Just as he is about to regain his composure a door behind the bed opens, and the girl from the mountains, the “actress,” walks out, dressed in short silk boxers and a man’s shirt.
“It’s Puppy!” she exclaims. “He’s come. Oh, how sweet. But what did he do to his face?” She flops down on the bed and Ajay doesn’t know where to put his eyes. “I want coffee,” she says idly.
“Go make coffee,” Sunny orders. “There are beans in the kitchen.”
Ajay is frozen to the spot, overawed by it all.
“Chutiya,” Sunny cries. “What are you waiting for?”
9.
His official workday begins at six a.m. He wakes each day at four, spends a good hour in the shared bathroom scrubbing himself, brushing his teeth, cleaning his nails, oiling and parting his hair, making sure his shoes are shined and his clothes are immaculately ironed and creased.
His job is to manage the mornings. When Sunny wakes, he does not want to see the debris of the previous night. Most nights Sunny has friends over until late. Sometimes when Ajay enters he feels he’s missed them all by seconds. A cigarette still burning in an ashtray, a CD still playing low. He has his routine, collecting the empty bottles first, with great care so as not to make them clink. Then it’s the empty glasses. Then the ashtrays. Then he begins to sweep. He checks empty cigarette packets for forgotten charas at the bottom, puts any he might find, or other drugs, in little baggies, away safely in a drawer. Then he checks the sofas for lost phones or money or credit cards, plumps the pillows, mops the floor.
He prefers it when he’s alone. But two or three mornings a week he walks in to find Sunny with a handful of friends, shutters down, lights on low, a fug of smoke in the air, a movie on the TV, or else a group out by the pool, on the sunbeds listening to music. Then he has to take more care, be more discreet, balance cleaning with the mental hardship it might cause. He knows to listen to people’s needs. He knows those who stay awake at this hour don’t want harsh lights turned on, don’t want to be asked frivolous questions, don’t want to feel bad about themselves. He knows to make himself invisibly available here. Also, to bring out blankets and put them within arm’s reach, to brew a pot of chamomile tea and leave it on the table, to massage Sunny’s feet if need be.
Sunny, he learns, is meticulous about certain things. Hygiene, for example. Also, temperature. The air-conditioning must be running day and night at 17 degrees Celsius.
At seven thirty a.m., on a normal day at least, when the apartment is set to rights, he must deliver warm lemon water with grated turmeric root to Sunny’s bedside and play the Gayatri Mantra at volume setting 14. This is followed twenty minutes later by a pot of filter coffee, a bowl of fruit, orange juice, and fresh croissants sent each morning from the bakery at the Oberoi. Next he draws Sunny a piping hot bath, filling the tub, tossing in scented oils or salts, scattering rose petals on the surface. At eight he fetches all the newspapers and the latest magazines. Around nine thirty, it’s breakfast time. Sometimes toasted ham and cheese sandwiches, sometimes egg bhurji with white toast and ketchup, sometimes aloo parathas, sometimes nothing at all. After breakfast Ajay stands attentive while Sunny decides what he will wear that day, Ajay fetching the options from the walk-in closet, holding them up with accessories, listening to Sunny explain pairing and matching and the finer points of tailoring, which he says he learned about in Italy. Then, while Sunny dresses, Ajay prepares his briefcase for the day, packing his laptop and charger, his papers and documents, his cigarettes—Treasurer London—and his Zippo lighter. When Sunny leaves, Ajay takes inventory and restocks the fridge and the bar, which is depleted nightly. Beer, wine, and champagne are lined up in the vast fridge, vodka and gin enter the freezer, and the cupboards are refilled with whatever whisky, rum, and cognac have been consumed. The bottles are fetched from a giant storeroom in the basement, monitored by cameras and unlocked with a combination on the cage door. It has more varieties of alcohol than Ajay has ever seen, boxes and boxes and crates stacked high. Often Ajay spends time trying to memorize each brand, learning the colors of the bottles and their labels and their names by heart. If Sunny is home in the day, his lunch—dal, roti, chicken or mutton curry, sabzi—is served at one p.m., while Sunny catches up on emails or watches TV. He offers Sunny a cigarette once the meal is ended, lights it, and fetches coffee. Black, two sugars.
Ajay takes a break between two and three, during which he eats his own lunch (leftovers from Sunny’s menu). The afternoon and evening are unstructured. Sometimes he must clean the terrace pool, sometimes he is sent with a driver on errands or else must deliver something to a hotel where Sunny might be that afternoon. Sometimes he must do nothing but wait.
Six p.m.—his shift is ending. Now is the time for aperitivo, for saffron almonds, oven-roasted olives, artichoke hearts, for Negroni Sbagliato (the flavor of the month), the Campari, the Cocchi Storico Vermouth di Torino, and the Bisol Cartizze Prosecco Valdobbiadene laid out ready with the jigger, the rocks glass, the ice bucket and tongs, the orange and lemon, the paring knife, and the fresh cigarettes, unwrapped, packed down, opened, the first two poking out, one slightly higher than the other.
Then he waits.
These are tense moments.
If Sunny’s had a bad day, Ajay will know about it. He’ll come in brooding and sullen, pick fault at all he sees, sit and watch Ajay building the drink and shake his head, make him throw it out and build it again. “You can’t get anything right, can you?” he’ll say. But more often than not, Sunny will arrive satisfied with his life, will sit down and put his feet up and smile, will lean forward and start to make the drink himself, will explain the mechanics of it, give a little history, regale him with a Once upon a Time in Piazza San Carlo, then encourage Ajay to make one himself (to throw away after one sip, just to know the taste).