Things had been reset.
She took a plastic lighter from the tray and lit her cigarette. “Oh, shit,” she cried, slapping her head. “I needed to give your lighter back. It’s in my drawer at work.”
“It’s OK,” he replied smoothly. “I gave it to you as a gift.”
She thought this over.
Took a short breath as if to speak, tilted her head, stopped herself.
But he caught it.
“What?”
“Just checking,” she started. “But you’re dating Kriti, right?”
He lit a cigarette for himself. “Where did you hear that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Hari.”
“Maybe.”
Sunny smiled. “He’s just jealous.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked dumbly. “Is he into her?”
“Idiot. He’s into you.”
“Yeah, yeah . . . I don’t buy it.”
Ahead of them, Sunny’s driver accelerated through an amber light. The light turned red, and Neda slowed to a stop while the Land Cruiser vanished into the traffic ahead.
“Asshole,” Sunny muttered. “He should have waited.”
He took his phone out.
“Chill,” she reached over and pushed his phone back down. “You know the way home.”
They were silent until the light turned green. The swarm of traffic and horns roared around them as her car groaned forward. But she was a master of the road, she cut in and out of spaces, all the while keeping the cigarette burning between her lips.
Its smoke was getting into her eyes.
“May I?” he reached out to take it from her mouth, ashed it out his window, stuck it carefully back in. “Take a right ahead,” he said. “To Safdarjung Enclave.”
She smiled but didn’t say anything. This was a moment.
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later, guiding her through the streets, he pointed to a huge gate guarding a monolithic block, five stories high.
She pulled the car to the gate. Two uniformed security men bearing automatic pistols approached, one with his palm raised for her to stop, peering inside suspiciously until they saw Sunny and snapped to attention. An order was barked, the gate was opened. On the other side, two more guards saluted as the car passed inside.
“What did you people do?” she said. “Rob a bank?”
* * *
—
The small driveway at the base of the building was packed with cars. Two servants hurried to open her doors.
“Leave it running,” he said, “they’ll park it.”
He led her round the side of the imposing building through a small, nondescript door, down a corridor that felt like the staff area of a hotel. They emerged briefly into a brightly lit reception hall with marble floors, modern coffee tables and waiting sofas, freshly cut flowers, then away down another hallway toward an elevator. At all times he remained businesslike, as if he were escorting a guest to see “the manager.” She made a mental note of this, along with the prevalence of security cameras lining the walls.
Inside the elevator, rising silently to the fifth floor, he was formal as ever. She could have laughed; instead, she waited emotionless, and when the doors opened she followed him along the windowless, red-carpeted corridor toward a single solid door that opened from the inside as they approached. Inside the bright room beyond, a uniformed servant greeted them both, bowing slightly, pressing his palms together in namaste.
* * *
—
After the strange, stifling ascent, the apartment felt like a sanctuary. The main room was bright, minimalist, its walls painted art gallery white, appropriately adorned with (he later told her) important works of constructivist and De Stijl art on one long side, and a vast piece of abstract expressionism on the end wall, where a TV might usually perch. A giant Bokhara rug held court in the center, upon which an antique Afghan wooden door, repurposed as a coffee table, sat squarely, surrounded by easy chairs, sofas.
To the left, blacked-out doors led to what she guessed was a roof terrace, while doorless arches hinted at more rooms beyond.
He spread his hands. “Well, what do you think?”
“This is . . . this is pretty special.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
He directed her toward the sofa. “Please, sit,” and he put his cigarettes on the table as he took his own place on a leather Falcon chair to her side.
As she balanced herself on the edge of the sofa, the servant who had opened the door, then quickly vanished into one of the arches, now returned with a tray containing glasses of water.
“Thank you, Ajay,” Sunny said.
To Neda, he said, “Go on, taste it.”
She studied the glass. “What is it?”
“Just taste it.”
She did. It was pretty good.
“You never tasted water like that before, did you?”
She guessed she had to agree. “I don’t think so.”
“Guess where it’s from?”
She smiled. “I don’t know.”
“Belgium.”
“See, I’d never guess.”
He sat forward. “It travels through prehistoric rock. It’s purified by a thermal spring.”
He was like a little boy, full of wonder, wanting to share his wisdom. She found it endearing.
“Will it cure me of my sins?”
“Take a seat,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
* * *
—
He vanished through an arch, and she was alone. She settled herself into the sofa, noticed how cool the air was, how the AC was hidden, as in a luxury hotel. Yes, that’s what it felt like, a mishmash of gallery and hotel. She made an inventory of the magazines and books tastefully laid out on the coffee table: an array of Taschen’s Living In series; back issues of Architectural Digest, Robb Report, National Geographic; The Tale of Genji, Camera Lucida, The Art of War.
She picked up a Taschen, Living in Japan, flicked through it idly.
“Madam?”
The servant, Ajay, stood before her, head bowed. “Drink, madam? Chai, coffee, juice, cold drink?”
Sunny approached. “Something stronger?” He’d changed, thrown on a fresh white shirt, wool pants. “What about a spritz? Ajay makes a great spritz.”
“I . . . don’t know what that is.”
He placed himself back in the Falcon chair.
“Sprezzatura,” he said grandly.
“Yeah, I don’t know what that is either.” She looked to Ajay. “I’ll have a beer.”
“Heineken, Asahi, Peroni . . .” He reeled off the names.
“No, no,” Sunny waved his hand dismissively, “she’ll try a Venetian spritz, with”—he cocked his head in delicate consideration—“Mauro Vergano Americano.”
“Sir.”
“I can’t get drunk,” she said.
“You won’t.” He looked to Ajay. “And I’ll have an Asahi. Very cold.”
She watched Ajay walk away. “He’s a good one.”
Before he could reply, the front door clicked open, and the driver who had been in the market passed through, followed by a procession of servants carrying the boxes from the store.
“And here come the toys.”