“It’s my hair,” I say defiantly. But my statement is only half-true. That hair belonged to Bimal and Sarojini’s granddaughter, to Rajat’s fiancée, to Papa and Maman Bose’s daughter-in-law to-be.
“Why, you won’t even look like a proper bride!”
Visions of my shorn self, incongruous in red silk under the wedding canopy, invade me. Then I shrug. The way things are proceeding, who knows if the wedding will even take place?
“Why would you do such a thing?” Seema must have had a bad day; she’s on the verge of tears.
“If I hadn’t sold my hair, I wouldn’t have the money to go to California. I would have had to go back to India without—without doing what I had come all the way to do.”
Seema’s eyes widen. “They paid you? How much?”
I tell her.
“That much!” I can see she’s thinking hard. “Do you think they’d give me as much for mine? It’s about as long as yours.”
“You want to cut your hair?” I ask, shocked.
Seema nods resolutely. “I’ll sell it, too. Then I’ll sell my jewelry and whatever valuables I have left to the pawnshop guy. I’ll go to India with the money, to my mother’s house, to have my baby.”
I can see she means it. This worries me. “Discuss it with Mitra before you rush into things.”
“No! If I ask, he’ll never allow it. He doesn’t have to know until after I’ve done it. I waited all this while because I didn’t want to leave him by himself, but he’s changed. I don’t think he cares much whether I’m here or not. He’s involved in something—he won’t tell me what—but it’s become an addiction. I can’t even count on him to be with me when the baby comes.”
I don’t have a good feeling about this. Seema is wrong in thinking that Mitra wouldn’t care if she left. Like many controlling men, he would be furious. With her—and with me, because he’ll surely blame me for giving her ideas.
“How will you arrange the getaway? As soon as he sees your haircut, Mitra will grow suspicious. Especially if it’s right after I’ve cut my hair.”
“I have an idea.” But before Seema can explain, I hear Mitra’s key in the door.
“Be very careful,” I whisper as I slip into my room.
TEN
Seema lays the Prada suit, cleaned and lovingly folded, in my suitcase.
“I want you to have this. Yes, I’m sure. I hope it’ll bring you good fortune.”
In an hour, I’ll be on my way to the airport, to San Francisco. With any luck, I’ll miss Mitra, who is out. With any luck, I’ll never see him again. If it weren’t for my anxieties about Seema, I’d be ecstatic.
Seema has told me her plans. Tonight she’ll give Mitra one more chance. She wipes her eyes as she says this, and I can see it is hard for her, the way it is to cut off a part of the body even when it might be diseased. She’ll ask him where he went each day, what he did. She’ll ask him when she can go to India. If his answers don’t satisfy her, she’ll proceed with her plan. When Mitra leaves the apartment tomorrow, she’ll call the downstairs neighbor, Janki, who doesn’t like Mitra because he’s rude. Janki has agreed to drive Seema to the hair buyers, where Seema has an appointment. After the haircut, they’ll go to a pawnshop. Once she has the money, she’ll pick up her ticket to Kolkata—Janki’s cousin, a travel agent, is holding it for her. Janki will take her straight to the airport. She’ll be in the air before Mitra knows she’s out of the house.
I gaze at her flushed cheeks and resolute eyes, amazed at this transformation. I can’t believe this is the same woman who spent her days curled in a cloud of depression on the couch. What if Mitra notices it and grows suspicious?
Seema smiles a bitter smile. “Don’t worry. If he can hide things, so can I.”
Still, I’m filled with misgivings. Seema’s plan has so many contingencies, each segment precariously balanced on the previous one. If one slips, all of it will come crashing down. What will Mitra do to her, then?
“I’ll be careful.” She gives me a hug. “You be careful, too—”
“What’s going on?”
I jump at Mitra’s voice, pulling away guiltily. He’s leaning on the doorjamb, watching us with narrowed eyes. When had he entered the apartment? He must have been intentionally quiet. How much of Seema’s plans has he heard?
But Seema is calm. She says, in her usual docile voice, “Korobi was worried about my health. She wants me to be careful, to keep in good spirits. One of her cousins who was given to worrying had a miscarriage, so—”
“You’re not that stupid,” Mitra interrupts. “Besides, I’m here to look after you.”
“That’s what I told Korobi!”
He fixes his suspicious eyes on me but lets it go. Perhaps he’s as glad to be rid of me as I am of him. Seema offers to make him tea, and he follows her to the kitchen. I should go for my shower, but instead I take out the folder Desai has given me and take a quick look, once again, at the two photographs in there. Both men are handsome: one rugged-looking, the other more suave. In their youth they must have been dangerously attractive. I try to gauge their characters from their faces, but I’m handicapped by longing. Please, I beg. One of you, please be my father.
I hide the folder in my carry-on, under my nightclothes, and rush into the bathroom. By the time I’m dressed, I hear the honking of the cab that signals Vic’s arrival. I thank the Mitras for their hospitality and politely refuse Mitra’s halfhearted offer to carry my luggage down. I dare not look at Seema; I send her a prayer. And a thank-you. Seema’s courage has bolstered my own.
Dashing in aviator glasses and a leather jacket, Vic hurries to take the bags from me. “The bastard didn’t even help you with your luggage?”
“To be fair, he offered. But I don’t want to take anything from him that I don’t have to.”
Vic nods appreciatively. “When Uncle first told me about you, I expected a spoilt heiress. But you’ve got spirit!”
I smile up at him, ridiculously pleased. It is a beautiful afternoon, warm, with plump clouds floating overhead. One is shaped like a heart. A breeze sets my curls dancing as though it were a holiday. I know I’ll find my father in California. I just know it! Vic tells me a joke as he helps me off with my overcoat, and though it isn’t that funny, we both laugh and laugh.
“Hey, look! Mitra’s on the balcony, watching us.”
I peer through the rear window as the cab pulls away. He certainly is, standing stiff and dark like a blemish against the afternoon. Why would he do that? I would have thought he’d seen more of me than he wanted.
My phone rings as we’re approaching the airport. When I see Rajat’s number, my heart expands, though part of me is apprehensive. But Rajat apologizes right away. He wants me to know that he’d trust me with his life. Indeed, I am his life. Every word he says is as intimate as a kiss. I listen hungrily. I didn’t realize how starved I’d been for his endearments. But I’m embarrassed, too. Although Vic has politely turned toward the window, I’m sure he can hear Rajat. So I have to interrupt Rajat to tell him that Vic and I are on our way to the airport.
Tense silence. Then Rajat says, “I’m glad you won’t be alone in a strange city. Just be careful, okay?”
That word, careful, holds a subterranean significance, but I’m determined to be positive. “You be careful, too! Now that I’m away, your old girlfriends are probably trying to get their hooks into you!”
Rajat is quiet. I’m afraid I’ve offended him with my clichéd joke. The cab pulls up to the terminal. I realize in sudden guilt that I’ve forgotten to tell him about the abandoned gallery. I rush to describe it—the dust, the disuse, the empty wall.
Once he gets over his incredulity, Rajat’s furious. “I’m going to call Mitra right away and get to the bottom of this! What kind of game does he think he’s playing?”
“No, don’t call him!” I say urgently as I juggle the phone, count out bills for the cabdriver and try to think like Mitra, all at the same time. “That’ll give
him the chance to cover things up. Papa or you should personally come to New York. Surprise him.”
Rajat sighs. “I’d love to. That way I could be with you as well. But there are too many troubles brewing here. The warehouse is on the verge of being closed down by the union. I don’t think either of us can leave.”
I’m shocked and chastened. I had no idea that matters at the warehouse had escalated that far. I want to ask for details, but a policeman tells me to get moving. I bid Rajat a hasty good-bye, promising to call before boarding.
The security line is extremely long and slow. There is, apparently, an alert of some kind. Both Vic and I are pulled out of line and made to wait over to one side, even though we walked through the detector without any problems. Almost everyone waiting with us is brown-skinned. I point this out to Vic, but he motions to me to be quiet. By the time we are checked all over with an electronic device ironically called a wand, our flight is about to leave. We run through the airport, breathless, and get to the plane just as the gate is closing. The other passengers glare at us accusingly. In all this confusion, there’s no opportunity to call Rajat.
“It isn’t fair,” I hiss in Vic’s ear once we’re seated. “We were in line before many of these people. And did you notice how many Indians were pulled out for security check?”
“Welcome to flying while brown in post 9/11 America!”
“Doesn’t it bother you, being treated like this? You’re a US citizen. You shouldn’t have to—”
Vic shrugs. “I choose my battles. Things could be worse.”
I’m dismayed by his offhand dismissal of an injustice that clearly needs to be addressed. The easygoing attitude that I’d found so attractive in him has its drawbacks. Rajat would never have let things go like this.
Stop right there! I tell my mind. I open my carry-on to pull out the father folder. That’s what I should be doing: getting a better sense of the two men I’m going to meet, figuring out what matters most to each, instead of comparing my fiancé to someone I’ll never see again after two weeks. The thought depresses me. I focus on the folder, which is, luckily, right on top so I don’t have to rummage around. I spread out the sheets on my tray table.
Suddenly, though, I remember something. The folder should have been at the bottom of the bag, under my nightie. Someone took it out while I was in the shower. Mitra. I’m furious—with him but also with myself for not having been more careful. All these days of secrecy, gone to waste.
I tell Vic, who is troubled, too, but he attempts to reassure me. “What Mitra really wants is to blackmail the Boses. Unless you actually find your father, there isn’t enough proof for him to blackmail them with.”
I hope he’s right. It’s scant comfort, though, to think of Mitra waiting, vulturelike, to swoop down on me when the moment’s ripe.
It is an hour before dinner, and the flat is empty. Papa and Maman have gone to the gallery, Pia to her badminton lesson, Pushpa down to the servants’ quarters. Rajat turns on the stereo and lies down on the living-room sofa, thankful for this reprieve from anxious, watchful eyes. The soft strains of jazz wash over him, holding him in their weightless embrace. For now, no one expects anything of him. For now, he can allow his worries to recede.
But his mind refuses to cooperate. It demands to know why Cara didn’t call back from the airport as she’d promised. Sonia has left another message on his mobile. How should he respond so she won’t call again? Can Mitra really be double-crossing them? Rajat needs to be certain before burdening his parents with a new worry. There has been no news from the union leaders yet. What are they planning?
His parents must have been disappointed by the fiasco at the warehouse, but they hid it well. They assured him that it wasn’t his fault—the union had obviously planned for matters to escalate so they’d have a valid reason to call for a strike. But Rajat knows otherwise. If he had kept his cool, they would have been on the road to reconciliation by now.
What can Rajat do to stop the downward spiral of his family’s fortunes? New York—that’s where he must concentrate. The gallery is a sinkhole into which their assets are disappearing, more each day. He must call Mitra, make a few, discreet inquiries, figure out what’s really going on. He knows Korobi doesn’t want him to do this, but she doesn’t understand the situation here. Rajat can’t ask his father to make the long, expensive journey to America—or to send Rajat there—when their finances are so precarious, the situation with the union so volatile. Not unless he’s certain that Korobi’s fears are valid. And for that, he needs to hear how Mitra responds to his questions.
It must be early morning in New York, but Mitra picks up his cell phone right away. He sounds alert and polite. In answer to Rajat’s queries, he explains that business is slow. Indian art isn’t popular at this time, unfortunately. All Eastern things are associated in people’s mind with 9/11. Still, he’s trying, faithfully opening the gallery every morning, placing ads in the newspapers, leaving brochures with organizations whose clientele might be interested. All by himself, too, because as Rajat may have heard, Mitra’s wife is in the family way and not keeping well.
“I heard from some friends who went to the gallery that it was closed in the middle of the day.”
Rajat listens carefully for a defensive tone, but Mitra’s voice is equable. “Sometimes I have to step out to pick up lunch or meet with a potential customer. Even if I’m gone for just a few minutes, the place has to be locked up. I was just thinking about this problem the other day. Maybe I could hire someone part-time, for just a couple hours a day, to cover me while I take a break? I know a good person.”
Mitra sounds so reasonable that Rajat has to fight to recall Korobi’s concern, the insistence in her voice as she told him the Boses were being cheated.
“I was told the place was dusty. That some of the paintings are gone from the walls.”
For the first time, Mitra’s voice has an edge. “Who told you that? Let me guess: It was Miss Korobi, wasn’t it? Maybe she looked in the wrong place. There’s another gallery on the same street that’s been closed down. I wish she had mentioned it to me. I would have set her straight.” His voice dips confidentially. “I hate to say this to you, sir, but the young lady took a dislike to me from day one. She has been—how shall I say it?—difficult to deal with. I invited her on several occasions to visit the gallery, but she never had the time. Too busy going around sightseeing with that young fellow in the leather jacket.”
“Sightseeing?” Rajat can’t help repeating, even though he knows he’s handing Mitra the advantage.
“Ah, yes, several times.” Mitra’s voice grows sonorous. “And visiting beauty salons. Just a couple days back, don’t know what came over her, she cut off all her hair. My wife tried to talk her out of it, but—”
“Cut off her hair?”
“You didn’t know? There’s a lot she’s been keeping from you, looks like. I would inquire into them, if I were you.”
Rajat rallies. He remembers what he said to Korobi, I would trust you with my life. He tries to hold on to that feeling. “I’m sorry, Mitra, but I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll send you a photo, if you like. I took one just today, as she was leaving for California. Thought it wasn’t right, how she was out here having a good time with some other man while you worried about her. Check your e-mail in about five minutes. You can see for yourself.”
Rajat takes deep, shaky breaths after he hangs up. He doesn’t believe what Mitra said about the Mumtaz, about Korobi confusing it with another gallery on the same street, conveniently shut down. But the accusations about his fiancée—there Mitra had seemed disturbingly confident, certain that he could deliver.
Rajat goes to his room and flips the switch on his computer. Yes, the message from Mitra has arrived. Rajat stares at it for a while. A voice inside him warns, Delete the message without opening it. Remember Korobi, the way she is: straightforward through and through. She wouldn’t cheat you. But another voice says, P
eople lie; photos don’t.
He clicks on the attachment and there she is, in her chin-length, curly hair, so different from the Korobi whose image is stamped on his brain that for a moment he thinks Mitra is playing a trick on him. But it is her. He recognizes, with a pang, the tilt of her neck as she looks up at a young man in a leather jacket—good-looking, Rajat must admit, even if it’s in a raffish way—who is standing far too close to her. Recognizes the smile—how he never tired of watching it, how he loved the way it transformed her face. Now she’s offering the same smile to this guy! Vic is helping her off with her coat—the black coat that Maman gave her. Such an intimate gesture. Rajat stares at the photo until the faces blur; then he reaches for his mobile.
Once again Asif is driving the long stretch to the airport, past the lit billboards that depict perfect families shored up by their perfect accessories, past the mosquito-infested lakes edged by slums, past the amusement park, which, Pia-missy has told him, houses Asia’s largest roller coaster. Tonight there are only two of them in the car: Barasaab and Memsaab. Pia-missy has an algebra test tomorrow, and Rajat-saab has stayed home to help her study for it. Saab and Memsaab are mostly silent. In the intermittent flashes from the billboards, Asif notices that their hands are clasped. The detail touches him. It is not the flighty romantic gesture of young lovers in Bollywood movies, but the sturdy grip of longtime companions comforting each other in the face of tribulations. And tribulations they certainly have.
The workers haven’t gone on strike yet at the warehouse, but things are tenser each day. Asif had driven Barasaab by the main entrance this afternoon. The Boses had hired extra security, and men in dark blue uniforms stood around the front, armed with batons. For the first time ever, the enormous black metal main gate was chained and padlocked in the middle of the day, and only the side entrance was open. When he saw that, Saab leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Stakes carrying placards with violent red lettering were planted along the ground. Workers with red bandannas clustered around the small gate, harassing anyone who tried to enter the warehouse. They watched the Mercedes closely, and one of the men spat on the ground and said something. But Asif had taken care to roll up the windows ahead of time so Saab wouldn’t have to listen to low-class vermin like that. He sneaked a look backward and felt a pang. Saab looked so old and tired. He was a good man, a decent employer. He didn’t deserve trouble like this.
Oleander Girl Page 21
