Oleander Girl (31 page)

It is an hour before dinner, and the flat is empty. Papa and Maman have gone to the gallery, Pia to her badminton lesson, Pushpa down to the servants’ quarters. Rajat turns on the stereo and lies down on the living-room sofa, thankful for this reprieve from anxious, watchful eyes. The soft strains of jazz wash over him, holding him in their weightless embrace. For now, no one expects anything of him. For now, he can allow his worries to recede.

But his mind refuses to cooperate. It demands to know why Cara didn’t call back from the airport as she’d promised. Sonia has left another message on his mobile. How should he respond so she won’t call again? Can Mitra really be double-crossing them? Rajat needs to be certain before burdening his parents with a new worry. There has been no news from the union leaders yet. What are they planning?

His parents must have been disappointed by the fiasco at the warehouse, but they hid it well. They assured him that it wasn’t his fault—the union had obviously planned for matters to escalate so they’d have a
valid reason to call for a strike. But Rajat knows otherwise. If he had kept his cool, they would have been on the road to reconciliation by now.

What can Rajat do to stop the downward spiral of his family’s fortunes? New York—that’s where he must concentrate. The gallery is a sinkhole into which their assets are disappearing, more each day. He must call Mitra, make a few, discreet inquiries, figure out what’s really going on. He knows Korobi doesn’t want him to do this, but she doesn’t understand the situation here. Rajat can’t ask his father to make the long, expensive journey to America—or to send Rajat there—when their finances are so precarious, the situation with the union so volatile. Not unless he’s certain that Korobi’s fears are valid. And for that, he needs to hear how Mitra responds to his questions.

It must be early morning in New York, but Mitra picks up his cell phone right away. He sounds alert and polite. In answer to Rajat’s queries, he explains that business is slow. Indian art isn’t popular at this time, unfortunately. All Eastern things are associated in people’s mind with 9/11. Still, he’s trying, faithfully opening the gallery every morning, placing ads in the newspapers, leaving brochures with organizations whose clientele might be interested. All by himself, too, because as Rajat may have heard, Mitra’s wife is in the family way and not keeping well.

“I heard from some friends who went to the gallery that it was closed in the middle of the day.”

Rajat listens carefully for a defensive tone, but Mitra’s voice is equable. “Sometimes I have to step out to pick up lunch or meet with a potential customer. Even if I’m gone for just a few minutes, the place has to be locked up. I was just thinking about this problem the other day. Maybe I could hire someone part-time, for just a couple hours a day, to cover me while I take a break? I know a good person.”

Mitra sounds so reasonable that Rajat has to fight to recall Korobi’s concern, the insistence in her voice as she told him the Boses were being cheated.

“I was told the place was dusty. That some of the paintings are gone from the walls.”

For the first time, Mitra’s voice has an edge. “Who told you that? Let me guess: It was Miss Korobi, wasn’t it? Maybe she looked in the wrong place. There’s another gallery on the same street that’s been closed down. I wish she had mentioned it to me. I would have set her straight.” His voice dips confidentially. “I hate to say this to you, sir, but the young lady took a dislike to me from day one. She has been—how shall I say it?—difficult to deal with. I invited her on several occasions to visit the gallery, but she never had the time. Too busy going around sightseeing with that young fellow in the leather jacket.”

“Sightseeing?” Rajat can’t help repeating, even though he knows he’s handing Mitra the advantage.

“Ah, yes, several times.” Mitra’s voice grows sonorous. “And visiting beauty salons. Just a couple days back, don’t know what came over her, she cut off all her hair. My wife tried to talk her out of it, but—”

“Cut off her hair?”

“You didn’t know? There’s a lot she’s been keeping from you, looks like. I would inquire into them, if I were you.”

Rajat rallies. He remembers what he said to Korobi,
I would trust you with my life.
He tries to hold on to that feeling. “I’m sorry, Mitra, but I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll send you a photo, if you like. I took one just today, as she was leaving for California. Thought it wasn’t right, how she was out here having a good time with some other man while you worried about her. Check your e-mail in about five minutes. You can see for yourself.”

Rajat takes deep, shaky breaths after he hangs up. He doesn’t believe what Mitra said about the Mumtaz, about Korobi confusing it with another gallery on the same street, conveniently shut down. But the accusations about his fiancée—there Mitra had seemed disturbingly confident, certain that he could deliver.

Rajat goes to his room and flips the switch on his computer. Yes, the message from Mitra has arrived. Rajat stares at it for a while. A voice inside him warns,
Delete the message without opening it. Remember Korobi, the way she is: straightforward through and through. She wouldn’t cheat you
. But another voice says,
People lie; photos don’t
.

He clicks on the attachment and there she is, in her chin-length, curly hair, so different from the Korobi whose image is stamped on his brain that for a moment he thinks Mitra is playing a trick on him. But it
is
her. He recognizes, with a pang, the tilt of her neck as she looks up at a young man in a leather jacket—good-looking, Rajat must admit, even if it’s in a raffish way—who is standing far too close to her. Recognizes the smile—how he never tired of watching it, how he loved the way it transformed her face. Now she’s offering the same smile to this guy! Vic is helping her off with her coat—the black coat that Maman gave her. Such an intimate gesture. Rajat stares at the photo until the faces blur; then he reaches for his mobile.

Once again Asif is driving the long stretch to the airport, past the lit billboards that depict perfect families shored up by their perfect accessories, past the mosquito-infested lakes edged by slums, past the amusement park, which, Pia-missy has told him, houses Asia’s largest roller coaster. Tonight there are only two of them in the car: Barasaab and Memsaab. Pia-missy has an algebra test tomorrow, and Rajat-saab has stayed home to help her study for it. Saab and Memsaab are mostly silent. In the intermittent flashes from the billboards, Asif notices that their hands are clasped. The detail touches him. It is not the flighty romantic gesture of young lovers in Bollywood movies, but the sturdy grip of longtime companions comforting each other in the face of tribulations. And tribulations they certainly have.

The workers haven’t gone on strike yet at the warehouse, but things are tenser each day. Asif had driven Barasaab by the main entrance this afternoon. The Boses had hired extra security, and men in dark blue uniforms stood around the front, armed with batons. For the first time ever, the enormous black metal main gate was chained and padlocked in the middle of the day, and only the side entrance was open. When he saw that, Saab leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Stakes carrying placards with violent red lettering were planted along the ground.
Workers with red bandannas clustered around the small gate, harassing anyone who tried to enter the warehouse. They watched the Mercedes closely, and one of the men spat on the ground and said something. But Asif had taken care to roll up the windows ahead of time so Saab wouldn’t have to listen to low-class vermin like that. He sneaked a look backward and felt a pang. Saab looked so old and tired. He was a good man, a decent employer. He didn’t deserve trouble like this.

Pushpa had told Asif about the strained dinner with Bhattacharya, and how afterward Memsaab had broken down. Asif had difficulty imagining Memsaab, who was tough as buffalo hide, in tears, but now, as she lays her head on Bose-saab’s shoulder and closes her eyes, he can believe it. What a weight it must be on her to be left in charge at this hazardous time—because the truth, whether anyone admitted it or not, was that Rajat-saab wasn’t much help in such situations.

Saab asks for some music, and Asif puts in a classical sitar CD, Memsaab’s favorite. The music, he knows, is so that they can converse without being overheard, but through his many years of chauffeurship, Asif has become adept at hearing past such camouflage.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve visited the gallery.”

“I can’t believe Mitra has really closed it down. Why would he do such a thing? Maybe Korobi’s mistaken—”

Saab shakes his head. “I trust Korobi’s assessment. She’s a smart girl. Mitra’s up to something, but until I go there, I won’t know what.”

“Be careful. I had a bad dream the other night. Guns, blood.” She shudders. “If he’s cheating us in a major way, he might be dangerous. He might try to do something to you.”

“Now you’re being fanciful! But I’ll take precautions.”

“And Bhattacharya? What are we to do about him?”

“Joyu, you can’t beat your head against every wall at once. We’ll deal with Bhattacharya after I get back. Focus on the union for now. They’re about to send us a new set of demands. As soon as you get it, let me know, and we’ll figure out how to negotiate. You’re a strong woman. I know you can handle things until I get back.”

“I’m not sure. I feel so tired, so afraid. It’s as though everything I spent my life building up is disintegrating. The headmistress from Pia’s
school called today. She asked why Pia hasn’t returned the Darjeeling excursion form, the girl had been so excited about it before. I questioned Pia. She said she didn’t tell us because we can’t afford it right now. She gave me a hug and said, ‘It doesn’t matter, Mama.’ I tell you, it broke my heart. And Rajat hasn’t been sleeping the last few days. I heard him in the kitchen at three a.m., getting water. It’s not just the warehouse situation—there’s something else. But he won’t tell me what. Oh, it’s hard to see your children’s pain!”

“He’s a man now, Joyu. You can’t protect him from his life.”

“Oh, Shanto, come back quickly. I really need you.”

He raises her hand to his lips. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. And meanwhile, I’m with you in your heart.”

Asif drops them off at the entrance to the airport and waits in the parking lot for Memsaab to call him when she’s ready to leave. But when the phone rings, it isn’t her.

“I was starting to get upset with you,” Sonia says in her husky voice. “Really upset. But now I see your strategy. You were smart to hold on to the letter until the right time. Rajat is meeting me tomorrow evening for dinner. Look for your reward when you get home.” She hangs up before Asif can fully process what she has said.

A text message is on his phone, too, from Mahmoud, Sheikh Rehman’s contact man. The sheikh is getting annoyed. He needs to know Asif’s answer, yes or no, by the weekend.
Meet me at Akbar Kebab House Friday night, brother,
Mahmoud writes.
The sheikh’s a good employer—don’t throw away this opportunity.

Asif thinks about Mahmoud’s message while he drives Memsaab home. She rests her head against the window glass and doesn’t say anything, not even when, along a dark stretch of road, he hits a giant pothole. Asif should be relieved, but he finds himself wishing for her to revert to her old, fiery self. When they reach home, instead of giving him a hundred instructions, she says good night in a small voice and walks heavily toward the lift.

Asif makes his way to his room, ruminating on the problems of the rich, how they are more complicated than those of the poor. Only when he reaches his door does he remember Sonia. He looks around.
There’s nothing in his doorway. Maybe she had something slipped under the door? But the floor’s bare. Then he sees it, an envelope on his pillow. It’s fat with money, more than he’s ever held in his hand. Even as he counts the notes in wonder, a part of him is afraid. Today he’s been rewarded, yes, but there had been a threat in Sonia’s voice, too. What kind of woman is this Sonia, and what might she do if people don’t give her what she wants?