Still, he smiled to comfort me, to reassure me, to include me in his bewildered grieving. And with that smile I suddenly knew that there was something else holding me there. In the end I realised that it was the heart, the Indian heart that Vikram had talked about-the land where heart is king-that held me when so many intuitions told me I should leave. And the heart, for me, was the city. Bombay. The city had seduced me. I was in love with her.

There was a part of me that she invented, and that only existed because I lived there, within her, as a Mumbaiker, a Bombayite.

"It's a fuckin' bad business, yaar," Vikram muttered as he rejoined us. "There's going to be a lot of blood spilled over this, yaar. On the radio, they're saying that Congress Party gangs are roaming in Delhi, going from house to house, and spoiling for a fight with the Sikhs."

We were silent, all three of us, lost in our own speculations and worry. Then Didier spoke.

"I think I have a lead for you," he said softly, wrenching us into the moment once more. "About the jail?"

"Oui."

"Go on."

"It is not much. It does not add much to what you already know- that it was a person of some power, as your patron, Abdel Khader, has told you."

"Whatever it is, Didier, it's more than I've got now."

"As you wish. There is a... man of my acquaintance... who must visit the Colaba police station on a daily basis. We were talking, earlier today, and he mentioned the foreigner who was in the lock-up there some months ago. The name he used was the Bite of the Tiger. I cannot imagine how you came to win such a name for yourself, Lin, but I make a wild guess that it is not entirely flattering, the story, non? Alors, he told me that the Bite of the Tiger-you-was betrayed by a woman."

"Did he give you a name?"

"No. I asked him, and he said that he did not know who she is. He did say that she is young, and very beautiful, but he may have invented those last details."

"How reliable is this man of your acquaintance?"

Didier pursed his lips, and let out a puff of air.

"He can be relied upon to lie, and cheat, and steal. That is the extent of his reliability, I am afraid, but in these things he does show a marvellous predictability. However, in this case I think he has no reason to lie. I think you were the victim of a woman, Lin."

"Well, that makes two of us, yaar. You and me both, brother,"

Vikram put in. He finished his beer, and lit one of the long, thin, cheroots that he smoked as much for the complement they made to his costume as for the enjoyment of the smoke.

"You have been going out with Letitia for three months now,"

Didier observed. His frown was irritated and profoundly unsympathetic. "What is your problem?"

"You tell me! I'm going out with her all over the place, and I still can't get to first base. I'm not even in the ballpark. Fuck the ballpark, yaar-I'm not even in the fuckin' zip code. This chick is killin' me. This love is killin' me. She's playing hard to get. And brother, I'm hard but not getting any. I swear, I'm about to fuckin' explode!"

"You know, Vikram," Didier said, his eyes shining once more with shrewdness and good humour, "I have a strategy that just might work for you."

"Didier, man, I'll try anything. The way things are, with this Indira thing and all, I gotta grab any chance while I can. Who knows where we'll all be tomorrow, na?"

"Yes, well, attention! This plan, it involves great daring, and careful planning, and a precise timing. If you are careless, it might cost you your life."

"My... my life?"

"Yes. Make no mistake. But if you succeed, I think you will win her heart forever. Are you, how do they say it, are you game, to try it?"

"I'm the game-iest motherfucker in the whole damn saloon, yaar.

Let's hear it!"

"I might take this as my cue to leave, before you guys get too deep into this," I interrupted, standing and shaking hands with both men. "Thanks for the tip, Didier. I appreciate it. And a tip for you, Vikram-whatever you plan to try with Lettie, you can start by losing the phrase hot-titty English _chick. Every time you call her that, she winces like you just strangled a baby rabbit."

"You really think so?" he asked, frowning his puzzlement.

"Yes."

"But it's one of my best lines, yaar. In Denmark-"

"You're not in Denmark any more, Toto."

"Okay, Lin," he conceded, laughing. "Listen, when you find out what went down with the jail thing... I mean, who the motherfucker was who put you in there, and all... well, if you need a hand, count me in. Okay?"

"Sure," I said, enjoying the good eye contact. "Take it easy."

I paid the bill and left, walking along the Causeway to Regal Cinema roundabout. It was early evening, one of the three best times of day in Bombay city. Early morning before the heat, and late night after the heat are special times of day, with special pleasures; but they're quiet times, with few people. Evening brings the people to their windows, balconies, and doorways.

Evening fills the streets with strolling crowds. Evening is an indigo tent for the circus of the city, and families bring children to the entertainments that inspire every corner and crossroad. And evening is a chaperone for young lovers: the last hour of light before the night comes to steal the innocence from their slow promenades. There's no time, in the day or night, when there are more people on the streets of Bombay than there are in the evening, and no light loves the human face quite so much as the evening light in my Mumbai.

I walked through the evening crowds, loving the faces, loving the perfumes of skin and hair, loving the colours of clothes and the cadences of words that surrounded me. Yet I was alone, too much alone with my love of evening in the city. And all the while a black shark slowly circled in the sea of my thoughts: a black shark of doubt and anger and suspicion. A woman betrayed me. A woman. A young and very beautiful woman...

The persistent blaring of a car horn drew my attention, and I saw Prabaker waving to me from his taxi. I got into the cab and asked him to drive me to my evening meeting with Khaled, near Chowpatty Beach. One of the first things I'd done with the first real money I'd made in Khaderbhai's service was pay for Prabaker's taxi licence. The cost of the licence had always been prohibitive for Prabaker, and it had eluded his sub-miniature talent for thrift.

He drove occasional shifts in his cousin Shantu's taxi without the required licence, but ran considerable risks in doing it.

With his own licence, he was free to approach any of the taxi lords who owned fleets of cabs and hired them out to licensed taxi drivers.

Prabaker was a hard worker and an honest man; but, more than that, he was the most likable man that most of those who knew him ever met. Even the hard-nosed taxi lords weren't immune to his sanguine charm. Within a month he had a semi-permanent lease' on a taxi, which he cared for as if it was his own. On the dashboard he'd installed a plastic shrine to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. The gold, pink, and green plastic figure of the goddess blazed an alarmingly fierce expression through the bulbs in her red eyes whenever he hit the brakes of the car. From time to time he reached over, with a showman's flourish, to squeeze a rubber tube at the base of the figure. That action sprayed, through what appeared to be a valve in the navel of the goddess, a potent and disquietingly industrial mix of chemical perfumes onto the shirt and trousers of his passenger. Every squeeze of the spray was followed by a reflexive, polishing rub of his brass taxi driver's identification badge, which he wore with swaggering pride. Only one thing, in the whole city, rivalled the affection he felt for the black-and-yellow Fiat taxi.