“A hundred?”

His smile flips on like a switch. “Wrong! Four hundred. Now do you know how many films Bollywood produces a year? I won’t make you guess because you will be wrong.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Eight hundred!”

“Eight hundred,” I repeat because it’s clear he thinks the number warrants repeating.

“Yes!” He’s smiling broadly now. “Twice the number of Hollywood. Do you know how many people in India go to the movies every single day?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Fourteen million. Do fourteen million people go to the movies every day in Germany?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m from Holland. But given that the entire population isn’t much more than sixteen million, I doubt it.”

He beams with pride now.

We exit the expressway onto the streets of what must be colonial Mumbai and turn into an area with an arbor of trees and a line of idling double-decker buses belching out black exhaust.

“There is the Gateway of India,” Prateek says, pointing out a carved arch monument on the edge of the Arabian Sea. “The Taj Mahal Hotel I told you about,” he says, pulling past a massive confection of a hotel, all domes and cornices. A group of Arab men in billowing white robes are piling into a series of window-tinted SUVs. “Inside is a Starbucks.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Have you ever had a Starbucks coffee?”

“I have.”

“My cousin said that in America they drink it with every meal.” He pulls up in front of another graying building, Victorian, and it seems, almost sweating in the heat. The sign, in fading elaborate cursive, reads bo bay ro al. “Here you are. Bombay Royale.”

I follow Prateek into a darkened, cool lobby, quiet except for the whoosh and squeak of ceiling fans and the faint chirping of crickets nesting somewhere in the walls. Behind a long mahogany desk, a man so old he seems original to the building is napping. Prateek loudly rings the bell and he startles awake.

Immediately, the two start arguing, mostly in Hindi but with a few English words thrown in here and there. “Regulations,” the old man keeps saying.

Eventually, Prateek turns to me. “He says you can’t stay here.”

I shake my head. Why did she bring me here? Why did I come?

“It’s a private residence club, not a hotel,” Prateek explains.

“Yes. I’ve heard of those.”

Prateek frowns. “There are other hotels in Colaba.”

“But this must be the place.” This is the address I’ve had for her for the last few years. “Look under my mother’s name. Yael Shiloh.”

At the mention of her name, the old man’s head whips up. “Willem saab?” he asks.

“Willem. Yes, that’s me.”

He squints his eyes and grasps my hands. “You are nothing like the memsahib,” he says.

I don’t have to know what that means to know who he’s talking about. It’s what everyone says.

“But where is she?” he asks.

There’s a kernel of comfort. I’m not the only one in the dark. “Oh, you know her,” I say.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, doing the same head nod/shake as Prateek.

“So can I go to her flat?” I ask the old man.

He considers it, scratching the gray stubble on his chin. “Regulations say only members can stay here. When memsahib makes you a member, you will be a member.”

“But she’s not here,” Prateek points out helpfully.

“Regulations,” the old man says.

“But you knew I was coming,” I say.

“But you are not with her. What if you are not really you? Do you have proof?”

Proof? Like what. A surname? Mine is different. Photos? “Here,” I say, pulling out the email, now damp and creased.

He squints at it with dark eyes that have gone filmy with age. He must decide it’s enough. Because he gives two quick nods of his head and says, “Welcome, Willem saab.”

“At last,” Prateek says

“I am Chaudhary,” the old man says, ignoring Prateek and handing me a sheaf of papers to fill out. When I finish, he heaves at the opening to the front desk and creaks out from behind. He shuffles down the scuffed wooden hallway. I follow him. Prateek trails behind me. When we reach the elevators, Chaudhary makes a tick-tock gesture to Prateek with his fingers. “Members only in the elevator,” he tells him. “You may take the stairs.”

“But he’s with me,” I say.

“Regulations, Willem saab.”

Prateek shakes his head. “I should probably get the car back to my uncle,” he says.

“Okay, let me pay you.” I pull out a wad of filthy rupees.

“Three hundred rupees for no AC. Four hundred with,” Chaudhary says. “That’s the law.”

I hand Prateek five hundred rupees, about the price of a sandwich back home. He backs up to leave. “Hey, what about that korma?” I ask him.

His smile is goofy, a little like Broodje’s. “I will be in touch,” he promises.

The elevator lurches to the fifth floor. Chaudhary opens the gate onto a light-filled corridor, smelling of floor wax and incense. He leads me past a series of slatted wood doors, stopping at the farthest one, and pulls out a master key.

At first, I think the old man got the wrong room. Yael has lived here for two years, but this is an empty suite of rooms. Anonymous bulky wood furniture, generic paintings on the wall of desert forts and Bengal tigers. A small round table against a pair of French doors.

And then I smell it. Beneath the competing scents of onion and incense and ammonia and wax, is the undeniable smell of citrus and wet earth. The scent, I realize with the clarity of something you’ve always known, but never needed to recognize before, of my mother.

I take a tentative step into the hallway and another blast hits me. And just like that, I’m not in India. I’m back in Amsterdam, at home, a long summer twilight. It had finally stopped raining, so Yael and Bram were outside, celebrating the minor miracle of sunshine. Still cold from the rain, I stayed huddled inside under a scratchy wool blanket and watched them through the big picture window. Some students who lived in one of the flats across the canal were blasting music. A song came on, something old and New Wave from when Yael and Bram were younger, and he grabbed her and they danced, head to head, even though it wasn’t a slow song. I watched them through the glass, fixed on the sight of them, pretending not to be. I must’ve been eleven or twelve, an age when such displays should’ve embarrassed me, but didn’t. Yael saw me watching, and—this is what surprised me then, still surprises me now as I remember it—she came inside. She didn’t exactly drag me out or invite me to dance with them, as Bram might’ve. She just folded up the blanket and pulled me up by the elbow. I was enveloped by her smell, oranges and leaves, that ever-present loamy tang of her tinctures, and the canals and all their murky secrets. I tried to make it like I was acquiescing, allowing myself to be led, giving no trace of how happy I was. But I must not have been able to fully contain it because she smiled back at me and said, “We have to snatch the sun when we have it, don’t we?”

She could be warm like that. But it came and went with as much regularity as the Dutch sun. Except with Bram. But maybe it was reflected warmth—he was her sun, after all.

After Chaudhary leaves, I lie down on the sofa. My head rests uncomfortably against the heavy wood arm but I don’t move, because I’m in the sunlight and the heat feels necessary, like a transfusion of sorts. I should probably get in touch with Yael, I think, but drowsiness and jetlag and a certain kind of relief are pulling me under, and before I can do so much as remove my shoes, I am asleep.

• • •

I’m flying again. Back on a plane, which feels wrong because I just got off a plane. But it’s so vivid and real it takes a beat longer than usual to recognize it as the dream; and then it warps and becomes lurid and surreal, heavy and slow, the way dreams do when your mind is rebelling against a betrayed body clock. Maybe that’s why in this dream, there is no landing. No illumination of the seatbelt sign, no inaudible announcement from the captain. Just the buzz of the engines, the feeling of being aloft. Just flying.