He missed his children terribly in those years. Sunny was in Hong Kong by then, and though Chandra suspected the divorce had hurt him badly, the two of them rarely spoke about it, as if neither could bear to admit their own weakness, or even simple humanity. He wished he could confide in Radha, but she had begun to hate him without mercy and he couldn’t tell whether this was also about the divorce or whether it was, as she claimed, about politics. As for Jasmine, she was beginning to sound more and more American, her accent slowly bending from Received Pronunciation to generalized Midwestern, like a character from Friends. Every key or formative experience in her life would reach him secondhand over the phone or was narrated posthoc during the holidays. He knew her friends’ names, or at least some of them, but had never met them in person, and when he first heard about something called Facebook he joined at once simply in order to have a way of watching his daughter’s life unfold.
It was around this time that his obsession with the Nobel began, his fervent belief that if only he could lift that coveted trophy then everything else would cease to matter, that he would join the ranks of the gods who never felt pain or cold or hunger or loneliness, who were drunk from morning till night on the heavenly elixir of absolute, unchallengeable intellectual superiority. It became all he could think about, all he talked about, even on grossly inappropriate occasions, and each year, when he didn’t win, he felt a crushing sense not of failure but of existential terror. And now, after he had accepted that he would never win the prize, what frightened him most was the absence of that desperate, violent hope from his life. He was like a greyhound after the race has ended, forever longing for that phantom rabbit now vanished from the horizon.
HE WAS WOKEN by the telephone.
“Charles?”
Professor Chandra stabbed on the bedside light, knocking his book and brandy glass to the floor.
“Yes. Yes, what is it?”
“We can’t find Jasmine.”
“Where is she?”
“I said we can’t find her, Charles.”
“Oh, God. What time is it?”
“Almost four.”
“I’m coming.”
“She’s in Boulder. I’ll come to you.”
He went into the bathroom and began to brush his teeth. The phone rang again. Jean couldn’t remember which hotel he was staying at. She had called for a taxi, she said. Steve was staying at home in case Jasmine returned.
Chandra shaved and pulled on his clothes from yesterday. In the lobby he saw a man about his age stagger through the revolving doors with his hand on the bare back of a woman who looked perhaps thirty-five and was wearing a yellow summer frock with blue heels. There was a glazed look in her eyes as she swayed toward him. The man’s face was neutral to the point of emptiness.
When Jean arrived she smelled of alcohol. She had thrown a gray cardigan over her white trouser suit and her makeup was gone, more like the Jean he remembered.
“What happened?” he said.
“Her friend Suzie called. She said Jaz left the party and was acting weird. Wanted to know if she got home okay.”
“Her friend called you in the middle of the night?”
“Steve says it’s fine. She’ll have gone off with a boy and that’s what girls do and I’ve got to let her grow up. He said she’ll be mad as hell when she sees us.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
“And if he’s not?”
“I’ll get the car.”
Chandra took the elevator to the parking lot and got into his rental car. When he pulled up outside the hotel, Jean was talking into her phone but hung up at once and got inside.
“Where do we go?” he said, switching on the GPS.
“I’ll direct you.”
Of course: Boulder was her home now.
“I’m worried about her, Charles.”
“I know.”
“I mean, she’s not happy. Steve says all teenagers are depressed at times, that it’s less dangerous for them than it is for us, but I don’t believe him. I mean, I believe him, but she’s still unhappy. So why shouldn’t I worry? Take a left.”
“I suppose he means there’s no point in worrying, that it doesn’t help anyone.”
“Why on earth do people say that, Charles? I mean, it’s worry that made me come down here. It’s normal for mothers to worry. We worry because we love our children, and they can feel it. It’s what makes them feel safe.”
“It’s normal for fathers too.”
“I know it is.”
Her hand brushed his over the gear stick. They would always have Jasmine, he thought, then realized this wasn’t true. Soon she would be like the other two, living a thousand miles away, contactable only by email, perhaps with a family of her own. And that meant Jean and he would have nothing to connect them anymore. In the final stage of his life he would be on his own and would look back on it all like a builder surveying a house he’d spent decades on before handing over the keys.
Jean led him to a two-story suburban house with a large driveway into which at least six cars were crammed, two more on the narrow strip of grass that served as a front yard. It was half past four in the morning, but there were lights on in the windows, shapes moving behind the curtains upstairs.
“Right,” said Jean.
The door was stained glass and above the letterbox it said, DON’T EVEN THINK OF PUTTING ANYTHING RELIGIOUS IN HERE. They could hear music, something jazzy with a beat. Chandra knocked, heard a voice shouting about the cops, and pulled open the letterbox, saying, “This is Jasmine’s father.”
“Great,” muttered Jean.
The door opened. It was a blonde girl with dreadlocks, her large blue eyes magnified by glasses. She wore denim dungarees, bright red lipstick, and an ecstatic grin.
“So how can I help you folks?” she said, clutching on to the doorframe.
“Is Suzie here?” said Jean.
“Yeah,” said the girl, sucking on her finger. “Suzie!”
Chandra watched as a brunette of about the same age came down the stairs. She was wearing only a long black T-shirt with RAMONES printed across the front.
“Hey, Mrs. Benowitz,” she said. It took Chandra a moment to realize who she was talking to.
“Hi, Suzie,” said Jean.
“Jeez, it’s like so good to see you,” said the girl. “I mean, wow, you’re here, that’s like so…wow.”
“You called me, Suzie.”
“I didn’t call you, Mrs. Benowitz. I mean, it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I just didn’t call you.”
Someone behind her shouted, “You never call anyone, bitch,” and Suzie put her hand over her mouth and giggled again.
“You called me, Suzie. I know it was you because I know your voice. You said Jasmine went out and you wanted to know if she’d come home.”
“Oh, yeah, Jaz,” said Suzie. “You’re Jaz’s mom, Mrs. Benowitz. Of course you are. Oh, my God,” she said, looking at Chandra. “Are you her dad?”
“Wherever she is, just tell us,” said Chandra. “We’re worried.”
“You looking for Jaz?” said a tall shirtless boy with a spike of black beard sticking out of his chin.
“Yes,” said Chandra. “Where is she?”
“She left about two hours ago. But she wasn’t, you know, all there. I mean, she looked really out of it. Really whacked. We got worried when she didn’t come back.”
“What does that mean?” said Jean, angry now. “What do you mean ‘whacked’?”
“Tell her about the ’shrooms!” shouted someone from inside.
“Shut up, Josh,” said Suzie.
“She’d taken mushrooms, sir,” said the boy. “Thing is, I don’t think she was used to it. And she was all, like…”
“Fucked up,” said Suzie, and put her hands
over her mouth again.
“She was pretty messed up,” said the boy, nodding, “and she just went out and nobody was too sure where she went, and we thought she must have gone home, but then someone saw her car was still here up the road, so we thought she’d taken a cab.”
“I can’t believe you’d let her just walk off like that,” said Jean. “And as for taking drugs! Do you want us to call the police? Do you?”
“Jesus, no!” said Suzie. “We called because we were worried, Mrs. Benowitz. We should have stopped her, I know. There was just too much going on.”
“And none of you thought to look for her?” said Jean.
“We called. But her phone was in the house,” said the boy. “I should have gone after her. It’s my fault.”
“And we were kind of in the middle of a party here,” said Suzie, returning. “I mean, people are free to leave. It’s a free country.”
“We don’t mean any disrespect,” said the boy, holding up his hands as if it were a robbery.
“Give us her phone, for God’s sake,” said Jean.
Suzie swayed in the doorway, then turned and went upstairs. When she returned she had it in her hand and handed it to Jean.
“Good luck, Mrs. Benowitz. Like I said, we’re really sorry.”
“We hope you find her, sir,” said the boy to Chandra.
Jean closed the door. She was breathing very heavily. Chandra couldn’t tell if it was from anger or anxiety.
“It’s all right,” said Chandra, putting his arm around her. “It’s a warm night. She’ll be okay. Let’s go and look for her.”
“Yes,” said Jean. “Yes. You take the car. I’ll look around here. Have you got your mobile?”
Chandra nodded. “I could call the police, if you want.”
“Let’s look for her first,” said Jean. “If we don’t find her in half an hour we go to the police. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Jean walked around the house into the pocket of blackness that must have been the back garden. Chandra saw the silhouette of pine trees, ramrod straight like high-court judges, a watery moon behind them. He got into the car and wound down the windows. He could hear Jean calling Jasmine’s name.
Chandra began circling the neighborhood. When he saw a woman walking her dog he slowed down.
“Excuse me,” he asked her. “Have you seen a girl about seventeen years old?”
The woman glared at him and said something that sounded like “sleaze.” A few minutes later he passed two women in their twenties who were holding hands. “I’m looking for my daughter,” he told them.
These women were more helpful, asking what she looked like and for his number, saying they would call if they saw her.
Chandra had been trying to keep the worry from his mind, but now it returned in force. What if Jasmine had been raped, or hit by a car, or was lying with her throat cut in a ditch? He turned on the radio, hoping it might calm him down. A Sam Cooke song was playing. It was called “Cupid.” He and Jean had danced to it at the LSE, the first time he had kissed her—or anyone—in public. He could smell her perfume, even now.
Professor Chandra’s phone was lit up with a missed call, a number he did not recognize. When he called back, a woman answered.
“Hi, it’s Shelley.”
“Who?”
“The one you met on the street, looking for your girl.”
“Oh, yes, right.”
“Look, we don’t know if it’s her, but there’s someone sitting by a dumpster by Cornell and 4th. She won’t talk to us.”
“Her name’s Jasmine,” he said, trying to work the GPS and cursing.
“Jasmine,” he could hear the woman saying. “Is your name Jasmine? Honey, are you Jasmine?”
It was two and a half minutes away. He put the car into gear.
“She won’t say anything. Just keeps staring.”
“It’s okay. I’m on my way.”
Chandra tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He could smell blood, which happened when he was terrified. But why? They had found her, hadn’t they?
He parked on 4th Street and saw the two women standing on the corner. He couldn’t see Jasmine anywhere and was beginning to panic once more until one of them pointed to an alley on their left.
“She’s down there,” she said. “She won’t talk to me.”
Chandra nodded, forgetting to thank her in his anxiety. He still couldn’t see Jasmine, but when he reached the dumpster in the middle of the alley, he found her sitting on the ground beside it, her knees hunched to her chin, looking at the wooden fence in front of her. Chandra wanted to tell her to get up, that the ground was dirty, that she had caused enough trouble for one night, but when she didn’t so much as look at him his anger disappeared. He took out his mobile to call Jean instead.
“Dad,” said Jasmine. “Stop it. Put it down.”
Her words came out slowly, as if costing her great effort. But she did not sound unwell. In fact, she sounded calmer than he had heard her in a long time.
“I’m calling your mother.”
“Not yet.”
“She’s worried. I’m worried. What are you doing?”
“Let her worry a few more minutes. It won’t kill her.”
“No. I’m calling her, Jasmine, then you are going home.”
“Home? Where’s home, Dad?”
“What? What is this? Let’s go. Get up.”
“Do you have a home?”
“Get up, for God’s sake. It’s freezing. What are you doing sitting on the ground like a hobo?”
“Have a seat, Dad.”
“Get up!”
“You can have a seat or go away. But I’d prefer it if you had a seat.”
Moonlight was falling onto the near side of Jasmine’s face, making her look like a statue. He sat down in his pressed trousers and jacket, his shoulder almost touching his daughter’s. The ground was cold, but it was dry at least, and there was enough light from the watery moon to verify there weren’t any rats.
She was wearing black again, but there were streaks in her hair now, he couldn’t tell what color. Orange, perhaps? Jasmine was darker-skinned than her siblings, who were sometimes mistaken for Greeks or Italians, but she was still wearing that ghostly foundation. Her makeup notwithstanding, she looked like him, her nose, her forehead. He didn’t understand her anymore. He wanted to love her, but didn’t know how.
“So what is this?” he said. “Are you trying to get back at us?”
“Get back at you for what?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you think it is we did to you.”
“And what would that be?”
“I don’t know,” he said, slapping his palm against the ground and wondering whether anyone could hear them.
“Maybe I just wanted us to sit here and look at the sky. Why don’t you try it, Dad? Look at the sky. Go on.”
Chandra looked up.
“Yes, I’ve looked,” he said. “It’s a sky. So what?”
“It’s all in there,” she said. “Everything you need to know. It’s all in the sky.”
There was an emptiness at its edges, color draining away. Dawn was coming. To the right he saw spirals of gray on the horizon, rain somewhere out west.
“Why does everything have to be something?” said Jasmine.
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, why do I have to be doing anything? I’m just sitting here, and it’s got you so angry.”
“We were worried.”
“But you’re not worried now.”
“I’m still worried.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I’m hardly saying anything, Dad. Can’t you see that? I’m just being here
. All I did was walk over here and be here. And you’re freaking out like something catastrophic has happened. Just be here with me, Dad, for a few minutes.”
“Your mother’s so worried.”
“For a few minutes.”
He sat in silence, his eyes open, staring at the fence. He kept fidgeting, trying not to look at Jasmine, wanting to take out his phone but fearing what she might say if he did. He tried closing his eyes but this made it worse. From somewhere, a baby was crying.
“I’m the only one who isn’t anything,” said Jasmine. “Sunny’s trying to be you. Radha’s trying to be your opposite. Me, I’m not anything. I’m not like you. I’m not like Mum. I’m just nothing.”
“You’re not nothing.”
“I am nothing, Dad. You always thought I was nothing. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Was this really what she thought? Was it true? Chandra didn’t know anymore; all he knew was that he needed his daughter—he hadn’t realized this till now—and he was losing her.
“I don’t think you are nothing. You are everything to me. Everything. I haven’t got anything. No wife. Nothing. I’m nothing. You are everything to me.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Dad.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Neither do I. Neither do any of us.”
He picked up a stone and threw it at the fence. It slipped between the slats and he did not hear it hit the ground. He found another one. This time it slapped against the wood.
“It’s not your fault, Dad.”
“What isn’t?”
“Anything. Nothing is. It doesn’t work like that.”
He took out his phone once more. Jean hadn’t called.
Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss Page 8
