“Yes!” He’s smiling broadly now. “Twice the number of Hollywood. Do you know how many people in India go to the movies every single day?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Fourteen million. Do fourteen million people go to the movies every day in Germany?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m from Holland. But given that the entire population isn’t much more than sixteen million, I doubt it.”
He beams with pride now.
We exit the expressway onto the streets of what must be colonial Mumbai and turn into an area with an arbor of trees and a line of idling double-decker buses belching out black exhaust.
“There is the Gateway of India,” Prateek says, pointing out a carved arch monument on the edge of the Arabian Sea. “The Taj Mahal Hotel I told you about,” he says, pulling past a massive confection of a hotel, all domes and cornices. A group of Arab men in billowing white robes are piling into a series of window-tinted SUVs. “Inside is a Starbucks.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Have you ever had a Starbucks coffee?”
“I have.”
“My cousin said that in America they drink it with every meal.” He pulls up in front of another graying building, Victorian, and it seems, almost sweating in the heat. The sign, in fading elaborate cursive, reads bo bay ro al. “Here you are. Bombay Royale.”
I follow Prateek into a darkened, cool lobby, quiet except for the whoosh and squeak of ceiling fans and the faint chirping of crickets nesting somewhere in the walls. Behind a long mahogany desk, a man so old he seems original to the building is napping. Prateek loudly rings the bell and he startles awake.
Immediately, the two start arguing, mostly in Hindi but with a few English words thrown in here and there. “Regulations,” the old man keeps saying.
Eventually, Prateek turns to me. “He says you can’t stay here.”
I shake my head. Why did she bring me here? Why did I come?
“It’s a private residence club, not a hotel,” Prateek explains.
“Yes. I’ve heard of those.”
Prateek frowns. “There are other hotels in Colaba.”
“But this must be the place.” This is the address I’ve had for her for the last few years. “Look under my mother’s name. Yael Shiloh.”
At the mention of her name, the old man’s head whips up. “Willem saab?” he asks.
“Willem. Yes, that’s me.”
He squints his eyes and grasps my hands. “You are nothing like the memsahib,” he says.
I don’t have to know what that means to know who he’s talking about. It’s what everyone says.
“But where is she?” he asks.
There’s a kernel of comfort. I’m not the only one in the dark. “Oh, you know her,” I say.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, doing the same head nod/shake as Prateek.
“So can I go to her flat?” I ask the old man.
He considers it, scratching the gray stubble on his chin. “Regulations say only members can stay here. When memsahib makes you a member, you will be a member.”
“But she’s not here,” Prateek points out helpfully.
“Regulations,” the old man says.
“But you knew I was coming,” I say.
“But you are not with her. What if you are not really you? Do you have proof?”