A week had passed since we arrived in Bombay. I made arrangements to spy on Adi’s employees, then rode back to Framji Mansion in the deep indigo dusk. Haloed gas lamps glowed to either side of the entrance. Amid the rapid chirp of crickets, Gurung swung open the gate to admit my tonga. Ganju salaamed as I ran up the front stairway. Hearing the children’s chatter in the dining room, I hurried to clean up, taking the stairs two at a time, heartened to know that my knee could stand it.
Hands scrubbed, I ran a palm over my hair and went down to a boisterous Framji welcome. Adi and Diana were going at something hammer and tongs, but dishes laden with savory delights claimed my attention. Devoting myself to them, I won Mrs. Framji’s smile by serving the children and passing tureens of yoghurt raita and biryani around them.
When Diana’s fresh-cheeked smile turned to me, the gap of age between us yawned. Her grin, her laughter fed something within me, a chord resonating, like a harp plucked in a great cathedral. I wanted to guard the innocence of that look, lock it in a fortress and set sentries, because I knew, deep down, that it would not last. I feared it would fade or explode into disappointment. But not yet. Let her be a girl yet, smiling at boats bobbing in the harbor, teasing kittens out from corners. Early in our marriage she’d nestled in my arms, weary from the day’s excitement, and blurted out, “Jim, you won’t be angry if I tell you something?”
I could barely make out her face through the tangles of her curls, but knew she was biting her lip in worry. I’d said no, I would not, no matter what it was.
“I’m not ready to be a mother,” she’d whispered.
I’d hugged her. “In time, yes?” She’d nodded and cuddled closer. We’d had our ups and downs in the following months, so when she trusted me completely, I thought my heart so full it might truly burst. And we’d come close to parenthood, though I didn’t know it at the time. The inexplicable loss of her pregnancy had caused a long malaise which gouged me to the core.
Beside me now, Diana tilted her face for a kiss. Encouraged, I brushed her cheek with my lips. God, I could swear her skin grew softer each day! Inhaling her creamy, floral scent, I asked, “What have I missed, sweet?”
“Well,” she began, “Adi says Satya must have been pressured but I—”
“Sahib!” Gurung interrupted. “There is a visitor…”
From the entrance came a harsh voice. An angry visitor! Ganju was holding him off.
Pushing back our chairs, Burjor, Adi, and I headed to the door, leaving Mrs. Framji protesting, “But the food is hot, my jaan! It will all get cold!”
In the foyer, the silver merchant’s nose flared, his mouth grim. Without greeting us, Jussawalla stabbed a finger toward Burjor. “I let you persuade me! But no one wants it! How will I sell it?”
“Percy,” Burjor said, “shall we sit here?” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the morning room doors and entered. Adi followed, so Jussawalla had no choice but to do the same. I brought up the rear, noting he’d dressed hastily, his white Parsi coat caught in the waistband of his trousers. His hat was askew, and patches of sweat yellowed the fabric under his armpits.
“Bring water,” I signaled to Ganju, who gave me a military nod and strode away.
Adi and Burjor had taken the couch, leaving tall chairs for our irate guest and me.
Jussawalla began again, his tone ugly. “Did you think I would not find out it was worthless? All this will not work. I won’t tolerate it!”
“I’m James Agnihotri,” I said. “Diana’s husband. Could you explain what this is about?”
My tone put a damper on his outpourings. Frowning, he glanced back and forth. “I don’t know if you are part of this, but you should know what kind of people you have married into!”
“I’m entirely aware of my good fortune,” I assured him.
Taken aback, he cracked his knuckles. Ganju entered with a tray which he set down on the dumbwaiter behind us. Rising, I poured out glasses and handed them around.
“Please.”
He grudgingly took the delicate container and drank down the cool liquid.
As his glass descended, I said, “How can we help?”
Ganju leaned forward, holding the engraved silver tray. As Jussawalla carefully set the glass on it, I swallowed a smile. The Framjis’ courteous manner would surely win over the hardest critic. Yet their elegant presentation could enrage those who envied them. Which was he, then, this merchant of silver?
“You cannot help me,” he said flatly.
“What’s the trouble? Can you explain?”
“These two”—he pointed at Burjor and Adi and snarled—“they owe me cash.”
Burjor waved a calming hand but Adi said, “I don’t know what you mean! What cash?”
Jussawalla snapped, “Your partner bought silver. A lot of it. And now you won’t pay?”
“Wait,” said Adi, his gaze intent. “We needed silver ingots to plate scalpels and forceps so they won’t rust. We paid you in January!”
Jussawalla snorted. “You bought forty kilograms in August!”
Adi’s mouth opened and closed. Ingots, I thought. Like those I’d found in Satya’s room.
Adi choked out, “That’s what Satya bought with Papa’s promissory note.”
Satya had spent the forged note on silver ingots? Burjor met my glance and nodded.
Jussawalla spread his hands. “Burjor, I don’t want some hotel in Simla. How do I know what it’s like? It could be a rubbish heap! I need cash, hard cash!”
So saying, he thrust a wad of papers at Burjor. Adi took them and uncurled the pages. Recognition lit his face. “The deed to our hotel!”
I questioned Jussawalla, “Satya bought silver worth five thousand rupees?”
“He knows”—he jabbed a finger at Burjor—“I was to be paid months ago!”
Before his vitriol overflowed, Adi said. “Look, I don’t know what Satya did or didn’t do, but we had no more silver. We ran out weeks ago.”
Jussawalla cried, “I trusted your partner because of you! There is your hotel deed. Give me my cash. If you cannot pay, I will tell everyone you are both cheats!”
With a face like thunder, Burjor strode to his office. He returned with a heavy tread and wrote out a cheque for two thousand rupees, likely all the liquid cash he could muster.
Jussawalla snatched it up and demanded the remaining amount.
It took an hour to persuade him to wait until month’s end for his payment. His lips compressed, Burjor penned a new IOU for three thousand rupees.
This was a new piece to my puzzle. I fingered Satya’s slim key, still nestled in my vest pocket. When Satya gave it to Burjor, had he meant to offer his stash of silver as collateral? In that case, who was he keeping it from?
Satya must have another associate, one that Adi was unaware of. Hadn’t he speculated only an hour ago that Satya had been pressured into doing something illicit?