Page 76 of Six Days in Bombay

Paolo seemed dazed. “This is the woman who took care of Mira. Miss Falstaff, this is my wife, Whitney.”

Whitney frowned. “Took care of her…how?”

Paolo ran a thumbnail across his forehead and inspected the floor. “When Mira was in the hospital.”

His wife narrowed her eyes. “Mira was in the hospital?”

I stood up calmly. I was familiar with her type, the kind of woman who could easily spiral into hysteria. “I was her nurse, ma’am. At Wadia Hospital in Bombay.”

Whitney, who still hadn’t moved from the sideboard, said, “Why?”

I was confused. “I work there, ma’am.”

“No, you goose. Why was Mira there?”

I looked at Paolo. It was his duty to tell his wife. But he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the floor.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s happened?” Whitney then looked at her husband. “Oh, my god. Has something happened to the baby? Paolo! Is the baby alright?”

I looked from one to the other. Mira had said something about Paolo after learning she’d lost the baby. How did Whitney figure into it? I was in the middle of something I didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. My neck was getting hot, and I hoped they hadn’t noticed the pink mottling around my throat.

Whitney stood with her mouth agape. She turned to her husband. “So there is to be no baby?”

Paolo looked at his wife, incredulous. “There is no more Mira. Mira’s been stripped of her life. Think about that.” Anger turned his skin darker.

His wife raised her tweezed eyebrows, incredulous. “But we were supposed to have a baby. We were supposed to get the baby. That was the bargain.”

“But Mira—”

Whitney walked toward him. She pointed a pink fingernail at her chest. “I don’t care about Mira. I never have. If we don’t have a baby, we don’t get this.” She spread her arms wide. “We don’t get the apartment. We don’t get the monthly allowance. We don’t get anything but what you make from your…paintings…such as they are.”

Paolo’s eyebrows drew together. “What does that mean?”

His wife waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, for God’s sake, Paolo. You’re copying old masters.”

Paolo’s nostrils flared. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”

“Because your other paintings don’t sell,caro! I thought you were going to be one of those successful painters like de Chirico.” She put a hand to her forehead. Paolo’s jaw tensed. He opened his mouth to say something just as Whitney seemed to realize I was still in the room. She turned to face me. “Is there anything more you have to tell us?”

I thought of the painting in my bag, but I didn’t think it wise to give it to him in front of his wife. “No. I should—I should go.” I started to walk toward the front door. “Perhaps, Mr. Puccini, you could walk me out. It’s getting dark.”

“Of course.” Was that relief I saw on his face? He would rather deal with his wife later, which I understood. We left before she could object.

In the elevator, Paolo reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He tapped one out of the pack—it was labeled Nazionali—and reached for his vesta case for matches. “We evenhave to smoke Italian cigarettes because of him,” he muttered. “They taste like cow piss.”

I assumed he was talking about Mussolini.

When we crossed the courtyard to the street entrance, Paolo said. “Whitney’s father owns this palazzo. He’s American. Shipping magnate. He bought this building cheap from an Italian family who lost everything in the stock market crash. Then he divided the residence into four apartments, one of which we live in. He’s never taken to me. Probably because I’m not the kind of person he wanted for his daughter.” Paolo sighed. “He will let us stay in our apartment and Whitney will inherit the entire building upon his death but only if we give him a grandchild. Whitney and I can’t have children. Which is why Mira was helping us out.”

Under the streetlight, he watched me while I thought about what he’d said. So Mira was having a baby for the Puccinis? I supposed there were all sorts of arrangements for couples who wanted to adopt. This one shocked me, not only because I hadn’t come across it before but because this one involved Mira, a woman who, by all accounts, hadn’t wanted children.

When I could find my voice, I asked, “But how?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, wouldn’t her husband want to claim the baby? I mean he would think it was his, wouldn’t he?”

Paolo sighed. He looked crestfallen.

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