The Last Taxi Ride

by A. X. Ahmad

  In a few minutes he’ll deposit Dev back into bed with Auntie, but the minutes pass, and Ranjit does not move. He stays on the couch with Dev heavy in his lap, and the child sleeps on without stirring.

  Chapter Thirty

  NEW YORK, 2011

  Outside the windows of the Dakota, New York City shimmered with heat. Shabana did not want to leave her apartment, but Maria, the cleaning woman, was coming at noon, and the sight of the short, buxom woman cleaning up—the kitchen sink was piled high with crusted dishes, the bedroom was strewn with dirty clothes—made Shabana feel ashamed.

  She preferred to leave, and to return four hours later, when the shining, immaculate apartment would always fill her with a sense of hope. Every week she would wander through the clean rooms, vowing that this time would be different: she wouldn’t take so many sleeping pills, and she wouldn’t pluck out her hair. But as the dirty dishes piled up, as she stripped off her clothes and crawled, like an animal, into bed, the apartment would lose its luster. Once again, she would sink into a deep depression.

  Not this week. She would go out now, despite the heat, and walk through the park for an hour. She desperately needed to lose weight: all the alcohol and takeout had thickened her waist and made her breasts balloon. Slipping on a white T-shirt and jeans, she put on one of her flower-shaped gold earrings, but couldn’t find the other. They were the only things she had inherited from her mother—all the rest of Nusrat’s jewelry had been sold—and she felt panicked.

  Shabana scrabbled through piles of crumpled tissues on her dresser, crouched and looked underneath, but found nothing, except tangled balls of her hair. Maria would be arriving any minute, so she gave up and left her ears bare.

  Scribbling a note for Maria about the lost earring, Shabana rode the elevator down and walked past the doorman, not acknowledging his wave. After years of being waited on, she did not even notice servants anymore.

  Someone had—yet again—left a bouquet of roses at the entrance to the Dakota, at the exact spot where John Lennon had been shot. The roses, browning in the heat, darkened Shabana’s mood further, and she hurried across the road. Lennon, dead, had vanished into his own myth; Shabana was alive, but felt distinctly like a ghost. For the past three months—ever since her comeback film fell through—she had been holed up at the Dakota, talking to no one, and avoiding Ruki’s hectoring phone calls.

  Shabana walked briskly into Central Park, passing the lake and the Great Lawn, all the way up to the reservoir. She started a loop around it, but the flat surface of the water glinted like a mirror, hurting her eyes. To make things worse, runners thundered past her every few minutes, leaving the sour odor of their bodies.

  She decided to head back in the direction of the Great Lawn, and by the time she got there she was hot and sweaty. She found a patch of shade at the edge of the giant oval, and sat cross-legged. The grass here had been eroded by hundreds of bodies, so that the earth showed through, and it reminded her of the Hanging Gardens in Mumbai.

  She remembered a scorching day, so hot that she had to be careful when she mounted Sanjeev’s motorbike, lest its fuel tank burn her thighs. They’d driven to the Hanging Gardens, and, finding the benches full, had sat under an old, shady tree. Other lovers had been there before them, and carved remembrances into the tree trunk, hearts and names in English and Marathi.

  “That’s so silly.” Shabana had pointed to the tree. “Nobody will see their names.”

  Sanjeev had taken out his worn Swiss Army knife, flicked open a blade, and deftly carved into the bark “Sanjeev loves Shabana,” the letters outlined in oozing sap.

  “Nobody will see it, but we’ll know it’s there,” he had said quietly, and she’d felt a sudden surge of love for this half boy, half man.

  Now, sitting in Central Park, Shabana wondered if the tree bark had grown back, obliterating their names. And that memory of Sanjeev led to others, which threatened to engulf her, and she decided to head back home to the Dakota.

  Home. The apartment belonged to Jayram Patel—well, he called himself Jay Patel now—but he’d said that she could stay as long as she liked. Ruki kept berating her, telling her that she had to move to her own place, had to find more work, but she liked having the big, echoing apartment all to herself. Besides, the Dakota was full of people like her, people who had been famous once; just last week she’d taken the elevator down with an aging movie star from the seventies, and there had been an unspoken, sympathetic understanding between the two women.

  As soon as Shabana opened the apartment door she heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner.

  “Maria! It’s me. Did you find my earring? Hello?”

  Walking down the corridor to the living room, she stopped in the doorway. Maria was vacuuming the living room rug, her dark hair twisted up, her too-short blouse showing a slice of plump midriff. And standing next to her was a slim Hispanic man with long, greasy hair, his torso bare, so thin that his ribs showed. He hurriedly put down the dust rag he was holding and pulled on a faded black T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry, madam.” Maria switched off the vacuum. “I didn’t know you would be coming back so soon. This is my friend, he is helping me clean.”

  Ignoring the man, Shabana addressed Maria. “Did you find an earring? A gold one? I left you a note on the dining table.”

  “Gold?” Maria furrowed her high forehead. “Madam, I don’t know about any gold. I did not take anything—”

  “Oof, you didn’t see my note? Flower shaped, with a pearl in the center?”

  “Miss Shah.” The man stepped forward. His voice was shockingly deep. “I saw something in the kitchen sink. Let me take a look.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he walked toward the kitchen with a loose-limbed stride, and she followed him. He pointed into the newly cleaned stainless steel sink, and she caught a glimpse of something shiny, caught inside the drain.

  She tried to reach in, but her fingers wouldn’t fit through the metal sink guard. “Can you get it out for me?”

  “Got a screwdriver?”

  “There might be one, but I don’t know—this is not my apartment, you see—”

  “It’s okay.” Pulling out a slim knife from a drawer, he inserted its tip into one of the screws that held the guard in place. With a few twirls, he undid it, then the others, working precisely, lining up the screws on the counter.

  Shabana started to reach into the sink, but he motioned her back. “Let me do it. It could fall in.”

  She watched as he lowered two long fingers into the drain and gently pulled out her mother’s earring, coated in black muck. He rinsed it off before placing it in the palm of her hand.

  “Thank you. Here, let me give you something—” Shabana reached for her handbag and pulled out a twenty.

  The man’s face turned red. “Nahi, nahi, madam. Paise ke zaroorat nahi.” No, no, madam. There is no need for money.

  Shabana was stunned. “You’re Indian? But I thought that—”

  “Aare, everybody thinks I’m Puerto Rican. I’m Mohan Kumar, from Punjab.”

  His English was fluent. She noticed that he had intelligent brown eyes, and a chiseled face with a dimpled chin. “Oh. I’m Shabana—”

  Mohan bowed slightly. “I know who you are, madam. Aaap bahut mashoor actress hai.” You are a famous actress.

  Maria appeared in the doorway and was watching them, her eyes darting from Mohan’s face to Shabana’s. Now she stepped between them.

  “Mohan, we have to finish cleaning. And madam.” She addressed Shabana sullenly. “I have done the laundry, but there is a pile of clothes I cannot wash. Silk needs to be dry-cleaned.”

  “Oh.” Shabana had been throwing her dirty kameez and crumpled saris into a corner. “Can you take them to the dry cleaner’s for me?”

  “We are too busy, madam.” Maria smiled mirthlessly. “Come, Mohan.”

  “Wait.” Mohan smiled accommodatingly. “Miss Shah, I’d be happy to take them to the cleaner’s for you. I know a
good Indian place in Jackson Heights, they’ll do it in a day.”

  He followed Shabana to her bedroom and waited as she scooped up the silk clothes and put them into a plastic shopping bag. They smelled strongly of her perfume, and she felt very self-conscious handing them over, but he took the clothes without comment, bowed again, and promised he would return the next evening.

  Shabana remained in her bedroom as Maria and Mohan continued cleaning. She opened her door a crack and heard Maria’s angry whispers, followed by Mohan’s mild replies.

  After they left, the apartment was silent and gleaming. Shabana walked through it, her hand trailing along the wooden wainscoting, feeling a strange excitement.

  Don’t be silly, she thought to herself. Mohan is your cleaning lady’s boyfriend. Ruki would die laughing if she found out.

  But a part of her didn’t care. She thought about Mohan’s deft fingers unscrewing the drain guard, the look of concentration on his boyish face, the way he gently rinsed off her earring before handing it back to her.

  Maybe she was being very silly, but a part of her was also planning ahead: she had kept a few crumpled saris back, and would ask him to dry-clean those as well. So she would see him at least twice this week, and with any luck, alone.

  That evening Shabana ate a small salad for dinner, carefully rinsed off her plate, and put it in the dishwasher. And as she sat in the dark apartment, hardly listening to the voices on television, she did not feel the urge to pluck her hair.

  Her mind was racing ahead, thinking of what she would wear when she saw Mohan again, and what she would say. She decided on a pink salwar kameez, and she would sit by the living room window, where the light was good. She would have some samosas delivered, and some jalebis—the man looked like he could use some food.

  She no longer felt like the old, unseen, shameful Shabana. Quietly, without even realizing it, she began to play a different role.

  III

  THE WOMAN IN RED

  The one who only performs hollow religious rituals

  Is like the unwanted bride decorating her body.

  Her husband, the Lord, does not come to her bed,

  And day after day she grows miserable.

  She does not attain the mansion of his presence.

  She does not find the door to his house.

  —Guru Granth Sahib, Siree Raag

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The next morning, Ranjit wakes to complete silence, a ray of sunlight falling across his face. He is somehow back in Leela’s bed. Squinting into the light, he remembers how she had come to him during the night, taken Dev from his arms, and led him back here. They’d slept all night with the child between them.

  Now they are gone. Leela’s pillow lies on the floor, and the sheet on her side is crumpled and half pulled off the mattress. He listens hard for her voice, for Auntie’s low, incessant grumbling, for Dev’s laughter, but all he can hear is the ticking of the clock somewhere deep in the house. Reaching under his pillow, he grips the plastic handle of the Glock and slides it out.

  Holding the gun flat against his leg, he walks barefoot down the corridor, peering into the empty rooms, the ticking of the clock growing no louder or softer, just muffled and consistent. Trying to squelch his rising panic, he walks into the kitchen and touches the knuckles of his gun hand to the blue teapot sitting on the table: stone cold.

  There is a sound from the backyard. Raising the gun, he steps through the screen door: the long rectangle of prickly grass is empty, and the huge tree at the end casts a short shadow. The sunflowers in the flower bed nod their round, battered heads, and bees buzz about the faded blue hydrangeas.

  He hears a slither and turns, the gun coming up automatically.

  Leela walks around the side of the house, her head turned, dragging a heavy coil of garden hose behind her. When she sees him, she gasps and drops the hose.

  Slipping the gun into his waistband, he raises his hands in apology. “Sorry. Where are Auntie and Dev?”

  “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.”

  Her blond weave is gone, and her own black, curly hair peeks out from under her sweat-stained brown bandanna. She’s wearing a faded T-shirt with John Lennon on it, her cutoff jean shorts, and has a smear of mud on her cheek.

  She wipes sweat off her face, making a bigger smear. “You told me to send them away, remember?”

  “That’s right. And I told you to go, too.”

  Without answering, she walks past him, dragging the hose. Turning on a faucet, she methodically waters the flower bed, the water swirling over the dry soil for a moment before sinking down into it. He smells the familiar, comforting odor of wet earth.

  “Why don’t you get ready?” She speaks with her back to him. “I’ve put some fresh clothes on Dev’s bed.”

  She seems completely absorbed in her task, so he does as he is told and goes back inside.

  On the bed are a faded blue denim shirt and a worn pair of khakis. He showers and puts them on, and Leela’s father’s clothes so worn that they feel like wearing someone else’s skin. When he walks back into the kitchen, she looks up from making tea, and her eyes widen. She does not say anything, but when she walks past him to get bread, her hand gently brushes the fabric of his shirt.

  * * *

  The two of them stand at the kitchen table, having cleared away the remains of their breakfast—tea again, and sugar toast. Now they both stare at the items that Ranjit had taken from Shabana’s dressing room: the photograph of her in the white salwar kameez, the square of cardboard with the red stamp on it, the key ring, the bottle of sleeping pills, and the long skein of glistening black hair.

  Leela reaches out and fingers the blue-black hair. “This is really good quality, must be premium-quality Remi—that’s virgin Indian hair, never cut, never dyed. The girls at the club are always bitching about how expensive it is.”

  She picks up the Mickey Mouse key ring and her voice rises. “Hey, these two are keys to the Dakota, I recognize them. They’re these old-fashioned keys, with lots of teeth, they can’t be copied.” She splays out the keys, and looks at the other three. “And these look like apartment keys, too. Look: big one for an outer door, smaller one for the apartment door, and this one looks like a mailbox key. They’re not for the Dakota, though.”

  He leans in. “But why would Shabana have keys for another apartment…” They both nod, struck by the same thought. “Ruksana’s apartment. Right. Of course, she’d have keys to her sister’s place. Kikiben said that she had her hair delivered there.”

  “So, she had keys to two apartments. So what?” Leela runs her fingers meditatively across the deeply serrated edges of the Dakota keys.

  “Shabana could have left the evidence at her sister’s place.” He looks up. “We have to check it out.”

  Leela brings an old Dell laptop from her room, and they look online, but there is no listing for a Ruksana Shah, though there are eighty-seven R. Shahs in the New York area.

  “We don’t have time for this.” Ranjit reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll call Kikiben, she knows where the hair was sent.”

  The number barely rings twice before it is answered. “Nataraj Imports. Fine quality hair, expedited shipping.”

  “Kikiben, it’s Ranjit, I—”

  “Ranjit.” The pleasure in her voice is unmistakable. He imagines her in that tiny office, alone day after day. “So I talked to my niece Rohini, and it’s all set, what do you say to next Saturday, hanh? She’s a little shy, there is this place in Jackson Heights, of course I’ll keep out of the way. You can meet her there at eleven, and—”

  “That sounds lovely, Kikiben.” He feels guilty even saying it. “And there is one other thing. I was telling a friend about Shabana and her sister—it’s such an interesting story, isn’t it—and I told him that Shabana’s sister lived on the Upper West Side, but he kept insisting that she lives in Queens.”

  Kikiben lets out a birdlike cackle. “You’re both wrong. The sist
er lives on the Upper East Side. Oh.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Ranjit, I have to go, Patel is here with that horrible man, Lateef, and he’s in a bad mood. Call me later, okay?”

  There is the sound of loud, angry voices in the background, and then Kikiben hangs up.

  He turns to Leela. “Ruksana lives on the Upper East Side, but I couldn’t get the address.”

  “I heard everything, that woman is so loud.” Leela’s slim nostrils flare. “Who are you meeting? Her niece? You never told me anything about—”

  Ranjit isn’t paying attention. He picks up the bottle of sleeping pills, turns it around and peers at the label. The prescription is made out to Shabana Shah, but the address is 1011 Lexington Avenue, Apartment 2R: that’s on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

  “Hah. How stupid of me. The address is right on the bottle of medicine.” He shows the label to Leela, who just stares angrily at him.

  “This niece is Indian? Must be a doctor? Computer programmer? Nice woman, cooks curries and all that?”

  “Leela, please. I had to sweet-talk the old lady. She really wanted me to meet her niece, so I agreed. It doesn’t mean anything.” He reaches out to touch her shoulder, but she moves away.

  “Ranjit, don’t lie to me, okay? You can’t just come in here and … and … Dev is getting used to you.”

  “Leela, you have nothing to worry about. Now can we go? Please?”

  “I … I have to change.”

  “And there is some mud on your cheek, too.”

  “I know. I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  She stalks down the corridor, and he hears the bathroom door slam shut, followed by the shower being wrenched on. He gathers up all the stuff from the dining table, slides it back into the plastic bag, and waits for Leela to get ready.

  * * *

  The subway is running slow, and it takes an hour and a half to get to the Upper East Side. Emerging into the hot afternoon, it is as though they have traveled to a foreign country: the only black and brown faces here are the doormen in their uniforms. They walk past a florist’s shop window displaying a fan of yellow orchids, a store selling handmade luggage, and another specializing in Louis XIV furniture.