by Gigi Pandian
Jaya,
You know my reasons for needing to lay low and not communicate by email. I’m sorry that’s the way it had to be. Now that I’ve taken care of some things, you could come to me.
I thought of you when research led me to the East India Company—and couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I hope we can pick up where we left off. Spend a few days with me in Paris?
L
I met Lane Peters the previous year while researching an Indian artifact. I’d fallen for him, even after learning about his past on the wrong side of the law. He understood me in ways nobody else ever had. The connection surprised both of us, and continued to confuse me. Without him in my life, I felt as if a chunk of me was missing. A piece of me I hadn’t realized was missing until I’d met him.
My only clue to his whereabouts suggested he might have returned to India. Two weeks after I’d last seen him, a six-foot-high box arrived at my office, the customs slip informing me it had been sent from Kochi, India. Inside the sawdust packing materials that made such a mess I felt compelled to bring the janitorial staff donuts for a week, I found a granite statue of Ganesha—the remover of obstacles. In this carving, the elephant deity cradled a set of tabla drums in his arms. Though there was no accompanying message, the scratch across Ganesha’s trunk told me it was the exact statue I’d fallen in love with when Lane and I visited a master craftsman’s store in Kochi. I hadn’t realized at the time that Lane noticed my reaction to the carving.
I believed Lane when he said that his past was in the past. Even though I hadn’t heard from him in months, I still did. Unfortunately, other people didn’t want Lane’s past to stay buried. That’s why I’d been so worried when I hadn’t heard from him all this time.
And now this invitation.
“Jaya, what is it?” Sanjay repeated.
“It’s a note from an old friend,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief that Lane was safe, but simultaneously shaking with anger that he’d waited so long to get in touch.
I flipped back to the plane ticket. Even if I’d been inclined to drop everything for Lane, I couldn’t possibly leave at the start of the semester.
As we came to a stop at a red light on Oak, Sanjay plucked the plane ticket from my hand. Using his skillful sleight of hand, the ticket was out of my hand before I realized what he was doing. I tried to grab it back, but my seatbelt prevented me from reaching it.
“Paris?” he said. “You’re going to Paris?”
In the brighter light from the intersection, I saw something I hadn’t taken note of earlier. It was normal for Sanjay to wear a tuxedo while practicing for his stage show, so it hadn’t surprised me that he’d worn it at the restaurant. But under the glare of the streetlights, I noticed how wrinkled it was. His patent leather shoes were coated with gray powder, and a small clump of white paste stuck to his thick black hair.
“Were you attacked by a mob of your fans after our set?” I joked.
“What? You mean this mess?” He handed the ticket back to me, then ran a hand through his hair. He gave a start when the glop of paste transferred to his hand. He pulled a bright red handkerchief from an inner pocket to wipe it off. The red handkerchief disappeared from Sanjay’s hand as quickly as it had appeared, and I had no idea where it went. He wasn’t trying to impress me. Sleight-of-hand was second nature to him.
“I was practicing for a new act,” he continued. “This new illusion is giving me grief, so we ran longer than I meant to. Why didn’t you tell me you’re going out of town? And who gets printed plane tickets mailed to them anymore?”
“I’m not going to Paris.”
“Then why do you have—”
“The light’s green.”
“Oh.” He gave me a quick scowl before tapping the accelerator so gently I nearly screamed.
“It’s an invitation to do research on colonial history in Paris,” I said, tucking the ticket, note, and hotel reservation back into the envelope. I wasn’t exactly lying. Okay, maybe I was lying, but not by much. The letter did mention an East India Company. Since Lane was in France, I assumed he meant the French East India Company, one of the colonial trading powers from centuries ago. Though less successful than the English, the French once had colonial settlements in India and fleets of ships bringing home treasures not found in France. My historical expertise was colonialism in India, especially the British East India Company and the British Raj. I knew the histories of the companies as well as I knew which spots on my calfskin drums made which resonant sounds beneath my fingertips. But without further details from Lane, I assumed he wasn’t after my research help. He was after me.
I didn’t have the mental energy to go into Lane’s note with Sanjay. He knew a little bit about my relationship with Lane, but I felt uncomfortable going into the details with him, even though we were so close. Or, more accurately, especially because we were so close. My best friend had always been like a little brother to me, until things got complicated the previous summer. Now there was no way I was going to share details about my love life with him. I was glad we were driving. Sanjay seemed content to pay attention to the road.
I, however, was far from at ease with my thoughts.
There was no question the letter was in Lane’s handwriting, but there was something different about it that I couldn’t place. Then again, giving up your life—not once, but twice—had to change a man. But underneath everything, we knew each other well. That’s what was wrong with his letter. He knew I’d be worried about him, but he hadn’t addressed my concerns in the note. Why did he think I would drop everything and meet him for a romantic tryst in Paris?
Oh. What single woman in her right mind would pass up a first class ticket to Paris to get back together with a guy she was incredibly attracted to, was desperately worried about, and had parted with on good, if enigmatic, terms?
Normally, I would be the woman to turn it down. But on that crazy first day of the semester, it was glaringly obvious that my seemingly perfect life wasn’t all I thought it was.
Now that the initial shock was over, it occurred to me that Lane hadn’t included a way to get in touch with him. Even if he thought his electronic communications were still being monitored, surely he could tell me to contact him at a new email address, using a new email address of my own. Why not? What was going on?
Sanjay double-parked while I ran up to Tamarind’s apartment and used her spare key to retrieve a small wooden box from the bathroom medicine cabinet, then dropped me off outside the venue where Tamarind’s party was taking place. He didn’t come inside with me, claiming he was overdressed for it because of his tux. As soon as I got inside, I saw how wrong he was. The back room of the bar had been transformed into a 1980s prom, complete with streamers hanging from the ceiling and ’80s music blaring from the speakers. I spotted Tamarind in a pink polka dot strapless dress with black lace fringe. I never knew what color her hair would be, but that night it was her natural jet black, with the exception of hot-pink bangs, matching her dress. I was relieved to see her laughing and raising a martini glass to her lips.
Before I stepped into the crowd, there was something I needed to do first. I raced to the sidewalk and dialed the number of the Paris hotel on the reservation. The sidewalk was crowded with people leaving upscale restaurants and inexpensive taquerias, spilling out of trendy pubs and dive bars, and walking home from the BART station to the apartment buildings that filled the neighborhood. I pressed my phone to my ear and ignored them.
I don’t speak French, but as I expected, the man who answered the phone switched to perfect English.
“I’m sorry,” he said in response to my question. “Mr. Peters isn’t here yet. He’s scheduled to arrive in three days time.”
Damn. If I used the plane ticket, I’d be in the air when Lane arrived at the hotel. It wouldn’t help to le
ave him a message. I had no way to get in touch with him. If I ever wanted to see him again, even for closure, all I could do was get on that flight.
CHAPTER 3
I thanked the hotel receptionist and headed back inside, my whole body sagging.
“Jaya!” Tamarind cried out. She zigzagged through the crowd of faculty and staff, holding her martini glass above her head as she made her way to me. I recognized a few faces from the history department and the library, but there must have been more than fifty people packed in. Not everyone was dressed up, so I wasn’t out of place in my black slacks, sweater, and heels.
I handed the box to her as soon as she reached me.
“You are a life saver,” Tamarind said, keeping her voice raised so I could hear her over the music. She opened the box and extracted a skull and crossbones necklace. “I can’t believe I forgot this at home! It’s perfect with this dress, don’t you think?”
“You worried me over a necklace? And who keeps a necklace in her medicine cabinet? They’re for medicine.”
“Shut. Up. I had the unflappable Jaya Jones worried? Maybe that’ll snap you out of the funk you’ve been in.”
“What funk? I’m fine.”
“Right. Whatever you say. Anyway, order the Librarian’s Lexicon or the Dewey Daiquiri. Those are the drinks the bartender made up especially for my party tonight. I’m drinking the Lexicon. It’s tequila, lemon, and some secret ingredients Hugh won’t reveal. Good stuff, Jaya. Good stuff.”
Tamarind Ortega was a librarian and one of my few good friends in San Francisco. She’d only received her MA in Library Science a couple of years before, but she’d secured her job at the university library through a combination of the two sides of her personality. First, she was brilliant. Whenever I hit a wall in my research, Tamarind could get me past it. Second, she knew how to deal with the vast array of people who came into the library. She was a punk who had a soft touch with the many homeless people who tried to come inside to sleep, but she wasn’t afraid to use her size to intimidate people when her people skills didn’t do the trick.
“I don’t know what you said to those kids,” she said, “but half a dozen of your students checked out history books this afternoon.”
“That’s great,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Hey, what gives? Don’t you like my dress?”
“It’s lovely,” I said, smiling. I meant it. The cut of the flamboyant dress flattered her sturdy figure. “I’m just distracted from my busy day. What’s with the high school prom theme?”
She shrugged. “When I found this dress, the party pretty much planned itself.”
I threw my arms around Tamarind. What can I say? It had been an emotional day, and I still had no idea what I wanted to do about Lane’s invitation.
“You’re worrying me, Jaya,” she said, once I let go of her. “This isn’t like you. Let’s get you a drink.”
At the bar, I ordered a Scotch whisky while Tamarind snagged bar stools from two women who were departing.
“A toast,” I said, sitting down on the empty bar stool she was fiercely protecting for me, “to new beginnings.” We clinked glasses and I scanned the room. Four thirty-something professors were dancing in one corner, but the rest of the crowd’s attention was focused on drinks and conversation.
“Since your boyfriend has been MIA, I wasn’t sure if you’d show up for the party.”
I groaned.
“Something I said? I thought you’d be over that guy by now.”
“It just got complicated.” I took a large sip of my Scotch.
“Shut. Up. He’s back?”
“Not exactly.” I reached into my bag and handed her the fat envelope. “Talk me out of this.”
“Shut. Up.” She stared at the letter and tickets. “Why on earth would I talk you out of this?”
“Um, because you’re a feminist punk?”
“I’m a post-feminist post-punk if you want to get technical about it, but that has nothing to do with free first class tickets to Paris. Paris, Jaya.”
“Yeah, but you realize who this is from?”
“Your hottie boyfriend who you for some inexplicable reason wouldn’t introduce me to before he left the Bay Area. I saw his picture, you know. I know what I’m missing out on.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “Everyone saw his picture. That’s exactly why he had to leave.”
“It’s not like he’s James Bond,” Tamarind said. “Although I bet he could play him in a new Bond movie series. Especially since he needs a new career. Jaya, do you think he can act?”
“Tamarind?”
“Yes?”
“Focus, please. We’re talking about this invitation to Paris.”
“There’s always more to see and do in Paris.”
“I’ve never seen anything in Paris.”
“Wait, you’ve never visited Paris?”
“Why would I have been to Paris? I did research in Britain and India during grad school, and backpacked through Asia one summer.”
“And you’re seriously entertaining the notion of turning down a free first class ticket to Paris?”
“I thought I had something real with Lane, but he hasn’t contacted me in more than five months.”
“For your own protection—”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“Yeah, that sounded pretty weak, didn’t it?”
“It certainly did.”
“Well,” Tamarind said, running her index finger around the rim of her glass. She appeared lost in thought for a moment, her eyes following the black nail polish on her finger tip, or perhaps the chunky silver ring in the shape of a book. “This is a real ticket, right?”
“So?”
“So forget him. He didn’t ask if you wanted to go before buying this ticket. That means you’ve got a round-trip ticket, free and clear. Who says you have to meet him at the hotel? You’ve got a first class ticket to Paris to do anything you want.”
“Tamarind.”
“Yes, thinks-too-much-Jaya?”
“It’s the beginning of the semester. I can’t just fly to Europe and miss all of next week.”
“Fine. Be practical.” Tamarind pursed her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve got it! The letter.”
“What about it?”
“It says he’s onto something with the East India Company—you think he means the French Company?”
“Probably, but that’s not exactly what it—”
“Close enough.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand as she polished off her drink and set it on the bar. “This is like totally related to your research. You’re not blowing off classes. You’re on a mission to discover the secrets of the French East India Company! A quest for higher knowledge! A—”
“I get it.”
“Well, it’s pretty damn perfect.”
“Except for the part where there’s no way I can skip classes right now.”
“Uptight much?”
“You remember there’s a thing called tenure that as a second-year assistant professor I’m not yet close to achieving?”
“You worry too much, Jaya. The dean loves you. The coolest librarian this side of the border loves you. Everyone except for Naveen Krishnan loves you. Oh. That last part is going to be a problem, isn’t it?” She paused and whipped her head around. “He’s here, somewhere, just so you know.”
“It’ll definitely be a problem.”
“Fine,” Tamarind said, stuffing the ticket back into the envelope. “Hey, can I borrow this?”
“What are you holding?”
“A little book of poetry you handed me along with the mysterious envelope. The Thin Monster House.”
“It’
s not mine. My neighbor Miles dropped it. I must have forgotten to give it back to him. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed it.”
“Sweet.”
“The cost for borrowing it,” I added, “is changing the subject away from Naveen.”
“Speak of the devil...”
Dressed in a three-piece tweed suit, Naveen Krishnan walked stiffly in cap toe Oxfords that must have pinched his feet. He wasn’t in formal attire for the party; that was how he always dressed. He was a linguistic prodigy who was overcompensating for being one of the youngest professors at the university.
“I’m glad to see you, Jaya,” he said, pausing to acknowledge Tamarind with a slight nod. “I thought you’d want to hear that my symposium was such a success I’ve been asked to put on a similar one next year.”
“Congratulations, Naveen.” I smiled more broadly than I had all evening. I wasn’t acting. Out of his line of sight, Tamarind stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes at Naveen.
“It’s a great accomplishment, I’m told,” Naveen said. “Don’t feel bad, though, Jaya. Not everyone can be such a success.”
The strongest argument in favor of going to France might have been that I wouldn’t have to see Naveen Krishnan for a week.
I caught a cab back to where my car was parked. The double-parked car blocking me in was gone. I got home quickly, but couldn’t calm down enough to sleep well. There were too many unanswered questions. Why had Lane gotten in touch now? If it was safe to contact me, why not give me a way to get back in touch? What was he researching? And most importantly, could I trust my feelings? It was well after midnight by the time I got to sleep, and I tossed and turned all night.
In the morning, I went for a run to clear my head. It had the opposite effect. As I ran through the park to bhangra beats on my headphones, my subconscious insisted on pushing my thoughts back to the strange invitation, full of contradictions.
