She paused, studying my face, and trying to read the expression in my eyes.

"It's... I guess you think it's kinda stupid."

"No, I don't," I laughed. "I like it. I like all this. In the real world, the guy would just beat her up and take his jewel back. He might even shoot her. I like the Bollywood version better."

"So do I," she said, laughing. "I love it. They put it all together from painted canvas and skinny pieces of wood and it's ... it's like they're making dreams or something. I know that sounds corny, but I mean it. I love this world, Lin, and I don't want to go back to the other one."

"Hey, Lin!" a voice called out from behind me. It was Chandra Mehta, one of the producers. "You got a minute?"

I left Lisa with the German tourists and joined Chandra Mehta beneath a metal gantry that supported a complex tree of bright lights. He wore a baseball cap backwards, and the press of the tight band made his plump face seem rounder. Faded blue Levis were buttoned up under his expansive paunch, and a long kurtah shirt almost covered it from above. He was sweating in the mildly humid air of the closed set.

"Hey, man. How is it? I've been wanting to see you, yaar." His voice was breathy with conspiracy. "Let's go outside and get some air. I'm boiling my fuckin' bonus off in here, yaar."

As we strolled between the metal-domed buildings, actors in costume crossed our path, together with men carrying props and pieces of equipment. At one point, a group of nine pretty dancing girls dressed in exotic, feathered costumes passed us on their way to a sound stage. They turned my head around, forcing my body to follow it until I was walking backwards for a while. Chandra Mehta never gave them so much as a glance.

"Listen, Lin, what I wanted to talk to you about..." he said, touching my arm at the elbow as we walked. "I have this friend, you know, and he's a business fellow, with a lot of dealings in the USA. Achaa, what to say... he has a problem of his rupees to-dollars cash flow, yaar. I was kind of hoping that you... a little bird told me that you are a helpful fellow when the cash is not flowing."

"I assume this cash should be in U.S. dollars, when it's flowing correctly?"

"Yes," he smiled. "I'm very glad that you understand his problem."

"Just how badly is the flow backed up?"

"Oh, I think that about ten thousand should move things along very nicely."

I told him Khaled Ansari's current rate for U.S. dollars, and he agreed to the terms. I arranged to meet him on the set the following day. He was to have the rupees-a much larger bundle of notes than the American currency made-in a soft backpack, ready for me to collect on my bike. We shook on the deal. Mindful of the man I represented, lord Abdel Khader Khan, a man whose name would never be mentioned by Mehta or by me, I put a slightly uncomfortable pressure in the handshake. It was a tiny pain I inflicted on him, the merest twinge, but it reinforced the hard eye-contact above my amiable smile.

"Don't start this if you're going to mess it up, Chandra," I warned, as the handshake pulsed from his pinched hand to his eyes. "Nobody likes to get jerked around-my friends least of all."

"Oh, of course not, baba!" he joked, not quite smothering the blip of alarm that spiked in his eyes. "No problem. Koi baht nahi! Don't worry! I'm very grateful that you can help me, my... what to say, help my friend, with his problem, yaar."

We strolled back to the sound stage, and I found Lisa with Mehta's fellow producer, Cliff De Souza.

"Hey, man! You'll do!" Cliff said in greeting, seizing me by the arm and dragging me toward the tables on the nightclub set. I looked at Lisa, but she just raised her hands in a gesture that said You're on your own, buddy.

"What's going on, Cliff?"

"We need another guy, yaar. We need a guy, a gora, sitting between these two lovely girls."

"Oh, no you don't." I resisted him, trying to wrestle myself out of his grip without actually hurting him. We were at the table.

The two German girls stood and reached out to drag me into the seat between them. "I can't do this! I don't act! I'm camera shy!

I don't do this!"

"Na, komm' schon! H%or' auf." one of the girls said. "You are the one who told us yesterday how easy it is to do this, na?"

They were attractive women. I'd selected their group precisely because they were all healthy and attractive men and women. Their smiles were challenging me to join them. I thought about what it would mean: taking a part in a movie that about three hundred million people in ten or more countries would see while I was on the run as my country's most wanted man. It was foolish. It was dangerous.

"Oh, why the hell not," I shrugged.

Cliff and the stagehands backed away as the cast members took their places on the set. The star, Chunkey Pandey, was a handsome, athletic, young Bombay guy. I'd seen him in a few of the movies I'd watched with my Indian friends, and I was surprised to discover that he was considerably more handsome and charismatic in person than he was on the screen. A make-up assistant held up a mirror while Chunkey combed and fretted at his hair. The intensity of the gaze that he focused on the mirror was as steadfast as a surgeon's might be in the midst of a complex and critical procedure.

"You missed the best part," one of the German girls whispered to me. "It took this guy a big time to learn his dancing moves for this scene. He crapped it up quite a few many times. And every time he crapped it up, this little guy with the Spiegel... the mirror, he pops out, and we watch him, with the hair combing, all again. If they just used all that stuff of him crapping it up and combing his hair while the little guy holds the mirror, I tell you, this would be a big comedy hit."

The director of the film stood beside his cinematographer, poised with one eye to the lens of the camera, and then gave his last instructions to the lighting crew. At a signal, the director's assistant called for all-quiet on the set. The cinematographer announced that the film was rolling.

"Cue sound!" the director commanded. "_And... _action!"

Music hammered into the set from large stadium speakers. It was the loudest that I'd ever heard Indian movie music played, and I loved it. The dancers, including the star, Kimi Katkar, pranced onto the artificial stage. Working the set and the crowd of extras, Kimi sashayed across the stage and made her way from table to table, dancing and miming her number all the while. The hero joined in the dance, and then ducked under a table when the actors playing the cops arrived. The whole sequence lasted only five minutes in the film, but it took all the morning to rehearse and most of the afternoon to shoot. My first taste of show business resulted in two brief sweeps of the camera that captured my wide smile as Kimi paused, in her seductive routine, at the back of my chair.

We sent the foreign tourists home in two cabs, and Lisa rode back to town with me on the Bullet. It was a warm evening and she removed her jacket to ride, pulling the clip from her long hair.

She wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed her cheek into my back. She was a good passenger: the kind who surrenders her will in unconditional trust, and blends her body to the nuance of the rider. Through my thin white shirt I felt the press of her breasts against my back. The shirt was open in the warm wind, and her hands clung to the tight skin of my waist. I never wore a helmet on the bike. There was a helmet clipped to the back of the seat for a passenger, but she chose not to wear it. Occasionally, when we stopped for the flow of traffic or to make a turn, a gust of wind whipped her long, curly blonde hair over my shoulder and into my mouth. The perfume of verbena flowers lingered on my lips. Her thighs clung to me, gently, and with a promise or a threat of the strength they possessed. I remembered those thighs, the skin as soft as moonlight on the palm of my hand that night at Karla's house. And then, as if she was reading my thoughts or joining them, she spoke when the bike stopped at a traffic signal.