Instead of answering, he reaches in his pants pocket. I think he’s going to show me photos of his younger son, but he shows me a battered illustration of Ganesh-ji, the elephant god. The paper is heavy card stock, about the size of a playing card. It’s obviously been handled a lot. “Last time I had my horoscope done, I was twelve. I didn’t want to believe the chart that my parents had done at my birth, so I went to a Brahmin pandit here in the Pink City.”
He turns the card over. There’s a circle in the middle filled with a grid of sorts and triangles on every corner. Each space has a number written on it. “Of course, only the pandit knows what all these numbers mean, but I still remember what he said.”
He stops.
“What?”
“He said I would travel abroad. I would accomplish great things. I would make a lot of money. But I would never be able to hold on to it.” He looks into my eyes. “It was the same prediction as my baby horoscope.”
“You were disappointed?”
“Well, I went abroad—to Oxford. True. I started my own firm, then grew it with Sharma. True. I’ve made piles of money. True. And I’m about to lose it all.”
Samir slips the card back into his pants pocket.
“Last night, I asked Ravi what we’ll find if we open up the other columns underneath the balcony. He said that we’ll find cheap bricks and badly mixed cement mortar. I said, ‘You lied to me?’ He said I didn’t go into the Indian army like my father, so why should he go into the same business as me? Said he wanted to prove he could succeed at something on his own.”
He sighs. “I think you know the rest, don’t you?” He lays his cheek on his hand, turning his head toward me.
I should feel triumphant, but I only feel sadness. “He bought cheaper materials for the Royal Jewel Cinema and forged the invoices to show higher amounts, didn’t he? Then he used the money he saved to finance a gold route to Jaipur. And he used those cheap bricks to transport the gold.”
Samir wags his head.
“But how did he fool the inspectors?”
Samir rubs his thumb and two fingers of his free hand together. Baksheesh.
A bee flies into the car from the open window. It lands on Samir’s shirtsleeve. For the first time I notice that Samir’s shirt, while clean, is rumpled, which is unusual for him. His tie, which he’s never without, has been carelessly stuffed inside his shirt pocket. I smell something else on him: scotch. I remember how much he enjoyed playing cards and having a drink or two at the pleasure houses. Is that where he’s been?
Samir watches the bee walking around in a circle on his arm and carefully flicks it in the direction of the window. It flies out.
“Are the columns of the balcony the only part of the cinema house that are compromised?”
He shakes his head, pushing away from the front seat. He slouches in the back, surveys the roof of the car. “We will have to take that place apart. Salvage what we can. But we have to rebuild it pretty much from scratch.” His gaze comes back to me. “It will ruin the business, but I want to leave with my reputation intact. Ravi will not destroy that. In fact, whatever he made selling that gold is going back into rebuilding the Royal Jewel Cinema.”
“You’re going to fold Singh-Sharma?”
“No choice. MemSahib has spoken. Parvati—of course she was there when Ravi confessed—says we stop operation after the cinema house is rebuilt and go to America. She’s heard from friends that there is a great retirement community in Los Angeles.”
“Retirement? But you’re only—”
“Fifty-two. Don’t remind me. She’s got it all figured out.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“We’re going to go into real estate.” He scratches the bristles on his chin. “I can’t be an architect in America without getting licensed there, and I’m too old to go back to school. So real estate it is.”
“What about Ravi? Govind?”
He inches forward and leans his arms on the top of the front seat again. “Govind has already told us he is going into finance in New York, not engineering. He has an American girlfriend. Doesn’t want to come back for an arranged marriage. And Ravi...well, he’ll probably do real estate with me in Los Angeles.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Looks like Sheela will be living in a joint family whether she wants to or not.”
I take a deep breath and turn my body so I’m facing forward again. It looks like the game is winding down. We watch it for a while.
“You owe Manu Agarwal an apology,” I say.
There’s a pause.
“I’ve told the Maharani Latika what Ravi said. She’s disappointed, naturally, and upset that, no matter what, the disaster will be remembered as the fault of the palace. But Manu’s job is safe.”
Samir is not going to personally apologize to Manu. Had I really expected him to? Do the Singhs ever apologize to anyone? At least the maharanis know Manu was not to blame.
I feel Samir’s finger graze my cheek. I tilt my head away from him.
“Marriage to Jay suits you. I miss his friendship, but you can’t be friends when you’re in love with the same woman.”
My mouth falls open. Blood pounds in my ears. But I don’t dare turn around.
Twelve years ago, I would have welcomed those words. To know that he cared this much. Not today.
I can’t be having this conversation. I love my husband. I could have loved Samir, but Parvati staked her claim on him a long time ago. She makes the key decisions in their lives. And he lets her. Does that make him weak? Has he always been the less powerful Singh and I just never noticed? Or is he more perceptive than I give him credit for? After all, isn’t Parvati the one who always manages the disasters in the family?
I clear my throat. “Don’t try to contact Nikhil. Ever.”
From the back seat, I hear rustling. He’s opening a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Moving to America will help with that.”
I hear the flicking of the gold lighter. A stream of cigarette smoke fills the front of the car when he exhales.
Out on the cricket field, the game is over. The players are shaking hands with one another. Private-school etiquette. In the distance, Malik and Kanta are all smiles waiting for Niki to join them.
I hear the back door open. In the side mirror, I see Samir get out of the car and come to stand by my window.
“Samir?”
“Um?”
“If Manu is any indication of what Niki will grow up to be, Ralph Waldo Emerson was right. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”