Dwight was complimented on his choice of diet, which was seen as a way of life, not as an affectation; it was a humble and healthy way of experiencing India. Almost without realizing it he’d become dependent on the food.
“No coffee for me,” he said at the end of the meal.
“Nor me,” Shah said. He frowned, as though preparing to deliver unwelcome news. “Doxins.”
Dwight nodded in agreement, feeling at ease and slightly superior to the meat-eating Indians. He looked around the overdecorated restaurant. It was elegant, but a gamy aroma of roasted meat hung in the air, along with the incense and the mildewed air conditioning. He looked closely at the other tables and noted with satisfaction that he was the only non-Indian in the place.
He tried to imagine what Maureen would say had she seen him looking so at home in the Imperial. “I’m going to India” didn’t sound suicidal anymore; it meant “I don’t need you.” Had Sheely or Kohut been in the restaurant with him they’d be wigging out—frightened, rigid with culture shock, dying to go back to the hotel, or on their cell phones reconfirming their flights home so as not to have to stay a moment longer. Beyond the dumb arrogance of mere bigotry, they would be terrified and angry, hating the place and the people. Dwight knew: he had once felt that way himself, like India’s victim.
That memory shamed him. How could a prosperous American lawyer with a first-class plane ticket feel that way, surrounded by the poorest people in the world?
Yet his partners would never have done what he was doing—sitting among Indian businessmen, scooping dhal with the torn-off ear of a flaky poori, spooning yogurt, nibbling the slippery bindi. He did not know anyone in the office who would have sat so comfortably here. He was pleased with himself; he’d proven to be strong. India no longer scared him—rather the opposite: it aroused him, made him feel engaged with the world, most of all made him feel powerful.
In that confident mood after the dinner at the Imperial he shook hands with the businessmen. He could look them in the eye and tell them that he was enjoying himself in India and mean it.
“You are welcome, sir,” one of them said.
“I’m learning so much,” Dwight said. “And I feel I have a lot to offer, too.”
After the men thanked him and left, Shah said, “Shall we walk?”
“I was going to get a taxi.”
“Taj Hotel is just that side.”
But Dwight had not planned to go to his hotel. He was headed to Chowpatty, to see Indru as usual. All through dinner he had imagined her waiting for him, lying in the charpoy, watching the little TV set he’d bought for her, Padmini squatting nearby, their faces bluish in the light from the screen.
“Good idea,” Dwight said. “Let’s walk.”
The walk was a delay, but he felt close to Shah—the man was his guide, his partner, his benefactor, his friend. Yet he could not imagine disclosing to Shah the facts of the other life he was leading. No one must know what he seldom thought of himself: it was better that his secret remain almost a secret to himself, at least something unpacked and unexamined.
How did you go about examining it, anyway? Words weren’t enough. That had been the trouble with his brief marriage, with life in generaclass="underline" no matter how much you told you were only hinting at the truth. There was always too much to tell in the allotted time. He thought he’d known Maureen before they were married. What a doll, he’d thought. She’d been like a party guest who’d shown up in his life, anxious to please, eager to be a friend, grateful to find a kindred spirit, someone to talk to, and so she’d been quick to agree, appreciative of his attention, polite, undemanding, good company. Dwight had been relieved, thinking, We’ve got so much in common.
Eight months of courtship convinced him they were a perfect match. He was unhesitating in proposing to her. Then came the planning for the wedding, and a different Maureen appeared, a fretful and uncertain woman, prone to fits of anger, moody, argumentative. Or was it him? Perhaps it wasn’t the details of the arrangements but the fact of the wedding looming in the months ahead.
“I don’t suppose your parents could get involved?” he asked.
“We’re too old for that!”
He was forty, she was thirty-eight; they felt conspicuous in their ages. Dwight said, “It’ll be fine.”
“No, no! You always say that!”
He thought “You always” was a dangerous way to start a sentence.
“The lettering is all wrong. It has to be raised. The ribbon is a cheesy look. Don’t you see?”
Early days—they were discussing the invitation. She had revealed herself to be a perfectionist. But perfection is unattainable; the trait makes you unhappy. Never mind the invitation. He worried about his own imperfections.
“We have to get it right” was her cry. “It’ll do” was his. Dwight was satisfied with the passable, which infuriated her. The church service, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the flowers, the reception, the music, the guest list—it all became so contentious that by the time it was over and they were married, and they knew each other’s personalities so much better, they were convinced they’d made a mistake.
No, that wasn’t true. He could not say at what point the marriage had begun to fail. It was only his cynical liking for ironic symmetry that made him think that it had started to falter as soon as they said “I do.” But whatever he might say about it was no more than a fragment. There was too much to tell; you didn’t know someone until you were living under the same roof, sharing space in the same room, in the same bed, naked, for a long time. Then you knew, not from anything that was said, but by the way someone smelled and breathed and murmured, by rubbing against the other person, and being rubbed.
That was how he had gotten to know Indru, and that first girl Sumitra, and now Padmini. He had not possessed them, he had helped them through a crisis—and a crisis was a daily event in India. Explain this to Shah? Impossible.
They were still walking. Shah had never suggested a walk before, never offered his companionship that way. And what made it odder was that they were in a district of new nightclubs and bars. They were passing the awnings, the lurid lights at the windows, the music blaring through the curtains at the door. They glimpsed people dancing, smelled incense, saw the grubby red carpet at each entrance, unrolled as a welcome. Out front, the bold young men who worked at these places, seeing two men in business suits, stepped forward.
“Mister—very nice club. Good premises.” And lunging at Dwight because he was still walking: “Sir, nice girls. As you wish. Pop music. Drinks. Eatables.”
Though Dwight had slightly slackened his gait, Shah kept walking at the same speed.
“For some people, that is reality,” Shah said.
Another awning, more young men, a pretty girl in a red sari standing just inside the door. Club Durga. An image of the blackish-faced goddess with her necklace of skulls he’d remembered from Sumitra’s room, as Sumitra danced beneath it.
“Kali,” Shah said. “Durga, the inaccessible.”
Dwight said, “I just remembered that I got an e-mail today from my firm. They’re talking about my flying back to chair a seminar on doing business in India.”
“How did you respond?”
“I said, ‘If I come to the meeting, I’ll have to stop doing business in India. I’ll lose some deals.’”
“I can keep the parties cooling their heels,” Shah said. And then, “This was never here before.”
He meant the lane off the main road, which was brightly lit, thick with clubs, loud music, taxis dropping off well-dressed men. Dwight knew: bar girls, rotten whiskey, pimps. He passed this way often; it was one of his shortcuts.