The PuppetMaster (27 page)

I couldn't recall how many times Mej had seen Soma. I was trying to recall if I’d ever introduced them, when Uli stepped onto the veranda. She had dressed hurriedly but still looked like Danish royalty. Descending the steps, she extended her hand with a curt, “Halo, I'm Uliana Hadersen, an acquaintance of Bhim's.”

For the briefest moment Mej looked like he'd been touched by a live wire, but just as quickly regained his comic routine. “Sir Mejanand Whiton, Milady, and a friend of Bheemer's ‘ere is a friend of mine. Especially a friend with eyes like yours. Knock me flat, they could. And definitely, call me Mej.” He grinned with a lechery that chaffed me.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mej. I was actually coming to tell Bhim that I think it would be good for him to exercise with you this morning.”

“Well, I was just trying to convince ‘im of that one meself. See, we already ‘ave things in common.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.” Her voice sounded hollow and, to my ear, frosty.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I'd love to comply with each of you, but I'm not up to it and also have a list of chores to attend to. Tell you what Mej, toss me the blue one and I'll send you on a route into the next cantonment. Day after tomorrow. Sunrise. Okay?”

“Right-o, Mate. But I'm ‘olding you to it. No excuses about being blown out from not sleeping.” Another look of lechery in Uli’s direction. He spun the disc in front of me and sprinted away calling back, “’ey did you ‘ear about the skeleton that walked into the bar and ordered a beer and a mop?” For Uli's benefit, I leapt higher than necessary, snatched the disc behind my back and sailed it into an eighty meter arc. Mej jumped spread-legged and caught it flat against his ass. I did miss the dance.

“Show-off,” she whispered. Not caring who watched, I slipped my fingers into moistness at the nape of her neck and kissed her.

With a impish smile that I was beginning to recognize, she murmured, “We could go back to the Riverview. It’s a little smelly, but the room is paid until this afternoon.”

“And miss all the mysteries heating up around here. I'd love to.” As I closed the gate I thought of Soma's delicate fingers tugging on the tassel. “But. . .”

“I know, Love. I know,” she whispered softly.

Forty-Four

There was no work that morning. C.G. phoned to tell me the obvious; Master and his family were too distraught over Soma's death. Grief had settled on the compound in real and traditional ways. Devi had contacted the authorities to have Soma’s body moved to a parlor in preparation for cremation. Clean muslin was sent to join Uli’s scarf. Wood and oil was purchased. The right and good things were done for her funeral. Soma's mother-in-law wanted none of the expense and had no reservation in telling any and all how she regarded her dead daughter-in-law. The way she saw it, the girl had had bad karma, and it was better that she was dead.

Uli and I returned to the flat to spend the better part of the morning cleaning and scrubbing-- a form of catharsis for me.

Jitka seemed genuinely happy for her sister and me and announced that she had prepared breakfast from the leftovers of the previous evening. By eleven, however, she was rattling her cage again--food, and it had better come quickly. Uli and I decided that a trip to the central market was in order. Solitude and snuggling were also the list, so I hailed a taxi with tinted windows.

“So, My Handsome Guide, you are taking me to the big market, und I suppose you know all the merchants und they give you the best prices?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I have privileges. So what would my fair premika like today?”

A note pad appeared from within her over-sized handbag. “Let's see . . . we'll start with mangoes, which in case you are wondering, are my favorite. Then leechees, bananas, papayas. . .” It continued for a minute. “und cheese, milk, und fresh brown eggs.” She finished with, “Und I believe a piece of silk would be nice. Something purple.”

“That shouldn't take us more than a week.”

“Mmm, well, we could still send an errand boy to fetch it und sneak back to the Riverview.” She expression got serious. “Bhim, your English friend, have you known him long?”

“Mej? Not that long. Ten or eleven months, I guess. I could tell you didn’t find him particularly charming. He can be rather . . . coarse. I didn’t like how he spoke around you today.” I felt an odd need to apologize for his behavior, but she stopped me.

“That doesn’t bother me. It was the way he looked at you that I didn’t like.”

“Oh?” I laughed. “That’s funny, I wasn’t really keen on how he looked at you.”

We were going into the Chowk district--central and extremely crowded, Varanasi—down the Asi Road to Sonapura, past my villa, and then on for two miles into the city. With each meter it would become more congested. “Uli?”

“Hmmm?” She had settled into my arms to nibble my jaw.

“It will be crowded where we are going. I want you to stay close to me.”

“Closer than this.” Her tongue found some reflexive part of my ear that sent shivers into my groin.

“No. . .yes. Aah!” Laughing, I managed to say, “Just make certain we don't get separated.”

“Never, I want to be loving you too much tonight. What are you making your premika for dinner by the way?”

As we passed my villa I tapped on the partition and motioned our driver to pull to the side. “I need to see what Sahr has found out.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

With a kiss I said, “No, I'll be right back.”

Through one of her baffling methods, Sahr had made an appointment for a darshan, a meeting with the nabi. It was supposed to include just Sahr and me, but that wasn't how it turned out.

“She wants both of us to come this sunset. With Uliana,” she said.

“What? That is totally out of the question. First of all, it’s too soon, and how does she even know who Uli is? Did she ask for her by name?” I knew Sahr was too discreet to have revealed it.

She was fidgeting with the end of her sari, a patent sign of nervousness. “Best not to ask how she knows, but she does. She asked for all three of us. And no, she didn’t ask for Miss Uli by name, just asked for the blond woman.”

I lay my hand on her jittery fingers. “Okay, send an acceptance message back, however you do that. Where is her place, by the way,?”

Sahr's finger twitched faster. “Near the center of Shivdaspur.

“Oh God, no,” I moaned. The last place I wanted to go with Uliana or Sahr was into the heart of the infested squalor of the whore's district. One and a half square kilometers with twelve thousand people, the vast percentage of whom were involved in the flesh trade.

In the taxi I tried politely to explain our dilemma. “I don't think we’ll be able to do a lot of shopping for silk this afternoon, and dinner may be a later.” There was a rare moment when she couldn’t read my thoughts. “And why is that, Liebchen? My shopping list isn't that long.”

I had to tell her sooner than later. “We have to go to Shivdaspur, the red light district, this evening. The prostitute’s quarters?”

She grinned, but seeing the seriousness of my expression, decided against joking. “Und this red light district, it is like the boring one we have in Copenhagen? Everyone thinks is such eine grose und it is nothing.”

“Uli, listen. Shivdas a very ugly, unpleasant part of town. I walked through it once from curiosity and swore I’d never return. I would have gone with Sahr alone, but this . . . woman asked for you also. How she knows about us, I can't guess.”

With another grin, she asked, “Do you think she looked into a crystal ball to watch our love-making? That would have been an eyeful.”

As we drove up the main road towards the market, a river of humanity began to close in determined waves about us. Hundreds, then thousands, of men in shortened loongis and women in saris, crowded against our doors. The under-fed, the barefoot, the wealthy, and the affluent. Pedi-cabs and autoricks came within inches of our taxi. Dust choked the air. Finally our driver slid the partition open to announce, “Saab, I believe there is funeral or a parade ahead. Possibly it is a political rally. Do you wish that I continue?” Through the windshield I saw what appeared to be a dense mob of Hindus of various sects--unusual enough in itself. Devotees of Shiva and other deities were moving in a semi-organized fashion up the avenue. It wasn't political, it was religious. That was good. Religious processions in Varanasi were usually benign and non-threatening. Usually. Then I heard chanting, and down a side street I saw Muslim protestors, followers of the firebrand Qereshy, marching in a parallel line to the first group. That wasn’t good.

I handed our driver fare and a tip and helped Uli from the backseat into the crowd. “Hold my hand and stay close,” I whispered. “We'll go down the side lanes to the market. It's close. Keep your hand around your bag.”

Avoiding the parades, which had piqued my curiosity, we entered one of the paths feeding into the market. Trays of okra, squash, and rice rested on dazzling fabric on the ground. Purveyors called out, “Saab, bahut acha deal, Memsaab! Sau rupee kilo ke liye.” Ignoring the hawkers, I guided us into the main market.

As we emerged, Uli squeezed my hand with delight. The prismatic vitality of it was stunning for me even after a hundred visits. Fruits, vegetables, and legumes were piled in wooden carts and semi-permanent stalls. Urns of milk, cheese, and yogurt stood waist-high next to stacks of clay pots and moistened banana leaves—Varanasi's version of recyclable packaging. The market spread out in a grand, sloppy rectangle. Brasswares, silks, cottons, betel, teas, coffees, and the ever-present beedis and cigarettes, ran in formless sections. Fruits and vegetables of every imaginable shape, size, and color were stacked in tenuous pyramids. Music and a cacophony of bartering surged around us.

We spent an hour and a goodly amount of rupees. My cloth sack filled up first, then the one I purchased for Uli--the first of many small gifts. She, on the other hand, only bought a single gift for me. Just as we were preparing to leave, she asked me to find her a kilo of the best coffee in the bazaar. She was on a mission, she said. I pointed to the exact spot where I would wait nervously until she returned. When she did, it was with the most beautiful fire opal I had seen outside a museum.

“It wouldn't hurt to wear a single piece of jewelry, would it?” she asked as she tugged the strings on the pouch and slid a stone onto my palm. I was overwhelmed. An opal, a flame of vibrant blue surrounded by a teardrop of filigreed gold, hung on a strong chain.

“My god. It's exquisite. You shouldn't have spent so much.”

“Yes, I should. I saw it as we passed the gem shop.” Fastening it around my neck, beneath the namaghanda, she whispered lustily, “For our passion, Bhim.”

Knowing the answer already, I asked, “And how did you know it was my birthstone?”

“How do you think?” She laid her hand across my heart.

“Sahr?”

She just smiled.

Large, dense crowds in Varanasi, you simply learned to accept their inevitability. In my three plus years there I had taken great pleasure in their anonymity. I had also learned to dread them. It depended on their mood, not mine. The multitudes in the bazaars and train stations were marvelous to melt into on normal days. I would retire to a shaded bench and watch as families parted, workers toiled, and merchants bartered. Most days it felt safe, and offered a peek at the great cross-section of Indian existence. Most days, but occasionally the crowds transformed into frightening, undisciplined monsters.

With bags overflowing, I led us back down the side street to the main avenue to hail a taxi. It was getting late, and we were hungry and ready to wash off the dust of the day. I envisioned a naked, fragrant shower with Uli, and a quick meal before taxiing to Shivdaspur for a meeting with the nabi whose name I did not know. But as we turned from the market lanes, we came straight up, face to face with a cordon of forty policemen armed with lathees, bamboo truncheons. The wore uncompromising expressions on their faces, and by the looks of it, they were preparing to launch themselves into the procession of religious devotees we had seen earlier. That parade that was no longer a peaceful group of Hindu devotees, it was an angry mob of Hindus and Muslims together. I pulled Uli quickly back into the obscurity of the side street just as a fusillade of stone and brick flew across the opening. Shouting and cursing exploded, and then, with a single blast of a whistle, the police attacked.

Complete chaos erupted. More whistles shrieked, debris arched and shattered on the road.

With the police charging, the crowd splintered north, and we were suddenly on the south side with everyone scrambling in the opposite direction. It was our opportunity. I tugged on her wrist, and she looked at me with terror, as if rioting mobs were the nascence of her worst nightmares. She froze, and I yelled, “Hold my hand and run.”

I had to yank on her wrist to get her moving. We dashed up the avenue as quickly as our over-laden bags would allow, and moments later were enough distance away to stop and catch our breath. I guided us into a nook between an empty vegetable cart and a steel-shuttered building. She was trembling violently. “I hate it. I hate the riots!” Her breath came in gasps, eyes terrified and focused far away.

With my free arm I pulled her close and whispered, “We're safe now, Uli. Safe. It was just a rowdy party of over-zealous merry-makers.” I kissed her cheeks and smoothed her hair. “It's okay now. We can go home.”