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“Back-to-back meetings,” Shah said. Kohut’s expression—they must have been talking. Shah was an element of the firm now.

“When’s the first one?”

“Eight-thirty, and so on into the day,” Shah said.

“Okay.” Dwight thought: At least I’m here.

“Hit ground running, so to say.”

“But I’m free tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night we have fundraiser at the Oberoi, main ballroom. Two of potential clients will be attendees.”

This “we” was new, along with Shah’s brisker manner.

Shah dropped him at his hotel, saying, “See you shortly.”

It was a bad joke, which kept Dwight awake, wide-eyed in the darkness of the Elephanta Suite, his alertness reminding him that it was late afternoon in Boston. He lay sleepless in his bed, dozing, and did not begin to slumber deeply until it was time to wake up.

Being weary and irritable at the meeting had the effect of cowing the manufacturers—the textile man with his order of leisure wear, the plastics man and his patio furniture, the team from nearby Mylapore who made rolls of nylon webbing, and, at the end of the day, the hardest negotiation of all, the techies from Hyderabad whose company made components for cell phones.

Kohut had provided the client list and Shah had lined up the product people. As always there were costs to be assessed, samples to be examined and evaluated, quality-control clauses, shipping costs. The contracts were like architectural plans, each stage of the discussion a new set of elevations, a sheet of specs, going deeper into the descriptions. But Shah had taken care of that, too. Dwight sat while Shah went through the contracts, turning pages slowly, always drawn to a detail, as though to wear the manufacturer down.

“Item four, subsection B, paragraph two, under ‘Definitions,’” Shah said. “We suggest inserting ‘piece goods,’ do we not, Mr. Hund?”

“Gotta have it.”

But, frowning for effect, he was thinking of Indru. He was impatient to see her, and because he had not heard from her, he knew he would have to go looking for her. He couldn’t marry her. He fantasized adopting her. This is my daughter. Could he get away with it? Give her piano lessons, find her a tutor, get her some grooming, teach her French, move to Sudbury and buy her a pony.

After the meeting, alone with Shah in the boardroom, he said, “I’m wiped out. I can’t face this fundraiser.”

“Gala dinner and dance for charity,” Shah said.

“Whatever.”

“It is necessary.”

This finicky urgency, this tenacity, set Shah apart—perhaps set Indians apart. It was another aspect of the obsession with detail. Dwight had arrived at two A.M., he’d hardly slept, the meetings had gone on all day; now it was almost six in the evening and Shah was insisting on this further event.

“Give me a reason.”

Shah said, “Reason is that sociability is highly prized by Mumbai people. You will be noticed. You will get big points for attending. And Oberoi is important venue.”

Dwight was shaking his head.

Shah said, “And major client will be there, software developer Gopinathan. You must meet him in a social setting in the first instance. It is critical. We are seated at his table.”

“What’s the dress code?”

“Suits for gents.”

But half the men at the gala wore black tie. In the hotel lobby a large placard propped on an easel said, Shrinaji Gala Dinner Dance to Aid Women in Crisis. Glamorous couples chatted in the busy ballroom, where tables had been elaborately set, three wine glasses at each place. Dwight noticed that many of the beautiful women were being escorted by their much shorter, much older, much fatter husbands. It was a genial and noisy crowd, people loudly greeting each other, some with namastes, some with kisses.

Wine was being served by waiters in white suits and red turbans. A tray of filled champagne flutes was offered to Shah.

“I do not take,” Shah said.

Another waiter slid a platter of hors d’oeuvres toward Shah.

“I do not take.”

A gong was rung; no one paid any attention. But after it was rung three or four more times, the guests drifted to their assigned tables.

“Mr. Gopinathan, I have the pleasure to introduce you to my colleague …”

Before Shah could mispronounce his name, Dwight said, “Dwight Huntsinger. And I want you to know that although I arrived at two this morning and put in a whole day’s work, I would not have missed this for anything.”

“Good cause,” Mr. Gopinathan said. “Women in crisis. Battered, abused, that sort of thing.”

“And meeting you,” Dwight said. “I am looking forward to learning from you.”

“You are too kind,” Mr. Gopinathan said. “Please be seated.”

Dwight sat next to Mr. Gopinathan’s wife, whose stoutness made her seem friendlier, easier company than the woman on his other side, a golden-skinned beauty in a bottle-green sari. During the meal he concentrated on Mrs. Gopinathan.

“I am cochair of the charity,” she said. “It is a heavy burden.”

“You’re doing good work,” Dwight said. He wondered if his weariness was making him slur his words.

“And it is not just women. It is young girls—schoolgirls abducted and abused. You cannot believe. Treated like property. And the health issues!”

He was glad for the woman’s volubility. After he had listened to two courses of this, he turned to the woman on his right, the beauty, and said, “Tell me your story.”

“Perhaps when we have more time,” she said, and because she had said it coquettishly, Dwight looked past her, expecting to see her husband, but only saw Shah, spooning orange paste from a small bowl.

“It is choley,” Shah said, startled in his eating.

“Have you lodged any bids in the silent auction?” the woman asked.

“No, but I’d like to lodge some,” Dwight said. “Maybe you can advise me.”

Glad for any excuse to leave the table, and wishing to stretch his legs—his fatigue was beginning to tell—he excused himself and went with the woman to the foyer, where auction items were set out on long tables, each item with a numbered pad next to it showing the bidders’ names.

“These are exquisite,” the woman said, lifting up a velvet-covered box on which a pair of hoop earrings lay on a satin cushion.

When a woman said “exquisite” like that, it meant “I want them.”

“I don’t know much about this stuff,” Dwight said, to see her reaction.

“It’s South Indian style,” the woman said. “Perhaps something for your wife.”

She was sharp-faced, her green eyes set off by her honey-colored skin. She wore a necklace like a draping of golden chainmail, and her green sari was edged with gold highlights. She was the loveliest woman Dwight had seen in India.

“If I had a wife,” Dwight said. “Which I don’t.”

“Pity. Any woman would love to have that piece.”

On the pad next to it was its number and a list of names, the last one showing a bid of twenty-two thousand rupees.

“How much is that in real money?”

“In dollars, about”—the woman pursed her lips and swallowed hard, looking more beautiful in this moment of concentration and greed—“six hundred. Even twice that would be a bargain.”

“So I’ll improve on it.” Dwight added five thousand rupees to the bid, and as he was signing his name, a woman passed by, waited for him to finish, and lifted the pad.

“Bidding is closed,” she called to the room.

“You’re in luck,” the lovely woman said. “You’re the last bidder, so you’ll get the earrings.” She smiled at him. “What will you do with them?”