A butterfly had settled on the upper window. It had closed its wings, simulating a leaf, or engendering a geometric angle, perfect as a shadow, but was now wavering and bending to one side—not out of any obedience to the breeze, but according to a whim. Almost nothing—but for this pane with faint blotches of mildew—separated it in its world outside (Warren Street) from the studio flat within, from where Ananda measured it, intrigued. All insects made him apprehensive. Where had this rarity come from? The principal danger of summer, he’d found, were bees. Almost every day one came in without invitation. He had to pretend he was unmoved by its floating, persistent exploration of the room, until, unable to cohabit with it an instant longer, his nerves already on edge, he’d have to, with an almost superhuman effort, quickly push the window up halfway, causing the house to tremble to its foundations, and then rally to chase it out with something appropriate—usually a copy of the Times or the Times Literary Supplement. The comedy and even the undeniable magic of that chase became clear to him the moment the bee had escaped, the room was empty but for him, and—like someone in a storm—he grappled with lowering the window again.

He saw now, suddenly, that the butterfly was gone—the street’s voyager; undertaking short, unsteady bursts of flight past Walia’s flats.