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vision of the journalist life. He refused to own a car. “We should be close to the people. In your car how will you feel the pulse of the city?” He advised me to be thankful for my dingy room: I would live cheap, move like the locals and discuss the issues that mattered to them. “You are the High Representative of the little man,” he said, writing High Representative and scribbling extravagant messy circles around the words and all over the page.
    I felt overwhelmed by Mossi’s energy, and by the interview preparations as a whole: we had stacks of papers to read, questions to formulate, the story to draft; without resistance, feeling directionless and dazed, I was swept into the process; and I momentarily forgot my situation.
    Mossi said everything had been arranged for our meeting with Satwant Singh. But the office receptionist, a stern Congolese, twirled on her chair and said, “I am not aware of your appointment.” She wore a dress with a picture of the president painted on her stomach. Around the image were inscribed the words “My Husband Is Capable.” She looked at me starkly; I stopped reading her belly. She said, “Wait over there,” as if speaking to a child.
    Mossi and I sat on an old leather sofa between two men holding VIP briefcases who leaned against the back wall, mouths open, exhaling hot air onto curls of peeling wallpaper. On the wall was a picture of Satwant, in gray turban, shaking President Kabila’s hand. Satwant looked elated; the president bored. Theystood before the building we waited in, half of which was the “Head Quarters,” according to a sign, for Satwant’s pharmaceutical facility. The other half was his house.
    Satwant stormed in and banged heads with Mossi. He was in black turban and black suit. We banged heads as well—it was the formal Congolese greeting (and because none of us was Congolese, it showed a special intimacy). The secretary glowered.
    The magnate escorted us inside, taking purposeful strides. A brass plate announced his house: “Shantinivas—Abode of Peace.” He shouted for his wife. She appeared, edging forward in a hobble. “Arthritis,” said Satwant. I didn’t know whether to believe him, because a friend had pointed out to me that in Punjab women are still fattened with milk and glorified in poems:

    With silver crescents in their ears
    The two women walk the village path
    Like vermilion-painted elephants
    Graceful and swaying.

    I had begun to feel buoyant. The interview was unfolding perfectly—Satwant was treating us with warmth and sobriety: as important guests, not as common reporters. My respect for Mossi swelled. And I regained some of my curiosity, my previous enthusiasm; again little things amused, offering relief.
    â€œPlease,” said Satwant, indicating a low table adorned with flowers. The wife served coffee and “ordinary cake” (as opposed to cream cake, but she said this cake was “extra ordinary”). Sat-want moved his hand over the hairs of his forearm, delicately, as if feeling their softness. Mossi began expertly, giving the industrialist the stage: “Bird flu, Mr. Singh. Hype or serious issue?”
    â€œOh, very serious.” Poker face. Satwant didn’t blink.
    â€œIs Congo prepared?”
    â€œNo.”
    Mossi and I exchanged an appropriately grim look. We were onto something. And Satwant was talking. I raised my pen and asked, “How bad could this get?”
    â€œThe first cases of human-to-human H5N1 have already been confirmed. It is only a question of time. When the bird flu hits Congo it will cause a catastrophe.”
    â€œMillions?” I asked.
    â€œEasily millions.”
    Mossi hummed and noted the word. He underlined it. I created a provisional headline: “Millions at Risk from Bird Flu. Government Unprepared.”
    The interview went so well that we stayed two hours. Mossi read from a list of