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“Well,” Dr. Daruwalla said cautiously. “West and a little north from here is the Gulf of Oman, then the Persian Gulf …”
“Then Saudi Arabia,” Dhar interrupted.
“Keep going,” Nancy told him. “Keep going west and a little north.”
“That would take you across Jordan … into Israel, and into the Mediterranean,” Farrokh said.
“Or across North Africa,” said Inspector Dhar.
“Well, yes
,” Dr. Daruwalla said. “Across Egypt … what’s after Egypt?” he asked John D.
“Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco,” the actor replied. “You could pass through the Straits of Gibraltar, or touch the coast of Spain, if you like.”
“Yes—that’s the way I want to go,” Nancy told him. “I touch the coast of Spain. Then what?”
“Then you’re in the North Atlantic,” Dr. Daruwalla said.
“Go west,” Nancy said. “And a little north.”
“New York?” Dr. Daruwalla guessed.
“I know the way from there,” Nancy said suddenly. “From there I go straight west.”
Both Dhar and Dr. Daruwalla didn’t know what Nancy would come to next; they weren’t familiar with the geography of the United States.
“Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,” Nancy told them. “Maybe I’d have to go through New Jersey before I got to Pennsylvania.”
“Where are you going?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.
“Home,” Nancy answered. “Home to Iowa—Iowa comes after Illinois.”
“Do you want to go home?” John D. asked her.
“Never,” Nancy said. “I never want to go home.”
The screenwriter saw that the zipper of the gray sheath dress was a straight line down her back; it clasped at the top of her high mandarin collar.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Farrokh said to her, “perhaps you could have your husband unfasten the zipper of your dress. If it were unzipped just a little—down to somewhere between your shoulder blades—that would be better. When you’re dancing, I mean,” the doctor added.
“Wouldn’t it be better if I unzipped it?” the actor asked. “I mean, when we’re dancing?”
“Well, yes, that would be best,” Dr. Daruwalla said.
Still looking west into the sunset, Nancy said, “Just don’t unzip me too far. I don’t care what the script says—if you unzip me too far, I’ll let you know it.”
“It’s time,” said Detective Patel. No one was sure how long he’d been on the balcony.
In departing, it was fortunate that none of them really looked at one another; their faces conveyed a certain dread of the event, like mourners preparing to attend the funeral of a child. The deputy commissioner was almost avuncular; he affectionately patted Dr. Daruwalla’s shoulder, he warmly shook Inspector Dhar’s hand, he held his troubled wife at her waist—his fingers familiarly spreading to the small of her back, where he knew she felt some occasional pain. It was his way of saying, I’m in charge—everything’s going to be okay.
But there was that interminable period when they had to wait in the policeman’s car; Vinod had taken Dhar and Muriel ahead. As the driver, the deputy commissioner sat up front with the screenwriter, who wanted Dhar and Muriel to be already dancing when the Daruwallas and their guests, the Patels, arrived. In the back seat, Julia sat with Nancy. The detective avoided his wife’s eyes in the rearview mirror; Patel also tried not to grip the steering wheel too tightly—he didn’t want any of them to see how nervous he was.
The passing headlights flowed like water along Marine Drive, and when the sun finally dipped into the Arabian Sea, the sea turned quickly from pink to purple to burgundy to black, like the phases of a bruise. The doctor said, “They must be dancing by now.” The detective started the car, easing them into the flow of traffic.
In a misguided effort to sound positive, Dr. Daruwalla said, “Let’s go get the bitch, let’s put her away.”
“Not tonight,” Detective Patel said quietly. “We won’t catch her tonight. Let’s just hope she takes the bait.”
