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Juliette awoke with a start. The room was completely dark, and David was absent. She leaned toward the alarm clock: it read 11:30 p.m. The emergency meeting had gone on forever, as always. She had no trouble picturing them all around the oval table in the conference room on Shantipath, listening to High Commissioner Raymond Bernatchez unloading on the people in Ottawa once again.

“They don’t grasp the first thing about the situation here in India!” As if to say, he, Bernatchez, the former pro football player, knew anything more than the newspaper clippings provided by the Press Service — this according to David. The first secretary, William Sandmill, was probably chewing his nails without letup and casting a look of dread at Bernatchez, obviously terrified to say anything lest he rile him further. The young Indian employee, Vandana Dasgoswami, was sparing no effort to calm everyone down so they could “get some perspective.” Claude Langevin from public relations had arrived late, as usual, despite the fact he and his small family lived right there in the compound. Sunil Mukherjee, Bernatchez’s personal secretary, ever the “liberated” Brahmin, as he called himself, was the one to whom the high commissioner turned whenever he wanted a reading on this particularly bewildering country. It was Henry Caldwell, commercial affairs adviser, who would normally be running this meeting if the presence of Bernatchez were not called for. Two years away from his retirement, “Old Caldwell” was disappointed to be finishing his career so far from the family farm his brother had just willed him, and he dreamed of returning to his native Saskatchewan. He spent his lunch hour immersed in the Massey-Ferguson catalogue or else the seed book a colleague at Agriculture Canada sent him every month.

That afternoon, thirty-five Hindus had been mas­sacred by Islamic extremists near Jammu, the winter capital of the state of Jammu and Kashmir, a reprisal for the murder of a thousand Muslims in Gujarat last March. In turn, fifty-nine Hindus had been burned alive in a railway car in the northern state. Such was the analysis of experts.

“You know what the worst part is?” David exclaimed when he told Juliette about it over the phone earlier that evening, “Just comfortably watching this storm and doing nothing.”

“But what else can you do? Remember what Vandana said: ‘We are nothing in the great horror of life’?”

“Yeah, well, she’s wrong.”

The hecatomb, or rather this series of them, only worsened an already-tense situation between Hindus and Muslims. It was one that had turned poisonous in December 2001. A suicide squad had attacked Lok Sabha, the Indian Parliament, in the heart of New Delhi, not far from Maharani Bagh, where David and Juliette lived. Responsibility for the assault had been claimed by Lashkar-e-Taiba, an extremist Islamic group, possibly the most deadly, based in Pakistan and fighting for either the independence of Indian Kashmir or its annexation to “the land of the pure.” Their specialty was terror strikes like this: a fire fight that had killed a dozen, including the commandos themselves.

Since then, and despite the shockwave and the breaking of diplomatic ties between India and Pakistan — whom New Delhi accused of supporting the jihadists — it was business as usual. “The illusion of normality,” David said. Now the Jammu massacre had undone all that, just as Canadian investors had recommenced their involvement in India, or so said High Commissioner Bernatchez. How to convince Canadian businessmen that things were now normal and would stay that way, despite the occasional “isolated incident” that shouldn’t affect long-term relations between the two countries? Now, repeat after me, nervous investors: one billion inhabitants …

The Montreal conference next month was aimed at calming everyone down, and now it might be postponed yet again, hence the emergency meeting of the relevant High Commission employees.

“You think this will take all night?” Juliette had asked, already knowing the answer.

“There’s nothing I can do.” As usual, she thought. Emergency or not, ever since the conference had loomed on the horizon, her husband had been keeping insane hours. He’d come in late when she was already in bed, ignore the cold plate Daya, the cook, had left in the fridge, and get right back to work early in the morning. Juliette suspected that Sandmill and Mukherjee, who were supposed to help, had left him to do it all alone. Okay, fine, so Bernatchez had unshakeable confidence in his young diplomat, but that wasn’t a good enough reason for David to risk burning himself out. However important Indo-Canadian trade relations were, they did not merit ruining his life.

He was taking on too much, as usual, Juliette recriminated, and his colleagues had noticed it, here and in Ottawa. He could always be reached at any time, day or night, not to mention the businessmen — oops, sorry, businesspeople — who’d bombarded him for weeks with questions about the political situation in the region, as though he, David O’Brien, an obscure diplomat in New Delhi, had any control over the great international cauldron. So he’d answer them in predictable diplomatic doubletalk. “Canada’s third official language,” he liked to say.

This evening, her husband’s absence had upset Juliette more than usual. She’d been waiting for the perfect moment to announce her pregnancy ever since Dr. Rangarajan at the Apollo Hospital had confirmed it; this was to be an event they’d remember forever, but the right time just never seemed to come along. Last week, David had gone to Kathmandu and left her alone, this time with his mother, Béatrice, who’d briefly stepped ashore between cruises on her way back from Thailand: “How bored you must be. I know. I’ve been there.”

Béatrice was likeable enough, not a burden, generous and well-meaning, but a bit too much for Juliette. Elegant and distinguished at fifty-three, she could still turn heads. She had boundless energy and stormed through other people’s lives with a vitality that was more than Juliette could stand. Besides, she just loved giving advice and instructions, which was all well and good, because, after all, she’d “been there.” Lately, though, Juliette just wanted to be alone with David.

Béatrice had finally gone back to Montreal the day before, but not before saying hello to Bernatchez, “poor Philippe’s friend.” Finally, Juliette would have David all to herself. So she had the big table with the white cloth set in the dining room, asked Iqbal the gardener to choose some flowers specially, and had Daya put a bottle of champagne on ice. Next, she slipped into her finest dress, but the phone rang, and David told her the meeting would be dragging on.

Juliette’s favourite time of day? Early in the morning, her “India moment,” as she called it. The rest of the day was spent with diplomats’ kids at the British School, which didn’t seem like India to her at all. It was an artificial oasis wholly apart from the sounds and smells of the country they were in. Here, in this neighbourhood, it was a different matter. The backfiring rickshaws zigzagging between overloaded buses; the shouts of merchants pushing tongas and carts to market; the “namastes” of the chai-wallahs — tea sellers — meandering through the new city looking for customers; the kids running after her the minute she stepped into the street and begging for candies, shouting, “ladu, ladu, ladu,” then getting back to their games as though nothing had interrupted them.

Ever since they’d arrived in India, Juliette had taken to lounging in bed in the mornings, since she taught only in the afternoons. David didn’t dare wake her. He ate alone the breakfast Daya left him, then got behind the wheel of the Volvo he’d picked up from his predecessor last June (along with the house and the guard, Adoor). In Ottawa, the couple had shared a small apartment in the Glebe before finding themselves in charge of a Spanish inn that made them feel like unwelcome guests. Still, Juliette was convinced she’d done the right thing following David to the ends of the earth.

Her friends, though, not so much. Juliette had cut short her studies of ancient languages to serve canapés and pastries to other diplomacy-widowed wives in a country where it was way too hot. Her future had been thrown away — “What about the master’s degree you wanted so badly?” — so she could act as a stand-in at embassy cocktail parties, a memsahib, a super house-slave, surrounded by inferior house-slaves. The young Juliette just smiled.

Upon arriving, she’d enrolled in Hindi and Urdu classes at Jawaharlal Nehru University: Hindi so she could tell Daya he could really lay on the spices, and Urdu to beg Iqbal not to plant marigolds, which she hated. Okay, they were very popular in India, but there was no need to turn her garden into a flower market, was there?

Then, in August, she’d found a job at the British School, or rather the oh-so-British Mrs. Fothergill had rounded her up to become part of her shock troops: “We mustn’t let the Yanks educate our children, must we?” she said over her cup of Darjeeling. She had an aversion to all things American, especially teachers. Juliette and David found the weekends far too short for Agra and the Taj Mahal, Jaipur and the Palace of Winds, the ancient city of Fatehpur Sikri. And Delhi, of course, old Delhi, where they had fun getting lost in the bustling, dirty, fascinating life of its little streets.

But international politics soon caught up with them, and September 11 elbowed their contentment aside. By October, the invasion of Afghanistan brought war far too close for comfort; then in December, and much closer to home, came the suicide attack on India’s Parliament. March delivered the Gujarat massacres next, and yesterday the events in Jammu. In a matter of weeks, Juliette and David had bid farewell to the carefree and innocent life of their arrival in Asia the summer before.

Juliette awoke to the sound of the shower … David, at last. She hadn’t heard him come in. She slipped on her robe and joined him in the kitchen. He was already on his way out again, briefcase in hand. “I slept on the sofa so I wouldn’t wake you. Meeting at eight. Gotta go.”

“So the conference is off?” she inquired.

“Nope. Not so far. Still on.”

“Promise me you’ll be home early tonight.”

David took her face in his hands. They were icy. She realized for the first time how tense he really was. She’d noticed his increased stress in recent days, but she’d put that down to Béatrice or maybe Bernatchez. Now, though, she had the impression it was something else. What was going on?

“I can’t help thinking about my father,” he said. “I’ve become just like him, and I feel just what he felt.”

Normally David never mentioned Philippe. It was almost as though the immense and monumental figure of his father was no longer his. So why now?

“What’s with you? You’re acting strange.”

David merely took cover behind his diplomat’s facade, and Juliette was baffled: she sensed that she’d lost him. Well, here goes nothing, she thought.

“Look, David.”

“I’ll try, till nine o’clock, tops. I promise.”

“David, I need to say …”

“Nine o’clock.”

She knew what this meant. He was going to spend all evening in a meeting or on the phone … and part of the night. The big news would have to wait. The champagne, too.

She noticed Luiz in the courtyard, standing by the Volvo. He was the High Commission’s clerk and a specialist in urgent photocopies, endless faxes, and updates on local restaurants with a modicum of cleanliness and where you could go without fear of bumping into other Canadians passing through. The young man was from Goa and lived close by — his mother worked as a cleaning lady for a Dutch manufacturer. Luiz had taken to David and had been begging for lifts ever since David made the mistake of picking him up after work. Rushing out of the house, David tossed Luiz the keys and turned to Juliette as she held her bathrobe tight around her.

“Nine o’clock,” he said, and she smiled. He smiled back, looking like a kid who was late for school, lingering among the bougainvilleas. She had never loved him more than that morning and she regretted she hadn’t told him just now, hadn’t held him tight and led him back to the bedroom with its bed still warm from their bodies, and made love to him once more.

Luiz was already behind the wheel and sliding the key into the ignition when David opened the door and got in, and they immediately sped away — of course, a day like any other. She’d relive this moment over and over in the coming months, this gentle parting as though on tiptoe. Then their love and their future, all of it, suddenly vanished in the humdrum glare of sunlight. What was it again that happened next? Raymond Bernatchez’s evening phone call? She couldn’t remember.

“Juliette …” The high commissioner never disturbed them at home. She instantly expected the worst and steadied herself against the wall. “You’ll need to be brave,” he said.

She thought of David and the announcement she’d wanted to make. Wonderful news. What a fool she’d been for thinking their lives could be one long, unending holiday along a flower-strewn path marked at intervals with unforgettable moments: “the illusion of normality,” as David described it. It was Vandana who had it right: “We count for nothing at all in the great horror that is life.”