by A. X. Ahmad
“What’s that?”
“Oh, something that my friend was holding for me.”
Ranjit tucks the envelope under his arm. It is dirtier now, but still sealed securely with packing tape, stamped and addressed to Senator Neals at his Washington, D.C., address. Inside is the piece of cardboard with the Chinese markings on it, the packet of hair he found in Ruksana’s apartment with the same stamp, and the flash drive Shabana gave him. As instructed, Leela had added a note explaining the connection between Nataraj Imports and the prison camps in China. She had deposited it with Hector early that morning, two weeks ago. That envelope was Ranjit’s only insurance when he walked into Patel’s motel in New Jersey.
The packet is heavy in his hand. He thinks of the glossy black skein of hair inside, and of a Chinese woman halfway across the world, her head shaved clean. He remembers what Shabana had told him: that Patel bought the hair of young women prisoners, women who were given extra rations and allowed hair oil so that a healthy crop could be harvested from their heads.
If he destroys this packet, all the evidence against Patel will disappear. Ranjit can carry on living in New York, and hope that Patel keeps his word. The hair will continue to arrive in those cardboard boxes, Patel will get richer, and the women who supply the hair will be forgotten, and rot behind barbed wire.
Shanti walks ahead now, chattering with Ali, and they emerge out onto Central Park West. The Dakota looms ahead, and a new doorman in a blue suit stands in front of the copper sentry box.
Ranjit looks up at the hundreds of glittering windows but cannot make out which ones belong to Shabana’s apartment. By now, it will have been professionally cleaned, all traces of Ruksana’s death scrubbed away. In a few years, the murder will be just another faded scandal in the history of the building.
“Are you mailing that package? Want me to do it for you?” Shanti points to a squat blue mailbox at the curb.
Ranjit stares at the mailbox. Yes, Ali is right. Sooner or later, Patel will come after him, and now there is so much to lose.
“Hey.” Shanti smiles quizzically at him. “Want me to mail that?”
“No, thanks, beti. I’ll do it myself.”
He walks over to the mailbox, pulls open the slot, and the envelope slides inside, the slot closing with a clang. There is no turning back now.
Seeing the look on Ranjit’s face, Ali steps forward. “Ranjit, are you okay? You look pale. Arm hurting?”
He forces himself to smile. “No, no, I’m fine. Let’s head home. Shanti must be tired after the long flight.”
They walk back through the park, and Shanti chatters on, but he is not listening. Soon the packet will reach Senator Neals, and the feds will start their investigation. When Patel is indicted, he will know exactly who has ratted him out. There will be no place to hide in this city.
The three of them walk through the dying light of the evening. Shanti holds Ranjit’s arm, and laughs excitedly as they walk through the Sheep Meadow. The vast green lawn is crowded with shirtless boys tossing Frisbees, which rise up and skim the sky.
Soon, all this will end. But nothing has happened yet. Right now Ranjit sees Shanti’s flushed, excited face, the emerald green grass of Central Park, the tall buildings beyond shimmering with reflected light.
It has the look of something that once was, but now exists only in memory.
Acknowledgments
While a work of fiction, this novel is grounded in reality, and several sources proved invaluable. Anupama Chopra’s King of Bollywood described links between the film world and the Mafia, and several scenes in this novel are based on real-life incidents in her book. Amy Braunschweiger’s Taxi Confidential gave me insights into the surreal world of the New York cabdriver. Lisa Taddeo’s 2010 article in New York magazine sparked my interest in the nightclub “bottle girl” culture. Two articles alerted me to the shady underside of the human hair trade: Britta Sandberg’s 2008 investigative reporting in Der Spiegel Online, and Aina Hunter’s 2006 piece in The Village Voice.
One of the pleasures of writing a book is that it sparks new friendships and deepens old ones. A big thank-you to all these folks:
In New York: Charlene Allen, who knew where my plot was going even when I didn’t. Maija Makinen and Laura Chavez Silverman, whose literary insights always kept me on track. Katia Lief, for her support over many years. James Monroe at Monroe Partners, for a magnificent Web site, and for coming up with the title for this book. The super-smart Tara Sarath, for her hard work as a publicist. My agent, Stephanie Abou, for her wise counsel. My editor, Hilary Teeman, for her unwavering guidance.
In D.C.: My writing group, who know when “It’s not working yet”: a huge thank-you to Angle Kim, Beth Thompson Stafford, Karla Araujo, and Nicole Idar, for reading my stuff while you were writing your own books.
I owe a particularly big debt to Stewart Moss and Sunil Freeman at the Bethesda Writer’s Center, and my students there, who taught me a lot about writing: Vickie Fang, Gary Frank, Terri Huck, Eileen Iciek, Rollie Lal, John Lubetkin, Lynne McKelvey, Jeannine Mjoseth, Terry O’Connor, Joe Oppenheimer, Pasky Pascual, Sally Rainey, Tracy Warren, Farzana “Doc” Walcott.
My friends, who always asked, “How’s the book going?”: Tom, Nikki, and Luca Guglielmo; Reshma, Tim, Asha, and Naiya Gardner; Jayati and G. Datta, Amba Datta and Dan Fowler; a big namaste to Darshan-ji Krishna; Attiya Ahmad for visits to the zoo; Amy Reichert for wise council. Susan Coll and Gary Krist: let’s keep the lunches going.
The Soho Coffee Shop sustained me in all weathers; thank you to Sami Antoine for many omelets and many conversations, and to Fran Levine and Helene Bloom for creating such a warm, accepting place. I’m particularly grateful to the Politics and Prose Bookstore, which provided refuge on many cold winter days.
In cyberspace: the talented Chaiti Sen for her incisive comments on endless drafts. Emily Russin for many conversations about writing and life.
My family: My father, Ameer, who read the first book and said, “Everything seems to be in order,” and my mother, Naseem, whose fiery spirit never ages. My brother, Karim, and my sister, Naira, who kept tabs on me from cars, hotel rooms, and airports all over the world. Douglas and Carolyn Nash, who have been there every step of the way, and are the key part of team Nash/Ahmad. Let’s head to Bennie’s in Englewood when this is all over. My son, Amar, who, during the course of my writing these two books, has become a fine young man with a wicked sense of humor. And this one is for Jennifer Christine Nash, who has been with me, literally and figuratively, to the ends of the earth. Wherever she is, I am at home. From where to where, babes.
About the Author
A. X. AHMAD was raised in India, educated at Vassar College and M.I.T., and worked for many years as an international architect. He splits his time between Washington, D.C., and Brooklyn, New York, and is also the author of The Caretaker. Read more about him at axahmad.com.
Also by A. X. Ahmad
The Caretaker
