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had to pace himself while watching the slow erosion of Berystede’s ice cubes, the sorry dilution of fine whisky.
    “You’re a local boy, aren’t you, Harry?”
    “Not far from here. Serampore.”
    “It must be nice to be near home.”
    “I spent most of my childhood at boarding school. I know more about Jubbulpore than about my home town.”
    “You went to Christ Church?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “None of that sir, sir in the mess, Harry. Call me Edgar.”
    “Edgar.” Harry skidded his chair a few inches closer, not to be intimate, but to place himself directly under the electric fan, which was churning the smoky air with a desperate chug-chug. He glanced quickly at the bar, where Tunsdale waggled his eyebrows at him and raised a tumbler.
    “And what business is your father in?”
    Harry took out his cigarette case. “Unfortunately, my father is dead. But my grandfather is quite alive.” He tapped a cigarette on the case. “We’re in jute.”
    “Yes. Fine stuff, that.”
    “My grandfather says that he owes much to war and that having me in the military is somehow settling his debt.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Jute is fine stuff, true, but it became profitable during the Great War when it was needed to make sandbags.”
    Berystede responded with a gruff “Haw, haw.”
    At the bar, Tunsdale was balancing a cigarette on his forehead. No doubt, someone now owed him a drink. Harry looked back to the major. The major was studying Harry’s face, the aquiline nose, the deepset hazel eyes, the anomalies that made Harry untouchable and handsome.
    “Gillen . . . Is that Scottish?” asked Berystede.
    “My grandfather is from Aberdeen.”
    “And your mother?”
    “From Goa, a Christian. She met my father while vacationing in Simla.”
    “And I’m all English,” said Berystede, leaning in. “Although I think there’s a lot to be said for cross-breeding, hybrid vigor and the like.” The major signaled a waiter for another round and Harry realized that the reason he drank so lightly was that liquor went straight to his head. “Take you, for example,” he said. “Thefinest horseman in the area.” Berystede leaned back into the cushion of his chair. His pale blue eyes narrowed. Harry knew the conversation had taken a direction. “Harry,” said the major, “have you ever thought of joining the club?”
    “The club?” Harry composed his features and his head moved to one side. “I can’t say that I have.”
    “Well, why not?”
    “With all due respect, although I am often termed a European I am undeniably Indian.”
    “The club takes Indians. We voted on it six months ago.”
    “I’m aware of that, sir. However, how many Indians are members?”
    “You’d be the first one.”
    Harry rattled his ice cubes. “I am intrigued.”
    “You are polite. You’re wondering why I’m so determined to make you a member.”
    “I’ll ask you civilly,” said Harry and smiled. “To what do I owe this honor?”
    “Honestly? You owe this honor to polo. We lack the numbers and you’re the best player at camp.”
    Harry nodded a couple of times. Berystede’s earnest, vulnerable face was gratifying and for a moment Harry toyed with the idea of telling the major that he wasn’t interested, not at all, in joining the estimable club.
    Harry waited in line for water with an Australian named Smalls. Three years in Changi had transformed Smalls from an already wiry man into a knot of leather and bile. Smalls was Harry’s closest friend. Harry found little to like about him, but Smalls took survival for granted, and in that he was singular. He also maintained a healthy anger and could find a responsible party for any indignity or pain, which made prison life seem less of a series of divine slights. For example, the tinea that had first ravaged Harry’s feet, then buckled his nails until they dropped off. Thefungus had lodged in his testicles where it burned and itched, making him sleep only in fits. There was fungus