He smiles and points a finger at me. “Listening is the most important trait in business. I can tell you’re good at it.”
I’m also good at waiting. At first, I followed Auntie-Boss around the city until she noticed me. Eventually she started paying me to carry her supplies. Then I’d go with her to Jaipur’s grandest houses, sitting on their lawns outside until she finished painting henna on the fancy ladies like Parvati Singh. Later, still, at the prestigious Bishop Cotton School for Boys, I waited patiently for classmates to accept my less desirable pedigree. It was hard at first, the hazing. A school-issued shoe stuffed with a garden snake. A toothbrush filled with sheep’s wool. A school tie wound around my ankles while I slept. I didn’t retaliate. Instead, I made myself useful. I knew Nariman liked American cigarettes; I got him some. Ansari preferred photos of naked women. Modi was into rare stamps. For me, it wasn’t hard to find these items, as I’d once found Jaipur’s best pistachios—the ones the palace chef preferred—all those many years ago. Overnight, I became valuable to the biggest bullies, and they stopped harassing me.
Now I swallow what’s left in my glass and hold it up for Samir to refill. He seems relieved to have a task, something to distract him from his thoughts. He can’t quite bring himself to tell me what he wants to tell me. I can see it’s hard for him.
As he returns my replenished glass, he says, “Did Ravi tell you that he finished his two most recent projects well ahead of time? He did the ballroom and restaurant remodel of the Rambagh Hotel and, after that, developed that old Rajput estate on Civil Lines Road into a world-class boutique hotel.”
I nod.
Samir sits down and takes a deep breath. “All of that is hard to do. So many variables, so many things to track—the weather, or materials that don’t arrive on time. Days when workers don’t show up. All sorts of things.”
He reaches for the pack of Dunhill cigarettes on the table next to him. He shakes one free, then holds out the box for me. I take a cigarette. Back when I lived in Jaipur, he used to smoke Red and Whites, a less expensive brand. I make a note of the upgrade. As I’ve made a note of the nicer cars in his driveway.
He takes a gold lighter from his shirt pocket and lights our cigarettes. Once he’s had his first, deep drag, he starts talking again.
“Accidents can happen,” he says. “It’s the law of nature. What happened at the cinema house is devastating, but...” He lets out a stream of smoke, taps his glass on the chair arm. “It’s my name on the company, Malik.” With his free hand, he points to his chest. “I don’t allow gross errors on my projects. Not in judgment, not in code compliance, never in materials.”
He leans forward now, his elbows on his thighs. “With the cinema project, I gave Ravi freedom to do things his way. Didn’t want him thinking I didn’t trust him to make the right decisions.”
He locks his eyes on mine. “After the accident, I asked him to go through the books, the process, everything we did, what part the palace played. He did exactly that. And, honestly, I can’t find any reason he would be at fault. He did it by the book. Every single thing. And yet...” He leans back against the leather armchair. “From what I hear, you’re doubting him. And me. You’re doubting my professional ability.” Now his voice has taken on an edge. He sucks his cigarette, blows out a steady stream of smoke.
The liquor is worming its way into my brain. I take another look around the room. A rich man’s room. The leather-bound books. The gilded clock. A rich man in a rich suit who wants me to protect his son. Now I understand why Ravi wanted me to come. It wasn’t so we could make peace. It was to warn me.
I set my glass of scotch on his desk. “What is it I’m supposed to have done, Uncle?”
“Hakeem told me he found you in his office yesterday, snooping around. Ravi saw you lurking around the reconstruction site doing Bhagwan knows what. And—” he points his finger at me accusingly “—you’ve been asking questions of the palace engineers. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’d be a lousy businessman if I didn’t keep my ears to the ground.”
The hair on the back of my neck tingles. All at once, I’m back at Bishop Cotton, at the swimming pool, three upper-form boys forcing my head underwater. How did he find out I’ve been talking to the engineers at the palace facilities office? Has Hakeem been spying on me? Does everyone I’ve talked to go directly to Samir? Are all of them in his pocket?
I’m careful with my words. “All those years ago, you’re the one who helped Lakshmi gain an introduction to the palace. You of all people know how she helped the maharani through a rough patch. Since that time, I’ve always felt a strong connection to the maharanis. I’m honored to be working on their behalf at the facilities office with Mr. Agarwal. I simply want to make sure that we’re putting together a good and thorough estimate for reconstruction. That’s all.” I open my arms wide, palms up.
He taps the ash from his cigarette into the large brass ashtray on his desk, his voice buttery again when he says, “I completely understand. But any questions you may have about what you turn up should come to Ravi or to me. We can clarify important details you’re unsure about. No need to waste your time talking to the palace engineers. They’re too busy with their own construction projects to waste much time on ours.” He shows me his most charming grin. “And besides, you and I, we’re old friends. Surely you don’t doubt me?”
In this rich man’s room, I know only one thing for sure: a father and a son are bound by blood. Samir and Ravi have no kinship to me. I’m the odd man out. Samir would like me to believe he has my back, but I know better.
I return his smile, keeping my gaze steady on his face. “Let me understand something. I’m here tonight because you wanted to remind me of our friendship? The very friendship that forced Lakshmi out of Jaipur?”
Now his face becomes a slab of marble—grayish white. He manages a chuckle, as if I’ve told him an amusing joke. Once again he reverts to being the benevolent, good-humored Samir Uncle. “Nonsense!” he says. “You’re here because I want you to experience the Singh hospitality.”
I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.”
There’s a sharp rap on the door. The knob turns and the door bursts open. Parvati steps inside the room, and I stand politely.
“There you are, Samir!” she says. “I didn’t hear you come in.” When she looks at me, her expression hardens. This is not the friendly face she put on for me when I was here for dinner just a month ago. Have Ravi and Samir told her I’ve been asking questions? She scans the room, taking in the scotch, the cigarettes. “Before dinner?”
She stares at Samir until, reluctantly, he rises from his armchair. Then he goes to her until he stops, just inches from her face. She does not budge. He smiles and lightly gathers the pallu of her sari from behind and drapes it over her shoulder so it covers her like a shawl. It’s a lover’s caress, and I see her face soften.