She cursed herself. She waited an hour. Then she called her travel agent and had him book a ticket for the evening. She went to work but there was nothing pressing for her to do, her stories had been filed, and since she’d handed in her notice there were no new stories to pick up. The ticket was sent over to her office that afternoon. She messaged the details to the number from which Sunny had called. She didn’t even go home to change or pack. She left her car parked at work and took a taxi to the airport. She called her house on the way; her mother answered.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m in Bombay for a few days. There’s a story I need to chase up. And I’m seeing Hari. I’ll be home Sunday.”
* * *
—
The flight down was only a quarter full. There were a dozen or so businessmen, a couple of travel-worn backpackers cheating on India by taking the plane. She curled up right away on three seats, put her winter coat over her, and tried to sleep. She didn’t want to think. She had recently achieved some success by not thinking about anything at all. She was terrified of seeing him. As the plane began its descent she half hoped Ajay wouldn’t be there. It was possible. There was a chance. And then? She’d take a taxi to Vagator, stay at Jackie’s Day Night, eat crab curry at Starlight, go home. That would be the end of the line.
* * *
—
She arrived early in the night, the earth held the warmth of the day, tempered by the breeze that blew off the Arabian Sea. She peeled off her coat, hung it over one arm, left the tourists waiting by the luggage carousel, and stepped out to the arrivals strip with the hotel touts and the taxi drivers stirring to life. They advanced en masse at the sight of her, starting up their pitch. Taxi, madam. Hotel, madam. Come, madam, this way. She stood before them and opened her bag and took out her cigarette pack, removed a cigarette slowly, lit it and inhaled deeply, and blew smoke up into the night, where it danced with the moths and mosquitoes in the floodlights.
“Madam.”
That familiar voice.
That face.
He led her away from the crowd to a parked car. A red Maruti like her own. Local plates. He said she should ride up front with him, so the police wouldn’t think it was an illegal taxi. One had to follow the tricks here.
* * *
—
They drove beside a large river, past miles of palm trees and small whitewashed chapels glowing with night-lights, past stray dogs barking in the headlights, turning to vanish in the groves. A few bars were open on the roadside, tiny concrete drinking dens with old wooden doors and weak bulbs inside. She wound the window down and let the sweet air fill her hair and her lungs. A sedative. They didn’t speak. She watched his hands on the wheel, the knuckles that were scarred. After some time they joined a busy road, passed a police checkpoint. The traffic picked up and the way was dusty and potholed and slow. When they were stuck behind a truck, she felt compelled to talk.
“Ajay?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Is everything OK?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Is Sunny OK?”
“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t sound so certain.
She thought about pursuing that line, but decided against it, lapsed into silence again, but he overtook the truck soon after, and the act of acceleration on the narrow road roused her.
“You drive like you know the roads.”
“Madam,” he said, “I worked here.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Arambol.”
“You were a shack boy?”
“Yes.”
“Before Sunny?”
“Before Sunny Sir.”
She lit a new cigarette. “Have you been back there? To see your friends?”
He smiled shyly and shook his head. “Madam, I’m working.”
They fell into silence again and crossed another bridge.
The image of that smile remained imprinted in her mind.
* * *
—
They entered the capital city, Panjim. Small, colonial. It made her think of a fairy tale. Ajay drove along the riverfront before turning inside, following narrow streets of yellow-painted colonial buildings with large-tiled roofs and narrow wooden balconies and screens made of oyster shell. Winding up a hill to a hotel called the Windmill, one of those once glamorous, now shabby, three-star joints. He found parking nearby and locked the car and asked her to follow him. Inside the small reception, a young man with frizzy hair and acne and a badly sprouting mustache greeted Ajay with warmth. He looked to Neda and addressed her in English. “You must be our guest. Your friend is waiting for you.” He pointed to the elevator. “On the roof terrace.”
“Madam,” Ajay said, “I’ll go.”
Before she could reply he had slipped out the front door.
* * *
—
She rose in the cramped and clanking elevator. It opened to a dead roof. Chairs had been stacked, tables turned on top of others, lights switched off. But she saw a bartender standing in low light behind the bar, and when she moved ahead she could make out Sunny’s figure seated, feet up on the concrete rim, staring out at the clouded, moonlit sky.
She approached silently. He was dressed in an old cotton T-shirt advertising a petroleum brand, the kind you get in backpacker towns in Thailand. She could see the bulge of his belly that had been hidden by his tailoring. His beard had grown unkempt. He wore a baseball cap.
An empty chair was waiting at his side.
She stood beside him, lit a cigarette but didn’t sit.
She looked out onto the narrow, cobbled streets, the old stone churches, the palm-lined avenues. The air was fresh and smelled of brine. Beyond the city, trawlers bobbed in the wide, placid mouth of the river. On the far bank, a flamboyance of advertising hoardings, neon flamingos above a fishing village, irradiating the sky.
“Sit down,” he said.
“Not yet. I’ve been sitting all day.”
He offered her the drink that was in his hand.
She was cool with him.
“What’s that?”
“Long Island Iced Tea.”
“You’re on vacation now?”
He shrugged.
She took it from him and took a sip.
“Shit, that’s strong.”
“Yeah.”
“We used to get them in college, happy hour at TGIF, me and the girls, when I had my girls. Feels like another life.”
“I never had one before,” he said.
“Really?”
“I went straight from desi daru in the cane fields to martinis at Dukes.”
“Why am I here?” she said.
“Because I’m a joker,” he looked up at her. “Right?”
Dean’s unpublished piece.
“You read it?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing?”
He nodded. “Maybe your guy was right.”
She took a seat.
“I mean . . .” She was at a loss for words. “I don’t think so.”
He took the drink back from her, slurped it down.
He was on the way to being wasted.
She felt like getting to that place too.