It all sounded pretty sordid to Kate, a very small step from slavery, but again she tried to push her own feelings down. Still, she could not suppress them completely, and they added an edge to her own question.
“You said it was your brother's idea to give Pramilla a traditional Indian kitchen. Are you telling me now that he was behind this fairly subtle … manipulation, shall we say, of his wife?”
Mehta shifted in his chair to look at her. “Of course not, not directly. But retarded though he might be, he is not insensitive. I think what he actually said, following a tiff between the two women, was, ‘She misses the smell of dung fire.’ I talked with Rani, and between the three of us we came up with the kitchen compromise. It wasn't permanent, you understand. I could see that everyone would be much happier if Laxman and his wife had their own establishment. It is the Indian way to have all the family living together, but it is not always the best. No, when the girl had been mature enough to take care of a house and her husband, they would have moved out. In fact, I had my eye on a place down the street that was about to come on the market. It would have been ideal, close enough that we could keep an eye on them, but far enough away that they could stand on their own. Without the girl, though …”
Kate suddenly found the man's resolute avoidance of the name “Pramilla” unbearably irritating, on top of all his other ideas and assumptions. She pushed herself away from the window and said, “I think we should talk to Laxman now, if you don't mind.” She said it in her cop voice, those tones of bored authority that made gangbangers drift reluctantly away and drunks subside, and it worked on the Chief Executive Officer of Mehta Enterprises. He removed himself from the barrier of his desk and led the two detectives back through the house, this time passing through the dining room, down another hallway, and up some stairs to a door. He knocked and opened it without waiting for an answer.
The suite of rooms Kate entered was a self-contained apartment whose occupant had far stronger ties to the Indian subcontinent than did the people downstairs. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and curry, and the walls were hung with garish prints: Krishna and his big-breasted milkmaids, the elephant-headed Ganesha, and Hanuman, the monkey god (which reminded Kate of Mina's antics on the school stage the week before). Gold thread shot through the heavy drapes and the sofa upholstery. The living room was blessed with at least six shiny brass lamps, and every horizontal surface— tables, shelves, the top of a huge television set, a pair of brightly colored ceramic stools from China, and the corners of the floor itself—was laden with objects, most of them shiny, and a few of them expensive, a couple of them beautiful, all of them looking newly acquired. One corner had a delicate triangular table set up with a sinuous statue of a maternal-looking figure, with the ash of incense and some wilted marigolds at its base. Pramilla's household shrine, most likely.
All in all, the apartment looked as if the contents of a large knickknack shop had been moved here in their entirety.
As they entered, Peter Mehta had glanced through an open doorway into what resembled a staff lunchroom, with a small table, two chairs, a half-sized refrigerator, and the basic necessities for producing hot drinks and warming leftovers. Finding it unoccupied, he led them into the knickknack shop of a living room before going to another door, which he opened, making a brief noise of impatience or irritation before stepping inside. Kate followed, and caught her first sight of Laxman Mehta.
Her first impression was of a small boy waiting in his bedroom for his parent to fetch him for some dutiful event such as a dinner at Grandma's. He sat fully dressed but for his shoes, perched at the end of a neatly made bed with his hands between his knees, looking at nothing. His brother bent over him and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.
“Laxman,” he said. “Mani, come on, don't sit here all day. You've missed both tea and dinner, and Rani even made samosas for you. And look, there are two people here to talk to you, Inspector Boyle and Inspector Martinelli. They're with the police. Come on, Mani, it's time to move along.”
The boy on the bed, whom Kate knew to be nearly her own age, roused himself and nodded. When he stood up it was with the slow deliberation of an old man, and Kate recognized the symptoms instantly: Laxman Mehta ached with grief.
His brother seemed oblivious, merely chattering his encouragement in a way that made Kate think that if she were not there, he would be considerably more brusque. Peter Mehta clearly found his brother a burden.
But a gorgeous burden, Kate saw. Even face-to-face, Laxman looked closer to twenty than thirty, his skin clear and unlined, the only sign of his recent tragedy the stance of his back and shoulders and a certain sunken distraction around his eyes. Although the distraction might be chronic, she reminded herself. Both Peter and Roz's informant had indicated that he was retarded.
As a decorative object, though, this male was extraordinarily beautiful. His long black eyelashes over those dark limpid eyes would make a poet croon, the creamy hairless skin on his face cried out to be touched, and unlike his stocky brother, Laxman was blessed with a slim, almost adolescent body that promised innocence and strength. If even a lesbian like herself felt the stir of his beauty, she could only assume that there were places in town where this man's presence would cause a riot. Half the men in the Castro would fling themselves at his feet while the other half were turning their backs in despair. He, however, would notice none of it—which was part of his attraction. He was quite oblivious of his own beauty. His family must have kept him under close wraps, and breathed a sigh of relief when he was safely married off.
Physically, at any rate, the farmer's daughter could have found herself with a less acceptable husband.
Kate stepped aside to allow the three men to return to the living room, but also so that she could take a closer look at the bedroom. The single bed was narrow, the walls stark and almost without decoration. It was austere compared with the collections in the main room, but there was a door beside the bed, and she took two quick steps over to it, and opened it into something out of a maharajah's harem. She had thought the living room was ornate, but this was a jewel box, packed to bursting with a thousand gaudy baubles, carved figures of lithe tigers and entwined couples, armfuls of silk flowers thrust into maroon and cobalt vases, two gilt-framed mirrors on the flocked wallpaper, a lace canopy over the bed and a heavily embroidered cover on it. The two silk lamp shades on either side of the bed had what appeared to be genuine pearls dangling from the lower rims. One of the lamps was on, but so low that the streetlight outside cast shadows through the delicate filigree of the magnificent carved screen that covered the window. Even dimly lit, however, the room's impression was quite clear. Kate backed off, closing the door quietly, discomfited by the sheer raw sensuality of the room. There was no doubt which bedroom the couple had slept in.
She found Boyle and the Mehta brothers in the diminutive kitchen. The room had no cooking facilities aside from a microwave oven and an electric kettle, which Peter was filling with water at a bar sink too narrow to hold a dinner plate. He put the kettle on the counter and switched it on, and Kate had it on the tip of her tongue to ask Mehta why he had not converted this room to a proper, if small, kitchen, when she glanced at Laxman's bereaved face and let the question subside for the moment.
Peter set four cups and a packet of tea bags on the sink and then turned to his brother.
“Laxman, these people would like to talk to you about, well—”
“Pramilla,” said Laxman, and raised his lovely eyes to Kate. “You want to talk about my wife and the way she died, because you're policemen and that's what the police do when a person dies, they talk to the family.”
“Laxman watches a lot of television,” Peter offered in explanation. Kate nodded and she and Boyle sat down in the chairs across the table from the boy-man. The tiny room was very full of people.
“All right, Mr. Mehta,” Boyle began, “tell—”
“I'm Laxman. Mr. Mehta is my brother.”
Both detectives found themselves smiling. “Okay, Laxman. Tell me, how do you think Pramilla died?”
“I killed her,” Laxman said. Their smiles died a sudden death and Peter nearly dropped the teapot he was holding.
“Mani!” he exclaimed. “What are you saying? Oh, I knew this was not a good idea.”
Boyle put out a hand to shut him up, and said to the beautiful young man across from him, keeping his voice even and gentle, “How do you mean, you killed her?”
“They all said I would if I hit her again, because I'm really very strong and she's so tiny. She was so tiny, I mean. So I didn't hit her and I didn't, even when she made me so angry with her teasing, but they said I would kill her and she's dead now, so I must have done it. I don't remember, but I must have.”
“Did you hit her a lot, Laxman?”
“Three times. Three different times, I mean. I hit her one time when she made me mad by turning off the television. And the second time was when she … she was angry and she called me names. I hit her two or three times then, I don't remember exactly. And then the last time she was teasing me because she'd been talking with some other men and I didn't think that was right and I told her so and she laughed! She laughed at me and so I hit her and … and hit her. That time I made her bleed really bad and it scared me, and she cried and I told her I'd never do it again because if she did have a baby I didn't want her to lose it. So then I promised I would hit other things if I got mad, so I wouldn't hit her. And I did that twice. Once I punched a hole in the wall. I hurt my hand.”
They looked at him, and he looked back at them. Finally Boyle cleared his throat. “On the afternoon Pramilla died, Laxman? What were you doing?”
Laxman gave Boyle a flat stare, not really seeing him, and Kate thought he had either not understood the question or was zoning out (was he on drugs, prescription or otherwise?), but after a minute his eyes focused again. “She was making me panir pakharas. They're my favorite. I was angry at her in the morning—not real mad but a little—and she went out and bought something.” He stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, coming back with a small Chinese figure of a boy leading a water buffalo, which he put on the table in front of Kate. “She said she bought it because it was like me, and she was going to make me the pakharas so I would be happy. And I was, until I heard the sirens stop in front of the house and people shouting. And I haven't been happy since. I don't think I ever will be again.”
Kate looked down at the crude little figurine, alone in the center of the table, and it occurred to her that Pramilla could easily have meant not that the boy in the statue reminded her of Laxman, but rather the lumbering beast who was being led. If the latter, then the girl had possessed a sharp sense of humor. Kate could well believe that this dull-witted man could have been driven to fury until the girl relented and made him his pakharas.
“She smelled bad,” Laxman added suddenly.
“Who,” Boyle asked. “Pramilla?”
“She was burned up and they wouldn't let me see her, but she smelled awful. Rani said that's how our people at home make funerals, by burning, but I don't like it. It's terrible.”
“I agree, Laxman, it's not very pleasant. Tell me, Laxman, what did you do while Pramilla went out to cook the, er …?”
Laxman regarded the detective blankly, as if he hadn't heard the question. It seemed to be a part of his thinking process, however, because after a minute he said, “She went to cook the pakharas. Cheese pakharas. I tried to watch my television programs, only I couldn't because I was still angry, and so I had a hot bath like she said to do when I got mad, it would make me feel better. And it did. So I went back to the TV. And then the sirens came.”
“Laxman, did you happen—” Kate started to ask, but this time Laxman was not listening, and went on with his thought.
“She was good to me, and she was so pretty, and her hair smelled so sweet and her skin was soft. I miss her so much. If she came back I'd never be angry at her ever again. But she's dead and horrible and now I'll never be happy again.” And with that he dropped his head onto his arms on the tabletop and began to sob as extravagantly as a child.
Embarrassed, Peter abandoned the tea he was trying to make and awkwardly comforted his howling brother. Kate glanced at Boyle, and could see in his face the agreement that they were not about to get a lot more out of either Mehta tonight. Boyle thanked Peter and Laxman in a loud voice, and they left.
They halted at the foot of the stairs.
“Do you want to try talking to Mrs. Mehta?” Boyle asked.
Kate shrugged. “We could try, and come back later with a translator if her English is too bad.”
They found Rani Mehta in the kitchen with three of the children. A boy of about thirteen was sitting at the table with a stack of books: the eldest, Rajiv, no doubt. A girl of about six or seven occupied the chair across from him; in front of her was a row of naked dolls with frayed hair, some of them missing various limbs. She had two of them in her hands, carrying on a loud conversation for them concerning, Kate thought, swimming pools. The third child was of uncertain sex until it turned and they could see the gold loops in her ears. She was seated on the floor whining in a manner that indicated she had been there for quite a while, and that she had no real hope of being rescued anytime soon. Rani was crashing some pans into the sink, talking loudly in some jerky language that Kate thought might be Hindi. She did not seem to have an adult audience, but after a minute an elderly, stoop-shouldered woman came in from the next room with a couple of bowls. She stopped dead in the doorway and said something to the woman at the sink, who spun around as if she was being attacked. The two female children went silent in surprise, and even the oblivious Rajiv looked up from his books and blinked.
“I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Mehta,” Kate said with a smile. “We've been talking with your husband and Laxman, and I wonder if we might have a word with you before we go. I'm Inspector Martinelli, this is Inspector Boyle.”
Rani did not answer, but glanced across at the older woman as if in need of reassurance.
Boyle took a couple of steps over to where the boy was working. “Math?” he asked.
“Algebra,” confirmed the boy.
“You must be Rajiv,” Boyle said. “You're, what— thirteen?”
“Twelve,” the boy corrected him shyly, looking pleased, and Kate recalled that Boyle had kids of his own.
“Does your mom speak English, Rajiv?”
“A little.”
“She probably has trouble when she's surprised like this. Would you mind telling her what Inspector Martinelli said?”
Rajiv spoke to his mother, but even in translation their greeting did not seem to reassure her much.
“Rajiv, whenever there's a death like that of your aunt, we need to get a very clear idea of what was going on around the time she died. Could you ask your mother to tell us what—”
“You not bother the boy,” Rani interrupted. “Rajiv, take your sisters upstairs.”
“Just a minute, Rajiv,” Boyle said as the boy obediently began to gather his books. “You were here, weren't you, that night?”
Rajiv nodded.
“Right here?”
Another nod.
“You were the first one to see the fire?”
Nod.
Kate walked over to glance out of the window beside the boy. From where he was seated, only the back half of the garden shed was visible—the fire would have been well and truly under way before he had seen it.
“Did you see anyone near your aunt's cook shed a little while before you saw the fire?”
“I was working,” Rajiv told them. Having seen the boy's powers of concentration, Kate could well believe that a troop of mounted police could have ridden through the backyard without disturbing the scholar from his books.
“Go now, Rajiv,” his mother said firmly, and waited while all three children left the room before she drew herself up to face the invading police.
Ran
i Mehta was a formidable woman, not tall but with rolls of brown flesh at the edges of her brilliant orange sari and its short flowered underblouse. She wore her hair in a heavy bun on the back of her head and had a dozen solid silver bracelets on her wrists like shackles. The red marriage mark on her forehead looked like a bleeding sore. Her features were heavy, her teeth strong and white, and she had a black mole on her face next to her nose. Not for the first time, Kate speculated about the attraction that the lithe young Pramilla might have had for her brother-in-law.
They discovered that the woman's understanding of their questions was pretty close to complete, and Kate recalled from someone's statement that Pramilla was accustomed to having the television on all day. Probably Rani did as well, which might also explain the paradox of her relatively clear understanding coupled with the difficulty she demonstrated in putting together an English sentence: A person does not generally carry on a two-way conversation with the TV.
“Mrs. Mehta,” Boyle went on, “could you tell us please what you were doing that afternoon?”
“I cook,” she said, looking down her slightly upturned nose at Kate as if understanding that this was a woman who neither cooked nor cared for children. “I made mutter panir and dhal and kaju kari and brinjal and two chatnis, and I was cooking the parathas when I heard Rajiv shout. I ran to get my husband in his room. He went to look, and then he call the fire.”
“Do you know what Pramilla was doing in the cooking shed?”
The fat rolls shrugged. “Cooking. She take panir— cheese—to make pakharas. I say leave some for the mutter panir, she leave small piece. I think, oh well.”
The colloquial expression sounded odd in the heavy accent, but neither detective smiled.
“What do you think happened, Mrs. Mehta?”
The woman pushed out her lower lip and gave a small eyebrow shrug. “I think she spill the hot oil into the fire. Pakharas is not for foolish girls to make.”
“The, um, pakharas are cooked in hot oil?”
Night Work Page 16
