Mr. Ashok took the bottle and got ready to pour the fat man a glass, when he smacked his lips in annoyance. "Not you, you fool. The driver. He is the one who pours the drinks."

I turned around at once and turned myself into a barman.

"This driver is very talented," the fat man said. "Sometimes they make a mess of pouring a drink."

"You'd never guess that his caste was a teetotaling one, would you?"

I tightened the cap on the bottle and left it next to the gearbox. I heard the clinking of glasses behind me and two voices saying, "Cheers!"

"Let's go," the minister's sidekick said. "Let's go to the Sheraton, driver. There's a good restaurant down in the basement there, Ashok. Quiet place. We'll have some fun there."

I turned the ignition key and took the dark egg of the Honda City down the streets of New Delhi.

"A man's car is a man's palace. I can't believe you've never done this."

"Well, you'd never try it in America -would you?"

"That's the whole advantage of being in Delhi, dear boy!" The fat man slapped Mr. Ashok's thigh.

He sipped, and said, "What's your situation, Ashok?"

"Coal trading, these days. People think it's only technology that's booming. But coal-the media pays no attention to coal, does it? The Chinese are consuming coal like crazy and the price is going up everywhere. Millionaires are being made, left, right, and center."

"Sure, sure," the fat man said. "The China Effect." He sniffed his glass. "But that's not what we in Delhi mean when we say situation, dear boy!"

The minister's sidekick smiled. "Basically, what I'm asking is, who services you-down there?" He pointed at a part of Mr. Ashok's body that he had no business pointing at.

"I am separated. Going through a divorce."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the fat man said. "Marriage is a good institution. Everything's coming apart in this country. Families, marriages-everything."

He sipped some more whiskey and said, "Tell me, Ashok, do you think there will be a civil war in this country?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Four days ago, I was in a court in Ghaziabad. The judge gave an order that the lawyers didn't like, and they simply refused to accept his order. They went mad-they dragged the judge down and beat him, in his own court. The matter was not reported in the press. But I saw it with my own eyes. If people start beating the judges-in their own courtrooms-then what is the future for our country?"

Something icy cold touched my neck. The fat man was rubbing me with his glass.

"Another drink, driver."

"Yes, sir."

Have you ever seen this trick, Your Excellency? A man steering the car with one hand, and picking up a whiskey bottle with the other hand, hauling it over his shoulder, then pouring it into a glass, even as the car is moving, without spilling a drop! The skills required of an Indian driver! Not only does he have to have perfect reflexes, night vision, and infinite patience, he also has to be the consummate barman!

"Would you like some more, sir?"

I glanced at the minister's sidekick, at the fat, corrupt folds of flesh under his chin-then glanced at the road to make sure I wasn't driving into anything.

"Pour one for your master now."

"No, I don't drink much, really. I'm fine."

"Don't be silly, Ashok. I insist-fellow, pour one for your master."

So I had to turn and do the amazing one-hand-on-the-wheel-one-hand-with-the-whiskey-bottle trick all over again.

The fat man went quiet after the second drink. He wiped his lips.

"When you were in America you must have had a lot of women? I mean-the local women."

"No."

"No? What does that mean?"

"I was faithful to Pinky-my wife-the whole time."

"My. You were faithful. What an idea. Faithfully married. No wonder it ended in divorce. Have you never had a white woman?"

"I told you."

"God. Why is it always the wrong kind of Indian who goes abroad? Listen, do you want one now? A European girl?"

"Now?"

"Now," he said. "A female from Russia. She looks just like that American actress." He mentioned a name. "Want to do it?"

"A whore?"

The fat man smiled. "A friend. A magical friend. Want to do it?"

"No. Thanks. I'm seeing someone. I just met someone I knew a long-"

The fat man took out his cell phone and punched some numbers. The light of the phone made a blue halo on his face.

"She's there right now. Let's go see her. She's a stunner, I tell you. Just like that American actress. Do you have thirty thousand on you?"

"No. Listen. I'm seeing someone. I'm not-"

"No problem. I'll pay now. You can pay later. Just put it into the next envelope you give the minister." He put his hand on Mr. Ashok's hand and winked, then leaned over and gave instructions to me. I looked at Mr. Ashok in the rearview mirror as hard as I could.

A whore? That's for people like me, sir. Are you sure you want this?

I wish I could have told him this openly-but who was I? Just the driver.

I took orders from the fat man. Mr. Ashok said nothing-just sat there sucking his whiskey like a boy with a soda. Maybe he thought it was a joke, or maybe he was too frightened of the fat man to say no.

But I will defend his honor to my deathbed. They corrupted him.

The fat man made me drive to a place in Greater Kailash-another housing colony where people of quality live in Delhi. Touching my neck with his icy glass when I had to make a turn, he guided me to the place. It was as large as a small palace, with big white columns of marble up the front. From the amount of garbage thrown outside the walls of the house, you knew that rich people lived here.

The fat man held open the car door as he spoke into a phone. Five minutes later he slammed the door shut. I began sneezing. A weird perfume had filled the back of the car.

"Stop that sneezing and drive us toward Jangpura, son."

"Sorry, sir."

The fat man smiled. He turned to the girl who had got into the car and said, "Speak to my friend Ashok in Hindi, please."

I looked into the rearview mirror, and caught my first glimpse of this girl.

It's true, she did look like an actress I had seen somewhere or other. The name of the actress, though, I didn't know. It's only when I came to Bangalore and mastered the use of the Internet-in just two quick sessions, mind you!-that I found her photo and name on Google.

Kim Basinger.

That was the name the fat man had mentioned. And it was true-the girl who got in with the fat man did look exactly like Kim Basinger! She was tall and beautiful, but the most remarkable thing about her was her hair-golden and glossy, just like in the shampoo advertisements!

"How are you, Ashok?" She said it in perfect Hindi. She put her hand out and took Mr. Ashok's hand.

The minister's assistant chuckled. "There. India has progressed, hasn't it? She's speaking in Hindi."

He slapped her on the thigh. "Your Hindi has improved, dear."

Mr. Ashok leaned back to speak to the fat man over her shoulder. "Is she Russian?"

"Ask her, don't ask me, Ashok. Don't be shy. She's a friend."

"Ukrainian," she said in her accented Hindi. "I am a Ukrainian student in India."

I thought: I would have to remember this place, Ukraine. And one day I would have to go there!

"Ashok," the fat man said. "Go on, touch her hair. It's real. Don't be scared-she's a friend." He chuckled. "See-didn't hurt, did it, Ashok? Say something in Hindi to Mr. Ashok, dear. He's still frightened of you."

"You're a handsome man," she said. "Don't be frightened of me."

"Driver." The fat man leaned forward and touched me with his cold glass again. "Are we near Jangpura?"

"Yes, sir."

"When you go down the Masjid Road, you'll see a hotel with a big neon T sign on it. Take us there."