“You’re really . . . tall, Willem,” Tasha says.
“Yes, I think you mentioned that.”
“We really have to introduce him to Jules,” Tasha drawls. “She’s tall. And Canadian.”
“Totally,” Nash says. “Righteous idea.”
The world’s gone a bit washed out, overbright and spinny. “Who’s Jules?” I ask.
“She’s a girl,” Nash answers. “Cute. Ginger hair. She’s at the ashram but she might come out in a day or two. She’s tall. Oh, Tasha already said that. Shit, here comes the assistant director dude. Hide the joint.”
Tasha pinches the joint between her fingers just as a birdlike man comes and looks at us. Even though Tasha is holding the joint, it’s me he focuses on. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture, and then disappears without saying a word.
“Oh. Shit,” Tasha says, giggling. “We got caught.”
“He got caught,” Nash says. “They only took his picture.” He sounds a bit insulted.
“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 stop. And it’s like the effects of the hash have worn off, taking my anger—or my bravery—with them.
“The reason I would need to know,” she says, her voice measured, infuriatingly so, “is so I would know not to come to the airport this time to pick you up.”
After she hangs up, I turn my phone over. I see the half dozen missed calls, the Where are you? texts.
Another missed connection. Story of my life these days.
Twenty-six