Tulip Season

by Bharti Kirchner

  “My friend Kareena puts it so well,” Mitra replied. “When she last visited India, she wrote me a letter. How everything washes over her all at once. How she surrenders herself unconditionally to the experience, how she's shocked and charmed and crushed by its huge weight. There she remembers her dreams, every single one in all its colors, but never in Seattle. Isn't that amazing?”

  He looked down at the table, contemplating. “What do you miss the most about your country?” Mitra asked.

  “The bread.” He laughed, as though trying hard to make a joke. “Our bread is dark, heavy, dense, and filling. Where I lived, you could find a baker's shop at every corner. In the morning, the whole neighborhood smelled of yeast. I still have trouble starting the day well without that smell.” He stayed silent for a moment. “I like this parlor. It reminds me of a café back home. This is the first time I've lived outside Europe. It takes a lot to really feel at home—how do you say it?—to sink new roots.”

  Mitra commented on how she daily observed the phenomenon of a plant slowly putting down its primary and adventitious roots. “My friend, Kareena, is good at putting roots down, making new friends. I wish she was back.”

  His foot danced over hers. “Anytime you need help in finding her, you can call me. Let me give you my number.”

  She jotted it down, then peeked at her watch. It was 9 P.M, time for her to break this slightly strange, somewhat cozy encounter and go home.

  With an eye to her, he stuck a hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny book with an elegant gesture. Opening the book to a dog-eared page, he recited from a poem by Heinrich Heine about palm trees and burning sand. The words roused feelings in her. She visualized the two of them lying on a warm beach, bodies touching, an ecstatic feeling pervading, palm fronds nearby being ruffled by the wind.

  He shut the book. Something shook inside her. “That was lovely,” she said.

  He must have picked up on her feelings, for he placed a hand on the table and leaned toward her, a sensuous flicker in his eyes. “Why don't I take you out to dinner tomorrow night and read more poems?” He might have been inwardly rehearsing this invitation for the last fifteen minutes, but acted as though it had just now clicked inside him.

  What did she hear inside her? An alarm bell?

  “I have a meeting.” She lied and didn't like it that she did, but had no choice. She just couldn't possibly deal with another disappearance of his.

  “How about Friday?”

  “Sorry. Meeting with a girl friend.” Lied again, feeling worse.

  “Saturday?”

  Her heart fluttered in a way it shouldn't. He hadn't been around lately and tonight had been just a chance meeting. Had another date stood him up? Despite these misgivings and against her best judgment, she nodded, then wondered what was it about him that she gave in so easily.

  She rose to leave. Tall as he was, he leaned forward, as though sniffing a flower, and met her lips. He captured her, just for that instant. They left the table together, her mouth slackened, her stroll to the door a bit unsteady.

  A sixty-something woman sitting at an aisle table glared at her from over her half-moon spectacles. These shameless youngsters, she was probably muttering to herself. Or it might be that a kiss bestowed on another pair of lips had taken her to a long-ago missed opportunity. Yet something in the disapproving glance from that stern matriarch made Mitra snap out of her dream. Why did Ulrich have to confide in her so much about Klaus, the crazy guy? As she drove home, that story stayed fishbone-stuck in her mind.

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY, Mitra rang Detective Yoshihama. She had reasons to call him, didn't she?

  His voice brimmed with hidden cheer. “I was just thinking about you, Ms. Basu. What's on your mind?”

  “Have you spoken with Adi?”

  “Yes, the money demand is not a hoax. Mr. Guha said he wanted to handle the matter himself—he doesn't want us in the picture. But I advised him against secrecy, told him of the potential danger he faced. We've got to do our job. We want to bring Ms. Sinha back alive. We're getting more people involved.”

  “Why do you think is Adi so bent on keeping it under wraps? Does the note contain a threat to his life if he divulged any information?”

  “That could very well be the case. He's also conscious of his community's reaction and has asked us to respect that.” The detective paused briefly, then asked, “How're your flowers doing?”

  “Oh, I'm not spending as much time with them this season as I usually do. My tulips didn't bloom. This is the first year that has happened to me.”

  Yoshihama seemed to have covered the phone to speak with the dispatcher. “I wish I could talk with you longer,” he said, “but I've just gotten a call. I need to rush to a school shooting in Rainier Valley.”

  Mitra said goodbye and hung up. Obviously, Yoshihama had a more urgent matter to deal with. She understood that. But Adi—he made her feel as though she didn't deserve to be let on in this matter.

  In the evening, still feeling deflated, Mitra busied herself making a marigold garland, threading a needle into the stem and out through the heart of a blossom, then on to the next. This side gig, contracted by an Indian couple for their daughter's wedding, would bring her some much-needed cash. And it steeled her mind. As she tied the ends of the last garland, her eyes darted to the clock: 8 P.M. This would be the perfect time to telephone Mother; it was morning in Kolkata. Mother adored marigolds, so much so that she'd put its lemon-scented, filigreed foliage in a small bowl and place it on her lamp table. She'd be tickled to hear of the lush marigold specimens Mitra grew—tiger eye, yellow fire, and tangerine gem.

  Mother came on the line, talked about the novel she'd finished last night, ignored Mitra's question about her health, and asked, “Did you go shopping with your girl-friend?”

  How should Mitra reply? Wouldn't Mother be enraged if Mitra revealed her blood connection with Kareena? She couldn't risk it. Then, in a moment of either weakness or rationalization, in her need to express grief, she confided that Kareena had vanished. The kidnappers were trying to extort money from her husband.

  “Kidnapping and extortion is a growth industry in India,” Mother said. “Easy money, I guess, but it's a crime. The Section 364 of Indian Penal Code can be used to punish the criminals. Careful now. Big country, all kinds of bapper, and you're alone.”

  Mother's favorite word bapper implied happenings with an unsavory connotation. “Don't call it a bapper, Ma. I live in a safe neighborhood.”

  “Speaking of neighborhoods, I just opened this morning's Hindustan Standard. The headline talks about gang activity in Kolkata, not far from my place.” She paused. “This is not the city you grew up in. Gang wars from Mumbai are spilling over here. Five hooligans broke into the office of my neighbor's cousin. They fired several rounds at him. He died instantly. They believe it's a case of extortion. Another time, the same thugs threw chili powder on a guy they were angry with at Howra Station. The poor fellow got serious injuries to his eyes. Those gangsters are ruthless, brutal. They're still at large.” Mother paused and added, “But eve-teasing incidents in public busses are down.”

  Eve-teasing—sexual harassment of women; a term Mitra considered rather cute. “Should I be worried about those gangsters, Ma? Are you safe in your apartment?”

  Mother laughed. “I'm quite safe. I keep myself up-to-date on what's going on and avoid certain streets. The other day, I was coming home in the evening. An evil-looking guy approached me. ‘What's your name?’ I yelled at him. ‘What's your game? What do you want?’ The guy looked confused and turned away.” She paused. “But I should be helping you find your friend.”

  “You mean that?”

  Mother gave such an emphatic yes that Mitra stood up in surprise. “You'll fly all the way here to play armchair detective?”

  “I don't want to armchair anything. I want to act. I'll follow directions to the right place and meet whomever I need to speak with. No one is thr
eatened by a gray-haired lady who wears wrong colors, doesn't talk sports, and is not snooty. When you're invisible, you don't rouse suspicion.”

  Mitra smiled to herself. Then, picturing her mother scurrying through Seattle's speeding cars, bicycles, trucks, and impatient pedestrians, she trembled. Suppose Mother, a frail woman, collapsed in the middle of traffic? At the same time, Mitra couldn't spoil the intimacy of this moment. Her clever, resourceful mother could certainly be of help. But then, what'd happen when she found out Kareena's parentage? Wouldn't she feel betrayed?

  “I don't want to take you away from your books,” Mitra said.

  “How often does one face a challenge like the ‘Kareena Affair’? Pardon me. An affair is what a novelist would call it. I live a hermit's life. It's time I got back into the grind, became a useful member of the society, contributed to the collective good, cracked a real-life mystery, wouldn't you say?”

  “You'll have to fly for more than twenty hours to get here, Ma. Wouldn't that be strenuous?”

  “You think I'm a weakling, don't you? How I wish you'd seen me in my college days. All I had to do was breeze through the door wearing a pretty sari, my mother's locket, and a smile, and doors would swing open for me. I'd leave with treasures—satisfactory results—in my handbag. In those days, happy endings didn't seem corny, delusional, or fictionalized, just a natural outcome of events. Maybe I could have a taste of those days again.”

  In Mother's mind, in her memory, she must have always been a dashing heroine who could take on any task she wanted and finish it with aplomb.

  Mitra was about to blurt out a yes when Mother said, “Wait just a second. I have to take my medicine.”

  When she returned to the line, Mitra asked, “Are you sick?” Mother cleared her throat, which took a few tries, then mumbled what could be either a yes or a no. “Ma, don't you feel well?”

  Mother said she was fine, which Mitra didn't buy. It was the quiver in her voice, the thinness of her protest, the brevity of her remark.

  “Why don't you hire help to do your chores?” Mitra asked. “I'll send a money draft right away.”

  “I need a head bath,” Mother said. Hair-washing time, a stalling technique. She simply didn't wish to speak about her illness. She said goodbye.

  Click, her last command, indicating that Mitra should get back to her work.

  Though she'd put the receiver back, Mitra knew the conversation wasn't finished in Mother's mind. Her arm curved on the table, she'd rehash the exchange for half the night, refilling the brass tumbler with water many times. She had a tendency to discard the present moment as valueless and dwell on what had happened in the past.

  Mitra rose from the sofa. She loved her mother to a degree that went beyond the rational. How desperately she wanted to close the distance between them and establish a deeper intimacy that allowed no secrets to lurk.

  SEVENTEEN

  A DAY LATER, on a balmy afternoon, the doorbell shrilled and Mitra saw Veen standing there. She flung one arm around Mitra in an embrace. On the other arm, she toted a plastic bag containing several cartons of food. In a camel-colored pantsuit, Veen appeared professional, as well as approachable, but Mitra couldn't ignore the look of concern on her face.

  “I decided to bring you dinner,” Veen said. “You probably won't even eat otherwise.”

  They settled on a bench in Mitra's backyard and served themselves pullao rice, vegetable kebob, samosa, mint chutney, and lustrous chai, all carried out from Bombay Grill on Roosevelt Street.

  A stray black curl straggled down Veen's forehead. “I wanted to see you before I left,” she said. “I'm taking off for Bangalore tomorrow to attend my niece's wedding. It happened quite suddenly. She's younger than me and getting married. That's not fair. You know how in India they think you're an old maid if a younger sister or cousin gets hitched before you do. Anyway, I'll be gone for a week.”

  Oh, no. Veen, her biggest supporter, would be gone.

  Veen then shifted the conversation over to Kareena. “Something peculiar about Adi's routine. He's been telecommuting a lot these days. My neighbor sees him coming in and out of his home in the daytime a lot. Last night, I knocked at his door just to check up on him. He pissed me off. He's found out about our task force and fucking demanded that we disband it to ‘reduce redundancies.’ He's also extremely irritated that you've been talking to Detective Yoshihama.”

  “Adi's extremely irritated with me? What else is new?”

  “Goddamn it, he's hired a private eye.”

  “Well, isn't that a bit late? After he's gotten a ransom demand? By the way, I'm the one who'd suggested that he hire a P.I.”

  Veen caught a breath. “Listen, we've gone through so much together. I must warn you. For my sake, be extra careful. The P.I. is not to find Kareena. Adi didn't mention her in that part of our conversation, but he sure mentioned you. How you've rushed into ‘uncharted territories.’ How he'd like to keep an eye on you no matter where you go. I got the impression that he'll have you watched.”

  * * *

  The next evening, despite that threat from Adi hanging over her, Mitra took time to dress up. Her cool Deutscher was taking her to Ponti Seafood Grill. She coiled up her collarbone-length hair for added height. The white sequined top draped gently over her shoulders. The black pencil-thin skirt gave her more shape than she believed she had. A gold necklace and high-heels completed her look. Kareena would approve of this outfit, this hairdo, and the restaurant.

  Ulrich parked two blocks away from the place, a pleasant walk, except that the night had smoothed out the sharp edges of the street. Happily careless, Mitra tripped when one of her heels caught on a crack on the sidewalk. Her quick and observant date grabbed her arm. She stood up straight and laughed. He hung on to her until they reached the restaurant door.

  They talked over a leisurely five-course meal made richer by soft light, unobtrusive staff, and the most terrific marinated asparagus she'd ever tasted. He told her his last name is Schultheiss. She liked the consonants or rather the way his lips curled and plumped as he pronounced them.

  Halfway through the meal, he looked in the direction of a departing family of four—father, mother, and two quarreling teenage princesses.

  “I'm of the opinion,” Ulrich said, “the family as a nuclear unit is dead.” He blamed mechanization and human greed, and expressed fear that the demise of the nuclear family signaled the demise of civilization.

  “I disagree,” Mitra replied, taking a sip of the jaunty mint tea. “We'll revert to larger units of living and sharing like our ancestors did. That's my hope.”

  “Hope makes you look beautiful,” he said. “And I like your new hair-do.”

  They returned to her house and watched the full moon from her back yard as their “nightcap,” surrounded by greenery tinged with a silver sheen. Together, they speculated on the makeup of the moon's core.

  “Molten rock,” Ulrich said, “nothing more.”

  “But there's more.” Mitra spoke of an age-old Indian belief that the moon's benevolent shine, the life force inside it, nourished the plants.

  Clouds obscured the moon and soon the first drops of rain anointed Mitra's skin. They went inside and danced first to Bhangra-pop, then cello music, laughing like teenagers, working up sleepy muscles. After a few songs, he begged off and grimaced, one arm going across the opposite shoulder and rubbing.

  “I love to dance, but my back hurts,” he said.

  “Would you like a back rub?”

  He nodded. She stood behind him, as he perched on a chair. She started at the spine, her fingers gliding outward and making deep circles to loose the tension knots. Her fingers adjusted the pressure as needed; no thinking required. Nothing else existed for her but the warm touch of his skin, the strong resistance of the bones, the rise and fall of his chest as he took a breath. She melted, and watched him yielding to the workings of her hand, as though similarly giving in to the moment.

  He smiled at her when s
he finished. “You make me feel so much at home. This will get me through the night. I should have had the pain medication with me, but I forgot.”

  Mitra did a rewind and went back to that morning to that yellow pill lying on the bedroom floor, the first time he was here. Casually, she mentioned it to him and asked what the med was meant for.

  He startled and looked away. Then, after a brief pause, “Oh, it's for a sinus condition I have.”

  She didn't believe him. What might he be avoiding to discuss? Her thought pattern was interrupted when he rose, turned, drew her to his arms, and kissed her deeply. He put himself so much into the kiss that her concerns faded. Later, they made love, which happened naturally and rhythmically, going slower, longer, and deeper than before. Mitra sank, floated, and soared in the comfort that was Uli. He was fully present. He was there only for her. Any reservation she had about him about holding a matter of importance back dissolved into nothingness.

  Climbing out of bed the next morning, Mitra put on her favorite navy wool slippers that covered her feet like a blanket. Kareena had given her these slippers on her last birthday. They'd come encased in a gift box wrapped in gold paper and tied with green ribbon. Stylized letters on top of the box had proclaimed: Sabnam's Sandals.

  “It's a nice little shop,” Kareena had said. “I know the owner—she was a client of mine. We still have coffee every now and then. I'd buy out her whole inventory if I could. Oh, by the way, Sabnam will take these back if they don't fit or you don't like the color.”

  Sabnam—Mitra liked the music of that name.

  At the kitchen table, Ulrich poured Swiss muesli into his bowl. Mitra slid a coffee mug toward him, then ran down the steps of her investigation so far into Kareena's disappearance.

  “I've talked to just about everybody who knew Kareena, but not the store clerks of shops where she bought her clothes and shoes,” she said. “I want to get started on that. I'll show them a picture of her, ask if they recall her, and when was the last time they'd seen her. She was a big shopper.” She looked down at her slippers. “I'll start with a shoe store owner.”