“Good for her,” Sunny replied. “Shall we?”
Dinesh squeezed Sunny on the shoulder. “My friend here is shy.”
“And shyness makes him rude, which is an unfortunate trait.”
“Our table’s waiting,” Sunny said.
“He seems to have woken on the worst side of the bed. But please, do get in touch. Arrange that trip. And if you need anything, anything at all, just call me.”
“Thank you.”
“Now forgive me,” Dinesh said, as Sunny turned away, “but I have to ask, what will you write?”
“Don’t worry,” she said, glancing at Sunny, “standard boilerplate.” She looked back to Dinesh and smiled. “There’s no reason to make an enemy of you. Yet.”
He laughed. “I look forward to your call.”
And he was gone, leading Sunny away. She watched them gliding toward the hotel’s Japanese restaurant, waiting for either one of them to look back. Neither did.
* * *
—
What had she expected from Sunny? Civility at least? It felt cruel, the way he’d spoken. Though some part of her took heart from this—he cared enough. She walked outside the front doors, past the metal detectors, and lit a cigarette. She found her valet ticket, handed it over, and waited for her car. The cigarette was almost finished when her Maruti came creaking and chugging up the driveway and she thought of Sunny’s words, how she can waltz in anywhere, but with the knowledge of that now pointed out to her, she became self-conscious, she felt ashamed.
* * *
—
Just as she was about to get into her car she heard a voice behind her.
“Ms. Kapur?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Amit.” He issued an ingratiating smile. In his outstretched hand was a hotel key card wallet. “Mr. Wadia wishes to inform you he’ll be late for your meeting.”
“Our meeting?”
“In his suite.”
She covered her surprise.
“How late?”
“No longer than an hour.”
“An hour?”
She made a show of anger, but secretly she was thrilled. “That’s difficult for me, Amit.” She took the card. “But I’ll manage. Which number?”
“Eight hundred.”
Amit ordered the valet to return her car and swept her toward the lobby. “I’ll escort you inside.” She was waved through the metal detectors. “Mr. Wadia told me to tell you to make yourself at home.”
He led her across the lobby toward a waiting elevator.
She strained her neck to look inside the restaurant.
“If you’d like something else, I’m more than happy to help. This is my card, my personal number, call me anytime.”
“Thank you, Amit,” she said as she took his card and stepped into the elevator.
“Mr. Wadia’s Business Suite,” Amit said to the operator.
As they ascended, she was glad for the drabness of her work clothes, and the alibi they offered against the accusations in the operator’s eyes.
* * *
—
The key card clicked open to suite 800, it was adorned with the usual luxurious anonymity, mosaic marble, a mahogany writing desk, a spacious living area, an office, a bedroom off to the side. There was none of the standard paraphernalia of hospitality though, no complimentary fruit basket, no wine bottle with a “personalized” note; the suite had been lived in, it was tense with Sunny’s presence. Books, magazines. The writing desk in the corner spilling over with work, books on urban planning and history, architectural blueprints, logo designs. She leafed through the various sheets: the precise layout of a three-story mall, a pencil sketch of an elegant low-rise building sweeping across a hillside. Another showed a large, squat, modernist art gallery on a wide, reed-banked river, a sanitized, beautified version of the Yamuna. Below it, an architect’s rendering of a riverbank full of smiling modern Indians, eating ice cream, holding hands, while corporate buildings and trams loomed in the background. There was an open notebook to the side, pencil set crosswise, but the handwriting, a mixture of Hindi and English, was utterly indecipherable.
In the recessed space below the TV there was a liquor collection. Black Label, Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Patrón, Hendrick’s. Inside the fridge there were a few bottles of Asahi, a few bottles of Schweppes Tonic Water, a few of soda, a few more of his precious Belgian mineral water, a bottle of Cocchi Americano, two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. She took a tumbler from the row of glasses and poured a large measure of the Woodford. Sniffed it as she carried it through to the bedroom. Just a quick look.
The bed was perfectly made, no sign of life, no sign of hurry. She opened the wardrobe. Eight white shirts, three blue, several others of various colors. Eight suit jackets, five pairs of trousers, several jeans. She ran her hand across the tailoring, the expensive material. She leaned in and inhaled his scent. She was strangely moved by their hanging helplessness, their passivity. The absence of his body in them. She shut the wardrobe door. Carried her whisky into the bathroom, examined his cologne: Davidoff Cool Water. She sprayed it on her wrist. Ah, yes, that was him.
Back outside in the main room, she waited. She found a pack of cigarettes in one of his drawers, lit one, dragged a chair across to the window, and pulled back the curtain. It was six thirty now. The traffic was crawling bumper to bumper, the headlights of cars on the roads in the distance twinkled at regular intervals. Delhi always looked its best from a distance. Never more beautiful than this, or from the air, flying in at night, tracing the concealed city of the ridge, the prehistoric backbone where no lights glowed, the regular streets of the Secretariat, the hive of South Delhi. From a distance, or very close up, standing at a chai stall surrounded by noise. No middle ground. What ground was this? She sipped her whisky and closed her eyes. What ground was this? His scent in the back of her throat. The AC hadn’t come on, only a few sidelights were shining in the room. It was almost dark in there. She hadn’t inserted the key card in its slot. She should get up and do that. But no, no. Better just to sit here in the dim light, waiting. The whisky slipped down. Why was she here? What did he expect of her?
* * *
—
She saw a shadow underneath the door and heard a key card sliding into the lock. The door opened, the key card was pushed into the holder inside, and all the lights turned on, the AC lurched into life, the twilight of the room was banished. Sunny stormed in and her reverie was broken, he was agitated, he glanced at her as if he were surprised, as if he’d forgotten she had been sent here. He said nothing, fixed himself a large Black Label, swallowed it in one mouthful, fixed another. A dark, tight energy radiated from him. She didn’t move.
He took off his suit jacket and threw it on the floor, took his drink into the bedroom without a word.
She heard him sitting on the bed.
She counted to twenty.
Nothing.
She counted another ten, then walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” he said.
She froze.