A Walk Across the Sun (14 page)

“Santa Cruz West is first and then Juhu,” Dinesh said, following the direction of his friend's gaze. “Many Indian celebrities live here.” He paused. “So tell me, what brings you to Bombay? I heard from a friend that Priya is back, and then I received a message from you saying you need a place to stay for a while.”

“It's a long story,” Thomas said.

“All good stories are.”

Thomas hesitated. He knew he owed his friend an explanation, but the thought of answering probing questions about his family made him weary.

“Priya's grandmother had a stroke,” he began. “She came here to be with her.”

“I hadn't heard that,” Dinesh replied. “I saw her brother in Colaba a couple of months ago. He didn't say anything.”

“It happened recently. No one expected it.”

He thought back to the day Priya had delivered the news. He remembered how exhausted she looked, standing in the kitchen telling him about her brother's phone call. He was three days into the Wharton trial, and his stress level was at an all-time high. When she showed him the one-way Air India ticket, he reacted badly and accused her of abandoning him. He remembered the fury that had burned in her eyes. “How can you say that?” she had asked. “You're the one who abandoned me.”

Dinesh took a sip of his beer. “So that explains Priya. What about you?”

Thomas took a breath. “I needed a break from work. The firm let me take a sabbatical.”

He saw his friend's eyes narrow and imagined him thinking:
Then why are you staying with me?
He decided to season the lie with a morsel of truth. “Things aren't great with Priya right now. That's why I got in touch with you.”

Dinesh studied him for a long moment and then shrugged. “I'm sorry to hear that. You're welcome here as long as you like.” He changed direction. “You mentioned in your e-mail a group called CASE. I've not heard of them before.”

Thomas let out the breath he was holding. “They're a legal aid organization. They combat forced prostitution in the developing world.”

Dinesh finished off the last of his beer. “I imagine Bombay keeps them busy.”

They chatted for a while longer with the ease of old friends, reminiscing about their years at Yale, swapping stories about girlfriends past, and laughing at the pranks that they—usually Dinesh—had played on their classmates. Dinesh's wit and irresistible good humor lifted Thomas's spirits and left him with a sense of optimism about his presence in Bombay. If nothing else came of it, he would enjoy rooming with his friend again.

After a while, Dinesh yawned and stretched out his arms. “I think I'm going to turn in,” he said, standing with his empty beer bottle. “It's great to have you here.”

Thomas stood as well. “If you don't mind, I'm going to stay out here for a while. My body still thinks it's daytime.”

Dinesh laughed. “Sure. I'll see you in the morning.”

Thomas took out his BlackBerry and sent e-mails to his mother and Andrew Porter, informing them of his arrival. Then he walked to the railing and looked north toward Juhu Beach. His thoughts drifted to Priya. He wondered if she was asleep or if, like him, she was standing on a terrace somewhere looking at the sea.

He took a deep breath of the salt-laden air and tried to imagine her childhood. The privilege of her upbringing had never seemed quite real to him. She had been born into a family of Gujarati real estate magnates who had settled in the city when the British were still reclaiming land from the sea. Her grandfather owned something like a quarter of the apartments in South Bombay, along with diverse holdings around the world.

With any other parents, Priya might have turned snooty and pretentious. But her father had chosen a life of austerity at Cambridge over the luxuries to which his birth entitled him. Professor Patel had transplanted his family to England when Priya was a teenager, and she had spent the formative years of her adolescence among the ivy and stone of the Old Campus.

It was at Cambridge that she had matriculated as an undergraduate in art history. And it was there, a year from her tripos, that Thomas had met her on a summer exchange from Yale. He remembered the lecture her father had delivered at King's College and the umbrella she had left behind. Her absentmindedness had given him an excuse for an introduction, and the introduction had turned into a coffee-shop conversation that altered the course of their lives.

He took out the picture he had taken of her in Fellows Garden, which he had restored to his wallet before he left for the airport. He remembered the way she had kissed him in the shadow of the old gnarled oak. It had been a shy kiss, laden with the taboos of her culture and the memory of her father. But the fact that she did it at all had revealed the depth of her feelings for him.

He put away the photograph and drained the last of his beer. “
Namaste
, Bombay,” he said, looking out over the city. Then he turned and went inside.

The next morning, he awoke to the alarm on his BlackBerry. It was seven thirty and the sky was yellow with smog. He checked his inbox and found two e-mails. The first was from Ashley at CASE informing him that he had passed his background check and introducing him to Jeff Greer, the director of the Mumbai field office. The second was from Greer himself, inviting him to meet him at Café Leopold for coffee at ten o'clock.

He found Dinesh in the kitchen brewing a pot of chai. They ate breakfast on the terrace overlooking the sea. Thomas told Dinesh about his appointment with Greer.

“Perfect,” his friend said. “You can come with me to work and catch a cab from there. All the taxi-wallas know how to get to Leopold.”

At eight o'clock, Dinesh hailed an auto-rickshaw to the Bandra railway station. The rick resembled a squat yellow beetle on wheels. The unmuffled engine sounded like a chain saw. When the driver entered a swarm of identical ricks along Hill Road, Thomas fought the temptation to plug his ears.

The ride to the station was a riot of near collisions. The driver was either the boldest man on earth or a complete lunatic. He used the horn with fanatical persistence, as if the noise would shield them from the dangers of his driving.

“This man is insane,” Thomas shouted to his friend over the wind and the engine.

Dinesh laughed. “By that standard, so is every other rick driver in Bombay.”

At the train station, they bought first-class tickets and followed a steady stream of passengers to the platform. When the train came in, it was so packed with bodies that men were hanging from the cars by their fingertips, yet the crowd surged forward, undeterred.

Dinesh grabbed Thomas and pushed him forward. “Go, go, go,” he said, the sound of his voice almost completely drowned out in the stampede.

Reaching the car in front of them was a miracle; finding room in the compartment a certain impossibility. Then, at once, he was inside and the car was moving beneath him. People ran along the platform, and unbelievably, a few more souls clambered aboard.

Dinesh took delight in Thomas's discomfort. “I bet you thought first class would be more civilized,” he shouted.

Thomas thought to laugh, but his chest was so compressed that it came out like a grunt.

“The only difference between the classes,” Dinesh explained, “is that in second class we abuse one another in Marathi. In first class, we abuse one another in English.”

The train lumbered southward, its destination Churchgate Station at the end of the line. Fifteen minutes later, it entered the terminal in the heart of the city's commercial center. Before the train stopped, the crowd swept them out of the car and along the platform like leaves in a swiftmoving stream. Thomas followed Dinesh to the exit and took a deep breath when they emerged on the street.

“How do you do that every day?” he asked.

His friend shrugged and waggled his head from side to side—a gesture Thomas soon realized meant just about anything an Indian wanted it to mean.

“There is only one rule in Bombay,” Dinesh said. “You have to learn to adjust.”

Dinesh worked as an investment analyst at the main branch of the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, which was a short walk from the train station. He bought Thomas a guide to the city from a street vendor and waved down a taxi. He spoke a few words in rapid-fire Marathi and then grinned at Thomas.

“If you get lost, tell anyone that you need to get to Leopold. But you won't get lost.”

Thomas climbed in, and the taxi pulled back into traffic. A few minutes later, the taxi-walla dropped him off in front of the red marquee of Café Leopold. Thomas fished in his pocket for some spare rupees. He checked the meter and paid the fare.

The café was airy and spacious. Its tables were half full of patrons, most of whom looked to be Europeans. He took a seat by the street. Greer showed up a few minutes after ten. He wore khaki pants, a rumpled oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and leather shoes that badly needed a shine. He moved without haste, his physique neither trim nor fat. His brown eyes were intelligent and he smiled easily.

“Thomas?” he said, extending his hand. “Jeff Greer. Great to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Greer took a seat at the table and ordered a cup of coffee when the waiter appeared.

“What's good here?” Thomas asked, eyeing the drinks menu.

“Just about everything. But if you don't need the caffeine, I'd suggest a
lassi
.”

Thomas took the recommendation and placed his order. Then they chatted for a while. Thomas learned that Jeff was thirty-five, unmarried, and a graduate of Harvard Business School, and had been with CASE in Bombay for two years. He was a good listener and a winsome conversationalist, and Thomas warmed to him quickly.

“So Bombay,” Jeff said. “How do you like it?”

“It seems less like a city than a thrill ride.”

Greer laughed. “It takes a while to get used to.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks. Thomas took a sip of the lassi. It tasted like light custard and lingered pleasantly on the tongue.

“Did you read the dossier Ashley gave you?” Greer asked.

“Twice,” Thomas replied.

“So you understand your job description.”

Thomas nodded. “The investigators get all the sexy work, and the lawyers push paper.”

Greer laughed. “That about sums it up. Our attorneys aren't allowed to appear in court, but they can file briefs on behalf of the victims. That's what you'll be spending most of your time doing—reviewing, drafting, and filing briefs.”

“Do we ever get to leave the office?” Thomas asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do we ever get to see what the investigators see?”

Greer thought about this. “What are your plans for the rest of the morning?”

“I was hoping you would give me some.”

Greer smiled. “I think I can handle that.”

After paying the check, Greer flagged down a cab and spoke a few unintelligible words in Marathi to the taxi-walla. The driver gave him a strange look. Greer repeated himself, this time more emphatically. Shaking his head, the driver pulled into traffic.