As I sat drinking a Sidecar and doing a Sudoku one evening, a security guard came to say that a thief had intruded and was held. When the other guards brought the thief forward, I was astonished to find him singularly well-dressed. He had a cashmere jacket on his arm. I asked him in an Indian language what he was doing in my house. He replied that he was sorry he did not speak Indian languages, but would be glad to respond in English or French.
The man said he was a Frenchman whose name was Jacques Fisher, but since he lived in an English speaking country, the United States, he usually gave out his name as Jack Fisher. He had lived in our house earlier as the World Bank representative in India. Presently he was returning from a mission in Tokyo; when he found his connecting flight from Delhi to Washington delayed by several hours, he took a taxi from airport to visit his earlier home. The house had pleasant associations for him, including the birth of his only child. The moment he crossed the gate, he was apprehended, and the guards simply did not understand his nostalgia for the house.
I offered Jack another drink, then took him on a tour of the house. An hour later I called a taxi to take him back to the Delhi airport.
A year later I joined the World Bank in Washington myself, and Jack became my closest colleague and friend.