled his scent. She was strangely moved by their hanging helplessness, their passivity. The absence of his body in them. She shut the wardrobe door. Carried her whisky into the bathroom, examined his cologne: Davidoff Cool Water. She sprayed it on her wrist. Ah, yes, that was him.
Back outside in the main room, she waited. She found a pack of cigarettes in one of his drawers, lit one, dragged a chair across to the window, and pulled back the curtain. It was six thirty now. The traffic was crawling bumper to bumper, the headlights of cars on the roads in the distance twinkled at regular intervals. Delhi always looked its best from a distance. Never more beautiful than this, or from the air, flying in at night, tracing the concealed city of the ridge, the prehistoric backbone where no lights glowed, the regular streets of the Secretariat, the hive of South Delhi. From a distance, or very close up, standing at a chai stall surrounded by noise. No middle ground. What ground was this? She sipped her whisky and closed her eyes. What ground was this? His scent in the back of her throat. The AC hadn’t come on, only a few sidelights were shining in the room. It was almost dark in there. She hadn’t inserted the key card in its slot. She should get up and do that. But no, no. Better just to sit here in the dim light, waiting. The whisky slipped down. Why was she here? What did he expect of her?
* * *
—
She saw a shadow underneath the door and heard a key card sliding into the lock. The door opened, the key card was pushed into the holder inside, and all the lights turned on, the AC lurched into life, the twilight of the room was banished. Sunny stormed in and her reverie was broken, he was agitated, he glanced at her as if he were surprised, as if he’d forgotten she had been sent here. He said nothing, fixed himself a large Black Label, swallowed it in one mouthful, fixed another. A dark, tight energy radiated from him. She didn’t move.
He took off his suit jacket and threw it on the floor, took his drink into the bedroom without a word.
She heard him sitting on the bed.
She counted to twenty.
Nothing.
She counted another ten, then walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” he said.
She froze.
“Home.”
“Come here.”
There was a cruelty in his voice.
“No.”
She heard him sigh. “Please.” And this time his words were drenched in loneliness.
She walked toward the bedroom door, stood on the threshold looking in.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, crumpled, his clenched fists on his knees.
He was trying to control himself.
“What happened?” she said.
He seemed unable to speak.
“Sunny.”
He looked up.
“What happened?”
“I can’t stand him.”
“Who? Dinesh?”
He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt.
“He thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.”
“I got that impression,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.
He rubbed his head with his hands. “Dumb fuck . . .”
“It’s OK.”
“No, it’s not.”
He reset himself, spoke softly, calmly. “What are you doing here?”
“You sent for me.”
“No, I mean here with him.”
“He held a press conference. It’s my job.”
His phone beeped. He checked it and put it down, got up and walked past her out into the main room. “I need a drink.” She watched him at the cabinet. “You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
“I have no pressing engagements, no.”
He poured two large measures of Woodford. He walked toward her, passed one over. “I need to unwind.”
She looked around. “I like your office. Your hideaway.”
He sipped the whisky. “I have a few.”