Oleander Girl

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  “Never mind,” Pia says. “You don’t have to talk. You just rest. I’ll tell you everything you’ve missed in the last few days.” She launches into a dramatic description of her time in the hospital, the hateful smell of disinfectant, the terrifying tetanus shot, the awful food the nurses forced her to ingest. They were scary, especially the head nurse, who with her saucer eyes and big, crooked teeth resembled the demonesses in the Amar Chitra Katha picture books Pia used to have as a child.

  The police had been to see her, too, she adds importantly. They brought a detective with them, a mousy man who didn’t look anything like a detective should. He asked her a slew of questions. He was so disappointed because she hadn’t seen the men’s faces or a license-plate number that Pia had considered making something up.

  “Pia! I hope you didn’t!”

  “No,” she says regretfully. “Anyway, they’d taken off the license plate—that’s what Asif told them—and he would know, because he’s very observant.”

  Rajat’s body is made of glass and filled with colors. Asif’s name stirs them up until they are a rainbow.

  “You’ve seen Asif?”

  “Oh, yes, I went to see him twice, and Maman came, too. We took him flowers the first time and a big basket of fruits the second time, because now he can eat regular food as long as it’s cut up into little pieces. Next I’ll take him some Cadbury’s. He likes the orange chocolate bar the best. Maman made me wait outside while she talked to him. I don’t know what she said. I almost eavesdropped, but then I thought it wouldn’t be right. Plus I knew A.A. would tell me if I asked. I think she said sorry and thank-you. She was crying when she came out. I’ve never seen Maman cry before. Have you? Then she let me go in by myself, which was good because A.A. won’t really talk if she’s there. I could tell A.A. wasn’t angry with her anymore. I stayed with him until visiting hours were over, and she didn’t try to rush me out.”

  “How is he doing? I want to go see him, too.”

  “You can come with me as soon as you’re stronger. Bahadur will take us. Grandma has loaned him to us for now. A.A. looks terrible. His head is still bandaged up, all his bruises have turned purple, and they’ve put a big black collar around his neck. But his nurse, who was quite friendly with me—I guess they treat you better when you’re not a patient—said it looks a lot worse than it is. She said he’s really lucky. A.A. made a face at me from behind her back when she said that. He broke a couple of ribs, but they’re healing well, and they didn’t puncture a lung, which they could easily have done when he hit the steering wheel. Oh, he has a cast, just like you. I wrote on his cast, too.

  “So, anyway, those same policemen came in to question him while I was there. They asked me to step outside but I wouldn’t because you know how police can be sometimes with people who don’t have money. Plus A.A. said I could hear anything he had to say. They asked him if he had any idea who those men might be. Were they workers from the warehouse? A.A. said he couldn’t recognize any faces, it was too dark and too much was going on. Then . . .”

  Pia hesitates.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Sweet P. You never were any good at keeping secrets!”

  “I am, too!” But she lowers her voice. “A.A. told them that he saw Sonia in the parking lot that night.”

  “Sonia?” The colors inside Rajat coagulate into a muddy brown.

  “Yes! At first the detective said it could be a coincidence, she could have been there for the restaurant. But A.A. said she didn’t go in, she just stopped near our car, made a phone call, and left. The police got quite excited when they heard that, though the detective said it would be hard to prove anything. Anyway, they told me I must not mention it to anyone because word can travel and they don’t want to alert her. Plus it might be dangerous for A.A. if someone finds out that he talked. So I didn’t say anything, not even to Maman. I wasn’t going to tell you, either, but I’m glad you made me. It was hard, keeping it all to myself. What do you think was going on?”

  Rajat shakes his head, unready to conjecture. At some point, he knows, outrage will overtake him. But he doesn’t want Sonia to ruin this silent, calm happiness that envelops him.

  Pia continues with her adventures. “I hardly got any time to talk to Asif because right after that his employer—who is a sheikh and very powerful, A.A. told me later—came in. He was this big man in an expensive white suit and had two bodyguards. He was so angry, his face was red and his nostrils all puffed up. His voice was quiet but it was scarier than if he had shouted. He asked what the hell had A.A. done, did he know how much the car that he had totaled cost? Even if he worked all his life for the sheikh for free, A.A. wouldn’t be able to pay for it. AA kept saying, ‘Sorry, Huzoor.’ He got so upset that his blood-pressure machine started beeping. So I held his hand and told the sheikh to please not stress him, couldn’t he see that A.A. was just coming back from death’s door. I explained that A.A. had saved my life and yours. He still looked furious, so I added that I would ask my parents to pay for the car.”

  “God, Pia! That car is unbelievably expensive. We don’t have the money—”

  “But I couldn’t not offer! It was only right. A.A. almost died for us, didn’t he? Anyway, the sheikh turned to me with a huge scowl and said in a booming genie kind of voice, ‘Who is this person?’ A.A. and I answered at the same time. AA said, ‘This is Pia-missy, I used to work for her,’ and I said, ‘I’m his friend.’ Then the sheikh asked if I was such good friends with Asif, how come he didn’t work for us anymore? I told him there had been a misunderstanding, but it was cleared up now and we would really like A.A. to come back—if the sheikh allowed it, of course. I would like you to know I was most polite.”

  “You took a lot upon yourself. What are Maman and Papa going to say?”

  “I think I can talk them into it. The sheikh thinks I’m pretty persuasive.”

  “He does?”

  “Oh, yes. After he’d asked me some more questions, he said, ‘You are quite an outspoken young woman and persuasive as well as stubborn. I can tell that your husband will have his work cut out for him.’ I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but I thanked him very nicely and he laughed. Then he took our names and address and said he would be in touch.”

  Rajat hopes Pia has not landed them in new trouble with her impulsive behavior. He’s proud of how brave she has been, though. Her face, backlit by the window, seems to have acquired a golden sheen. But he’s tired. “You are all those things, and loyal, too. I’m sure A.A. appreciated your championship. Now I have to take a nap.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” she says in a matronly voice. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for lunch and help you to the table. The doctor said it’s important for you to move around.”

  Then she’s Pia again. “I can’t wait to tell you about my adventures at Grandma’s! You know I stayed with her while you were in the hospital? It was such fun. I’m so glad we’re inheriting a Grandma from Korobi-didi. The pipes weren’t working right, so Bahadur and Cook brought water for us in buckets from the outside tap, and I helped them. At night Grandma and I slept together in a big, high bed with posts and stairs to climb up, and she told me all kinds of stories. Did you know, that house is supposed to have a secret room behind a bookshelf where they used to hide revolutionaries during the independence struggle! She said I can search for it next time I visit. That temple has a lot of stories, too. One evening Mr. Bhattacharya stopped by for the evening puja, and he was really different and nice. I’ll tell you everything at lunch.”

  From the doorway she adds, “Korobi-didi called twice, but you were sleeping and she told Maman not to wake you. She bought a new ticket. She should be on her way home already. If she makes all the connections, she’ll be in Kolkata tomorrow.”

  Korobi’s name is like a sea wind. He remembers calling out for her. Was it in the hospital? Was it during the crash? It’s good of her to cut her search short and retur
n for his sake. The wind blows through him, cleansing. Salt and distance, smell of the deep. He realizes he has never seen the ocean except tamed and touristy at Digha. When Korobi returns, he’ll ask if she’d be willing to travel to a real ocean with him. Maybe when they are there, he’ll be able to describe how it felt when he thought he was going to die, and afterward, this calm. At the ocean, they will talk to each other truly, and listen.

  “She called Grandma’s house while I was there. She talked to me, too. She asked all about your injuries. Oh, I forgot! She said to give you a big hug for her—here it is—and tell you she has something very important to share with you, face-to-face, as soon as she gets back.”

  Mrs. Bose has shut herself in her bedroom with the phone because she does not want the children to know how agitated she is. “What do you mean, Mitra’s trying to blackmail us about Korobi’s father?” she asks her husband. “Has he gone crazy? He knows he’ll go to jail if the police get hold of him, so now he’s clutching at straws?”

  Mr. Bose says, “You’re right about him being desperate. But he isn’t crazy. Quite the opposite. He seems to have planned everything out. He sent me a fax with all the relevant information. He said that if we don’t respond within a week, he’ll send it to Bhattacharya. I checked with Desai. At first he was reluctant to break confidentiality, but when I explained what Mitra was trying to do, he admitted that the information is authentic. Mitra broke into Desai’s office and stole the file. Korobi’s father is some history professor named Rob Lacey. But, Joyu, listen: he’s black.”

  “Impossible! Why, you just have to look at Korobi to know—”

  “That’s what I said, but Desai explained that Korobi’s father is very light-skinned. And there’s more. Apparently Korobi’s parents never got married.”

  “What are you saying? Korobi’s illegitimate? How can that be? Korobi’s mother would never do such a—such a horribly immoral thing! Why, she comes from one of the oldest—”

  “It’s true, unfortunately. Desai said something about a promise Anu had made to her father in the temple. I didn’t have the time to get into all the details.”

  “Oh, God! What will we do, Shanto? Never in my wildest nightmares could I have imagined something this terrible. How can we have our son marry a girl of mixed blood who has, moreover, such a scandal in her past? Here we were so delighted to be making an alliance with one of Kolkata’s most respected families, and now we discover—this?”

  “Times are changing, Joyu. I’m not pleased, either. But such things matter less now.”

  “They still matter a great deal!” Then Mrs. Bose is distracted by another thought. “Did Desai get a chance to tell the poor girl any of this before she boarded her plane?”

  There’s a pause. Then Mr. Bose says, “Mitra told me quite clearly that Korobi has met her father. It was all in the folder. Lacey flew to California and met with Korobi two days ago.”

  “Two days ago? He must be lying!”

  Mr. Bose hesitates, then says, “I don’t think so.”

  “Korobi saw her father two days ago? But she’s talked to me since then. Twice. She didn’t say anything about this. She talked to you, too, didn’t she? Did she mention her father to you?”

  Mr. Bose is silent.

  “She let us assume that she failed to find him! How could she be so—duplicitous?”

  “Calm down, Joyu!”

  But Mrs. Bose can’t calm down. “How can I trust her again? It’s bad enough that she has all this—dirt in her background, but on top of that, she’s a lying, cheating—”

  “I was upset, too. But try to see it from her point of view. Maybe she’s scared about how we’ll react.”

  “And so she plans to hide such a huge thing from us? To deceive her own husband?”

  “Let’s set aside the issue of Korobi for a little while. Right now we have to decide what to do about Mitra. He’s demanding that we withdraw our charges, call off the police. He’s asking for money—a lot of it. Additionally, we have to provide him with a positive recommendation so he can look for a new job. If word of what has happened here gets around—now or later—he’s going to leak the story to the press. They’re always interested in skeletons hidden in the cupboards of the newly rich—though maybe we’ve fallen out of that category now!”

  “How can you joke at a time like this? If Bhattacharya—or his party members—got wind of this, it would be the end of any kind of partnership, any possibility of saving the business. I don’t understand—why should Mitra harbor such a grudge against us? We helped him as much as we could, in spite of all the losses we suffered.”

  “He sees it differently. He went on and on about how we wouldn’t let him return to India after 9/11, even after the police arrested him and his wife was so terrified. How they had to move into a tiny, bug-infested apartment in a bad neighborhood because he didn’t have enough money to pay rent. How depressed his wife became there. Our behavior pushed him into gambling—to try and make some quick money to send her to India—though obviously that didn’t work out well. But most of all, he blames Korobi for destroying his marriage. Says she turned his wife, who loved him dearly, against him. Korobi put ideas into her head and encouraged her to run off. Mitra says his life is ruined because of her.”

  “Korobi! She’s the reason why he turned on us?”

  “You can’t take what he says seriously, Joyu. He’s not rational right now. But he is extremely shrewd, and therefore dangerous. I’ve told him I can’t do anything until I get the money from the sale of the paintings—and he knows I can’t—so that buys us a few days. Then you and I will have to make a decision.”

  “This engagement must be broken. That’s my decision. It’ll solve all our problems.”

  “Sweet, that decision is not ours to make. It’s up to Rajat.”

  “The poor boy! I can’t even imagine how upset he’s going to be when he learns how Korobi’s trying to deceive him.”

  “Jayashree, listen to me! You can’t say anything to him right now. First, because he’s just recovering, and it’ll be too much of a shock. Remember, he loves her. And second, you have to give Korobi a chance to meet with him. Who knows, maybe she’s looking for the right way to tell him this news, which must have shocked her as much as it did us.”

  Mrs. Bose disagrees. That girl was not planning to tell them anything—she can feel it in her bones. If Korobi does confess now, it’ll only be because Mitra has already spilled the beans. Mrs. Bose loves Mr. Bose more than she loves anyone else in the world, but when will he learn the folly of trusting too much?

  “I don’t know if I can keep such an upsetting thing inside me, Shanto, when I’m already so weighed down with other matters. However, I’ll try. For Rajat’s sake.”

  And she does. Each time she sees Rajat and the words come into her mouth, she swallows them. Each time he expresses his delight because Korobi will be returning tomorrow, she turns away, though she longs to warn him. She can’t help wondering if Sarojini is in on this scam, too; the possibility upsets her further. Since the accident, when Sarojini was such a rock of support, she has begun to think of the old woman as a mother. All day the unspoken sentences build inside her chest like steam. Blood pounds in her temples. Her entire body aches. She takes a shower; perhaps it’ll loosen those tight shoulder muscles. But the hot water only makes her feverish. When she comes out and finds that Bhattacharya has left another message asking her to call, saying they need to speak urgently, she’s ready to snap.

  Just as dinner is served, Pia says, “We’d better hang up the engagement photo again! We don’t want Korobi-didi to see that we’d put it away. It would hurt her feelings.”

  “Do it later,” Mrs. Bose says. “Come and eat now.”

  “We don’t have much time! She told me she’s planning to come here straight from the airport.” And with that, Pia is off. She searches the spare room until she finds the photo in a drawer, where Mrs. Bose has stuffed it. In her dramatic way, Pia makes a big t
o-do, calling to Pushpa to bring the hammer and nails, telling Rajat to stand back and watch if the photo is straight. Mrs. Bose has to press her lips together to keep from yelling at her. It’s not the child’s fault, all these problems, she tells herself. I should be thankful that she’s recovered so quickly from the trauma of the accident.

  Once it’s up, Pia turns to Rajat for approval.

  “It’s an amazing picture,” he says. “I wonder who the photographer is?”

  Mrs. Bose does not find this amusing. She tells them to come to the table, the food’s getting cold. Still they dawdle.

  “What beautiful hair Korobi-didi has,” Pia says, touching the picture with a loving finger. “You think Maman will let me get mine curled like hers for the wedding reception? Of course mine won’t look as nice because hers is so much longer.”

  “Not anymore,” Rajat says.

  Mrs. Bose stops ladling dal into their bowls. “What do you mean?”

  Rajat looks awkward. Clearly the words slipped from him when he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Tell me,” she persists, folding her arms as though he were a guilty teenager.

  Perhaps the accident has lowered his resistance. Or maybe he’s startled by her insistence. He tells her about Mitra, the photo he had e-mailed.

  “Mitra was involved in that, too?” Her voice rises though she knows she should control it—Rajat hates people who yell. Stop, Joyu, Shanto would have said. The boy isn’t well. Don’t rant at him. “That man’s obviously been planning to get us for a while. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could have been proactive, prevented worse things.”

  “I didn’t tell you because it’s my private business,” he tells her coldly. “Mine and Cara’s.”