Tulip Season

by Bharti Kirchner

  “Plan your questions,” he replied.

  “Here is one of my planned questions to you. Could you tell me when and where you met Kareena?”

  Ulrich frowned at the milk carton. “You don't have whole milk? I can't stand this skim stuff.”

  “Sorry, I don't. I'll put it on the shopping list.” She dropped into the other chair. “When you said you recognized Kareena, how did you recognize her? Did you know her?”

  Ulrich reached out and gently traced the scar under her left eye caused by a childhood brush with a low-hanging tree branch. “Let's drop the topic, shall we? She isn't important to me. You are, sweetheart. You're more beautiful than her.” He paused. “Let's enjoy the breakfast together.”

  Mitra grabbed the muesli box, thoughts fluttering around her mind. They'd had a terrific night together, but his reactions about Kareena gave her unease, as did his line: You're more beautiful than her. She didn't trust those words. Nor did she like the comparison. Mainly because he seemed to be avoiding a discussion about Kareena.

  EIGHTEEN

  IT HAD BEEN eleven days. Kareena—her desertion had the flawless perfection of a blank sheet of paper. Every evening, Mitra curled up with the Police Beat and neighborhood tabloids, searching for any snippet of evidence. The papers had a discount-store smell. Their greasy print stained her fingers. They made for an altogether depressing read and provided no answers. And yet, Mitra never considered giving up.

  Haunted by her thoughts of Kareena, on this afternoon, Mitra went to work in her adopted grandmother's yard. She hoped that turning the soil for the flowerbed and tidying a lot choked with weeds, grass, and rocks would diminish her nightmarish concerns. The air was redolent with the faint fragrance of newly opened pear blossoms. A robin chirped from a treetop. In this perfect ambience, the long oak handle of the spade felt like an extension of her arms.

  She heard the click of the back door. Glow, dressed in relaxed-fit aquamarine sweats, her rouged cheeks shining peachy-bright in the sun, approached her. “You're moving all those rocks by yourself?”

  Mitra wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I'm used to it. Mother Nature willing, this garden will be ready in time for your birthday.”

  Grandmother broke into a smile. Her small eyes closed, as though she were receiving a blessing. She settled into a deck chair beneath a forsythia bush. If the arthritis in her knees hadn't been acting up, she'd be on her feet, meandering around and plucking a vagrant root here, stick or pebble there, Mitra was well aware. Grandmother asked about Kareena.

  Mitra's spade struck a walnut-sized pebble, making a grating metallic sound. She leaned down, picked up the pebble, and tossed it aside. “There are times when I wonder if Kareena's not contacting me intentionally.”

  “That wouldn't surprise me. I've never told you about my daughter Alice. She ran away from home when she was seventeen.” Grandmother's voice trailed off; the contours of her face hardened. “We had no contact between us for a whole year. Then Alice called to say she'd been living with a man in Bellingham. She was pregnant and had decided to keep the baby. Boom. She hung up. That was twenty years ago. We didn't speak again till last May when I met my granddaughter Isabel for the first time.”

  Might Kareena be pregnant? Mitra tried to picture her with a baby. Kareena—lovingly glancing at the warm bundle in her arms. The picture formed so easily that it astounded Mitra.

  She took a few steps back, skirting a heap of stones. “Kareena would love to start a family, but Adi doesn't. Hard as I try to connect that information with her disappearance, I don't come up with an answer.”

  “Well, you've done all you could. She's lucky to have a friend like you.” Grandmother nodded, radiating sympathy Mitra could feel from several feet away. “But is it necessary to spend so much time on it? It's like holding two fulltime jobs.”

  “I couldn't bear any harm coming to her. I won't rest until I've unraveled the mystery.”

  “Drat!” Grandmother said. “My intuition isn't worth a dime today. Or I'd be able to tell you where she is, what her scheme is.”

  “She's not cold and scheming. She's a generous soul. Last winter, she even organized a huge fund-raising dinner for abused women. I helped her out on that.”

  Grandmother twisted a dandelion bud between her coral-tipped fingers. “Could that have earned her a few points at work? Did she take that on because she could count on your help? Listen, I used to be a saleswoman for a greeting card company, which had a friendly working atmosphere. I was still new when one of my colleagues organized a Tupperware-style party and asked for my assistance. I spent hours of my spare time on it. She never returned the favor. She was just taking advantage of me. I must tell you I've been disappointed by women more often than men, in spite of my four failed marriages.”

  Mitra watched a blue jay strutting along the ridge line of a neighbor's roof. Once again, she and Grandmother weren't in sync. In the past, she and Kareena had leaned toward each other in support, like plants naturally bending in the sun's direction. She'd never thought of Kareena using her.

  “My experience has been different,” Mitra said. “My women friends are like family to me.”

  “You're still such a romantic, my dear.”

  It became clear to Mitra, vivid as the sun flaring on her forehead, where Grandmother stood. The woman lived alone. She'd once alluded, with a catch in her throat, that her daughter Alice didn't send her a Christmas card. No wonder she felt clingy toward Mitra. She'd rather not have Kareena's shadow falling between them.

  “As you grow older,” Grandmother continued, “you stop treasure-hunting. You start worrying about what you might lose, rather than what you might gain. You keep an eye out for the quicksand.”

  Mitra spread organic matter—a mixture of steer manure, compost, and peat moss, each component asserting its own smell—into the dense clay soil. The flowerbed was ready.

  “It's best to let the bed rest for a day,” she said. “Then we'll plant.”

  “Righto, Mitra, my garden nymph. Mitra—what a pretty name. Does it have a meaning?”

  Mitra brushed dirt off her dark workpants. “Yes. Mitra means friend. My parents wanted to give me a more poetic name, like Anamika, Sukanya, or Neelanjana. But they chose Mitra. It's short and brisk. And isn't a loyal friend the best thing you can be? That's what my mother said.”

  “You're way too loyal, Mitra-friend. Loyalty never pays much, just gives you a stomach-ache.” She scrutinized Mitra's face and figure in a motherly vein. “You're stressed. You're ruining your health over something you can do nothing about. Let her go. Goodness knows what she's up to. Besides, I worry about the risk you're taking, the danger.” She paused. “You've exposed Kareena's vanishing act as well as Adi's lack of effort to the community. If he has something to hide and, more than likely he does, he's not going to like that. He's already warned you, hasn't he? Or it could be some other criminal altogether. In any and all cases, you're interfering.”

  Mitra didn't have an answer. She only bristled with Grandmother's negative attitude toward Kareena. Then again, she told herself, the other side of having a grandparent was being a grandchild, which involved a certain amount of deference to their opinion or at least maintaining the appearance of it.

  Tampopo meowed at the back door, a sure sign she wanted to be fed. She grazed at just about anything edible. Grandmother trudged back inside, saying she'd be back in a minute.

  The setting sun cast its last rays over the yard. Once again, an inner voice confirmed the conviction that Kareena was hibernating somewhere. Mitra would see her again.

  And yet the muscles in her shoulders tightened.

  NINETEEN

  IN THE FAINT LIGHT of late afternoon, Mitra scrutinized the chic hand-painted sign at the entrance to Sabnam's Sandals in an upscale strip mall in Bellevue. She'd called the proprietor earlier in the day and made an appointment to speak with her. Now she inspected the window display, a cheerful jumble of women's clogs, thongs, sandals, and fli
p-flops in earth and sun tones, all style, flutter, and whimsy, and all obviously imported from India. In contrast, Mitra's feet were encased in a pair of constricting loafers.

  Had this been a happier time, she'd have been tempted to march inside and scoop up the red-and-blue thongs so attractively arranged on the bottom of a shoe tree, or the white two-strap slides on top. Suddenly, Mitra was transported back to India where her open-air footwear kept her lower extremities cool, gave her freedom to stride, and lent her a sense of playfulness even when seated.

  Through the glass panes of the store, a petite forty-something woman waved and motioned her to come in.

  “Mitra Basu. We have an appointment.”

  “I'm Sabnam Garg, the proprietor. May I be of service?” When she spoke, it was as though temple bells were chiming a melody. Underneath an ankle-length tangerine-print dress, her feet were bare, save for an emerald toe ring. Her cheeks exuded a glow that showed through her dark complexion.

  “One of your customers, Kareena Sinha, is a friend of mine. She's missing, if you haven't heard. I'm desperately trying to put all the puzzle pieces together. Any information will help. As it stands now, I'm stymied.”

  “Why do you think I might know something?” Her tone of voice turned cold and brittle. “Are you from the police?”

  Mitra shook her head, a strong shake. Sabnam, apparently mollified, waved toward a comfy couch pushed up against a wall. Mitra took one corner of the couch. Sabnam swerved around her, hurried to a tea table situated just beyond the cash register and pressed the button on top of a tall black thermos. Amber liquid accompanied by a gurgling sound streamed from the spout into two ruby tea glasses. Sabnam offered Mitra a glass, without asking first, and edged in beside her. She held her glass beneath her nose and inhaled, a dreamy expression stealing over her face.

  Searching for a way to begin that would set Sabnam at ease, Mitra zeroed in on the windowsills painted the color of young turmeric. “You've chosen your colors well.”

  “Kareena thought it was an encouraging sign that I broke out of my brown funk and went instead for reds, oranges, and yellows. She's not only a customer, you see. I'm a survivor. I owe my life to her.”

  “Maybe now you can help save her life,” Mitra said. “Did she ever confide in you about any marital problems, or about being abused herself?”

  “No, Adi would never hurt her. He can be gruff and he's complicated, but he loves her. He's not like the dushman I was married to.” Evil man.

  Mitra took a swallow of her glass and found the strong taste to her liking. “What's in this tea?”

  “You like it? It's Kareena's favorite, too. It's my own formula. I doctor up Darjeeling tea leaves with honey, cardamom, black pepper, hazelnut flavoring, and a few ingredients I prefer to keep a secret. I sell only a limited quantity of this tea. An Indian gentleman was just here to buy a pound, a stylish man.” She paused. “Do you know how to forget the pain of nightly beatings by your husband? Drown your senses in excess.” Her body sagged into the couch under the huge weight of memories that she must have wanted to erase. “I loved my husband—I still do. He was my temple, my mandir. You can never make yourself believe that you'll get severe, severe injuries in the temple. I required four operations.”

  The scalding glass Mitra held caused a burning sensation on her palm. She had never before met a survivor of such terrible physical abuse. From Kareena's brief descriptions of the violence suffered by her clients, Mitra could piece together a scene at the “temple”—closed doors, sounds of slaps and crashes of furniture, shrieks of pain followed by trickles of blood and years of painful memory.

  A ghost-like pall hung over the room, but Mitra cut through it. “How many years?”

  A shadow of regret passed across Sabnam's face. “Twelve.”

  Kareena and Adi had been married eight years. “Twelve? Did you think that—?”

  “Yes, every morning I'd wake up and say to myself he'll be different today, and he would be from time to time. He'd be waiting there with a tea tray in hand when I woke up. He'd smile and kiss me before going to work, as if the night before hadn't happened. Once he came home with a dozen yellow roses and knelt before me. It was like seeing Taj Mahal on a moonlit night. And like a love-struck teenager, I stupidly forgave him.”

  “How did you meet Kareena?”

  Sabnam looked around the room, then began giving the details. She'd found a calling card of a women's advocacy agency by the washbasin of a restaurant in Bellevue and shoved it in her shoe. She'd gone straight to a pay phone, called the advocacy number, and spoken to an counselor with a kind voice.

  Mitra leaned forward. “Aren't you glad Kareena was there for you?”

  “An angel is what she is. She showed up at precisely the right time, just as I was giving up hope. The first time we sat down together, she held my hand and I felt reassured enough to talk. It was plain to her I wasn't ‘crazy making,’ as my relatives would put it. ‘Clear out as soon as you can,’ she advised me. ‘Make a new movie with your life.’ She could tell what I'd been going through all these years, like a dear sister would.” Sabnam gazed at a wall, as though haunted by heartache, shame, and secrecy. “She asked me to temporarily hide in a women's shelter.

  “Once I found a place of my own, I went through the legal process. It was then that Kareena suggested that I open a shoe shop. In those days, I looked like a mess, but still always had the smartest shoes on. Kareena saw me as a born entrepreneur, a retailer, trendsetter, and nurturer of women. When I applied for a bank loan, Kareena came with me. Oh, how she flirted with the bank officer. I was jealous. I didn't have the confidence to laugh and joke with a man. But I got the loan.” Sabnam paused, apparently noting Mitra's raised eyebrows. “Why do you look so surprised? Kareena was a sharp woman who knew how to use her looks. Of course, she also had a weakness for handsome, well-dressed types—didn't you know?”

  Mitra hadn't known. What else about her sister didn't she know? “Could you tell me which bank it was and the name of that loan officer?”

  “I don't remember. I'm sorry, but now business is picking up and I have a wonderful rapport with my customers. It's like having a second family. They give me flowers, truffles, show tickets. Someone even gave me a puppy. I owe it all to Kareena. She helped me make my own movie.” Sabnam paused. “You said you needed help finding her? Did you watch the old Nixon movie on television last night?”

  Mitra set the empty tea glass down, fighting the frustration in her throat. “All the President's Men? I've seen it.”

  “Remember what Deep Throat said? ‘Follow the money.’” Sabnam laughed sarcastically. “I say follow the love. Love takes you to more troubled spots.”

  Mitra had the sensation of being knee-deep in mud and fighting to take the next step. Yet hope hovered over the air. She had just gotten the first hint about a new possibility as to why Kareena vanished: she had a lover.

  “So are you saying Kareena had an extra-marital affair?” she asked.

  Outside, a man laughed, laughter with a bite, likely some drunk from the tavern next door.

  “You ask too many questions,” Sabnam said. “Slow down, Mitra girl. Tell me more about yourself. I want to know you better. You remind me of Kareena, same vibes. Are you privileged like her?”

  Privileged? Mitra recounted to Sabnam how her mother couldn't afford tuition money for her college education. When she turned eighteen, Mother had shipped her off to an uncle and aunt in Anchorage, relatives she'd never met. She had never been outside her hometown of Kolkata either, but Mother gave her no choice. “Go west, young woman,” she told Mitra. Mother had picked up that phrase from a Western novel. Mitra's uncle and aunt weren't overjoyed to receive her, nor was she ecstatic at the prospect of staying with them for four years. They didn't let her go out of the house, except to her classes and the corner store for six miserable months, those backward folks. Finally, Mitra moved out, rented a studio apartment, and picked up a full-time job of cashiering in a tattoo
parlor while carrying a full load at the university.

  “I was brought up differently from Kareena,” Mitra said. “And we are different. Only now I'm finding out how much she didn't share with me.”

  Sabnam's gaze fell on Mitra's shoes. “Why don't you have a look at my new-season sandals? I just got a shipment from Sultan, Kareena's favorite brand. You won't find that brand in any department store. We women live on our feet. When we stop indulging in shoes, you know the economy has gone south, households have turned more dysfunctional, and our society is in danger of collapsing.” She paused. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Mitra felt herself smiling. “I'm seeing someone.”

  Sabnam stood and turned toward a shoe display. “Then try a new style. I'll give you an excellent price.” She held a pair of three-inch heel, iridescent sling-backs before Mitra. “Go ahead! Be outrageous! Make your own movie.”

  Buying a pair of shoes just might help Mitra get through the afternoon. And if Kareena liked the brand, so would she. She shook the loafers off her feet and slid inside the straps. Suddenly she was on her way to a carnival, feeling foolish, impractical, and reckless, responding to the insistent throbbing of drums in the distance. She couldn't wait to tell Ulrich about this encounter, or to go out with him wearing this impractical footwear.

  “Your new man will go wild when he sees you in these sandals,” Sabnam said. “He'll kneel down and kiss your toes.”

  Mitra followed Sabnam to the cash register. Through the window she noticed a handsome, well-dressed man ambling toward a motorcycle at the far end of the parking lot. Whether it was his posture, his agility, or the cocksure quality he projected, he stood out somehow and piqued her interest. She noticed the jhola on his shoulder and her heart thumped faster. She gave him another look. Yes, it was the same man she'd encountered at Soirée.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Sabnam. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”