Hands that smother the bread.
Hands that pause, clench into fists, raise the plate in the air and bring it down.
Shattered plate on the countertop.
Silence.
“Go wait outside,” Eli says to the chefs. “Now.”
“Ajay?”
Eli holds his hand out slow, as if Ajay were a lost animal returned from the wild.
“Remember me? It’s Eli. Your friend.”
He watches Ajay take a long deep breath.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Eli says. “This isn’t the place for you. But I understand. I get it. They did you wrong. Why don’t you and me we take a walk. Go outside. Sit on the roof maybe. So long as you don’t push me off. Are you listening to me?”
“Where is he?” Ajay says.
Eli wags his finger. “That’s not your problem anymore.”
“Where?”
“Ajay, do I need worry about you?”
Ajay turns to look at him, and in turning his eye passes up to the TV screen.
And there he is: Sunny Wadia. Walking down the corridor, gliding into his bedroom. Without warning, Ajay is off, toward the kitchen door, and Eli is surprised to find himself backing away, letting Ajay pass. The chefs outside grow in alarm. “Find Tinu,” Eli says. “Now.”
* * *
—
“You have to tell me,” Eli says, overtaking him, walking backward while Ajay searches single-mindedly for Sunny’s room, “are you doing something crazy? If you do something crazy . . .” He doesn’t finish his words.
Ajay keeps marching.
“Maybe you want to kill him. Really I don’t blame you. I want to kill him myself sometimes.”
Looking left and right.
Turning into the corridor.
Seeing the door.
Eli puts his hand out. “I know what they do to you,” he says. “I know what they do. And is not right.”
Ajay comes to a halt.
Eli stands between him and the door.
He drops the smile from his face.
Adopts a fighting stance.
“Let him in,” Sunny says from the door.
4.
In the guesthouse, Farah wastes no time getting her people settled in.
Strides around barking orders at servants and family alike, commandeering the Wadia staff with such natural authority they fall not only in line but in love.
What this household has missed is a firm female hand.
When she’s satisfied with the order of things, dressed in the Benares silk sari Bunty gifted her, she tosses her empty beer to the maid and sweeps out of the building back to the mansion she as good as owns.
But as she’s about to enter, she’s intercepted by one of Bunty’s bodyguards.
Bunty is waiting for her in his glasshouse. A golf buggy will take her there.
Twisting and turning through the wooded path.
Two more guards stand across the entrance.
Farah strides toward them, head raised.
* * *
—
“Papa!” she says when she sees him inside.
She gives him a great, lingering hug, presses her cheek to his chest, inhales his cologne. When they part he says, “Let’s take a walk.”
They stroll in silence.
“What are you thinking?” Bunty asks.
“How happy I am today.” She glances at him. “Here with you.”
“You don’t need to flatter me.” He smiles. “I know you’re asking: What does this old man want with me?”
She pulls a horrified face. “Papa, you’re not old.”
He frowns slightly. “I feel it today, after all these years.”
“It’s natural on a day like this.”
He nods. “It marks a change.”
They walk on. There’s a cloud over him, she sees.
“What are you thinking, Papa?”
“All this will be his one day.”
“And you worry.”
“About many things.”
“That’s normal.”
“I told you,” he says, “about his incident last year.”
“You did.”
“It left him changed. He’s angry. Never satisfied.”
“What man is?” she says.
He touches her arm. “The man who’s married to you.”
“Don’t tease, Papa.”
“He’s too emotional.” He pauses. “He goes on his mother that way.”
She nods sympathetically. “Fortunately that’s not me. I can’t work miracles, but I promise,” she stands to attention and gives a chirpy salute, “I’ll whip him into shape.”
He laughs. “I’m sure you will.”
“I’ve managed men like Sunny all my life,” she says. “It’s child’s play. I’m good with children. When I’m in charge, they never misbehave.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
They walk on.
“What I’m more concerned about,” she says, “is learning from you. Do you remember what you said to me in Bhutan?”
“I said many things.”
“You said, ‘I don’t expect you to marry the man, or even the family, I expect you to marry the business.’ You were honest from the start and I liked that. I saw it as an opportunity.” She points to a plant. “What’s this?”
“Solandra maxima. The Golden Cup Vine.”
“And that one?”
“Fire lily. Gloriosa.”
“It’s lovely.”
“And poisonous.”
“This is my favorite,” he says, leading her on a spell. “The Shenzhen Nongke orchid.”
“It’s quite plain.”
He smiles. “It’s not in bloom. But it is very expensive. Do you know why?”
“Because it’s rare?”
“Because it’s man-made.”
He slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a jewelry box.
“What’s that, Papa?”
“I have something for you.”
Inside: a huge diamond ring.
“Papa!”
“A gift for a girl without sentiment.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I took care to pick it out. It’s from Sierra Leone.”
She looks at him with a mischievous smile. “Where my family’s dreams went to die.”
“Consider them reborn.” He lifts it from its nest and places it on her index finger. “A perfect fit.”
“Now,” she says, taking out a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Let’s talk business.”
He opens his hands wide. “Proceed.”
“I’m not that pretty,” she says, “and any fool can give birth to a son. You want to expand territory. Am I right?”
He smiles. “You are.”
“This being the case,” she goes on, “a decision has to be made.”
“A decision?” Bunty replies, amused.
“Do you only want to capture the Punjab liquor trade? Or do you want it all?”
5.
They sit facing one another.
Ajay and Sunny Wadia.
On the red plastic chairs at the coffee table.
Sunny in his Ray-Bans. Ajay making no attempt to lower his gaze.
“Drink?” Sunny says. He doesn’t wait for a reply. He pours two tumblers of whisky, large. “For old times’ sake.” Drops ice cubes in each. Slides one across the table, Ajay reaching for his, his jacket sleeve riding up to reveal the base of a tattoo. “What’s that?” Sunny asks.
Ajay pauses, pulls the sleeve higher.
A crude dagger, coiled by a crude snake.
“You did it yourself?” Sunny asks.