When Filip entered Club Noite, he witnessed a black-tie event —more sophisticated than a typical nightclub scene. He was glad he chose something very sober to wear that could stay in sync on any of the nights. He was dressed in black linen pants, a white polo shirt and a black blazer and paired it with his dependable navy blue loafers that he had taken time to scrub clean. He had put in the effort to be presentable, and it worked —at least he was inconspicuous.

He caught the toasts done in champagne. The men standing in little semicircles in their glossy suits, their fists around stubby glasses full of Scotch. The women were in a great group by themselves around the sofas, their diamonds glinting, and their slender glasses full of wine. A lensman was busy clicking away anything and everything with his camera. There was light music from a band nearby that no one paid attention to, yet a few of them who were already drunk tried to dance to the dull music.

Filip spotted Fernandes —the only familiar person out of the whole lot and approached him. However, Filip was taken aback with his attire. Fernandes looked like an exotic Indian peacock— with an elaborate mantle. When he fluttered his arms the rings on his fingers flashed in a collection of gems — all the navaratans. He wore a form-fitting suit that had opulent, satin lapels and paired it with a rich silk cravat.

"Hello, Mr Fernandes. Good Evening Sir," he greeted his host pleasantly.

"Haa the Reporter from London, Mr...Mr..."

"Filip!" he helpfully offered.

"Ah yes, Mr Filip. Good evening to you too," said Fernanades and took stock of Filip with his undeterred gaze.

"You look mighty fine today. Scrubbed up rather well. Much better than yesterday for sure," he commented giving a twice over Filip's blazer. Filip did not miss this. Though he never vouched for brands, sometimes he did indulge in them. Brands came in handy at such occasions where money games were played. It was all a sham —now who wore what? Why does it matter? Yet, there were enough men and women talking to each other about the next person and then the next.

These people here, despite all their advantages in life, thrived in a complex web of lies, drama, half-truths, and half-spoken compromises, and for what? Perhaps to make their steady lives more thrilling. If Filip spent enough time here, he was sure he would be privy of the secret nightly affairs of these distinguished men and women.

He gave a short laugh to mask the discomfort and said, "I had to, this is a different setting altogether. Thanks anyway."

"You look mighty fine as well, Mr Fernandes," Filip returned the compliment as though he was awe-struck with all the opulence of his mantle. To his credit, Fernandes was not smug about it, about his love for such eccentric and preposterous dressing. He took it in stride with a small nod. Filip, however, was not done with him yet.

"Is that Armani?" he asked in mock wonder looking at the platinum wristwatch on Fernandes' left hand that temporarily blinded him with its dazzle.

Fernandes nodded and wore the kind of smile that people habitual of attention and power put on to indicate humbleness, yet Filip noticed some of the pride peeking through his gaze. Filip had seen it one too many times.

"Where's your drink?" Fernandes asked genuinely concerned about his guest's comforts.

"You come to my party and don't drink? How can that be?" he exclaimed making a grand motion with his hands, and then summoned a server at the top of his voice. "Boy? Boy?"

When a sacred little fellow barely out of his teens rushed to them, keeping his eyes down, touching his cap and nodding, Fernandes turned to Filip and asked, "What do you prefer, Mr Filip?"

"Scotch? If you have some."

"Good choice. Of course, we have all sorts of choicest liquor right from wine to whisky. Black Label should suit you. This is a kind of party to let your hair down," he sermonized the salient points of his bash that made Filip guffaw internally.

Fernandes then turned to the server and barked, "You heard the guest. Now go, and get what he wants."

"I thought this wasn't your scene Mr Filip. I would've personally invited you otherwise."

"I don't have a preference, Mr Fernandes. I try to blend in wherever I go. I'm a journalist after all."

"Ahaa Well said, well said."

Just then, the server returned with the drink.

"There's your drink. Only the best for all our guests. So, how are you enjoying the party so far."

"I just came in, and I saw you here and wanted to say hello," Filip said taking a small sip of the fine scotch that soothed his nerves, calmed him down, and took away the drudgery the evening was turning out to be.

Yet, the high Filip enjoyed with the scotch came crashing down when Fernandes mused, "You don't know many of them here, do you? Come on, let me introduce you to a few of my friends. I assure you, you'll have a blast."

"That is so kind of you Mr Fernandes. But I think I'm fine right here..."

"Come on, Mr Filip. I insist."

With no valid reason to refuse this, Filip nodded and said, "Please lead the way."

After a few brief introductions, Fernandes proceeded to welcome a few more guests and handle some or the other crisis leaving Filip alone with a bunch of snobs saved by his profession and 'London'.

He then excused himself having obtained enough material to please Anton back home. Ah, Anton! He would've surely enjoyed such a place and would've had these socialites eating out of his palm in no time.

Filip got his drink refilled and nibbled on some snacks roaming around the edges of the hall when he heard loud voices. He quickly darted through the side exit into the hallway and crossed it to find another door leading to a small lobby with a stairwell and a worn-out elevator. The air in front of the lift was stale and very hot, which made a huge difference from the cool interiors Filip had left behind.

He began to take deep breaths in a rhythm that he had developed while he staked out for excellent photographs. He hesitated for a moment to follow the voices, while sweat gathered on his forearms and back — did he want to do that? If nothing, it could add an element of excitement to his otherwise mundane evening.

Filip took the stairs two at a time, and with gentle hands opened the exit without causing any distraction. The door moved noiselessly much to Filip's relief and surprise, as he stepped through it like a cat. He moved with stealth that he didn't know he possessed, bent down and hid behind a row of leather couches there.

From the narrow gap between the couches and the wall, he observed the proceedings.

One of the voices was distinct and rang a bell —was it Fernandes?

He could only hear one side of the conversation and couldn't make much out of it.

"Why didn't you come down?"

"How can you be so selfish?"

"For my sake! Because I'm bloody well paying for everything you own, dammit."

"Don't you have any concern about my reputation?"

"You are a disgrace."

"Why can't you be normal?"

Filip heard footsteps moving further and further away and then a door slam shut. He peeked through the gap again to see a hunched figure, in an undiscriminating garb, emerge out of the room, and lock it judiciously.

While this person made the way to the other side of the hallway to access the elevator, Filip came out of his hiding and followed at a steady pace. He wanted to know who this person was. For now, he decided to call this person Z.

Z and Filip emerged out of the nightclub, and Z walked a short distance to the open shores of Sao Jacinto Island. It looked like Z was no stranger to the place. A luxurious breeze came in from the sea, fluttered Z's dress in a swell of grey, and stirred Filip's hair across his eyes.

The sky was the same indistinct silver it had been since his arrival, and under it were the nebulous contours of distant ships, grazing the horizon. There was also a fishing dock with boats listless and leaning against each other in a sloping line. Z then sat on the beach, as close as possible to the onrushing water.

Filip couldn't help but notice that that place was entirely bereft of the human population —be it strolling lovers, hawkers or beggars who were commonplace in other beaches throughout Goa. He now grew anxious, did he want to stay here, and watch Z like some creep? Yet, his curiosity won, and he took time to study Z.

He had noticed the footwear first —extremely sensible, flat and durable. Z's hair was long, tied tightly at the back with a few loose strands hanging on the shoulder. Z wore a practical outfit —a brown kurta matched with ankle-length khaki pants. Z was devoid of any other accessories except some sort of charms bracelet on one of the fists, but so far, Filip couldn't see Z's face clearly. Either from the clothes or the build, Filip couldn't decide if Z was a man or a woman.

When Filip fluttered closer to have a better look, "You are relentless, I see," Z observed, making Filip jump in fright.

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