A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  They cleared security and took a seat in the waiting area. At noon, their flight was called for boarding. When they reached the boarding kiosk, Uncle-ji handed their passports to the agent, and Aunti-ji patted Sita’s head for effect. The agent smiled at Shyam and then at Sita.

  “Bon voyage,” she said and returned the stubs to Uncle-ji.

  They took their seats in the middle of the large aircraft. Aunti-ji fussed about the seat assignment and the lack of personal space. Uncle-ji rolled his eyes and chatted quietly with Shyam. Sita looked out a nearby window and ignored them. She watched a plane take off in the distance and tried to picture every feature of her sister’s face. Her large eyes and thick eyelashes. Her dimples and full lips. Her almond skin and shimmery hair. Each piece of her sister was beloved. Each would be forever missed.

  As the plane backed away from the gate and lumbered toward the runway, Sita made a vow to God and to herself. She would remember her sister. She would remember the person she was and the India they knew before the madness. The world could take their freedom; it could steal their innocence; it could destroy their family and sweep them away in currents beyond their understanding. But it could not deprive them of memory. Only time had that power, and Sita would resist it at all cost.

  The past was all she had left.

  The flight from Paris touched down at Newark Liberty International Airport late in the afternoon. Apart from a merciful three-hour nap, Aunti-ji had spent the entire flight complaining. She moved constantly, shifting her weight back and forth and bumping Uncle-ji and Sita with her arms. Nearby passengers needled her with their eyes, but none had the gumption to tell her to shut up. None except Uncle-ji. Even his pleas, however, fell on deaf ears. Aunti-ji seemed intent on sharing her misery with everyone in earshot. When at last the plane landed, ten rows of passengers breathed a sigh of relief.

  Her tirade continued as they walked to the customs arrival area. Sita glanced at the American immigration officials and remembered Dmitri’s words. He was now on the other side of the Atlantic, but he had associates in New York. She couldn’t risk telling her story to the police.

  They waited in the customs area for nearly twenty minutes before being directed to a booth occupied by a Hispanic immigration officer.

  The officer inspected their passports and collected their fingerprints and photographs using the US-VISIT system. He then interrogated Uncle-ji at length about the purpose of their visit. Uncle-ji’s story was almost completely true, and he told it with confidence, albeit in broken English.

  The officer turned to Aunti-ji and asked her questions about her residency in France, about her place of birth, and about Shyam and Sita, who he called Sundari. Aunti-ji responded with such obsequiousness that the immigration officer looked at her with suspicion. Sensing his concern, Aunti-ji turned to Sita and patted her head.

  “Tell how much you want to see New York,” she instructed.

  Sita stood frozen, her mind racing for an appropriate response. She spoke the lie that came to her. “Everyone in France talks about New York. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

  “How come you speak such good English?” the officer asked, narrowing his eyes.

  The answer came to her effortlessly. “We learn it in school.”

  Her explanation seemed to satisfy the officer and he turned his gaze once again to their documents. Uncle-ji stood stiffly with Shyam at his side, and Aunti-ji, for once, had the good sense not to speak. At long last, the officer stamped their passports and waved them through.

  “Welcome to America,” he said and turned to the next person in line.

  They collected their luggage and sat pensively on a bench beside the bank of hotel telephones. Neither Uncle-ji nor Aunti-ji explained to Sita what they were waiting for. Only Shyam seemed oblivious to the tension of the moment. He stood up and danced a few steps from a Bollywood film, clearly showing off for Sita’s benefit.

  “Did you see Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham?” he asked her. “It has Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan in it.”

  “Cupa rahō!” Uncle-ji said sternly, telling the boy to be quiet. “This is not India. This is America. You must not make a scene.”

  “I’m sorry, Baba,” Shyam said, looking wounded. “I was just trying to cheer up Sita.”

  “Sita does not need cheering up. And we do not need to see you dance. Sit down.”

  Shyam sat beside Sita and hung his head. When Uncle-ji turned away, Sita brushed Shyam’s hand with the back of her fingers.

  “It’s okay,” she mouthed. “I liked it.”

  At this sign of affection, Shyam’s sadness seemed to retreat. After a moment, he mustered the nerve to move his hand slightly and touch her in return.

  Ten minutes later, a middle-aged Slavic man who looked startlingly like Vasily walked through the sliding glass doors into the terminal. He looked around until he caught sight of them and then walked in their direction. He stared at Sita for long seconds.

  “Follow me,” he said brusquely and turned back toward the door, making no attempt to help them with their luggage.

  They trailed Vasily’s look alike out of the terminal and across a lane of traffic to a white utility van. They climbed inside and Vasily’s look alike took his place in the front passenger seat. The driver was a large man with hard eyes and days-old stubble on his chin. As soon as all the doors were closed, he moved the van into traffic and took a ramp onto the turnpike.

  After a while, they passed through a long tunnel and emerged into the shadow of skyscrapers. Sita was astonished by the concrete jungle of metropolitan New York. Bombay was more crowded, but New York was a city built in the sky. The driver navigated through a traffic snarl until he reached a seedy-looking hotel called the Taj. Vasily’s look alike opened the sliding door to the van and Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji piled out and collected their luggage. Sita got out after Shyam, but the Slav blocked her way.

  “You come with us,” he said.

  Sita stopped cold and glanced at Uncle-ji, fear blossoming within her. Uncle-ji stared intently at a spot on the sidewalk. At once she knew. Another exchange had been made. Chennai, Bombay, Paris, New York. When would it end?

  Vasily’s look alike took her arm and forced her back into the van.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “No questions,” he commanded, “or I will give you to Igor.”

  The driver—Igor—grinned at her maliciously. “Alexi always tell truth,” he said, his guttural voice almost like a growl.

  Vasily’s look alike—Alexi—talked briefly to Uncle-ji, and the restaurant owner handed him a passport. Shyam began to protest, glancing at Sita with wide eyes.

  “Why is she not coming with us?” he asked, his words carrying into the van. He clutched his father’s hand. “Please, Baba, don’t leave her.”

  Uncle-ji looked ashamed, but he made no attempt to reply.

  Alexi returned to the van and climbed into the passenger seat. Igor gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb. Sita looked out the rear window and locked eyes with Shyam. The boy waved and his lips moved, but she couldn’t hear his words. She watched him fade into the distance, his small body dwarfed by the great towers of the city.

  The depth of her sorrow surprised her. She reached into her sari and rubbed Hanuman with her thumb. She tried to pray, tried to believe that the monkey wasn’t just a piece of ceramic in her hand, that the real Hanuman was out there somewhere searching for her, but her faith seemed incapable of bearing up the weight of her fear.

  She turned around and steadied her breathing. She watched as Igor maneuvered the van back through the jam of tunnel traffic. The late winter sun was setting behind a blanket of low clouds, and the diminishing light cast a pallor over the urban landscape.

  They followed the turnpike into Newark and took an exit just past the airport. After a series of turns, Igor pulled the van into the parking lot of a strip mall. Its only distinguishing characteristic was a neon-lit building that sat in the back
corner beside a motel. The entrance to the building was flamingo-pink and the sign over the door read PLATINUM VIP.

  Igor parked the van near a side door, and Alexi summoned Sita from the back seat. Pulling Tatiana’s coat around her, she followed him through the door and down a dimly lit hallway. The walls were dingy with old paint and decorated with cutouts from porn magazines.

  Alexi opened the door to a small room. It was furnished with a bed, a sink, a toilet, and a television set. He flipped a switch and a light came on in a garish gold lamp in the corner. The room was windowless and looked neglected. A dusty fan hung from a fixture in the ceiling, its blades unmoving.

  “You stay in here,” he said and left her alone, locking the door behind him.

  Sita sat on the bed for hours. She studied the room and hatched imaginary escape plots, all of which presumed extraordinary good fortune on her part and profound stupidity on the part of her captors. When she grew tired of this, she distracted herself with mind games. Occasionally, footsteps passed in the hallway and she heard the muffled sounds of speech.

  In time, the footsteps grew more regular. She heard female voices speaking in a foreign tongue. Their accents were similar to Dmitri’s, but she couldn’t tell if the language was Russian. A man greeted the girls and barked an order. One of the girls began to plead with him. A scuffle ensued and something thumped against the door. The girl shrieked. The man shouted. Again the door thumped. Sita heard what sounded like nails scratching on wood. She drew her knees to her chin and her heartbeat increased.

  The door opened and a young woman entered. She was blond and dressed in a V-neck top and miniskirt. Igor sauntered into the room behind her and looked crossly at Sita. She leaped off the bed and cowered in the corner behind the television set. The blond girl glanced at her and turned back toward Igor, her eyes wide and full of fear.

  Igor barked another command. The girl shook her head. Igor grew impatient and threw her on the bed. When he unbuckled his belt, the girl began to cry. Sita looked away and shut her eyes, whispering a mantra she had learned as a child. The girl’s suffering was too much for her to bear.

  A few minutes later, Igor got up from the bed, breathing heavily. He pulled on his pants and left the room without a word. The girl lay on the thin mattress. Sita opened her eyes and regarded her still form. She worried that Igor had knocked her unconscious, but then the girl began to stir. She sat up and rearranged her clothes, her face expressionless. Igor returned for her, and the girl followed him out of the room without looking in Sita’s direction.

  At some point, music began and didn’t stop for hours. The pulsing beat reverberated through the walls and rattled her brain. She lay down on the bed, exhausted from jet lag and anxiety. But the music made it impossible to sleep. She covered her ears and buried her head in the filthy sheets.

  Sometime before dawn, the music stopped and she heard scuffing sounds in the hallway. The door opened a second time and Igor appeared again, dragging a different girl. The girl didn’t protest when Igor pushed her against the wall. She did what he demanded without making a sound. Sita sealed her eyes and ears from the horror of it all. She wanted to bathe herself, to cleanse her soul of the stain of this place. Why was she here? What did they want from her? Was Igor trying to teach her a lesson by raping girls in front of her?

  In time, Igor left and the girl went with him. Sita closed her eyes and once more tried to sleep. She was startled awake by the sound of the doorknob turning. Suddenly, Igor stood on the threshold again, alone this time. He glanced either way down the hall and entered the room, shutting the door behind him. He turned toward Sita, and his mouth stretched into a rictus that was part sneer and part smile. Sita backed into the corner and hugged her knees to her chest.

  Igor advanced toward her slowly, his meaty hands hanging open at his sides. He knelt in front of her and began to loosen his belt.

  “Alexi say I not touch you. Dietrich coming.” Igor unzipped his fly and reached into his pants. “Alexi not know if you touch me.”

  Sita closed her eyes, unable to look at what he wanted to show her. Her teeth began to chatter. She felt him take her head in his hands and draw her toward him. He reeked of sweat and cheap alcohol.

  “Open mouth,” he hissed.

  “Please,” she whimpered, feeling a sudden urge to vomit. “Don’t do this.”

  “Open mouth,” he commanded again, increasing the pressure on her head.

  Suddenly, the door burst open. Sita looked up as Alexi stormed into the room, his face dark with rage. Igor swiveled around and rushed to cover himself. Before Igor could get his hands free, Alexi drove his fist into Igor’s jaw. Sita heard a sound like the snapping of a branch, and then Igor howled in pain. She watched in astonishment as Alexi hoisted Igor by the shoulders and hurled him against the wall. Stunned and bleeding from the lip, Igor crumpled to the floor and clutched at his face.

  Alexi cracked his knuckles and winced slightly, looking at his hand. He turned to Sita and spoke as if the violence had meant nothing to him.

  “Did he touch you?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “He touched my head,” she answered. “Nothing else.”

  Alexi glanced at Igor as he struggled to stand. Igor braced himself against the door jamb, his jaw hanging slack, and then limped out of the room without looking at them.

  “He will not touch you again,” Alexi said.

  When Alexi left, Sita rested her head against the wall. She tried to take consolation in his promise, but she couldn’t banish Igor’s smell or the ominous threat of Dietrich. Sleep enticed her, toyed with her, but ultimately eluded her. The sights and sounds of human depravity were too much to forget.

  Is this hell? she wondered fleetingly.

  If not, where is God?

  Chapter 23

  You do not have because you do not ask.

  —THE BOOK OF JAMES

  Paris, France

  After the incident with the black Mercedes, Thomas accompanied Julia to Place de la Concorde and dropped her off in the lobby of the American Embassy. She promised to call as soon as she heard something from the BRP.

  Thomas left the embassy feeling stir-crazy. He had done what Léon had considered miraculous—he had found a tip and turned it into a lead.

  He had seen the woman, probably Navin’s aunt, in the car. He had no idea where she had gone, but the Petrovich flat couldn’t be empty. Some measure of truth lay beyond the double doors, something that could lead him to Sita. Yet the lead had to be processed and vetted by police bureaucrats. It was infuriating.

  He wandered south across the vast Place de la Concorde, looking for a way to work off his irritation. He crossed the bridge over the Seine and walked west along the Left Bank. The clouds broke and the river sparkled in the sunlight.

  He kept a brisk pace all the way to the Eiffel Tower. He skirted the mob of tourists huddled at the base of the massive landmark and made his way southeast along the broad Parc du Champ de Mars that extended from the tower to the sprawling complex of the École Militaire. He took a seat on a bench and watched the birds play in the turbulent wind.

  After a few minutes, he took out his BlackBerry, thinking to call Priya. It was late afternoon in Bombay. She picked up on the second ring, sounding weary but happy to hear from him.

  “How is Paris?” she asked.

  “Magnifique,” he said. “How is Bombay?”

  “Getting hotter by the day. Is the search going well?”

  He delivered a short version of the events of the past two days.

  Priya was impressed. “You’ve been more successful than I expected.”

  “Two steps forward, one step back. How is your father?”

  Priya took a short breath. “He’s still in Varanasi.”

  “Well, give him my best when you see him.”

  “I will.” Priya paused. “I’m proud of you, Thomas.”

 
Her encouragement gave him unexpected buoyancy.

  “I meant what I told you. Bring Sita home.”

  Thomas stood from the bench and walked along the edge of the grassy mall toward the Military Academy. At the intersection of Place Joffre and Avenue due Tourville, he headed east past the Hôtel des Invalides. He wandered through the idyllic streets of the Seventh and Sixth Arrondissements before stopping at a café and ordering a sandwich. He checked his BlackBerry regularly, thinking that Julia might have sent him an e-mail or a text message, but his inbox was empty.

  After lunch, he walked east through the Luxembourg Gardens and up the hill along Rue Soufflot to the megalithic Pantheon. He paused beside the stone facade of the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève and scanned the names of the great scholars and intellectuals inscribed beneath the library’s windows. Da Vinci, Erasmus, Newton, Bacon, Kepler, Lavoisier. As a student, the names had inspired him. Now they troubled him. They were visionaries one and all, risk takers who had challenged the status quo, often at great cost to themselves. A memory came to him then—Priya’s words when he took the job at Clayton. “They will turn you into a mercenary,” she had said, “and you will lose your soul.” He didn’t agree with her. But the philosophers and scientists, saints and sages, on the library’s walls spoke with greater authority. How many of them, if they were alive, would have taken her side?

  He turned and walked along the cobbled plaza toward the Église Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. He paused in front of the church, and Jean-Pierre Léon’s question echoed in his mind: “Are you a religious man, Mr. Clarke?” For some reason the Frenchman’s words nagged at him. He would never have considered asking heaven for help in his quest to find Sita. Yet the thought persisted, like a burr that would not let go.