by R. J. Kaiser
If there was a sliver of hope, it was that Percy might be after something other than her scalp. Maybe it was Ramda Bol he wanted.
The whole story hadn’t yet been told—nor would it ever, as far as she was concerned. But there were certain things that, were they to come out, would cause Ramda more harm than her. Was that where Percy had aimed his sights?
The irony was that Venita had brought much of her woe upon herself, allowing her ambition to carry her into the world of politics. She had been seduced not only by Ramda Bol, but by his dreams. At thirty-eight Ramda had been the darling of the Congress Party and roundly considered the likely successor to the prime minister. But being the mistress of such a man, while rewarding in some ways, had limitations. She’d have forever been Ramda Bol’s whore—glorified whore, perhaps, but whore nonetheless.
Instead, Venita had aspired to hold the reins of political power in her own right. Looking back on it, she’d been terribly naive. Oh, but how tempting the dream had seemed at the time.
Arjay had asked her why it wasn’t enough to be adored by millions of movie fans. And she’d told him the truth: “The adoration of the public can’t be trusted.” Oh, she still had a few good years left, but Venita knew the road ahead would inevitably take her from the heights to the depths. Her beauty would soon begin to fade. She needed a new course, a new career, a new strategy. Then, just when the future looked bleakest, fate had offered her a magnificent opportunity—marriage to a man who would one day be the leader of the nation, the most powerful man in the country! It meant, of course, first disposing of the wife.
Venita had sorely underestimated the difficulty of that task. Krishna was not just Ramda’s wife, she was the daughter of the sitting prime minister. Ramda had married for political reasons. There was no doubt in Venita’s mind that it was she who he loved and adored, but that happy fact also gave her false hope. It became clear that Ramda would not leave his wife for her. As he put it, “I should fall like a stone and it would be the end of me politically.”
But one night while Ramda shared Venita’s bed, he lamented the fact that Krishna stood between them. “I’m trapped,” he said. “She keeps us apart, but if I divorce her I lose everything else. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
It was then Venita had asked the fateful question. “What if you were to become a widower?”
Ramda had lain in silence in the dark room for a long time. Then he said, “Krishna is young and in excellent health.”
“Tragedy befalls political figures, Ramda.”
“Tragedy?”
“Assassination.”
There was another long silence before Ramda said, “Who besides you would have her dead?”
“There are crazy people everywhere.”
“But the insanity would have to be shown and that would require the culprit being apprehended. How does one engineer that?” He’d sighed, then added, “On the other hand, mistakes do happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not inconceivable that, say, I was the target and poor Krishna became the accidental victim.”
“You are saying there are many who would see you dead.”
“Precisely.”
“You have a devious mind, Ramda,” she’d whispered.
“You as well, my love. There’s a reason we are well suited.”
The conversation might have been dismissed as fanciful repartee. Ramda never mentioned the subject again, but the seed had been planted in Venita’s mind. For weeks she’d obsessed over the notion, her frustration growing. Then she made the tactical error that proved her undoing. Through intermediaries, she began to explore the possibility of assassination.
Venita never quite got to the point of setting a plot in motion, but she’d come close enough that Delhi began whispering her name in connection with murder. Someone—she had no idea who—betrayed her. A firestorm was whipped up, and where the facts fell short, her enemies fabricated the case against her. She was soon isolated and found herself up against not only the first family, but the leadership of the Congress Party, the Ministry of Justice, the national police and eventually the powers-that-be of the film industry itself, people who were once her friends. All the while Ramda remained silent.
The adoration of a billion movie fans was not sufficient to hold back the tides of her destruction. Venita had one thing and one thing only going for her—the ability to take down Ramda Bol. When she communicated that fact to him, his answer was cryptic and not unexpected. “It’s your word against mine.”
“But can you afford even the suspicion, Ramda?” she’d asked. “Why would I have Krishna killed unless I was certain you would have me? Believe me, every detail of our affair will be made known. I may not be able to prove you conspired with me, but I can make the world wonder. What will that do for your political career?”
Her salvation, as it turned out, was that everybody wanted to spare him, including his wife. So rather than arrest her, they sought a more gentle means of removing Venita from the scene. The chairman of the Congress Party, Seetharamas Banerjee, was sent to negotiate with her—though pronouncing sentence was probably a more accurate way to describe what had gone on. They’d offered her exile.
The craggy old man, impeccable in a white Nehru jacket, had looked sadly into her eyes and said in a soft voice, “They will prove in court that you conspired to have Krishna Bol killed, Miss Kumar. They will imprison you and, as you might imagine, it should not be a pleasant existence.”
Venita could see it mattered little that the evidence against her was flimsy at best. No, they were talking raw power. Her plotting justified their lies and deceit, though, of course, Banerjee didn’t state it in such terms. Prison or exile. Ramda spared, in exchange for her freedom. Take it or leave it.
In the end Venita chose discretion over valor. Honor in death was a male notion. A woman typically chose to live and fight another day. What her enemies gave her was the opportunity to walk away, though with little more than the shirt on her back. What courtesy she got came as a result of Ramda’s “generosity,” or so she was told.
Venita was enough of a realist to accept that she’d overplayed her hand. Her vanity had blinded her to the fact that Ramda’s love was…well, like the love of all men—subject to overriding considerations. And so she’d lost her foray into the political realm, becoming a refugee not only from her native land, but also from the millions who adored her. Like the legendary unwashed masses who’d come before her, Venita Kumar had fled oppression and was now in the United States pursuing the American dream. The realization of that dream seemed to have fallen into the hands of Percy Gaylord.
But if Percy had followed her to the land of milk and honey, not to bring her head home on a platter, but rather to use her against Ramda Bol, then she was truly in a desperate situation. To betray Ramda, she would have to renege on the deal she’d made with Banerjee. That would mean permanent exile and never seeing a single rupee of the estate she’d left behind in India.
The young blond Adonis in her bed moaned. Venita, raising herself to her elbow, lightly stroked his stomach. His circumcised penis that couldn’t get enough of her the night before now languished in sleep, like its master, though in the case of men and their sexual organs, it wasn’t always clear who was master and who was slave. As a young girl she’d learned that a woman could tame the most ardent and virile man simply by opening her legs. She’d long suspected that was what made men fear women most—their ability to gain victory in submission. Gandhi understood the principle, which to Venita’s way of thinking could only mean his feminine side was very well developed indeed.
Staring at the sleeping boy, Venita wondered if her dreams would be dashed before she was able to get her hands on Mac McGowan’s millions. Would Percy Gaylord prove to be the Angel of Death?
The hour was early enough that no one in the house besides Cala would be stirring. Venita was not normally an early riser, but when she was awake at dawn, she liked being out
side to watch the sunrise. Something about that gave her hope, and hope she needed above all else. As had been the case so often in the past, the world seemed to be conspiring against her.
Leaving her young lover, she washed herself in the bath, slipped on a pair of pink silk shantung lounging pajamas and went to the kitchen, where she found Cala scrubbing the floor. Venita asked for a glass of orange juice, which the maid dutifully brought. As she stood at the window sipping her juice and observing the break of dawn, Venita told Cala to go fetch her a shawl. When the wizened little woman returned, Venita took it and handed her the empty juice glass. Then she went outside.
There was no wind, but she could feel the coolness of the ocean in the air. Once the sun rose, it would begin to warm up, but for now she was glad for the shawl. Like most Indian women, she preferred to go barefoot, liking the cool, damp feel of the grass as she strolled toward the pavilion.
Sitting on the bench and staring at the gray Pacific, she hugged herself against the coolness of the air. Whenever she felt vulnerable, as she did now, she would think about her powers. Ranjit had taught her that. “Focus on your strengths,” he’d said. “Only the weak are obsessed with their weaknesses.” Following that advice, Venita had entered a new phase of her career, a phase where her films and the characters she played took on a more sensuous air. Sex, sensuality and feminine guile were her strengths. How did she use them in real life to secure victory and smite her foes?
Venita was deep in thought when she heard a grunting sound. She looked about, but saw no one. The sound, accompanied by gasps and labored breathing, grew louder, followed by muffled curses and epithets. She got to her feet, but could see nothing. Then it occurred to her that the noise—now clearly the sounds of someone struggling—was coming from over the ledge at the back of the garden. Stealing from the pavilion, Venita crept toward the low, foot-high wall that marked the boundary of the property. Beyond it, the hillside dropped precipitously into the ravine.
Cautiously peeking over the edge, she looked down. Ten feet below she saw the top of a man’s head as he struggled to pull himself up the slope by grabbing shrubs. The rocky soil kept giving way and his feet slipped. Had he not clung to the shrubs, he surely would have slid down the steep hillside. The man’s difficulties were made worse by the fact that he had a couple of cameras, lenses and what appeared to be a camera bag strapped about him.
From her vantage point, Venita was unable to see his face, though she was able to see lots of scalp through the thinning hair atop his head. The man was dark-complected, she could see that much.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled between gasps as once again the soil gave way beneath him.
Between the man’s coloring, the camera equipment and the accent, Venita realized who it was.
“Percy Gaylord, what in the name of God are you doing climbing up my hill?”
Lifting his head suddenly in surprise, the man completely lost his footing, his legs went out from under him. One hand slipped from the bush it was gripping and he started to slide away. Were it not for his other hand, which clung desperately to a shrub, he would have been lost.
Gasping and wheezing, his face covered with dust, Percy Gaylord looked up at her with desperate, panicky eyes. “Throw me a line or something, for God’s sake, woman! Can’t you see I’m about to die?”
“If so, it’s on my property, Percy. What are you doing trespassing?”
“Have a little compassion, for the sake of God,” he cried.
“Why are you sneaking about?”
He managed to get his other hand on the shrub. And, after more struggle, pulled himself to his knees. Even so, he would have slid away but for the bush. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said in answer to her question.
“Talk? Is this anyway to talk to a person? In most of the civilized world, people knock on one’s front door, not sneak about, climbing over the garden wall. Even bloody journalists.”
“Please, Venita. I’ve hurt my knee. Get that man of yours and have him pull me up.”
“First, I want to know what you’re up to. You weren’t coming for an interview, Percy. You wanted to get some photographs. What’s the matter, couldn’t you get good enough pictures from that other hill? Want something closer? Is that it, Percy?”
“Dear God,” he pleaded.
“The truth!” she shouted.
“All right. Yes, I was hoping for some photos.”
“And you’ve been following my friends. Why?”
“Looking for a story, what else? I’m a bloody journalist, by God.”
“Bloody journalist is right, you snake.”
“Are you going to stand there cursing me or get help?” he implored. “This is not a joking matter. I’m about to lose my grip. My arms are tiring.”
“It’s your own fault,” she shot back.
“For the love of God, Venita!”
“I want to know what you’re up to, Percy. It’s clearly no good. What’s your angle?”
“How do you expect me to talk under these circumstances? I’m about to die.”
“The world would be a better place for it, too.”
“Please,” he implored, virtually in tears.
“If I do get help, will you tell me precisely what you’re up to?”
“Yes. Absolutely, Venita. I swear on my mother’s head.”
She turned then and peered back toward the house. As luck would have it, Jugnu, perhaps alerted by Cala, was headed in her direction. He was in shorts and a loose, unbuttoned shirt. He hadn’t yet wound his turban, so his uncut hair flowed down to his waist. Venita had only seen him in that state of dishabille half a dozen times in all the years she’d known him.
With Percy Gaylord’s cries becoming more urgent, she shouted to Jugnu to go to the garage and fetch a rope. “There’s a man on the cliff,” she called. “Quickly! He’s about to fall!”
Taking off at a run, Jugnu disappeared back into the house, only to return in a few minutes with a length of rope. Percy was nearly sobbing by the time Jugnu lowered the rope to him. With his last bit of strength, Percy wrapped the rope around his wrists, and Jugnu, his powerful build and great strength a godsend, pulled the weeping journalist up the last bit of the hillside, then over the side of the wall, finally depositing him on the lawn, at Venita’s feet. Percy stared up at her, his face covered with muddy sweat, his clothing dirty and torn, the tangle of camera straps coiled about his neck.
“So,” she said, looking down at him with disgust, “the worm turns.”
“Thanks for saving me,” he said, “but if I may say so, you certainly took your bloody sweet time.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t begin throwing rocks, Percy. You’ve caused me as much suffering as just about anybody I know.”
Percy Gaylord sat up, taking the cameras from around his neck and depositing them on the lawn next to him. “Your own ambition is your worst enemy, Venita, and you know it.”
“Bugger off,” she snapped.
Percy grinned but he didn’t quite laugh. Venita glanced at Jugnu and tossed her head, indicating he should leave. Coiling up the rope, he obediently left. Percy, meanwhile, had dusted himself off and sat on the wall. He mopped the dusty sweat from his face and neck with his handkerchief.
“All right, then, my good man,” she said, “now for your end of the bargain. What is it you want? Why are you harassing me?”
“I’d like the inside story on what happened with Ramda Bol. There is talk you spared him in exchange for your freedom, Venita. Is it true?”
“You aren’t getting a thing from me about Ramda, I assure you. Anything else?”
Percy sighed, still mopping his brow. “Well, then, what are you doing in Los Angeles, seducing the son of a millionaire?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know all about your young friend, Venita. Didn’t he tell you? I’ll wager my last rupee that he’s in your bed now, sleeping like a baby, unless, of course, he’s already had his morning tea and sai
d ta-ta. I do know with certainty he spent the night.”
“In the guest room.”
“With Amal Kory?” Percy gave her his most beguiling grin. “Come on, love, you’re up to some sort of hijinks, it only remains to be seen just what.”
“What difference does it make what I’m doing? It’s of no consequence to you. I’ve never known you to write Hollywood gossip, Percy. That can’t be your angle.”
“Indeed,” he said. “You’re right about that.”
“All right, then what?” she demanded. “You owe me, don’t forget. I saved your ungrateful ass.”
“And so you did, love. I shan’t forget. I promise you that.”
“You’re playing games with me,” she said angrily. “I’m not amused.”
“All right then, I’ll give it to you straight, Venita. I want the Ramda Bol story and I’ll do whatever necessary to get it.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“No, I think before I’m through you’ll be glad to cooperate. I mean, you’re here in America, safely under the protection of the U.S. government, the CIA and the FBI. What harm can your enemies in India do you?”
“Perhaps I’d like to go back one day. I shouldn’t want to fear arrest simply by setting foot in my own country.”
“Rubbish,” Percy Gaylord said. “You’re through in India and you know it. This is your last chance and I know it. So why not cooperate? It’d be ever so much more pleasant for us both.”
Venita studied him, sensing he was preparing to drop some sort of bombshell. “Percy, are you threatening me?”
“Threat? No, love, far be it from me to threaten the next Elizabeth Taylor. She was a foreigner, too, you know.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
“Not at all.”
“Then spit it out, Percy, what is it you’re intending?”
