The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

“A classic,” she said, shaking her head. “Turns out he wrote I DON’T LIKE. I LOVE! on the bottom of a page, but the scanner didn’t pick up the last line.”

Sid smiled, his features bright with possibility.

“So in one short visit … ?”

“Everything’s different.”

An urgent knocking on the glass door made them both look up.

A man in a shirt and tie looked at Sid imperatively, announcing, “Geneva is on the line.”

“Sorry.” Sid got up quickly. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

Serena sat looking out at the gardens, enjoying the sunshine. Her gaze swept across the verdant foliage then returned to the door through which Sid had left. Curiosity getting the better of her, she made her way back into the reception room. Do I even need to say that I soon followed?

A massive fireplace with a mantle as high as Serena’s shoulder dominated one wall. Above it hung a large, gilt-framed portrait of an Indian man wearing a turban, a Nehru-collared suit with jeweled buttons, and a sword at his waist. He had a stern expression—and an unmistakable familial resemblance to Sid.

A pair of curved, crossed swords sheathed in black leather and gold hung on another wall, alongside several silk banners embroidered with silver filigree. Serena took all this in before her attention was drawn to a highly polished occasional table with a cluster of framed family photographs on display. Some in sepia, others in full color, they showed generations of a family in single portraits and formal groups. There were several photographs of Sid with his parents, which she studied with close interest.

One side of t

he table was devoted to photographs of a young woman. In some she was with Sid, and in others they were accompanied by a little girl. There were also pictures of the girl alone as she grew older.

Near one of the bay windows there was a large painting of a palatial building with a golden dome. It was surrounded by high walls and sweeping palms—the kind of palace Serena had seen on the front of the glossy coffee-table books on Indian architecture that Sam sold in the bookstore. She stood looking at the painting for quite a while until the sound of voices outside caught her attention.

From the windows overlooking the driveway, we could see the white Mercedes, now parked under the portico. Standing beside it was the man in the dark jacket and gray cap—the one she had thought was the Maharajah. Addressing him was the man who had summoned Sid to the phone. While we couldn’t hear details of the exchange between the two, it was clear that the one doing the talking was giving orders to the other man.

Serena watched them, deep in thought, trying to make sense of her enigmatic exchanges with Sid. “Someone said he’s the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh,” she had told Sid that night returning from yoga. Sid had replied, “I’ve heard the same thing.” He had been agreeing, she realized now, with what she had heard, not with whether it was true.

Then there was the unexplained appearance of the Maharajah with the fire extinguishers, at the critical moment to save Ludo’s home and yoga studio. If someone had summoned him, his timely appearance would make more sense.

Only yesterday, Sid had been at pains to give her his business card, and when he did, she had seen that it provided contact details but no name.

Finally, there was the reaction of the staff member a short while earlier, when she told him she had come to see Sid.

The feelings she had found in herself for Sid and his thoughtfulness and compassion for her had seemed real enough. But why all the mystery?

There was the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, and then Sid strode across the hallway in our direction. He came to a sudden halt when he stepped into the reception room and found Serena in front of the family photographs.

“So, you’re the Maharajah.” Her tone was more surprised than accusing.

His expression solemn, he nodded once.

“So why … ?”

“At a very great cost I have learned the importance of discretion. I was planning to tell you directly, Serena. I didn’t expect you to come here like this.”

“Evidently.”

He gestured to a chair. “Please let me explain.”

Once again, the two of them sat facing each other, she in a chair, he on a sofa. Once again, I sniffed the legs of the furniture, this time examining the curtains and ornate Indian carpets with intense curiosity. Here, too, everything seemed powerfully familiar.

Even familial.

“My grandfather inherited a vast estate when he was my age,” Sid was telling Serena. “Even by the opulent standards of the imperial maharajahs, he was a very, very wealthy man. His diamonds were counted by the pound, his pearls measured by the acre, his gold bars by the ton.

“He also inherited a staff of over ten thousand, including forty concubines and their children, and over one thousand bodyguards. There were twenty people whose sole occupation was to collect drinking water for the extended family from the nearest well, some miles away.”