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believe. I don’t sell. Our heritage, my dear, every day the U S A is taking it away. Ravi Varma paintings, Chandela bronzes, Jaisalmer lattices. We sell ourselves, isn’t it? They drop their wallets on the ground and we kneel at their feet. Our Nandi bulls end up in some gazebo in Texas. But you know all this. You know India is a free country today.” He stopped, but Zeeny waited; there was more to come. It came: “One day I will also take the dollars. Not for the money. For the pleasure of being a whore. Of becoming nothing. Less than nothing.” And now, at last, the real storm, the words behind the words, less than nothing . “When I die,” Changez Chamchawala said to Zeeny, “what will I be? A pair of emptied shoes. That is my fate, that he has made for me. This actor. This pretender. He has made himself into an imitator of non-existing men. I have nobody to follow me, to give what I have made. This is his revenge: he steals from me my posterity.” He smiled, patted her hand, released her into the care of his son. “I have told her,” he said to Saladin. “You are still carrying your take-away chicken. I have told her my complaint. Now she must judge. That was the arrangement.”

Zeenat Vakil walked up to the old man in his outsize suit, put her hands on his cheeks, and kissed him on the lips.

After Zeenat betrayed him in the house of his father’s perversions, Saladin Chamcha refused to see her or answer the messages she left at the hotel desk. The Millionairess came to the end of its run; the tour was over. Time to go home. After the closing-night party Chamcha headed for bed. In the elevator a young and clearly honeymooning couple were listening to music on headphones. The young man murmured to his wife: “Listen, tell me. Do I still seem a stranger to you sometimes?” The girl, smiling fondly, shook her head, can’t hear , removed the headphones. He repeated, gravely: “A stranger, to you, don’t I still sometimes seem?” She, with unfaltering smile, laid her cheek for an instant on his high scrawny shoulder. “Yes, once or twice,” she said, and put the headphones on again. He did the same, seeming fully satisfied by her answer. Their bodies took on, once again, the rhythms of the playback music. Chamcha got out of the lift. Zeeny was sitting on the floor with her back against his door.

Inside the room, she poured herself a large whisky and soda. “Behaving like a baby,” she said. “You should be ashamed.”

That afternoon he had received a package from his father. Inside it was a small piece of wood and a large number of notes, not rupees but sterling pounds: the ashes, so to speak, of a walnut-tree. He was full of inchoate

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