“She’s a girl,” Nash answers. “Cute. Ginger hair. She’s at the ashram but she might come out in a day or two. She’s tall. Oh, Tasha already said that. Shit, here comes the assistant director dude. Hide the joint.”

Tasha pinches the joint between her fingers just as a birdlike man comes and looks at us. Even though Tasha is holding the joint, it’s me he focuses on. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture, and then disappears without saying a word.

“Oh. Shit,” Tasha says, giggling. “We got caught.”

“He got caught,” Nash says. “They only took his picture.” He sounds a bit insulted.

“If there’s hash, you always blame the Dutchman,” I say.

“Oh, right,” Nash says, nodding.

“I’m paranoid now,” Tasha says.

“Let’s get back. Save the rest of that for later,” Nash says.

With the hash buzzing around my head, the waiting on set goes slower, not faster. I spend a few minutes twirling a rupee coin across my hand but I keep dropping it. I turn on my phone to play some solitaire, but then, on a strange stoned whim, use my phone for its intended purpose. I make a call.

“Hello . . . this is Willem,” I say when she picks up.

“I know who this is.” I can hear fury in her voice. Even calling her gets me in trouble? “Where are you?” she asks.

“I’m on a film set. I’m acting in a Bollywood movie for the next few days.”

Silence. Yael never had much patience for “low” culture, outside of the cheesy Israeli pop music she couldn’t resist. She didn’t like movies or TV shows. She surely thinks all this is a waste of time.

“And when did you decide to do this?” she says at last. Her voice is flinty enough to spark a fire.

“Yesterday. This morning officially.”

“And when did you think to tell me?”

Maybe it’s the hash, but I actually laugh out loud. Because it’s just funny—in the way that absurd things are.

Yael doesn’t think so. “What’s so amusing?”

“What’s so amusing?” I ask. “You wanting to know my itinerary, that’s pretty amusing. When you haven’t given a thought to my whereabouts, my well-being for the last three years. When you brought me over to India and then a week later shipped me right back off again and didn’t bother to call once. You couldn’t even be bothered to come to the airport to pick me up. Oh, I know there was an emergency, something more important, but there always is, isn’t there? So why would you need to know that I was acting in a Bollywood movie?”

I stop. And it’s like the effects of the hash have worn off, taking my anger—or my bravery—with them.

“The reason I would need to know,” she says, her voice measured, infuriatingly so, “is so I would know not to come to the airport this time to pick you up.”

After she hangs up, I turn my phone over. I see the half dozen missed calls, the Where are you? texts.

Another missed connection. Story of my life these days.

Twenty-six

That night, we finish up at eight and pile into a rickety bus for an hour-long ride to a squat cement hotel where we’re put four to a room. I wind up with Nash and Tasha and Argin, another acolyte from their ashram. The three of them pass a joint around and tell repeating stories about reaching enlightenment. They offer the joint to me, but after the afternoon’s hash-fueled debacle with Yael, I don’t trust myself. Eventually, I fall asleep, but I’m woken up in the middle of the night to the enthusiastic squeaking of the bedframe. Nash and Tasha. Or maybe all three of them. It is extremely unpleasant—and it’s pathetic because I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

The next day, on set, it’s more of the same. After I put on my suit, I see Prateek for half a second before he dashes off. “Must find more people,” he calls to me. “Three left yesterday. I need four today!” Neema evil-eyes me. The assistant director snaps another picture. They really are serious about the suit.

Late that afternoon Prateek returns with new recruits, including a leggy woman with reddish hair streaked through with pink.

“Jules!” Nash and Tasha scream when she arrives. They all hug and dance in a small circle and then Tasha waves me over.

“Jules,” she says. “This is Willem. We’ve decided he’s perfect for you.”

“Oh have you?” Jules rolls her eyes a bit. She is tall, not quite as tall as me, but nearly. “I’m Jules, but apparently you already know that,” she says.

“I’m Willem.”

“I like your suit, Willem.”

“You should. It’s a very special suit. So special they keep snapping my picture to make sure I don’t mess it up.”

“Clearly you’re a man who knows his way around a closet. I’m supposed to get into wardrobe. Show me where to go?”

“Glad to.”

She links an arm around mine as we walk to the racks. “So you met Nash and Tash, I see?”

“I had the pleasure of spending the night with them.”

She makes a face. “They had sex, didn’t they?”

I nod.

She shakes her head. “My condolences.”

I laugh at that.

“Well, I’m staying in the room with you tonight. I’ll try to even things out.” She gives me a look. “Not like that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“All I’m thinking about is getting you into a dress,” I say.

“Really?” she asks. “Getting me into a dress?”

I laugh again. Jules has got her arm wrapped around mine, which is a pleasant distraction from the hangover I’ve had since yesterday’s fight with Yael. Girls have always been the best distractions.

Until a girl became the thing I needed distraction from.

Twenty-seven

It’s after five when we finally get around to shooting. Our scene is a song, the moment when Billy Devali’s character first meets Amisha Rai’s and is so besotted he breaks out singing and playing the piano. We are all supposed to watch, mesmerized by this authentic display of love at first sight. At the end, we clap.

We spend the rest of the day shooting. When we break for the day, the assistant director tells us to plan on staying at least two more days. Prateek takes me aside to say it’ll probably be more than that and would I mind staying? I don’t mind. I’m quite happy to stay until I fly back to Holland.

We’re lining up for the bus again, when the assistant director snaps yet another picture of me. “Man, they’re building a serious case against you,” Nash says.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m not even wearing the suit right now.”

That night in the hotel, there are five of us. Nash, Tasha, Argin, me and Jules. Jules and I share a mattress on the floor. Nothing happens. Not with us, anyhow. Her presence does little to stop Nash and Tasha from their late-night calisthenics, but when it happens, I can see Jules quaking with laughter, and then I am, too.

She rolls over on her side to face me. “Misery loves company,” she whispers.

The next day, I’m in the lunch queue for some dal and rice when the assistant director taps me on the back. I even pose this time for the anticipated photo, but there’s no camera. Instead he instructs me to come with him.

“Did you stain the suit?” Jules calls after me.

Arun trots up behind us, followed by Prateek, who looks stricken. How much can this suit be worth?

“What’s going on?” I ask Prateek as we walk past the set and toward the row of trailers.

“Faruk! Khan!” He sputters the name like a cough.

“What about Faruk Khan?” But before Prateek can answer, I’m pulled up the stairs and pushed into one of the trailers. Inside, Faruk Khan, Amisha Rai, and Billy Devali are sitting in a huddle. They all stare at me for what seems like an eternity, until Billy finally booms, “There! Did I not tell you?”

Amisha lights another cigarette and kicks up her bare feet, which are covered with vinelike henna tattoos. “You are absolutely right,” she says in a lilting accent. “He looks like an American movie star.”

“Like that one,” Billy snaps his fingers. “Heath Ledger.”

“Only not dead,” Faruk says.

They cluck in agreement.

“I think Heath Ledger was from Australia,” I say.

“Never mind that,” Faruk says. “Where are you from? America? UK?”

“Holland.”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “You don’t have an accent.”

“You almost sound British,” Amisha says. “Close enough to South African.”

“This is closer to South African,” I say in a clipped Afrikaans accent.

Amisha claps her hands. “He can do accents.”

“Afrikaans is close to Dutch,” I explain.

“Have you ever acted before?” Faruk asks.

“Not really.”

“Not really?” Amisha asks, arching an eyebrow.

“A little Shakespeare.”

“You cannot say ‘not really’ and then say you’ve done William Shakespeare,” Faruk says scornfully. “What is your name? Or should we call you Mr. Not Really?”

“I prefer Willem. Willem de Ruiter.”

“Bit of a mouthful,” Billy says.

“Not a good stage name,” Amisha says.

“He can change it,” Billy says. “All the Americans do.”

“Like the Indians don’t,” Amisha says. “Billy.”

“I’m not American,” I interrupt. “I’m Dutch.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. de . . . Willem,” Faruk says. “No matter. We have a problem. One of our Western actors, an American named Dirk Digby, he lives in Dubai, perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

I shake my head.

“Never mind. It appears Mr. Digby had some last-minute problems with the contract and had to make other plans, and this leaves us with a small part open. It’s a South African diamond dealer, shady character, who tries to woo our Miss Rai while also trying to steal her family’s Shakti diamond. Not a large part, but significant, and we find ourselves in a bit of a bind. We were looking for someone who can look the part and who can manage a few lines of Hindi and a few lines of English. How are you with languages?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “I grew up speaking several.”

“Okay, try this line,” Faruk says, and he reads me something.

“Tell me what it means.”

“You see?” Amisha says. “A natural actor would want to know. I don’t think Dirk ever knows what he’s saying.”

Faruk waves her off. He turns to me. “You are trying to keep Amisha’s character, Heera, from marrying Billy here, but really, you only want her family’s diamonds. It’s in English with some Hindi. This is the part where you tell Heera you know who she is, and that her name means diamond. I’ll say it, you repeat?”

“Okay.”