by Eliot Peper
The officer was leaning back in his chair, looking back and forth between them—savoring the flex of what little power he had. The chair itself looked like it might collapse if he wasn’t careful. The walls of the room were bare, dirty white paint peeling back to reveal asymmetric islands of lime-green undercoat. The AC unit purred unevenly. The ashtray was the only thing on the desk, and there wasn’t any other furniture besides the plastic chairs they occupied. It wasn’t so much an office as a room hastily emptied to act as one.
She met the man’s eye. This wasn’t merely an exercise in fishing for a bribe. He was having far too much fun for something so quotidian. And she couldn’t see why a BSF grunt would take the initiative to arrange an impromptu holdup in a borrowed room at a freight yard hours away from wherever he called home. If this little stunt wasn’t on his initiative, then it was on someone else’s.
“Governor Rao would like that, if you pulled my visa,” said Zia quietly.
The officer grinned. “Just when you think all politicians are lying cheats, one comes along who knows what he’s doing, who isn’t afraid to stir things up.”
Zia nodded. “And it seems to be working. All those rallies. I wouldn’t be surprised if his party won a dozen more seats in the Lok Sabha in the next election.”
“At last, an India for Indians.”
Himmat stiffened at the slogan and Zia willed him to keep his peace.
“You’re an enterprising man, officer,” said Zia. This was just like when she’d been gearing up to represent Costa Rica in Colombo by special ambassadorial appointment of President Kim. “BSF is certainly thorough, but only through the efforts of high performers like yourself. And I’d imagine that Governor Rao might be able to put in a good word for a man like that, encourage the system to promote the deserving.”
The man’s face closed. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “What I do know is that your shipment isn’t going anywhere.”
“Ahh,” said Zia. “The shipment, of course. Given how well-informed someone in your position must be, you know that the Minister of Agriculture personally approved this project.” The man’s ruddy cheeks paled. “And the Minister of Agriculture plays polo with the President, at whose pleasure Governor Rao serves.”
“Rao is invulnerable,” the officer snarled. “There’d be riots.”
“As you say,” said Zia. “But ask yourself—are you invulnerable? How far will the good governor go to protect your career, if this mission later proves politically inconvenient? He was appointed to appease a loud minority. Why do you think he’s stationed here in Chhattisgarh? Because the governorship is a figurehead position and the woman with the real power here, the chief minister, hates everything he stands for.”
The cigar smoldered, forgotten, ash flaking onto pressed khaki pant leg.
“Now,”—Zia offered him a small, close-lipped smile—“as I said, you’re an enterprising man, a man with intuition. If I was in your shoes and possessed a similar gift, I might take this opportunity to suggest that perhaps the best way to serve Governor Rao would be to release the shipment to us so as to spare him the unpleasantness of a browbeating from Delhi. You can still tell him you held it up and that I had to come down here personally to get it released, disrupting our field operations. Tell him whatever you damn well please. But give us our containers, and sleep soundly tonight knowing that you saved your career and did your part to prevent a famine.”
All trace of good humor had evaporated from behind his eyes. You could almost hear his thoughts racing around the cul-de-sac, probing for a hidden exit. Zia didn’t want to have to make good on her threat. That would mean asking Vachan for a favor. A big one. She was here to offer help, not ask for it. But if she couldn’t make this suit-stuffer see reason, she’d have no choice.
The officer broke eye contact and ground out his cigar in the ashtray with unnecessary force. Although his shoulders remained pointedly un-slumped, his presence deflated like a punctured party balloon. Without looking up, he raised a hand and waved them from the room.
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2
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“Did you see his face?” Himmat’s own expression
was rapturous as he offered Zia a fresh coconut. “It was priceless.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, but when there’s so much bullshit to crawl through, it feels good to see the jerks heaping it on fall into the muck themselves once in a while.”
Zia accepted the coconut. Drank. Tried and failed to appreciate the cool, sweet water in the sweltering afternoon heat. Outside the station the air was thick with dust and humidity—it felt oily on the skin, more liquid than gas. Buses, trucks, taxis, bicycles, scooters, and rickshaws roared by in a haphazard mass migration. The smell of rubber, melting asphalt, and VOCs went to her head like so much champagne. Was this what her mom had felt like just before the Heat Wave had claimed her and twenty million other souls?
“What’s wrong?” said Himmat, his gaze sharpening.
There was something inside Zia peeling away like the paint on the wall of that sad little room, but it was too early to see what color lay beneath. And just because Himmat was onto something didn’t mean she wanted to admit it, even to herself.
Zia forced a smile. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve been working together for what, two years now? You just showed that asshole what’s what and snatched the seeds from his clutches. Once this cohort finishes training, our volunteers will be able to distribute them just in time for planting. You should be celebrating, but you look like a doctor just gave you a terminal diagnosis.”
Despite herself, Zia chuckled. She gave Himmat a once over. Thick wavy hair, large eyes and sharp features that brought an owl to mind, loose linen shirt over jeans and battered work boots. Smart. Earnest. Hardworking. Penchant for Aperol Spritzes, which he singlehandedly prepared for every graduating class of their dryland farming training program. He’d proven himself as her lieutenant here. Which meant he deserved to continue growing, even if it made her uncomfortable.
“Take it further.” She took another swig of coconut water and drew circles with an index finger.
When he opened his eyes wide, it accentuated the owl.
“You might be happy to have overcome this hurdle, but you know it’s just one of many,” he said slowly. “You love your work, but you’ve been chasing disasters for so many years that they’re starting to blend together. The satisfaction you take in helping people wilts in light of the fact that you can only offer stopgap solutions to systemic problems. You’re treating symptoms instead of addressing root causes, and you have to beg donors for the privilege of doing so. Your energy is flagging. Your compass is spinning. Am I getting somewhere?”
The corner of Zia’s mouth quirked to accommodate her burgeoning pride and melancholy. “Yeah, you’re getting somewhere,” she said. “My first field op was typhoon response in Taiwan. Flash floods took out all the bridges in Hualien and debris flows wiped out entire neighborhoods in seconds. Afterward there was this huge international response as footage went viral. We had more donations than we knew what to do with. We started with direct relief—just getting people fed and sheltered. But once we had things more or less sorted and were trying to get started on long-term recovery, the mayor’s office kept dawdling. We’d get a permit for our reconstruction plan but without a start date, approval for one site but not another, requests for additional impact reporting when the proposal was already thoroughly vetted. I spent months in extended dinner meetings trying to figure out what the problem was, why they wouldn’t let us get to work. But I couldn’t get a straight explanation, only promises that weren’t really lies but never quite came true either. Drove me batshit. Finally, a politically connected friend from Taipei came for a visit and tagged along to one of the banquets. Afterward he took me aside and patiently explained that there was a consortium planning to build a new casino in town, an initiative the mayor’s o
ffice secretly backed because of the jobs and tax revenues it would bring, and that the project was contingent on buying up the destroyed homes for redevelopment before people could rebuild them.” She could still remember Li Jie’s pained expression as he dangled his feet over the seawall, face illuminated by the glowing ember of his cigarette and tongue loosened by their host’s liberally dispensed baijiu. “They wouldn’t let us rebuild because they didn’t want to rebuild. They wanted to put a casino there instead.”
Zia drained the last of the water and handed the coconut back to the vendor.
“He gleaned all that from one dinner?” asked Himmat.
The vendor raised his machete and split the coconut with a thwack. Then with a practiced twist, he carved out the thick white meat and presented it to her piled up in one of the hemispherical halves. She chewed on a fatty piece. Swallowed.
“I was a hamster that didn’t realize it was on a wheel,” she said. She turned to the side and spat into the dust, which flashed ever so briefly scarlet before the parched earth sucked up her saliva in front of their eyes—molten lava hardening into basalt. “All that wasted effort. All those missed opportunities to actually do something that mattered, to serve the people I sought to serve.”
Zia squeezed Himmat’s shoulder. “Listen to what people mean instead of what they say. Pursue subtext. Don’t just speculate on motive, ask what context shapes the motives on offer. Reframe that context. You’ve got a knack for it. Now you need to develop it into a superpower. In this job, it’s everything.”
Even in the chaos of the street, the moment held like an expanding soap bubble—until a chirp from her phone popped it.
A text. Not the group chat, but a direct message from Selai. The profile picture next to the notification set off a cascade of memories. Bleached reefs. Quantum theory. Singing along to Disney songs. Impossibly elegant proofs submitted in response to rudimentary math assignments. A dizzying ascent to internet stardom. Don’t you dare bail, Zia read. No excuses of any kind, especially of the long-suffering savior variety. There’s a new project I want to tell you about.
The reunion. Zia checked the time. This debacle had resolved itself faster than expected. She could still make the flight to Zürich if she went straight to the airport.
She shouldn’t. She should. Fuck it, what did “should” mean anyway?
Zia looked up at Himmat, who was peering at her quizzically.
“You’re in charge,” she said. “Effective immediately. I’ll be back in a few days.”
His eyes widened.
“And you’re right,” she continued, raising a hand to hail a cab. “I don’t know what I need right now, but maybe a change of pace will help.”
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Zia tucked away her dog-eared copy of The Princess Bride, muscled her carry-on out of the overhead bin, and triaged her inbox as she walked up the gangway into Zürich International Airport. There was a message from Jason right at the top. The subject read, “You’re gonna hate this, but” with a shrug emoji appended to soften the blow.
Zia opened the email.
Z, sorry to bug you during PTO (which you should take more of), but we’ve got a new major donor prospect who wants to press flesh. Apparently he’s also flying into ZRH this afternoon. Assuming your flight arrives on time, can you swing by to meet him at the Blue Bottle in the international terminal before you head off to the mountains?
Says you’ll recognize him. Asked me not to mention his name, wanted it to be a surprise. Weird, I know, but whales are always odd ducks if you can forgive a mixed metaphor.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. You know I wouldn’t ask if we didn’t really need it. Wish I had stayed in the field like you. Fundraising = gargling sweaty balls with strep throat.
Please don’t murder me in my sleep, J
P.S. Yes, I will make you my special tacos al pastor next time you visit. Promise.
Damn.
Zia belatedly realized that she had stopped right in the middle of the bustling terminal—a boulder in the stream of other travelers. A beleaguered mother pushed a stroller with twin toddlers. A lithe woman with amber eyes looked away as soon as Zia met her gaze. A squadron of Japanese bankers argued as they hurried to their gate, the lack of overt labeling on their secret brand suits signaling just how extravagantly expensive they must be. All of them buoyed along by a ghostly Brian Eno ambient album that was glass and steel and time melted down and transmuted into music.
Zia wanted to see her friends, wanted to hear whatever it was Selai wanted to tell her. Zia did not want to schmooze with yet another billionaire looking to assuage a guilty conscience or launder a dirty reputation. How had Himmat put it? You’re treating symptoms instead of addressing root causes, and you have to beg donors for the privilege of doing so. He really was learning fast. Maybe too fast.
She sighed, scanning the terminal for a map. No need. There was the Blue Bottle sign, just around the bend toward baggage claim and across from a full-wall ultra-high-definition photographic print that must be one of Selai’s—a red gummy bear perched on a craggy peak overlooking an Arctic fjord with water so absurdly turquoise it might leak out of the frame.
Zia set out toward the coffeeshop, then faltered again as an even more disturbing thought struck. Says you’ll recognize him. Asked me not to mention his name, wanted it to be a surprise. Could her dad be nursing a macchiato, waiting for her to waltz in? Her stomach twisted. It would be just like Santiago, wouldn’t it? Manufacturing an excuse to show up one day after years of silence. Buying his way back into her life despite his tacit disapproval of her choices. How appropriate that he would appear right here right now, just as she was en route to a reunion at the boarding school he’d shipped her off to a lifetime ago.
No. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have right now.
Or ever.
The worst part was that she knew she was being unfair. That the silence had been mutual. That both of them had helped erect the wall that had grown between them. But what gave him the right to tear that wall down just because he felt like it?
The café drew Zia like a magnet, her body falling toward it through the crowd, against her will. One foot in front of the other across the agglomerated marble floor, carry-on humming along behind. The sleek espresso machine shrieked as she crossed the threshold into an airy space that was all blonde wood and polished concrete—every detail designed with self-conscious obsession.
There he was. Corner table. Complete with the prophesied macchiato and apologetic lopsided grin.
Not her father.
Maybe worse.
Tommy.
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“First off, I want to say I’m sorry,” said Tommy, his blue eyes clear as cut glass. “I didn’t want to ambush you like this, but I was worried that you might not come if you knew it was me.”
Instead of responding, Zia sipped her pour-over—black—and remembered their first date. With butterflies in her stomach, she’d squeezed out of the window and climbed down the rough stone wall into the orchard, where Tommy had been waiting with a fresh Guaria Morada orchid. He’d led Zia by the hand through the shadows, along the lake, and into the forest.
She’d seen the glow long before she could figure out the source. They’d pushed through a patch of brambles and emerged into a clearing with a French bistro table and two chairs standing in the middle. Lights were strung through the branches of the surrounding trees, as if stars had fallen from the sky just to illuminate their meal. White truffle salad. Beef carpaccio. Fresh sourdough smothered in cultured butter. An assortment of raw milk cheeses and homemade jams. Beluga caviar. A twenty-sixteen Loire Valley pét-nat. Ridiculously over the top for a pair of fifteen-year-olds, but ridiculously over the top was precisely the impression Tommy had hoped to make. Corporoyals were like that, and Zia had appreciated the gesture more than she’d like to admit. Everyone wanted to feel sp
ecial sometimes. What got you in trouble was believing you were better than everyone else.
Tommy cleared his throat. “Jason sent over the draft annual report. You’re doing incredible work in Chhattisgarh. Nine thousand farmers trained. Twenty-five hundred rescued from the brink of bankruptcy. Open source gene license on Dr. Chou’s new miracle seed. Looks like what the Green Revolution was supposed to be. And before that: Ghana, Sri Lanka, Fiji, Bolivia, Taiwan, Guatemala, and the Maldives.” Memories flashed through Zia’s mind—vestiges of doing what little she could to help hollow-eyed survivors in her friends’ respective homelands. “More rigorous program data and better impact metrics than any comparable NGO. You’ve been all over the map tackling every kind of disaster.” He golf clapped. “Kudos, seriously. We need more people like you.”
Zia tilted her head back and gazed straight up into the tastefully recessed light. That’s what everyone was doing all the time: shining forth from a certain remove—dimmable, perhaps, capable of coloration, refraction even, but never dark, never off, until the reaper threw the final switch. She looked back at Tommy. Blinked. Watched his face fade in through the negative after-image the light had impressed on her retinas.
“So, SaudExxon is looking to buff up its rep, or is it you personally?” she asked.
“Changes are brewing,” he said. “And it’s past time we got out ahead of something. Being a laggard gets old.”
“Being a laggard makes sense when you have everything to lose.”
