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Eventually, under my persistent questioning, Walter and Madam Choden pulled out pictures of their kids. We feasted on the crackers and anchovy paste, and the pesto pasta was served up. When the requisite pot of emadatse arrived, I quickly passed it on without taking any. Another bottle of wine was opened. Martin grabbed my camera and snapped some photos of us all.

All of a sudden it was 3:00 p.m. and Martin had to go wrap up some things before the holidays continued with time off to honor the king’s birthday. Everyone insisted he must drive me down the hill, even though what I really wanted to do was walk down and breathe in the quiet of the new year, work off some of the wine, savor the most delicious meal I’d had since I’d arrived. But Walter and Madam Choden were emphatic, and they waved gaily as we pulled out of the driveway.

In the privacy of his car, one on one, Martin dropped the annoying theatrics, and his vulnerable side emerged. He suddenly became a more enjoyable companion. As the car chugged down Norzin Lam and approached the studio, I popped the question I’d been dying to ask.

“So what exactly happened to Claudine? And when?”

“She left, with our kids. Seven months ago.”

“Where did she go?”

“To Switzerland. She’s at her family’s place.”

“How old are the kids?”

“Eleven and nine.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six years.”

I imagined, in my limited experience of Bhutan, and without knowing a thing about Claudine, that it might be a particular challenge for outsiders to raise a family in Thimphu. There appeared to be a small community of expats who were here through various nongovernmental agencies, and they were said to be fairly tight-knit. But it must have been hard to be so far away from familiar territory and the creature comforts of home, especially when you had kids. There had to have been other factors contributing to Claudine’s departure, though. Marriages didn’t just dissolve like that—particularly when there were children involved.

“Have you looked up that writer woman you keep talking about? You still seem kind of obsessed with her.…”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

“But she’s about all you talked about at lunch. Besides potatoes.”

Martin pulled up in front of the old foreign minister’s house-turned–radio station and stopped the car.

“Probably because you remind me a bit of her, la.” He laughed nervously, as if he knew what he was saying could get him into trouble. “But yes, yes, I have looked her up, and she’s married. They both are rather well-heeled, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. It helps to be if you’re going to be a writer. Maybe she really loves you and is waiting for you to confess.” I looked him in the eye and smiled, to make sure he could see I was teasing. “Send me the story. I’m curious.”

I found myself flattered that Martin had made a comparison between me and this literary prodigy he admired and, suddenly, irrationally jealous that this invisible woman had captivated him.

“Her story? Or mine?”

“Well, I’m more interested in yours. But sure. Send both.”

“I will. Let’s have dinner this week?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

THAT NIGHT, I sat in the quiet of my little apartment, tethered online with the dial-up connection and listening to the Bhutan Broadcasting Service news on TV. It was rare for me to be on my own in the evening here, and I found myself liking this self-contained multimedia bubble. It felt different in the Himalayas than it would have back in Los Angeles, less like a lonely way of killing time; television, in particular, was a fun curiosity here rather than a droning nuisance. But why? In the end, news was news and commercials were commercials, weren’t they? Even the Indian channels piped in on cable were screeching dreck; the only difference from home was the looks and the names. The BBS still had a rough, homespun edge to it, more utilitarian than glitz, which somehow made it more palatable.

“We’ll bring you the international news after this short break,” announced the