potential client at a hotel near Rishikesh, my brother's place," Shah said. "One Mr. Audie Blunden. He owns a mail-order housewares catalogue. He wants prices on power tools."
"The question is whether they'd meet the codes."
"Meet and surpass codes," Shah said insistently. "You can make anything in India."
They were in the boardroom, waiting for Mr. Desai and his entourage.
"Kinda wood is this table?" Dwight asked.
"Deek," said Manoj Verma. "You want some? I can arrange consignment."
"That some kinda Indian wood?"
"Deek? You don't have in Estates?"
"Never heard of it."
But
you can make anything in India,
he remembered. He was thinking of it now as he looked past portly, confident Mr. M. V Desai, his assistant Miss Bhatia, their lawyer Mr. R.R.K. Prakashnarayan in a thick cotton knot-textured jacket, Manoj Verma the product analyst, Ravi Ramachandran on the right-hand side munching wood shavings, Taljinder Singh in his tightly wound helmet-like turban, Miss Sheela Chakravarti taking notes, and last Mr. J. J. Shahâindispensable Shahâalso a lawyer, who was a master of postures and faces, scowling in disbelief, distrust, his defiant smile saying,
No. Never. Prove it.
Shah always had the right answer. He said enigmatically,
I am Jain, sir.
Dwight, trying another joke, said,
And I'm Tarzan.
And he looked past the end of the table, the empty chair, out the window, below the level of the stained rooftops, the rusted propped-up water tanks, to the Gateway of India, where he could see the people milling around, promenading, as Indians seemed inclined to do at the end of the day, near the harbor, the gray soupy water, the people just splotches of colored clothing, but he knew that each of them was there for a purpose.
"Do you not agree, Mr. Hund?" Shah asked. In a country where anyone could say Vijayanagar and Subramaniam, "Huntsinger" was unpronounceable. So he said, "Call me Hunt. All my friends do." But "Hund" made him smile.
The way the question was framed was a kind of code, meaning that Shah approved of the terms of the deal and the answer had to be yes.
"Absolutely," Dwight said, but his gaze returned to the window, the stone arch far below, the shuffling people.
He had stopped following the negotiation. He had a stomach for details, but not Indian detailsâminutiae, escape clauses, fine print, subsections of clauses. His presence was important to the meeting, but not his participation. In fact, he had discovered that his saying little added to his mystique and gave him more power for his seeming enigmatic. He had learned early on in Indian business deals that the power brokers were men of few words, well known and even revered for their silences. Underlings could be talkers, chatterers, hand wringers, anguished in their bowing and nodding. He had seen a man in a diving attempt to touch Mr. M. V Desai's foot in a show of respect, which was another reason for his saying,
You bet your sweet ass I am.
Touching his foot!
Anyway, the deal was apparently done. They had found a supplier, they had agreed to a price structure, they had approved the samplesâthe ribbed, composite roof tiles of fibrous plastic that looked so odd on the lovely table, identical to the ones made in Rhode Island at eight times the price, same quality, no liabilities, no restrictions on the noxious fumes such plastic-making producedâa class-action lawsuit was pending in Providence. The idea was to encourage the Indian tile maker to build inventory, to keep this supplier desperate and backed up and hungry, one or two payments in arrears. Shah would handle that.
Dwight's attention had drifted from the boardroom to the promenade at the Gateway of India, where he'd been walking off his three days of jet lag, enjoying the late-afternoon coolness, the breeze from the harbor, and a bit fearful away from his suite.
"Ess crim. Ess-ess."
He almost bought an ice cream, then remembered that he might poison himself. Instead he bought a
"The question is whether they'd meet the codes."
"Meet and surpass codes," Shah said insistently. "You can make anything in India."
They were in the boardroom, waiting for Mr. Desai and his entourage.
"Kinda wood is this table?" Dwight asked.
"Deek," said Manoj Verma. "You want some? I can arrange consignment."
"That some kinda Indian wood?"
"Deek? You don't have in Estates?"
"Never heard of it."
But
you can make anything in India,
he remembered. He was thinking of it now as he looked past portly, confident Mr. M. V Desai, his assistant Miss Bhatia, their lawyer Mr. R.R.K. Prakashnarayan in a thick cotton knot-textured jacket, Manoj Verma the product analyst, Ravi Ramachandran on the right-hand side munching wood shavings, Taljinder Singh in his tightly wound helmet-like turban, Miss Sheela Chakravarti taking notes, and last Mr. J. J. Shahâindispensable Shahâalso a lawyer, who was a master of postures and faces, scowling in disbelief, distrust, his defiant smile saying,
No. Never. Prove it.
Shah always had the right answer. He said enigmatically,
I am Jain, sir.
Dwight, trying another joke, said,
And I'm Tarzan.
And he looked past the end of the table, the empty chair, out the window, below the level of the stained rooftops, the rusted propped-up water tanks, to the Gateway of India, where he could see the people milling around, promenading, as Indians seemed inclined to do at the end of the day, near the harbor, the gray soupy water, the people just splotches of colored clothing, but he knew that each of them was there for a purpose.
"Do you not agree, Mr. Hund?" Shah asked. In a country where anyone could say Vijayanagar and Subramaniam, "Huntsinger" was unpronounceable. So he said, "Call me Hunt. All my friends do." But "Hund" made him smile.
The way the question was framed was a kind of code, meaning that Shah approved of the terms of the deal and the answer had to be yes.
"Absolutely," Dwight said, but his gaze returned to the window, the stone arch far below, the shuffling people.
He had stopped following the negotiation. He had a stomach for details, but not Indian detailsâminutiae, escape clauses, fine print, subsections of clauses. His presence was important to the meeting, but not his participation. In fact, he had discovered that his saying little added to his mystique and gave him more power for his seeming enigmatic. He had learned early on in Indian business deals that the power brokers were men of few words, well known and even revered for their silences. Underlings could be talkers, chatterers, hand wringers, anguished in their bowing and nodding. He had seen a man in a diving attempt to touch Mr. M. V Desai's foot in a show of respect, which was another reason for his saying,
You bet your sweet ass I am.
Touching his foot!
Anyway, the deal was apparently done. They had found a supplier, they had agreed to a price structure, they had approved the samplesâthe ribbed, composite roof tiles of fibrous plastic that looked so odd on the lovely table, identical to the ones made in Rhode Island at eight times the price, same quality, no liabilities, no restrictions on the noxious fumes such plastic-making producedâa class-action lawsuit was pending in Providence. The idea was to encourage the Indian tile maker to build inventory, to keep this supplier desperate and backed up and hungry, one or two payments in arrears. Shah would handle that.
Dwight's attention had drifted from the boardroom to the promenade at the Gateway of India, where he'd been walking off his three days of jet lag, enjoying the late-afternoon coolness, the breeze from the harbor, and a bit fearful away from his suite.
"Ess crim. Ess-ess."
He almost bought an ice cream, then remembered that he might poison himself. Instead he bought a
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