She woke in the morning angry with herself. She missed him. In the glove compartment of her car, she kept a copy of the newspaper in which Sunny had placed his compensation advertisement. She folded back the page, sat with a cigarette at the side of the road, staring into his face. She tried to pull out clues. She was certain, absolutely certain, that Sunny had done this. He had put out the advert for her, as a message? As an apology? As a stupid thing done by a man in love? And then what? Regretted, repented, gone to ground? It was complicated by his father. The cruelty. The implacable foot. Had Sunny also put out that advert in rebellion? To stand up to his father? There were so many missing pieces, she was so in the dark. She examined their faces in the advert. His expression, his father’s, the look in their eyes, the decor, the room. But there was nothing to learn. She didn’t recognize the desk—didn’t recognize the suit Sunny was wearing. “But I know you,” she said to him. She turned to Bunty. How pleasant, how generous he looked. She inhaled on her cigarette until the tip was glowing bright, then pressed it into Bunty’s face.
* * *
—
Three weeks passed. She slept, she woke, she worked in a haze of cigarette smoke. Dean was true to his word—he began looking more closely into Bunty Wadia and his business empire, his liquor, his mining, his construction, his timber out in UP, searching for a smoking gun, something to link them to what was happening in the city here and now. With Sunny she wavered between anger, fear, guilt, heartbreak. She missed him, she hated him. How hard was it to get in touch? How hard just to say he was OK? Or maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was . . .
This would be the moment for her to confess. Go to Dean, tell him everything. Dean, I’ve been stupid. I didn’t mean it to happen . . .
But what was she telling him? That she’d been having an affair with Sunny? Or that Sunny had plans for the city, this was the clue he might need. Could she tell him one without the other? I discovered something . . . a friend came through for me . . .
And then what? Sell Sunny out?
But why? Sunny had nothing to do with the demolitions, after all. His plans weren’t for that colony. No, he was innocent!
She wavered back and forth.
What if she betrayed Sunny and he got in touch with her the very next day?
No.
She’d wait.
After all, she’d made Sunny put those adverts out.
She twinged his conscience.
She was the connection.
* * *
—
Finally, she drove to the Park Hyatt, stood inside the lobby, climbed into the elevator. She recognized the operator. As they were traveling to the eighth floor she said very casually, “Has Mr. Wadia been in today?” But he looked at her blankly and gave no reply.
She walked down the hushed corridor and stood outside suite 800. It was four in the afternoon. She put her ear to the door. Was there some noise inside? She thought she could hear the TV. What if she rang the bell, knocked on the door? Could she take it if Sunny answered? If some other woman answered? What would be the acceptable outcome? She prepared herself. She needed to know one way or another. She raised her fist, was about to rap on the wood, when she heard muffled voices and laughter approaching from the other side. She stepped back, ready to flee, when the door opened. A foreign couple looked out at her in surprise. American, she guessed. Heading out to see the Taj Mahal. Flustered, she turned and walked away. She took the stairs, stopped in the stairwell and caught her breath. When she was certain the couple had gone, she returned and took the elevator back to the lobby.
She spotted him outside.
“Amit,” she said.
“Yes, madam,” the pleasant voice replied.
“Amit, this is Mr. Wadia’s friend. You helped arrange my interview with him a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry, madam.”
“In his suite. You sent me up. Gave me a key card.”
“Madam, I’m very busy right now.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Madam, if you please, I must go.”
And he slipped behind the reception desk and away.
* * *
—
She went to the Japanese restaurant. She passed the ma?tre d’, ignored his polite attentions, followed the flow of the restaurant past the bar and waiters, past the main tables, into the private dining spaces. She began to pull back every screen and she knew it was a really crazy thing to do. She performed her search calmly enough, but the protestations of the restaurant staff, the manager, the ma?tre d’, the waiters grew more pronounced. Most of the rooms were empty. It was too early. Two were occupied with business meetings. She glanced in, shut the doors again, felt a fool at the end, and walked out without looking back. Despite the fact that she knew the staff, they looked at her blankly as if they’d never seen her before. She repeated her actions in other hotels. The other suites, the other restaurants. And the same thing every time. She turned up at the mystical Soviet restaurant where they’d first met, but it was blank and shuttered with the other shops.
* * *
—
She messaged Hari.
—Hey, what’s up?
He didn’t reply for a whole day.
—In Bombay. Kinda busy.
—When are you back? We should catch up.
He didn’t reply.
* * *
—
How could a person just vanish like that? Very easily, when she had no foothold or claim to him. She’d always met him on his terms, in his spaces. She’d inhabited the bubbles he’d created within the city.
* * *
—
The evictions in the city kept up pace. The newspapers heralded the transformation of the urban space. The poor were no longer victims of an incompetent and corrupt state. They were encroachers and thieves. Their misery was not the misery of lives. As human beings they were being erased.
“Whatever happened to that boy?” her mother asked late one night. Neda was eating cold chicken at the dining table.
“What boy?”
“You know very well,” her mother said. “The one who came over that night. The one you went out with, without your clothes.”
“Without my clothes?”
“Yes, that boy.”
“He’s not a boy.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“He’s not around anymore.”
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s gone.”
“I see.”
Neda just shrugged and kept eating.
“I thought he was charming,” her mother said.
“Your radar is off.”
Neda ate in silence awhile.
Her mother sat down opposite her.
“What’s going on at work?”
“I’m not sure I want to keep working there. I want to study some more.”
Her mother processed the words.
Neda said. “I’m tired of the job.”
“Tired.”
Neda fell silent.
Her father walked in.
“She wants to leave her job,” her mother yelled.
“Love of my life,” her father grumbled, “let me get both feet inside the house.”