“Whatever this map leads to,” I said, “nobody has found it in over a century.”
Sanjay handed me a mug of coffee and we stood in front of the map in silence. I breathed in the strong scent of the coffee. As the warmth from the ceramic mug began to warm me up, I wondered what Uncle Anand had thought of San Francisco after growing up in India’s tropical south. The map of San Francisco didn’t look exactly as it did today, but a lot had changed in a hundred years, especially after the earthquake that destroyed so much of the city. As I’d noticed before, there wasn’t much text, and I only recognized some of the locations. I looked again at the English translation at the very top. My Cities. Shouldn’t it have been My City instead?
“You weren’t kidding,” Sanjay said. “A real treasure map with an X that marks the spot.” He pointed to the script next to the English translations. “That’s Tamil?”
I nodded. “Quite possibly written by Uncle Anand.”
“You can read it?”
“Of course not.”
“Jaya, you really are the worst Indian ever.”
“You’re just begging for a pickle-eating contest,” I joked, but I was all too aware that my words came out as stiff and serious as I felt.
It’s a conversation we had all the time. I smothered imported hotter-than-hot Indian pickle on a lot of things I eat, unlike Sanjay, who was born in California and grew up eating organic foods from Silicon Valley farmers’ markets and food festivals. In spite of my affinity for any food that would make most grown men cry, Sanjay was right that I had some serious gaps in my cultural knowledge. Sanjay was the one with a more ingrained sense of Indian culture. I only lived in India until I was seven years old. My father was an American hippie who had gone to India to find himself and met my mother. But after she died, he thought it would be easier to raise my brother and me back in America. I grew up with the aging flower children of Berkeley, not within an Indian community.
“I don’t think that jar of mango pickle in your fridge is sanitary,” Sanjay said.
“Coward.”
Sanjay cleared his throat. “I guess we should get back to this map. Are these good translations?”
Sanjay was Punjabi, and his parents were from north India, whereas my family was from the south. The languages of the different regions were nothing alike, and the only thing Sanjay and I had in common in this case was that neither one of us were equipped to read the Tamil writing.
So much can be lost in translation. It’s one of the hazards for a historian when reading non-primary accounts. Luckily for my own specialty, the British East India Company, most accounts and records were kept in English.
“I’ll have a linguist check it out,” I said.
“Meaning you decided to keep it,” Sanjay said.
I glared at Sanjay before retrieving my phone. I snapped two photos of the map. “There,” I said. “Now I can give the map back. Happy?”
“If Anand Paravar was as clever as your mom led you to believe,” Sanjay said, “maybe he put invisible ink on the map.”
I glared at Sanjay again.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Jaya.”
I groaned and sat down on the couch. I couldn’t resist the historical lure of the map. As soon as Steven Healy came to me, there was little chance of my turning back. And now…
“Lost and found,” Sanjay read aloud from the map. “Path of the Old Coast. I’ve never heard of the MP Craft Emporium or The Anchored Enchantress. Sounds like a video game. And what do you suppose this drawing to the north of Lands End is? Looks kind of like wobbly triangles.”
“Wobbly triangles?”
A loud pounding at the door startled us both. Sanjay was good at masking his reactions, since he’s a performer, but I saw his shoulders tense.
“It’s Nadia,” I said, getting up to answer the door. “That’s the way she knocks.”
My landlady wore a black one-piece jumpsuit that looked straight out of 1968. She hated colorful clothing, just like me. It might be one of the reasons we got along so well. A hint of musky perfume hovered around her.
“You did not come for your mail today,” she said. I didn’t think my apartment was legally supposed to exist, so all of my mail was delivered to the main mailbox at Nadia’s door. “I hear voices upstairs, so I know you are home and awake.”
I ushered her inside from the rain as she pushed a handful of mail into my hands. Rain drops glistened on her white-streaked blonde hair. I wasn’t sure how old Nadia was, and she wouldn’t tell me even after we’d become friends. I knew she’d come to San Francisco from Russia as a young woman in the 1960s and fallen in love with the city. My apartment used to be the space where she grew pot plants for medical marijuana patients.
“Sorry if we woke you, Nadia,” I said. My wall clock, an antique from a thrift store in London that worked most of the time, showed it was well after eleven p.m.
“Of course not, Jaya. You know I never sleep until well after midnight. I was finishing dinner.”
“You eat dinner at 11 p.m.?” Sanjay said.
Nadia’s blue eyes narrowed as she noticed Sanjay. She told me once that she disliked all magicians. I’m sure there’s a story there, which I might ask her about when I had a full evening to spare.
“A good meal is a civilized way to end the day, no?” Her eyes caught sight of the map on the wall. “What is that?” She walked across the room until she stood a few feet in front of the map.
“Just a map I picked up for my research,” I said casually, catching Sanjay’s eye and giving a shake of my head while Nadia’s back was turned. For all of the benefits of having a free-spirited landlady who couldn’t care less that I tack, nail, and duct-tape my latest research projects to my walls, the downside was she had a nosy streak. It’s how she knew Sanjay in the first place.
“I did not think you studied local history,” Nadia said. “Why is this on your wall?”
“It’s—” Sanjay began.
I “accidentally” stepped on his foot.
“We can’t figure out what these are,” I said as Sanjay swore. I pointed to the wobbly triangle hash marks above Lands End.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Nadia said.
“You know what those are?”
“Of course,” Nadia said. “What I cannot understand is why on earth they are here.”
Chapter 7
“You study history, Jaya,” Nadia said, sighing. “Young people are not educated as they once were.”
Sanjay cleared his throat.
“Chinese fishing nets,” Nadia said, shooting a sharp glance at Sanjay. “This drawing is of Chinese fishing nets. The large nets that scoop into the ocean for fish. You are too young to have seen many of them, even on your travels. The technology has been replaced.”
Sanjay and I glanced at each other. Chinese fishing nets. Nadia was right. That’s exactly what they were. Huge contraptions with spider-like arms that controlled the nets below.
The Paravar caste of south India was a fishing and boat builder caste. The Chinese had come to the west coast of India centuries ago, bringing with them their tall fishing nets and interacting with the Indians who worked along the water. For centuries, the easiest way to get around the coastal regions of southwestern India was by boat, giving lots of work to the Paravars.
As a skilled boat builder who once worked in Kochi, Anand would have been familiar with the nets. But why had he drawn these fishing nets in San Francisco?
“This is not right,” Nadia said, the wrinkles surrounding her lips accentuated by her consternation.
Nadia pulled the map off the corkboard. She took it out of its protective plastic, and held it in her hands to peer more closely at the markings. She shook her head before setting it down on the coffee table.
“The map is a hundred y
ears old,” I said. “Wasn’t there a big Chinese population in San Francisco at the time?”
“There have never been fishing nets set up like that at Lands End,” Nadia said. “I hope you did not pay much for the map. The person who drew it was not true to San Francisco history.”
“It looks pretty accurate everywhere else,” Sanjay said.
Nadia’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Sanjay.
He gulped. “Would you like some coffee, Nadia?”
“You made it?”
He nodded.
“No. I should be getting back.” She gave one last look at the mysterious map she’d left resting on the coffee table, then slipped out the door.
“What did I ever to do her?” Sanjay asked. He sighed and absentmindedly set his mug down on the coffee table. “And how the hell does she know what fishing nets were set up in San Francisco a hundred years ago. What is she, a vampire?”
“Before I lose all sense of reality, it’s time for you to head home, too.”
Sanjay hesitated before speaking. “You’re not going to do anything after I’m gone, are you?”
“I’m going to get some sleep.”
“You’re not going to check out these spots on the map?”
Sanjay knew me well.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not going to leave the house tonight,” I promised.
“You don’t seem yourself,” Sanjay said. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want me to come by in the morning?”
“I’ve got a date in the morning.”
“A date?”
“I’m meeting Tamarind at the library.”
“Oh, not a date date.”
“She’s helping me with some archival research. Before I return the map to the police or Steven’s family tomorrow, I thought I’d take it to the library—Sanjay!” I broke off as I stared at the coffee table. I jumped up and lifted Sanjay’s mug from where he’d set it down. “You set your coffee down on the map!”
“It’s Nadia’s fault,” Sanjay grumbled, taking the mug back. “She flusters me. I didn’t realize what I was doing. Why did she take it off the wall anyway?”
I slipped the map back into its plastic covering. It only had a small ring from the mug. No harm done.
“Definitely time to call it a night,” I said.
After I finally got Sanjay out the door, I opened my computer. An email from Tamarind told me she’d found a good contact at the University of Kerala and that she should have more information by morning. With that taken care of, it was time for an internet search. I confirmed that Steven Healy was a lawyer, like he told me. But that’s where the truth ended. He hadn’t retired.
He’d been disbarred.
I clicked on one of the articles, and then another. Last year, prominent San Francisco attorney Steven Healy had been disbarred for falsifying documents against the opposing side in a court case—he even punched the guy at one point—and his law firm, Healy & Healy, went under as a result. Steven was ruined, and his son Connor hadn’t returned to law.
Steven Healy wasn’t merely bored in retirement. He was a desperate man.
There had been a scandal that played out on the television news. Connor’s wife Christine was incredibly photogenic, and the television news had covered the story more than the print media. I might have read about it in passing, but I hadn’t remembered it well enough to recognize Steven when he came to see me. Perhaps that’s why I’d had a sense that he looked vaguely familiar. I could have spent hours reading news stories from the previous year, but it wouldn’t have answered any more of my questions. I turned back to the map.
I looked up the two names on the map I didn’t recognize: MP Craft Emporium and the The Anchored Enchantress. I couldn’t find any references to either one having existed in San Francisco, so I tried the search from a different angle. I found an old map of San Francisco from 1900 that was detailed enough to show some locations. The map I found online wasn’t comprehensive, but it was a start. The location of the two buildings placed them in San Francisco’s notorious Barbary Coast neighborhood, known for establishments such as saloons, dance halls, and gambling dens that sprang up when the Gold Rush began in 1849. Again, neither name was listed. I made a note to ask Tamarind about them at the library the next day.
I’m a good historian because in addition to knowing a hell of a lot about my subject of British India, I’m good at putting together the puzzle pieces of history. Being good at academic research also means knowing where to go to find out what you need. In spite of what movies might have you believe, an individual can’t be an expert at everything. As a librarian, Tamarind knows how to find things that a Google search would never reveal. And I knew exactly who would be a good person to do a translation. The problem was I wasn’t sure if he’d help.
Naveen Krishnan was a fellow assistant professor of history at my university. Naveen and I were both hired last year as part of an expansion in the South Asian Studies program in the History Department. But with budget cuts looming, it was likely only one of us would get tenure. I really should have been putting the finishing touches on the research paper I needed to get published, not examining a treasure map. But having a brilliant linguist down the hall from me was too good an opportunity to pass up. I hoped he’d be willing to put our academic rivalry aside to help me with this personal matter.
I sent an email to Naveen to see if he was available to translate the Tamil on the map. There had to be more to those words.
It was a strange feeling, having something of Anand’s after he’d been a grand, ghostly figure for all these years. What were your secrets, Anand Paravar? Because of Steven’s death, would I ever know? Were both Anand’s and Steven’s deaths due to this map and the treasure it led to? A map that I now had in my possession. I shivered at the thought. I pulled a throw blanket from the back of the couch around me and looked methodically at the map. Shipyards, Chinese fishing nets, unknown buildings that existed a century ago….
The X on the map must have had a hypnotic effect, because the next thing I knew, I was lying on the couch with light streaming onto my face and a loud knock on the door jolting me awake.
I flailed around for a moment before realizing I was lying on the couch. Standing up, I knocked my shin on the edge of the coffee table. I wasn’t so great at life before coffee.
“Jaya?” a male voice called out from behind the door, followed by another knock.
“Sanjay?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else sounds like me?”
I reached the door and opened it. Sanjay stood in the doorway wearing casual clothes and his bowler hat, holding two paper cups of coffee.
“Why are you here so early?” I asked, accepting a coffee.
“It’s almost nine,” Sanjay said, stepping around me to enter the apartment. “Were you still in bed?”
“No,” I said, running a hand through my messy hair as I shut the door. A benefit of wearing a lot of black clothes is that nobody notices if you’re wearing the same clothes as the day before.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Sanjay said, frowning.
“I must have slept through it,” I said, yawning. I was a sound sleeper. When I needed to get up, I set multiple alarms.
“Do me a favor,” Sanjay said. “The next time someone you know is murdered, leave your phone on its loudest setting.”
“Why are you so jumpy this morning?”
“Because of what I heard this morning,” Sanjay said. “Whatever is going on, Jaya—be careful. You shouldn’t follow the clues on the map—ever. It’s too dangerous. You need to forget about this whole thing.”
“What are you talking about?” My sleep-weariness was gone, replaced by the alertne
ss that comes with anxiety. “What’s happened?”
“Your lawyer friend. He was lying to you.”
“Oh, that,” I said, sitting back down and taking a sip of sugary caffeine. “I know.”
“You do? I thought you were still asleep just now.”
“I Googled him last night.”
“Wait,” Sanjay said slowly. “What are you talking about? It was only the morning news that had interviewed his friends.”
“Why would the media need friends of his to report that he was disbarred?” I asked.
“He was disbarred?”
“That’s not what you’re talking about?”
Sanjay shook his head, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “I’m talking about the treasure.”
“Someone told the press what the treasure is?”
“Unfortunately not,” Sanjay said. “But Steven was bragging about having made a discovery of great historical significance. He wouldn’t tell anyone what it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t some little family treasure.”
“None of this makes sense,” I said. “How did an Indian boat builder end up with a treasure of historic significance?”
“That,” Sanjay said, “is a much tougher riddle than the one you brought me last night.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Sanjay said, “but it’s not good.”
“No,” I said. “It certainly isn’t.”
Chapter 8
The middle of the Atlantic Ocean, 1902
For close to two years, Anand wandered through Arabia and Europe, stopping in coastal cities where there was work building or fixing ships. Traveling westward, he wrote Vishwan a letter every week.
But there were some things he couldn’t tell his little brother.
The English he had learned in school from the British served him well. He had taken to the subject, which had helped him much more than rudimentary Hindi in Kochi. Anand knew he was lucky that languages came easily to him. In Constantinople, he used his Arabic. In Calais, he became better at French. In Frankfurt, German.
Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) Page 5
