The Delhi Deception (9 page)

The food was delicious, and Carla found herself relaxed and comfortable in George’s company. After they discovered that they had both attended Harvard, he amused her with stories from his college days. Then he asked her about her friendship with Elouise and how well she knew Harry.

“Not well at all. I was already in Washington when Elouise met him in New York. And apart from some weekends together, I haven’t really seen much of him. Oh, and of course they came to my wedding in South Africa.” She flushed and looked at George, a guilty expression in her eyes. “I’m married. He is in Pakistan, I think. Uh, well, he was there a few days ago. At the moment we’re not really in contact.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself. Elouise filled me in,” George said gently, taking Carla’s hand in his.

“I shouldn’t have surprised him in Peshawar. I’ve been looking forward to this trip to India for such a long time, wanting to meet some family members, getting to know some of my own culture, and now…” She paused.

“Now I’m pissed off. Not only did he cheat on me; he spoiled this trip for me. I had so much to do, so much to see. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel or do. Should I just wait until the end of my trip to worry about our relationship and try to enjoy myself? Or should I start divorce proceedings? Carla could feel a lump rising in her throat. She couldn’t believe she was divulging such private information to this stranger. “Enough about me. Elouise has told me something about you. Why are you still a bachelor? Did someone break your heart and forever destroy your faith in the institution of marriage?”

“No, not at all. My parents are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary at the end of this year, and I almost envy them.” George looked at Carla with a bright light in his eyes. Seeing this sincerity, she wondered why Elouise had painted such a different picture of him.

Just then his phone beeped. He looked down at the message he had received and, with an apologetic look, quickly typed a reply on his iPhone before putting it in his pocket and saying, “Please excuse me for a minute; I must take care of something. I won’t be long—you decide what we should have for dessert.”

He stood up as his other pocket started vibrating and headed for the courtyard. She watched him take out a large, clumsy-looking satellite phone as he walked outside.

Carla asked for the dessert menu and decided on the tiramisu with an espresso. She wondered whether she should order the same for George and decided to go to the courtyard to ask him. At first she couldn’t see him, as the gazebos were heavily covered in jasmine creepers. A lion-headed fountain spewed water into a trough, adding to the luxurious charm of the courtyard.

She then saw him at the far corner, away from the al fresco diners, a serious expression on his face. He was speaking quietly but sternly into the handset. He didn’t see her approach as he turned his back on the diners. A couple of meters away from him, Carla changed her mind and turned to go back to their table. But then she heard some of his conversation. He was speaking fluently in a foreign language. Was it Arabic? No, she couldn’t understand what George was saying. She had taken Arabic for a couple of years at Harvard to help with her Middle Eastern studies. This enabled her to communicate with the Arab-speaking correspondents at both CNN and BBC. Puzzled, she now walked back to their table. A few minutes later, George returned.

“So sorry, had to deal with an urgent visa query. Have you ordered?”

“Yes, a tiramisu to share. Are you OK with that?”

“Perfect, and I’d love an espresso.”

Carla called the waiter and asked for another coffee. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you drank coffee this late at night.”

“No effect on me whatsoever. Plus, I still have some work to do later.”

Carla looked at him in surprise but made no comment. She hadn’t thought his job at the embassy would be quite so busy.

As they ate the creamy dessert, she wanted to ask him about the language she had overheard him speak. But, thinking it might be an intrusion, she started chatting instead about her time in India. George seemed to listen with interest, but Carla detected the distracted glimmer in his eyes. Nervous, she feared she was boring him.

While waiting for their car, George looked around with a guarded expression. He seemed relieved when Kamal arrived, and waving away the doorman’s offer to open the door for Carla, he opened it for her and followed her into the back seat from the same door.

They were both quiet on the drive home. But, as they turned into her road, George leaned closer to her. He touched her face briefly and said, “I had a wonderful evening.”

Carla felt her cheek burn from his touch and muttered, “Thank you, me too.”

When they arrived at the bungalow, the guards let them through, and Kamal opened her door, George getting out on the other side.

He walked her to the front door where one of the chowkidars was unlocking the large antique brass lock.

George shook her hand a little formally and said, “Carla, I would love to see you again. Can I call you?”

Carla was confused by the mixed signals coming from him but found herself saying, “Yes, of course.”

Kishan was waiting up for her. Refusing tea, Carla asked him to wake her at eight the next morning.

That night her dreams were filled with George, Elouise, and Andrew; they were strange, uneasy dreams. Carla did not feel rested when Kishan woke her up the following morning with a steaming cup of fragrant tea.

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CHAPTER 5

C
arla did not sleep well. She only saw Andrew’s missed call on waking after she had switched on her phone. Not quite ready to return his call, she decided to phone the advocate instead. He was away in Calcutta, and his secretary told her that he’d call her back in a week or two. Aghast, she wasn’t sure she could wait that long but left her number anyway. Feeling miserable, she decided she’d phone Andrew much later, maybe in the evening. He’d taken his time in calling her; he could wait.

She lazed about wondering what would make her feel better. Coffee didn’t work, the newspaper didn’t distract her, and she didn’t really feel up to a conversation with Elouise about her dinner with George. Finally, she decided on Elouise’s offer to join an American group on a sightseeing tour of Delhi. Elouise had arranged for Carla to join the group through one of the organizations she belonged to. The tour guides, former university professors, delighted in imparting their expert knowledge. Carla had a keen interest in British Colonial architecture and thought the outing would be the perfect distraction for a few hours. She would at least be prevented from over-analyzing her situation.

But she only became interested when the professor of architecture shared his opinions on Lutyen’s Delhi. He smugly pointed to Lutyen’s one flaw, the splendid Rashtrapati Bhavan, built for the former viceroy, now the home of the president of India. The palace was meant to be visible in all its splendor when approached from the top of the hill. Unfortunately, this was not the case, as the gradient was too steep and the only visible part, the dome, now dominated the Delhi skyline.

A cosmetic surgeon from San Diego and his wife, who resembled a shrine with a beatific expression frozen in celestial joy, started chatting to Carla, or rather, quizzing her about her life. They weren’t satisfied with the broader outline but relentlessly extracted as much detail as possible. Carla felt like a witness in a murder trial. The thought of being interrogated by Elouise about George seemed more preferable to this “American Inquisition.”

When the tour leader asked them to return to the bus, Carla hung back, trying to avoid the enthusiastic couple’s company on the bus. A handsome young Indian boy, not much older than sixteen, watched her intently, smiling fervently when she glanced in his direction. She gave him an inhibited smile, and as if invited, he rushed to her side and said, “Madam, you like verri, verri old drawing make by your fellowman Lutyen?”

Carla was intrigued. “What type of drawings?”

“Beeootiful bungalows, big palace, one hundred percent original. I, my name is Manan, will show you this thing.” He leaned conspiratorially toward her and said, “But verri secret, not too many drawing, get good price if not too many rich American see, too.”

Original architectural drawings by Lutyen, what a find,
Carla thought. “Where will I find this place?”

“No problem, Madam, I take you, look my bhai.” He pointed to a man who was sitting in a three-wheeler scooter. He was chewing betel nut and spat the red juice and saliva in an accurate arch against the sandstone pavement.

“He takes you me in tuk-tuk, not cost too much money, no worry, come, come let’s go.”

Carla looked at the bhai’s red-stained teeth and was undecided, but changed her mind quickly when she saw the surgeon’s wife waving and pointing in triumph at the empty seat on the bus next to them.

With a wave and a “thank you” mouthed at the tour leader, Carla jumped into the tuk-tuk. Manan got in beside her. As the scooter bhai drove noisily away, Carla could almost make out an expression of dismay on the Californian’s face.

They drove for about half an hour, and the traffic started becoming more congested. Manan kept reassuring her that they were about to reach their destination, but Carla couldn’t suppress the wave of nausea and panic.

“I think it is late, and it’s better if we turn back.”

Manan laughed and insisted that they would reach the place in less than five minutes. The tuk-tuk was now almost motionless in the traffic, as people rushed alongside them or darted into the road, weaving in and out of rickshaws, motorbikes, and donkey carts pulling huge bales.

From one of the many alleys leading into the market, Manan waved to a man in his midthirties with long, wavy hair worn like the heroes in Bollywood films. He smiled broadly as Manan told Carla to get off the tuk-tuk—it would be faster to walk the last bit, he told her.

Carla struggled to find space for her feet on the road, but Manan pushed her through the heaving throng of human traffic. The Bollywood hero and Manan embraced; then he turned around and introduced Carla to Rohit. With a friendly smile, Rohit took her arm and lead her deeper into the alley.

They walked fast, dodging rickshaws and motorbikes. Carla tried desperately to memorize the route they were taking, but after the third or fourth turn into another alley that looked exactly like the others, she realized she would not be able to get out of this labyrinth.

Hundreds of small fabric shops looked identical, their barefooted shoppers and sales assistants sitting on the sheet-covered floors. Shoes spilled into the walkway, which was trickling with old tea, water, mud, and foulsmelling ooze. They walked past the hundreds of sweets and snack shacks frying up their ware in huge, black, iron woks. The aroma of old oil coated the stench that permeated the air.

Carla stopped and ignored Manan and Rohit, who were urging her to continue. She took out her cell phone to advise Elouise of her whereabouts, but as she held the phone to her ear, Manan fell against her. He tried to steady himself, but in the process knocked the phone out of her hands, onto the sullied passage. He made as if to retrieve it, but Rohit stepped onto it and crushed it under his black Western-style cowboy boots. They exchanged a look, and Carla realized with a strange tingling sensation that started in her toes that she was in deep trouble.

Rohit took Carla’s purse roughly from her, while Manan interlocked his arm in hers, and with his other hand he pointed to a small dagger stuffed into the waistband of his Levi’s. They marched her through the congested alleys. Carla realized it was futile trying to talk to them. She had no idea where they were taking her or what their intentions were.

She looked around her, desperately trying to make eye contact with someone. Those who gave her a customary glance quickly averted their eyes.

After about ten minutes, they stopped in front of an old carved wooden door. A bulky man with a pockmarked face looked at them dourly; then he opened the heavy door and waved them toward the dark, narrow staircase. The air was damp and surprisingly cool as they descended the worn gray-white marble staircase.

Rohit knocked on the door at the bottom of the stairs, and they entered a well-lit room, sparsely furnished, a large desk in the center. The wood-paneled walls were cracked and in disrepair. A wooden bookshelf filled with old, musty books leaned against one wall.

Sitting in an office chair behind the desk, a slightly built man with a large, shiny baldhead and wearing enormous black-rimmed glasses looked up and smiled tauntingly at Carla.

“Well, well, what a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

Carla frowned and asked in a haughty tone, “How long do you propose to keep me here? I’m staying in India with friends who are well connected, and it is only a matter of time before I’m found, and I suspect you’ll be in a great deal of trouble.”

The man threw back his head and laughed loudly, snorting with derision. “Thousands of girls and women disappear in India yearly, trying to find themselves. They disperse into the cult-like-ashrams, never to be heard of again, bar the one letter written to their families explaining their newfound self.”