The PuppetMaster (14 page)

She had that right. I looked at the river and we grew quiet again.

“Bhim?”

“Yes?”

“You know this city well, ya?”

I nodded. “I suppose. I’ve been here longer than most.”

Her voice got strangely quiet and sad. “Would you take me on a tour sometime? I believe you would be a better guide than anyone I could pay. I would like to go the place where Buddha gave his sermons, maybe some of the temples und parks where people pray. I would pay you for your time.”

With more courage in my voice than I felt in the base of my spine, I replied, “I would be happy to be your guide, Uliana Hadersen. And no payment will be required. But there is a condition. By the way, I do know the gardens and temple of the city well enough to guide you without a map.” I managed that without a single stutter.

Her lips curled into a knowing smile. “And what condition is that, Bhimaji of Varanasi?”

It came out in a rush, but at least it came out. “I will take you on every path of this old city if you will do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow evening.”

Twenty-Three

I never got that nap or my glass of lager. Another of those unforeseen events that explode into my life got in the way.

As I stepped through the gate into the courtyard, Sahr came bolting out the door and down the steps wailing, “Bhimaji, Bhimaji. Something awful, an accident. Horrible. Horrible! I knew it. Durgabal is never wrong. Never!” She was moaning and wringing the end of her sari. I set my hands on her shoulders, suddenly anxious; Sahr didn’t lose composure often, and when she did, something dire had happened.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong? Is it Lalji? Is he hurt?” If anyone could get hurt from some foolishness, it was he.

“No, Bhimaji, he is fine. It is Jotilal Sukkha. He cannot be found and they believe he has been crushed under the stone.”

Sahr’s words were coming too rapidly, and making no sense. Who was Jotilal? Then it struck me. Rajneesh Sukkha--my rickwalla buddy. Jotilal was his brother with the cell phone, our newly hired guard. Blood pulsed in my temples. “Sahr, please listen. Look at me.” Her locked on mine. “I need you to tell me slowly what has happened? Take a deep breath and first tell me who told you this.” The rumor mill spun efficiently in our neighborhood, but was often laced with inaccuracies. The first order was to know the source.

With one name she eliminated the possibility of misinformation.

“Professor Chandragupta.” Blood pounded behind my eyes. “He came in his car an hour ago and called at the gate, demanding to talk to you. He yelled at Lalji and said he would talk to no one else. Quite out of character. He was so upset, but when I came to see what the fuss was all about, he calmed down and told me.” I understood then. The professor had approached her for psychic advice in the past, and like all her customers, he trusted her. “He told me that your cave has collapsed.”

“Collapsed. Oh God! And Jotilal?” But, I already knew the answer.

“Missing. They think he is buried inside.” Before I could ask another question, she started sobbing again. “His brother, Rajneesh, drove out with food and more bedding in the morning, but when he arrived, there was only rock. He tried, but could not find a way through.”

“He only slept there one night.” The thought astounded me, and for a selfish instant I saw myself standing inside that chamber three days earlier. It had felt safe. Now it was a tomb. Something vile rose in my throat. “What did Rajneesh do?”

With each question Sahr was gaining more self-control. “He drove to the professor’s cottage at the University. The professor called the police and then came here.” I suddenly pictured an investigation with uncomfortable questions. What was in the cave that needed to be guarded? What had been discovered? And why hadn’t we told the authorities about it? I took a deep breath.

Handing her my backpack I said, “Please put these away and fetch my cell phone and something cool to drink.” Both of us knew that small chores were the best way to keep her from shredding her entire sari with nervous fingers.

I lowered myself into the rocking chair on the veranda, emotions running like gazelles. I’d never met Jotilal Sukkha, but knew he had a wife and children and a brother that loved him. I was heartsick. Then anger came over me, though I wasn’t even sure what I was angry at. Fate? God? Allah? Vishnu? I’d been angry at all of them for years now. Never changed a thing. All the cuss words I knew—English, Hindi, and the Spanish ones I learned from Lilia--poured out. Then a calmer thought took over. We had the photographs, and the pundits were so respected in the district that nobody, certainly not any Hindus, would question their need for a guard at the entrance of a cave. The tragedy would be seen as just that. I dropped my face into sweaty palms and drew my fingers through my hair.

The iced coffee Sahr handed me was rich and sugared, but didn’t clear the foulness from my mouth particularly well. I took another sip and scrolled through the three numbers stored in my cell phone.

C.G. coughed after the second ring, “Bhim. You have heard?”

“Yes, Punditji, just now. How is Rajneesh holding up?” I imagined my rickshaw friend scrambling frantically over the boulders near our picnic spot, clawing desperately at the rubble where his brother lay.

“Not very well, I’m afraid. He blames himself, saying that he should have arrived earlier, or that he shouldn’t have allowed Joti to stay alone. It is nonsense, of course. No one could have foreseen this. Devi and I are going to their family house this afternoon.” Guessing my next question, he asked, “Will you go to the cave in our stead? Mr. Muktendra and First Inspector Singh have asked to meet us there at four. There will likely be some official questions.” I’m sure there would be, and C. G. was asking me to answer them. It was the last thing I wanted to do. The clock on my phone blinked twenty after two. In an autorick I couldn’t possibly get there until five. With a car I might make it.

“I need to hire a car, and I don’t think I can get there until five at least.”

“Do not be concerned, Dear Boy. I will send my driver straightaway in the GC, and call the inspector and tell him to meet you there at five. Devi and I can taxi to the Sukkha house. It is quite close, you see.”

A little confused, I asked, “Punditji, what is a GC?”

“Of course, Bhim. You don’t know. GC is my Grand Cherokee. Quite new. I named him G.C., sort of a flip-flop of C.G., you see. And he is at your disposal.”

Twenty-Four

GC, complete with air-conditioning, Dolby sound, liquid suspension, and a driver named Ram, arrived at my gate ten minutes later. Lalji, who hadn’t shown his face the entire afternoon, and who I was certain had heard every word of my conversations, appeared out of nowhere. He stood proudly next to the SUV when it arrived, and from his stance, I knew that he was hoping his buddies were watching. Around the card table the exaggerations would expand like carnival balloons. Yes, of course the Cherokee was ours. And of course he drove it. Every day for Master Bhim.

I told Sahr of the dinner plans for the following evening and watched as a warm smile rippled up to her birthmark. Yes, Sahr, with a young woman, tomorrow evening. No, it is not a date. Well maybe, I heard myself say.

I warned Lalji that if he smeared the SUV’s windshield one more time with his oily fingers I was going to crack one of his un-splinted ones. I would be back after sunset, I said. Lock up and wait up for me. Sahr left for the market with a long list and a tall stack of rupees. Tragedy or not, I was going to entertain with fresh flowers, good wine, and the best meal my housekeeper could dream up.

Ram knew how to drive that beast. He rumbled out of the city, weaving through afternoon traffic like an F1 driver. He blasted the horn authoritatively and forced everything out of our path. Once we were beyond the congestion, I slid a CD into the player, reclined the seat and tried to take my mind off the sorrow with Sibelius. In the meantime, Ram revved up the eight cylinders and sped us northwest on NH56 and across the rock dust of the access road. At five minutes to five we turned sharply in front of the Imperial Holding gate and spewed some gravel in the general direction of the polished boots of two new guards.

Ram didn’t park next to the ancient Maruti automobile parked on the grass. With a touch of a button, he shifted us into four-wheel and bounced up the boulder field to the bottom of the incline. From there I hiked the final hundred meters and arrived one minute ahead of schedule. Master would have been proud.

As I mentioned, during my year with Lilia she had taught me to swear in Spanish. I had been pretty fluent in it before, but she taught me how to really curse. I muttered every ugly word I knew when I saw the two men standing just below the cone of rock. Inspector Gupta Singh wasn’t there. Madru Ralki was, cupping a match to light a beedee. He looked sweaty, bored, and generally irritated that he had to be standing in the middle of god-awful nowhere in the afternoon heat. Robert Muktendra, the owner of the property, was fidgeting nervously at his side.

Instantly, I pictured Ralki’s hand groping Soma’s breast and entertained the idea of kicking him very solidly in the groin when I got within three feet.

Muktendra I had met once. He was a moderately wealthy cloth merchant with shops in Agra and Varanasi. The prices were fair, silks of good quality, and his clerks always served good tea to their customers. Using profits and family inheritance, he'd purchased a house and parcels of land on both sides of the river. Why he owned this piece in the middle of nowhere, I couldn’t guess. Whether he owned the mining company’s land, was also a guess.

Muktendra had helped me select the right color of sari to send to my mother. He was fidgety-nervous then and more so now.

The two of them looked like Mutt and Jeff at the top of the rise--total opposites. Muktendra was tall and thin, with clothes that hung loosely on his shoulders. His eyes twitched from me to his companion. Ralki was short, fat, and wore the condescending expression of authority--eyes showing the compassion of a dead carp in the fish market. Neither of them looked overly pleased to see me.

Ralki took a deep pull on his beedee, sent the smoke billowing in my direction, and in nasally English said, “Ah, Mr. Scott, I was not expecting you. The pundits Devamukti and Chandragupta will not be joining us today?”

I held out my hand to Muktendra for a quick shake and replied, “I really wasn’t expecting you either, Ralki. I was told your boss, Gupta Singh, would be here. The pundits apologize, but they thought it best to visit the Sukha family. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, I see. Well, I suppose we will have to make do with you. Let us get to this quickly then. Mr. Muktendra,” He nodded at his companion. “tells me that he leased this property to your friends, and that this man . . .” He glanced at a notepad to jog his memory. “Jotilal Sukkha was guarding it. For what purpose did you hire the guard? There seems to be nothing but dust and bird shit out here.”

I was good at this game. Years of avoiding questions about my past had taught me how to dodge like a prizefighter. In a casual tone I replied, “As Muktendra has also undoubtedly told you, there is a cave just on the opposite side of that rock.” I pointed to my left. “and the pundits thought it might contain some writing in the old language. Jotilal Sukkha had been hired in case it did.”

“And did it?”

“Did it what?”

Ralki looked perturbed that I wasn’t following his bored line of questioning. “Did the cave have anything inside it?” Curveball number one.

“Well. . . I was told there was some writing, but no one thought it overly important.” Ralki nodded slowly. The fish-eyes didn’t reveal if he believed me or not.

“So you have not been inside yourself then?” Curveball number two.

“No, I came here with Master Devamukti on Sunday, but I waited at the entrance while he went in.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” I faked that one just to chaff him. It had the desired effect.

In a flash of anger he said, “Why didn’t you go inside with him, Mr. Scott?”

“Bhim.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Bhim. Everyone in the city calls me Bhim, Ralki. You know it and I know it, so let’s use my Benarsi name instead of the ferenghi Mr. Scott. I didn’t go inside because I really don’t like caves very much. Devi told me there were a few lines of script on the walls, nothing too important. He hired the guard until we could examine it further and preserve it for posterity, though he didn’t believe it was particularly valuable or important.” I looked right at him, daring him to doubt me.

While Ralki and I jousted, Muktendra fingered a mala of prayer beads at his side, eyes blinking incessantly. I suspected that he had never drawn up an authentic lease and now might feel some obligation to pay the dead man’s family a stipend. He finally joined in the fray. “Fellows, this sounds like simple and tragic accident. Let us see what we can do to help the poor man’s family and be done with this sad event.” With that lift of the carpet, he whisked everything neatly under.

Ralki was pinching the end of his beedee like a pot roach. Taking a last oily puff, he flicked it indifferently to the side, and turned angrily toward the rock spur. I watched the orange ember arc and bounce to the side of the path. I followed him over the outcropping, and when I came to the entrance, I pulled up with a jolt. The channel, opening, and cave were gone, filled with fifteen feet of shard. A hill of crumbled rock stood guard now. Immediately I thought of the man crushed underneath.