But by five, Dev hadn’t returned. By seven, Ted began to worry. Maybe worry was too strong. Increased concern. It was probably nothing. In research, things piling on top of things was common. The clinical trials for Crixevir were delayed, first by worries about the sample size, then the controversy over double-blinds, and then issues of how to select the appropriate population. Like he said, things on top of things.
Eight o’clock. Then nine. Restaurants were closing. The Ganga Aarti was nothing but smoke. Life retreated indoors.
Maybe Dev had gotten lost. Or stuck in traffic. He should have been here by now.
It wasn’t until after ten that Dev returned. Ted was ready to chide him, but Dev looked grim.
“Congratulations,” Dev said.
“For what?”
“You don’t know.”
“No,” Ted said. “I’ve been waiting here.”
Dev smiled. Not amusement — chagrin. Had Ted done something?
“You haven’t heard.”
“No. Tell me.”
Dev threw his hands in the air. “You won. The WTO issued its ruling on Triacept.”
Ted had forgotten all about that. This room in Varanasi had seemed so far removed from that life. Ted had almost willed it out of existence. And yet — here it came: one earth crashing into another.
He asked anyhow. “How did they rule?”
“We must stop manufacturing and distributing Triacept immediately. No appeal.” It hurt to see how much this hurt Dev, how his voice trembled, how he couldn’t even look at Ted. “If we do not comply, the US can impose trade sanctions on Indian pharmaceuticals.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ted.
“No. No pity for me. If you must feel sorry, feel sorry for all the people this affects. Feel sorry for my patients who will die. For their families. Your precious copyrights have been protected. Well done.”
“Why are you blaming me?”
“I need to fly back to Delhi. I need to assess treatment plans and options.”
“I’m not part of the legal team. I didn’t argue the case.”
Dev’s eyes narrowed. “You work for Avartis.”
“In marketing.”
“Marketing! Do you see how much worse that is?”
“I do outreach, go to conferences,” Ted said. How small his words seemed, how small his accomplishments.
“Yes,” Dev said. “You do so much.”
“But it’s something, isn’t it? The more people who know about Crixevir, the better. It saves lives.”
“And you think this makes you a better person. You say you try to help. But what have you done?”
“What do you expect me to do, then?”
“You want me to tell you what to do.” Dev shook his head.
“I haven’t made things worse.”
“But neither have you made things better.”
An emptiness opened inside him. A hole. It felt like nothing — like less than nothing. He wasn’t a light in the darkness — he was the darkness.
“Tell me. What should I do?”
“My friend, I am not the one you should be asking.”
And in that void, something else crept in. Something Ted knew that he shouldn’t have allowed but that was impossible to keep out. Later, Ted would replay this moment, trying new scenarios, different approaches. Maybe he could have changed the outcome; maybe an infinity of futures with Dev would have still been within reach. But what he said was irrevocable.
A mistake, a terrible mistake:
“Friend? Does your wife know that you’re with a friend right now?”
And it was done.
“That,” Dev said, “is my burden.”
“Why am I even here?” Ted asked.
“You wanted to come.”
Dev had misunderstood the question. Ted hadn’t meant Why am I here with you? but Why am I here on earth?
This reckoning had been coming — days away, Ted thought, hours, minutes — but not so soon.
Ted took Dev’s hand. Dev tried to shake him off, but Ted held it tight. He pulled Dev down onto the twin bed, where they lay together. Ted could swear that their hearts synchronized, that when Dev’s pulse throbbed, his own neck responded, his own wrists. Silly, wasn’t it? He could hear Dev’s anger in his breathing, as if he were hyperventilating. Dev’s chest thrummed against his back. Dev’s hard-on pressed the back of his leg. Ted touched it; it was real. This wasn’t love, of course; this couldn’t move to New York with him; this couldn’t consolidate households and talk, tentatively, about adopting; this couldn’t grow old together and find quiet comfort in afternoon tea and crossword puzzles. This wouldn’t turn around one day and say, It was worth it. Every single moment. This was one thing, and one thing only, and Ted got on his hands and knees. Dev said, “I don’t have any condoms,” and Ted said, “I don’t care.” This approached, slathered in coconut oil. This caused pain and fear. This gave pleasure, a mechanical kind, varying in tempo and intensity. This was undignified. This raised a sweat. This caused them to moan, not loud enough for the people next door to hear, but loud enough to remind themselves of their own presence. This made Ted hold his breath to keep from crying. This was not the answer, but this was all that Ted could offer. This brought release and, with it, a numbness, a vacuum where once something had been. This was all. This was it.
Dev went to the bathroom to shower. The water sounded as if it were sizzling. Ted stayed stomach down on the mattress. The sheets were soaked and, in the air-conditioning, freezing cold. Ted pulled the top sheet across his body. The water ran for ages, and Ted imagined Dev furiously scrubbing off every remnant of Ted. But Ted had Dev inside him. He would never rid himself of Dev.
Dev finished. A puff of steam entered the room. The light in the bathroom turned off. Ted lay there, arms and hands under his body, conserving heat. From the other side of the room, Dev’s bedsprings creaked, and Ted lay there, and thought, now it was his turn, his turn to shower, his turn to be clean, his turn—
Ted woke before dawn, disturbed by dreams. Dreams of water, dreams of tides, dreams in which he was held down and drowned. The top sheet had knotted around his legs, and his arm was outstretched, as if bracing for — for—? He was still on his stomach, still a little sore. It took a few minutes to clear the daze from his mind. Day hadn’t broken, but he heard children in the street, the burble of the river not thirty steps away. He smelled the stink of life even a closed window could not keep out.
He looked at Dev’s bed, empty; his bags, gone; Dev, himself, gone. He’d left wordlessly, and now, Ted couldn’t remember the tune of the song that Dev hummed while shaving. He couldn’t remember if the hairs on Dev’s chest twisted to the left or the right. Dev left him, even now.
Things took on an automatic simplicity: shower, shampoo, plastic bag to quarantine dirty clothes from clean ones. He found Dev’s sock under his pillow, the one Dev had thrown at him, and stuffed it in his pocket. He opened the drawers, searching for other errant articles of clothing, and was disappointed to find not a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, but another goddamn Gideon Bible.
At some point, he’d go to the train station and find a ride back to Delhi. And from Delhi, home.
Ted buried his face in Dev’s pillow and, for a moment, inhaled a ghostly coconut.
At the hotel desk, the clerk said, “Sir, sir,” and handed Ted an envelope with the flap tucked in. Ted was tempted to throw it away, to never read it, but what if it was an apology? Dear Ted, I’m sorry that I have to leave… The scrap of paper inside was thin, ready to crumble in his fingertips. A prescription for Triacept. Five hundred units, a year and a half’s worth. The authorization signature was illegible. He compared the name printed at the top of the sheet — Dr. Devander Khanna — to the scrawl below. No resemblance whatsoever.