Oleander Girl (34 page)

“Let me see that photo again,” Mr. Mariner says. He holds it up next to my face. “You’re more beautiful than she was.” His scrutiny embarrasses me.

“I know you only have a little time,” I say. “Could we take a look at the albums?”

“Actually, I’m in no rush. I freed up my evening for you.”

I’m surprised. Then my heart speeds up even more. Why would someone go to all this trouble? For a long-lost daughter, of course.

“That’s very kind of you.” I look into his eyes; I want him to see my appreciation. But more than that, I want to see what my mother saw, what made her write that letter.

He opens the album and moves closer so we can look at it together. I scrutinize the photos, small and faded, and hold up my own photo of her against them, for comparison. They’re mostly of students with paper hats drinking at parties, or squinting against the sun on beaches. There are a couple of Indian women, but none of them is my mother.

I look up to tell him this and find that his face is very close. His hand is suddenly on my back, pulling me to him. My whole body stiffens in shock and I pull away.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t pretend! Isn’t this why you came to my place?”

I hurry to explain. “I came because I’m looking for people who knew my mother.”

“Why me, out of the hundreds in this area who went to Berkeley? Is it because I have money?”

Desperate, I let go of all pretense. “My father—all I know about him is his first name, Rob, and that my mother met him in Berkeley. I’m searching for him.”

His voice is hard. “Why? So you can blackmail the poor sucker?”

My face grows hot at the insult. “I’d like to leave now,” I say as calmly as I can. I reach for my purse, but he grabs it and puts it behind him.

“Oh, I can’t let you leave so soon.” He puts out a finger and starts to trace the outline of my lips. I snap my head away in horror. When I try to back away, he grabs my hand.

“Let me go,” I cry. “You lied to me!”

He holds me tight. “No more than you did, honey, with that ridiculous fairy tale about your inheritance. Did you think I got this far in my career without being able to sense it when someone tries to deceive me? I knew the kind of person you were even before I was alerted. No one gets away with trying to pull something over on me.”

Stupid! I’ve been stupid and gullible. Both Vic and Rajat had warned me. Why hadn’t I listened?

He lowers his mouth on mine, hard, bruising. I strike out with my fists; it doesn’t seem to bother him. The thrust of his tongue makes me want to throw up. I pull away with all my might. When he lets go, it’s so unexpected, I lose my balance and fall back on the sofa. I steel myself for another attack, but surprisingly, he only watches me. His mouth is twisted—is it with contempt, or a dark amusement? How had I ever thought him handsome? How had I hoped he might be my father?

I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, and I’m not waiting to find out. I lunge for my purse and run toward the door on shaky legs. I expect him to come after me, but he remains on the sofa. Malice glitters in his smile.

I twist the knob, but the door won’t open.

“It’s locked.” He takes a key out of his pocket and swings it tauntingly on its chain.

My mind spins. He walks toward me slowly, enjoying the situation.

Fury rises up through my panic. If he touches me, I’m going to fight him with my last breath. I’ll get a knife from the kitchen. I’ll—

I grab my cell phone from my purse, dial 911, and hold it up, my finger lingering over the call button.

“If you don’t open the door, I’m going to call the police.”

A tight grin appears on his face. “Go ahead! In fact, why don’t I call them myself? I’ll tell them that you came here to seduce and then blackmail me. That you turned ugly and started threatening me when I wouldn’t give in to your demands. Who do you think they’ll believe? A reputable lawyer who has lived in this city for twenty years—or you, a foreigner from nowhere with only one decent set of clothes? I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up in jail.”

I’m no match for Mariner, his convoluted thinking. I don’t think he’s going to call the police, but I don’t want to take a chance. I back away and do the only thing I can think of: punch in Vic’s number. He picks up at once, bless him!

“I need some help,” I cry.

“You want me to come up?” he shouts, loudly enough so Mariner
can hear. “I’m on my way right now. A deliveryman is going into the lobby—”

I can see from Mariner’s displeased eyes that he hadn’t expected this particular development. We’ve cut short the little game he was enjoying so much. He strides toward me, a black look on his face. I force myself not to back away.

He throws the door open and flings a slew of expletives at my back as I stumble out.

There’s no deliveryman in sight when I lurch from the building. I suspect there never was. Vic has the car idling in the driveway, but when he sees how distraught I am, he jumps out.

“Did he do something to you? The bastard! I’m going up there—”

“Please, let’s just leave.” I grip his arm with trembling fingers until he gives in.

“It’s my fault,” he says as the car roars away. “I should have insisted—I didn’t imagine! You sure you’re not hurt?”

“No, thank God. I don’t think he ever intended to physically harm me. But he wanted to frighten me, and he certainly succeeded in that.” To my dismay, I find that I’m crying. “Oh, Vic, I feel so dirty, inside and out. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve never come across anyone who hated me so much. What I did wasn’t totally honest, I admit it, but did it deserve that kind of hate?”

“No, it didn’t. Like I said, he’s a bastard. Don’t let him get to you.”

“I can’t face another person like that, Vic. I don’t want to meet Rob Davis. I just want to go home.”

“Hush, sweetheart. You’re too upset to make any decisions. Let’s go to the motel. You take a long shower, wash away that SOB’s touch. We’ll get dinner and a decent night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do.” Vic takes my hand, kisses it, and holds it to his chest. “I want you to know that you were brave and quick-witted in a situation where most women would have fallen apart. You deserve to be proud of yourself.”

I’m grateful for his words, even if I don’t fully believe them. I can feel his heart beating against my palm.
Sweetheart,
he called me. I want to say, I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been there for me. But I remain silent. Mariner has taught me a lesson in caution that goes deep.

In the backseat of the Mercedes, Mrs. Bose rubs her tired, stinging eyes. All morning she tried to reach her husband at his New York hotel—that’s the only number she has until he procures a mobile—growing more worried each time he didn’t answer. It’s nighttime in America. Where is he? Recently, to her annoyance, she finds herself getting anxious at the smallest things. This morning it seemed that Pushpa was hanging around the flat too much, watching her. Finally Mrs. Bose couldn’t stand it and told her to go to the servants’ quarters and stay there until she was called.

Partly this is because Mrs. Bose didn’t sleep last night. She had paced up and down, imagining ridiculous scenes—car wrecks and kidnappings—all the time while Rajat was gone. When he returned late, she turned away, angry that he had put her through the wringer like that. Children had no idea what a mother went through, obsessing over the risks they took in such cavalier fashion.

But last night, after weeks of silent brooding, Rajat was jubilant. He kissed her on both cheeks, sat her down at the dining table, made them coffee with Kahlúa and whipped cream—one of her weaknesses—and told her about how happy he was to finally have Sonia out of his life, and his heart. He said he’d explained to Sonia that there was no hope of their getting back together. The whole experience had taken a load off his chest and made him realize how much he loved Korobi. He went off to bed whistling.

Mrs. Bose went to bed, too, but she wasn’t able to sleep. The coffee and the alcohol buzzed through her system, making her more jittery than ever. The big bed was empty and cold even after she draped a satin quilt over the Jaipuri bedspread. She longed to burrow her face into Shanto’s shoulder, confess all her anxious imaginings, have him laugh at her irrational fears. Be careful, she whispered into the pillow. She was speaking to both the men in her life—Mr. Bose because she didn’t trust Mitra, and Rajat because she was afraid of what a rejected Sonia might do in retaliation.

Her mobile rings, pulling her back to the car. She scrabbles for it in
her purse, catching a nail in a zipper and breaking it. Damn! But it’s not important because Mr. Bose, who must have procured a cell phone with amazing efficiency, is on the line. Just hearing his voice is like standing under a hot shower on a freezing morning.

He catches her up quickly on his news. The gallery was just as Korobi had warned: locked up, dusty, paintings missing. What a sad change from when they’d opened it with a splendid, scintillating reception! Hiding his fury, he called Mitra, saying that he was in town on sudden business and would like to meet him. Surly with surprise, Mitra claimed to be sick in bed. When Mr. Bose indicated that he would be happy to come over to Mitra’s flat, he admitted, grudgingly, that he wasn’t that sick. They agreed to meet at the Mumtaz in an hour’s time. But Mitra never showed up. Mr. Bose had half-expected that, though his other half—his optimistic, saintly half, Mrs. Bose thinks—had been hoping for a reasonable explanation.

Tomorrow he would need to file a police report, ask the alarm company for a fresh code, and find a reliable locksmith to install new locks so Mitra can’t get in there and wreak more damage.

“I wish I could be there to help you!” Mrs. Bose says.

“The best help you can give me is to take care of yourself. By the way, I called Korobi today.”

“How is she?” Mrs. Bose asks, making an effort to be interested in the girl in light of what Rajat had said last night.

“Disappointed. Yesterday she’d gone to see one of her main leads, but it turned out that he wasn’t her father.”

Mrs. Bose cannot with any honesty say she is unhappy about this, so she remains silent.

“She didn’t give me details, but I gathered he wasn’t particularly pleasant.”

“I wish she’d get over this obsession and come back home,” Mrs. Bose says. “She belongs to a perfectly fine family already. If she hadn’t been so headstrong, she could have been a support to Rajat at this time. The poor boy misses her.”

“Actually, she’s been more helpful to us in America than she would have been back home. We owe her.”

Mr. Bose is too softhearted, Mrs. Bose thinks. If it weren’t for her guarding his interests, people would walk all over him.

“If she hadn’t alerted Rajat, Mitra would still be milking us. Plus she phoned Mr. Desai from California and requested him to help me. Without him, I’d be stumped. He found the locksmith and called the police. Tomorrow he’ll come over when we enter the gallery. But Joyu, even from outside I could see that three paintings are missing. Two aren’t that special, but the third is the Anjolie Ela Menon. We’re going to Mitra’s apartment tomorrow. He’s gone, I’m sure, but his wife might still be there. Maybe we can find out what he did with the paintings.”

Mrs. Bose is too upset to respond. She shuts her eyes tight and sees the Menon, the gold oval of a woman’s face blending into black. It was one of their best pieces. She had handpicked it to send abroad because she loved it so much.

Only after Mr. Bose hangs up does it strike her that Mitra is a worse danger now because he has nothing to lose. Maybe, fueled by vindictiveness, he’ll follow Mr. Bose as he makes his way to his hotel, to his room even. She calls Mr. Bose to tell him this, punching the digits frantically. But she only gets a mechanized voice informing her that her call cannot be completed at this time.

Reaching the gallery, Mrs. Bose is further annoyed to see that the parking spots in front have been dug up by the corporation so that Asif has to drop her at the end of the block. As soon as she enters the gallery, Shikha hands her a fat stack of messages that Abinash has sent over from the warehouse, mostly queries about orders that should have reached customers by now. The most urgent one is from the buyer for Khazana, a five-star hotel chain that had ordered two hundred large brass statues for their lobbies and hallways. If the statues don’t reach them in two weeks, Khazana will regretfully have to cancel the order and go with a competitor.

Mrs. Bose sinks heavily into her chair.

“Madam, also Mr. Bhattacharya left a message for you to phone him when you get in. Subroto the foreman needs to speak with you urgently. And you have a lunch appointment with Utsab Lal.”

Mrs. Bose feels a migraine descending upon her. She massages the
worry lines on her forehead. The half-broken nail snags on a lock of hair and she has to make an effort not to swear. She wants to go back to the flat, curl up under her comforter, and stay there until her husband returns. But Shikha is waiting.

“Did Subroto say anything to you?”

“The strike started this morning. They’ve padlocked all the gates. Subroto’s waiting outside the warehouse, on the street, for your call.”