“If there’s hash, you always blame the Dutchman,” I say.
“Oh, right,” Nash says, nodding.
“I’m paranoid now,” Tasha says.
“Let’s get back. Save the rest of that for later,” Nash says.
With the hash buzzing around my head, the waiting on set goes slower, not faster. I spend a few minutes twirling a rupee coin across my hand but I keep dropping it. I turn on my phone to play some solitaire, but then, on a strange stoned whim, use my phone for its intended purpose. I make a call.
“Hello . . . this is Willem,” I say when she picks up.
“I know who this is.” I can hear fury in her voice. Even calling her gets me in trouble? “Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m on a film set. I’m acting in a Bollywood movie for the next few days.”
Silence. Yael never had much patience for “low” culture, outside of the cheesy Israeli pop music she couldn’t resist. She didn’t like movies or TV shows. She surely thinks all this is a waste of time.
“And when did you decide to do this?” she says at last. Her voice is flinty enough to spark a fire.
“Yesterday. This morning officially.”
“And when did you think to tell me?”
Maybe it’s the hash, but I actually laugh out loud. Because it’s just funny—in the way that absurd things are.
Yael doesn’t think so. “What’s so amusing?”
“What’s so amusing?” I ask. “You wanting to know my itinerary, that’s pretty amusing. When you haven’t given a thought to my whereabouts, my well-being for the last three years. When you brought me over to India and then a week later shipped me right back off again and didn’t bother to call once. You couldn’t even be bothered to come to the airport to pick me up. Oh, I know there was an emergency, something more important, but there always is, isn’t there? So why would you need to know that I was acting in a Bollywood movie?”
>I’m not sure which one of them is right.
I pack up my things and then walk to the train station through the late afternoon heat. The city looks golden up the hills, the sand dunes rippling behind it, and it all makes me feel wistful, nostalgic already.
The train gets me into Jaipur at six the next morning. My flight to Mumbai is at ten. I haven’t had a chance to set up a new email, and Mukesh has texted nothing about a ride from the airport. I text Prateek. He hasn’t replied to any of my texts in the last two days. So I try ringing him.
He answers, distracted.
“Prateek, hey it’s Willem.”
“Willem, where are you?”
“On a train. I’ve got your tapestry here.” I rattle the package.
“Oh, good.” For all his manic enthusiasm about this latest venture, he seems oddly blasé.
“Everything okay?”
“Better than okay. Very good. My cousin Rahul, he is sick with influenza.”
“That’s terrible. Is he okay?”
“Fine. Fine. But bed rest for him,” Prateek says cheerfully. “I am helping him out.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “With the movies.”
“The movies?”
“Yes! I find the goreh to act in the movies. If I can get ten, they will put my name in the credits. Assistant to assistant director of casting.”
“Congratulations.”