"Only Mr. Krishna has continued to be my friend. It is he who called upon me to tell you my story. I am now finished with that story."

Krishna's voice barely croaked out the translation of the last sentence. I blinked and looked around. The proprietor's feet protruded from where he slept on the floor behind the counter. The room was quiet. There were no sounds from outside the building. My watch read 2:20.

I stood abruptly, accidentally knocking over the chair. My back ached and my spirit sagged from jet lag and fatigue. I stretched and kneaded the aching muscles near my spine.

Muktanandaji looked exhausted. He had removed his thick glasses and was rubbing tiredly at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Krishna reached for the last of Muktanandaji's cold coffee, gulped it down, and tried repeatedly to clear his throat.

"Do you . . . hrrghhhh . . . do you have questions, Mr. Luczak?"

I stared down at the two of them. I didn't trust my own voice to work. Krishna noisily cleared his nostrils with his fingers, spat on the floor, and spoke again. "Do you have any questions, sir?"

I stared impassively for a few more seconds before replying. "Only one question," I said. Krishna's eyebrows went up politely.

"What the hell," I began, ". . . what the goddamned hell does that . . . that story . . . have to do with the poet M. Das?" My fist seemed to slam down on the table of its own accord. The coffee cups leaped.

It was Krishna's turn to stare. I seemed to remember such a stare from my kindergarten teacher when I was five and had soiled my pants one day during nap time. Krishna turned to Muktanandaji and spoke five words. The young man wearily returned the heavy glasses to his face and answered in even fewer syllables.

Krishna looked up at me. "Surely you must know that it was M. Das we spoke of."

"Which?" I said stupidly. "Who? What the shit do you mean? Do you mean to say that the priest was the great poet, M. Das? Are you serious?"

"No," said Krishna levelly. "Not the priest."

"Well, who —"

"The sacrifice," said Krishna slowly as if speaking to a dull child. "The offering. Mr. M. Das was the one Mr. Muktanandaji brought as sacrifice."

That night I dreamed of corridors and caverns. Then the dream location shifted to the wholesale furniture warehouse on the near Southside of Chicago where I had worked during the summer of my sophomore year in college. The warehouse was closed but I continued to wander through an endless series of display rooms all crowded with furniture. The air smelled of Herculon fabric and cheap wood polish. I began to run, dodging through the tightly packed displays. I had suddenly remembered that Amrita and Victoria were still in the store somewhere and that if I didn't find them soon, we would all be locked in overnight. I didn't want them alone there, waiting for me, locked into the darkness. I ran, shouting their names, moving from room to room, shouting.

The phone rang. I reached for our travel alarm clock on the bedside table but the sound continued. It was 8:05 A.M. Just as I figured out that it was the telephone making the noise, Amrita came in from the bathroom and answered it. I dozed during her conversation. The sound of the shower running brought me up out of sleep again.

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Chatterjee," Amrita called over the running water. "You won't be able to pick up Das's manuscript until tomorrow. He apologized for the delay. Other than that, everything's all set."

"Mmmm. Damn. Another day."

"We're invited to tea at four."

"Hmmm? Where?"

"Mr. Michael Leonard Chatterjee's. He'll send his car. Do you want to go down to breakfast with your daughter and me?"

"Mmm." I pulled the extra pillow to my face and went back to sleep.

It seemed five minutes later that Amrita came through the door carrying Victoria. A waiter in white followed her with a tray. The travel clock read 10:28.

"Thank you," said Amrita. She set the baby on the carpet and tipped the waiter several rupees. Victoria clapped her hands and threw her head back to watch the man leave. Amrita picked up the tray, balanced it on one hand, and put a finger under her chin while executing a graceful curtsy in my direction. "Namastey and good morning, sahib. The management wishes you a wonderful and pleasant day although most of it is, alas, already gone. Yes, yes, yes."

I propped myself up in bed and she dusted off my lap with a napkin and carefully set the tray in place. Then she curtsied again and held out her hand, palm up. I dropped a sprig of parsley in it.

"Keep the change," I said.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, most generous sahib," she sang while backing away in an obsequious series of bows. Victoria put three fingers in her mouth and watched us dubiously.

"I thought you were going sari hunting today," I said. Amrita pushed back the heavy curtains and I squinted in the gray glare. "Christ," I said, "is that really sunlight? In Calcutta?"

"Kamakhya and I have already been shopping. Very nice shop. Quite reasonable, actually."

"Didn't find anything?"

"Oh, yes. They'll deliver the material later. We each bought yards and yards. I probably spent your entire advance."

"Damn." I looked down and made a face.

"What's the matter, Bobby? Is your coffee cold?"

"No, it's fine. Very good, in fact. I just realized that I missed my chance to see Kamakhya again. Damn."

"You'll survive," Amrita said and placed Victoria on the bed to change her.

The coffee was good, and there was more in a small metal pot. I uncovered the plate to reveal two eggs, buttered toast, and . . . marvel of marvels . . . three strips of real bacon. "Fantastic," I said. "Thanks, kid."

"Oh, it was nothing," said Amrita. "Of course, the kitchen had been closed for hours, but I told them that it was for the famous poet in Room 612. The poet that stays out most of the night swapping war stories with the boys and then comes home chuckling to himself loudly enough to wake his wife and baby."

"Sorry."

"What was that conference about last night? You were mumbling to yourself in your sleep until I nudged you."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry."

She taped Victoria's new diaper in place, disposed of the old one, and came back to sit on the edge of the bed. "Honestly, Bobby, what revelations did Krishna's Mysterious Stranger come up with? Was he a real person?"

I offered her a wedge of toast. She shook her head no and then lifted it from my fingers and took a bite. "Do you really want to hear the story?" I asked.

Amrita nodded. I took a sip of coffee, decided not to give a blow-by-blow synopsis, and began talking in a light, slightly sarcastic tone of voice. Pausing occasionally to give my opinion of certain parts of the tale by shaking my head or making short remarks, I managed to retell Muktanandaji's three-hour monologue in less than ten minutes.

"My God," said Amrita when I was finished. She seemed distracted, even disturbed.

"Well, anyway, it was a hell of a way to end my first full day in beautiful downtown Calcutta," I said.

"Weren't you frightened, Bobby?"

"Good God, no. Why should I be, kiddo? The only thing that worried me was getting back to the hotel with my billfold still on my person."

"Yes, but . . ." Amrita stopped, went over to Victoria, returned a dropped pacifier to her hand, and came back to the bed. "If nothing else, I mean, you spent the evening with a madman, Robert. I wish . . . I wish I had been there to interpret."

"Me too," I said truthfully. "As far as I know, Muktanandaji spent the entire time reciting the Gettysburg Address over and over in Bengali while Krishna made up the ghost story."