The Lowland

his child. Subhash knew he was nothing to her.
    The following afternoon, at a time no one was expected, the buzzer rang. Subhash was sitting on the terrace, reading the papers. His father was at work, his mother had gone out on an errand. Gauri was in her room.
    He went down the staircase to see who it was. He found three men standing on the other side of the gate. Two policemen carrying guns, and an investigator from the Intelligence Bureau. The investigator introduced himself. He wanted to speak to Gauri.
    She’s sleeping.
    Go wake her.
    He unlocked the gate and took them to the second floor. He asked them to wait on the landing. Then he walked down the corridor to Gauri’s room.
    When she opened the door, she was not wearing her glasses. Her eyes looked tired. Her hair was disheveled, the material of her sari wrinkled. The bed was unmade.
    He told her who had come. I’ll stay with you, he said.
    She tied back her hair and put on her glasses. She remade the bed and told him she was ready. She was composed, betraying none of the nervousness he felt.
    The investigator stepped into the room first. The policemen followed, standing in the doorway. They were smoking cigarettes, allowing the ashes to fall onto the floor. One of them had a lazy eye, so that he seemed to be looking at both Gauri and Subhash at the same time.
    The investigator was observing the walls, the ceiling, taking in certain details. He picked up one of the books on Gauri’s table, thumbing through a few pages. He took a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket. He made some notes. The tips of some of his fingers had lost their pigment, as if spotted with bleach.
    You’re the brother? he asked, not bothering to look up at Subhash.
    Yes.
    The one in America?
    He nodded, but the investigator was already focused on Gauri.
    You met your husband in what year?
    Nineteen sixty-eight.
    While you were a student at Presidency?
    Yes.
    You were sympathetic to his beliefs?
    In the beginning.
    Are you currently a member of any political organization?
    No.
    I’d like to go over some photographs. They’re of some people your husband knew.
    All right.
    He took an envelope out of his pocket. He began handing her pictures. Small snapshots Subhash was unable to see.
    Do you recognize any of these people?
    No.
    You’ve never met them? Your husband never introduced you to them?
    No.
    Look carefully, please.
    I have.
    The investigator put the snapshots back into the envelope, mindful not to smudge them.
    Did he ever mention someone named Nirmal Dey?
    No.
    You are certain?
    Yes.
    Gopal Sinha?
    Subhash swallowed, and glanced at her. She was lying. Even he remembered Sinha, the medical student, from the meeting he’d attended. Surely Udayan had mentioned him to Gauri.
    Or had he? Perhaps, for the sake of protecting her, he’d been dishonest with her, too. Subhash had no way of knowing. As vivid as her account of Udayan’s final days and moments had been, certain details remained vague.
    The investigator took a few more notes, then wiped his face with a handkerchief. May I trouble you for some water?
    Subhash poured it for him, from the urn in the corner of the room, handing him the stainless-steel cup that was kept, overturned, beside it. He watched the investigator drain the cup, then set it down on Gauri’s desk.
    We’ll return if we have further questions, the investigator said.
    The policemen stepped on their cigarettes to put them out, and then the group turned back toward the staircase. Subhash followed, seeing them out of the house, locking the gate behind them.
    When do you return to America? the investigator asked.
    In a few weeks.
    What is your subject?
    Chemical oceanography.
    You’re nothing like your brother, he remarked, then turned to go.
    She was waiting for him on the terrace, sitting on one of the folding chairs.
    You’re all right? he asked.
    Yes.
    How long before they come back?
    They won’t come again.
    How can you be sure?
    She raised her head, then her eyes. Because I have nothing else to tell them, she said.
    You’re certain?
    She continued to look at him, her expression neutral, composed. He wanted to believe her. But even if there was anything else she had to tell, he understood that there was nothing else she was willing to say.
    You’re not safe here, he said. Even if the police leave you alone, my parents won’t.
    What do you mean?
    He paused, then told her what he