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diplomat, she could have essentially ceased being Dalit. She wouldn’t do that. She taught art to Dalit kids and worked with various aid agencies active in Dharavi right up until she died. She was”—Sam paused as he grappled for the right word—“extraordinary.” The word was a poor stand-in for how Sam felt, but it would have to do.
    â€œI know that I’m the one who is technically married, but I can’t help being a little bit jealous of Janani. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
    â€œQuite the contrary. She’d like that. Janani never shied away from a little competition.”
    Sam reached over Vanalika for the iPhone that was sitting on the nightstand. Argus had offered him a government-standard BlackBerry, but the IT department was willing to at least tolerate his iPhone, something the more controlling State Department would never do. He glanced at the screen. There was still no reception.
    â€œThe one woman in my life I really need to talk to I can’t reach,” he complained.
    â€œLena?”
    â€œYeah. It’s her birthday. She’s twenty-four today. What does that make me? Thirty-eight, maybe?”
    Vanalika laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re not old, Sam. You have some miles on you. But the warranty’s still good.” Vanalika was almost ten years younger than Sam. She teased him about his age occasionally, but always gently, as though she knew he was sensitive about it. Sam was not one of those men who felt compelled to fend off awareness of their own creeping mortality by chasing after much younger partners. He had had opportunities. Women, he knew, found him attractive, even if in something of an unconventional way. One former girlfriend had described his appeal as “nerd chic.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” Vanalika continued. “Why don’t you get dressed and go get us a bottle of wine at that place we passed on the way in. There should be reception down there and you can call Lena. And I’d like a bottle of West Virginia’s finest cabernet.”
    â€œYou want some pâté on a crusty baguette to go with that? Maybe a moon rock or a piece of the true Cross?”
    â€œJust go,” Vanalika said, pushing him playfully toward the edge of the bed. “If you can find even a halfway decent bottle of wine, I’ll find a suitable way to reward you. I promise.”
    Sam dressed quickly and stepped out into the crisp chill. Up here in the mountains, winter had not quite released its grip. The drive down to Mathias took no more than fifteen minutes. In honor of his daughter, Sam popped Lena Horne’s 1962 album
Lena on the Blue Side
into the CD player and listened to her velvet voice as he steered his Prius down the dark and windy road. He and Janani had shared a love for Lena Horne’s music, and they had listened to her so much through the course of the pregnancy that it seemed a natural choice to give her name to their daughter. In a box somewhere in the attic of their Capitol Hill townhouse, Sam still had the vinyl LPs they had played.
    Mathias had a family-style restaurant, a general store, and three bars of cell reception. Sam parked in front of the general store and used his Skype app to make a call to Mumbai. It would be morning there, but Lena was an early riser. She picked up on the third ring.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œHi, sweetie. Happy birthday.”
    â€œDad. How are you?”
    â€œExcept for the part where I’m eight thousand miles away from my little girl, I’m pretty good.”
    Lena had moved back to Mumbai after finishing her master’s degree in electrical engineering at Stanford University. She could have had her pick of jobs in the United States, but Lena said that she wanted a chance to live on her own in her mother’s hometown for at least a while, not as a “dependent” of the U.S. consulate, but as an Indian. She had a job at a high-tech