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is, after all, a former English colony, and it stands to reason, therefore, that an Anglicized accent may in your country continue to be associated with wealth and power, just as it is in mine. Or perhaps it was my ability to function both respectfully and with self-respect in a hierarchical environment, something American youngsters—unlike their Pakistani counterparts—rarely seem trained to do. Whatever the reason, I was aware of an advantage conferred upon me by my foreignness, and I tried to utilize it as much as I could.
    My high estimation of Wainwright’s and my performance was confirmed when we trainees were divided into two groups of three for our drive to the annual summer party. One group, including Wainwright and me, rode in a limousine with Jim, the managing director who had hired us; the other group rode with Sherman, who, as a vice president, was more junior in the Underwood Samson pantheon. Since nothing at our firm happened by chance, we all knew this was a sign.
    With us in the limousine were some associates and a vice president from one of Jim’s teams. Everyone began to chat—everyone, that is, except Jim and myself. Jim observed the conversation in silence. Then he glanced in my direction, and I had to avert my eyes so he did not catch me observing him. But he continued to look at me in his steady, penetrating manner until eventually he said, “You’re a watchful guy. You know where that comes from?” I shook my head. “It comes from feeling out of place,” he said. “Believe me. I know.”
    The party was being held at Jim’s house in the Hamptons, a magnificent property that made me think of The Great Gatsby. It was beside the beach—on a rise behind a protective ridge of sand dunes—and it had a swimming pool, a tennis court, and an open-sided white pavilion erected at one end of the lawn for drinking and dancing. A swing band struck up as we arrived, and I could smell steak and lobster being thrown on a grill. Wainwright seemed very much in his element: he took one of the associates by the arm and soon they were twirling to the beat of the music. The rest of us watched from the sidelines, cocktails in hand.
    After a while, I stepped outside the pavilion for some air. The sun had set, and I could see the lights of other houses twinkling in the distance along the curve of the shore. The waves were whispering as they came in, causing me to recall being in Greece not long ago. The sea had always seemed far away to me, luxurious and full of adventure; now it was becoming almost a regular part of my life. How much had changed in the four years since I had left Lahore!
    “I remember my first Underwood Samson summer party,” a voice said behind me. I turned; it was Jim. He contined, “It was a gorgeous evening, like this one. Barbecue going, music playing. Reminded me of Princeton for some reason, of how I felt when I got there. I figured, I wouldn’t mind having a place out in the Hamptons myself one day.” I smiled; Jim made one feel he could hear one’s thoughts. “I know what you mean,” I said. Jim let his gaze wander out over the water, and for a time we stood together in silence. Then he said, “You hungry?” “Yes,” I replied. “Good,” he said approvingly, and with that he tapped me on either shoulder with the blade of his hand—an odd, deliberate gesture—and led me back inside.
    I found myself wishing during the course of the evening that Erica were there. You wondered what had become of her? No, I had not forgotten; she was very much a part of my life in New York, and I shall return to her shortly. For the moment, though, I wanted only to mention in passing that Jim’s house was so splendid, I thought even she might be impressed. And that, as you will come to understand, is saying a great deal.
    A week later, when the analyst training program came to an end, Jim called us one by one to his office. “So,” he asked me, “how do you think you did?” “Fairly