The PuppetMaster (52 page)

I wrote the forward to Adam’s opus. My premise was simple, that good would triumph over its nasty opposite. I thought of Uli as I typed, and the words flowed through the keyboard in liquid ease. I sent it to Britland Press by courier without showing it to Adam, because I already knew he would approve. Then I packed my bags, closed my bank account, and checked off items from my list.

Two evenings before I was to leave, Sahr, Lalji, and I had dinner together at the dining table. There were candles, flowers, and good china. We had never eaten together that way before, but it seemed so appropriate to share our final meal together. Their futures were, as futures always are, uncertain, but they had good opportunities out there. I gifted them each a fat envelope of rupees, which none of us referred to as severance pay. Lalji and his partners already had clients in our neighborhood, and Sahr was to begin cooking for The Red Palace within the week. Moving on with their lives.

Lalji bussed our dishes to the kitchen and left for his duty as night watchman. Sahr and I sat watching the flickering of the candles for a few minutes. Then we talked about love, the kind you feel when you look for a long time at the stars and are lying next to the only person in the world you should be with. We talked about the light at death and how it probably felt exactly the same, just bigger. The candles burned down, and we kept talking.

With a laugh, I took her hand. “They didn’t teach you this in Jesuit School, did they?”

“No Bhimaji, such lessons no teacher can give, I think.”

I squeezed her hand and let it go. “I don’t think so; you taught me a few, O Great One.”

She laughed. “If I did, it was my responsibility; I was told to.”

“You were told to? By whom?”

The elephant’s trunk scrunched. “Durgubal. He commanded me to take care of you.”

The words of river spirit had been rather instrumental in my keeping the bridge at Bareilly intact, so I listened. “When was that,” I asked.

“The month before you came to the villa. He told me that you would come, and he told me to take care of you. No harm should come to you, he said, because good would come of it.”

“He was right, Sahr. Good did come of it.”

Our yawns were coming with more frequency when she asked, “Bhimaji, the gossips of Nagpur say the man-whore in Shivdaspur is to blame for telling the Imams about your Uliana. Is this true?” Her expression had shifted—a sharp stone-etched look. I had only seen it once or twice over the years. One of those had been when she had slapped the transvestite we were just then talking about.

“Yes, it is true. The most reliable source of all confirmed it.” The thought of Sutradharak made my stomach churn.

Sahr looked at me and nodded. “I didn’t like that lizard.” She said nothing more, but in her eyes I saw the same look that had set the whore back on his heels. That look didn’t bode well for him.

Seventy-Eight

The train to Delhi was scheduled to depart at midday. Devamukti asked me to come a final time to his house at eight. It gave me the opportunity to finish one more item on my list before I left. I swung my legs over Surya’s leathery saddle and pedaled down Shivanan Avenue, across the bridge at the Asi, and along the hidden curve of the Ganges. Carts and rickshaws crowded the street. The smoke of the Ghats hung in the air to the east. Temple bells tolled, and the holymen called from the river’s edge. The sacraments of five thousands years continued. I left Nagpur and pedaled along Sonapura Road and then turned right down the lane that fed into gulley to Master’s. Charup was squatting idly next to his tire pump, beneath his makeshift lean-to, his eyes scanning every two-wheeled conveyance on the road. As soon as he saw the sparkling rims of Surya, he jumped to his feet yelling, “Sahib, you have returned to my servicing station. Do you wish me to polish the steering bars? Oil the going chain or clean the gears? I am at your bidding.”

I let him take the handlebars, while I held the seat with one hand. Suddenly I felt like I was entering an adoption agency with a small child in tow. “Charup, she needs none of these things, unless you wish to do them for yourself. I am leaving Varanasi in a few hours time and Surya, alas, must remain. But I believe she needs to stay with a person who will take good care of her. The best. And the best person to do that is you. She is yours.” I let go of the saddle and Charup, whose feet still had no shoes, beamed and laughed like a child.

“Indeed Sahib Bhim, I will be honored to keep her shining like the rani of bicycles that she is. She will be the fairest of the city, waiting only for you to return.”

“That may not be for some time, Charup. You take good care of her.” With a final ring of her bell with my thumb, I turned and strolled with lighter steps towards Master’s.

Mirabai, Sukshmi, Devi, and I sat in the parlor and talked about family, theirs and the one I would be seeing again. I listened to the wedding plans. Devi had definitely taken over.

As the time for leaving drew near, Devi took my hand and walked me to the gardens in the courtyard. The air was warm with the portents of afternoon rain. The melodies of the city tumbled small waves, and it smelled of spices and fresh tar on the road. We didn’t sit. He just turned and looked at me--the old condor with his student.

“Three years and three months is a fair amount of time even for one as old as I am, Bhim. That time has been as precious as all rubies of the world. It will be carried with me here always.” He tapped his heart and with his other hand, long and delicate fingers stroked the side of my head. “You really were my boy, you know, the son that the old books all tell us we should have. Seeing you in happiness now brings me contentment. Go into your future with good memories. You have a life of bliss before you, and I know you will live it with compassion.”

It was the last ritual, our final sacrament, and I knew what to ask. “And I go with your blessing, Master?’

He smiled and kissed my forehead. “A blessing for you, your future wife and children, and theirs. May it all be abundant for you, Bhimaji.”

I bent forward, touched his feet with folded hands, and whispered, “Some evening I would like to return to sit on the mat in your parlor, if I may.”

“I will be waiting for that moment, but please, when you return, enter through the front gate.”

With a smile, I bowed and walked out that gate.

The final surprise came just before Vinduram Singh’s black and yellow taxi arrived to take me to the station. Chandragupta’s phone rang. I had only given the number to a few people who might need to contact me in an emergency, so the ring surprised me.

I recognized the subdued voice on the other end immediately. “Mr. Martin Scott, please.”

“Inspector Rumir, this is Martin. I am leaving in two minutes for the train station, so I hope this is either very good news, or very short.”

He released the usual weary sigh. “I believe it is both, I hope so anyway. I’ve just had a long conversation with Italian Interpol who informed me that a man has been found in a pensione in Rome, one of the nice, expensive ones near The Spanish Steps. We are not completely certain it is The Sutradharak, or Mejanand Whiton, or Blake McDunough, or Umberto Herrera. You may take your choice. He had a dozen aliases and passports to match them all.”

I took a deep breath. “Found, you said?”

“Yes, there was a small gas explosion. A badly burned body was discovered.”

I let the irony of that dance momentarily in my brain. “And why does Interpol suspect it’s the Sutradharak, if I may ask?”

He sighed again. “Small details were brought to my attention, and I went back through my notes to verify. The body was burned and cut very badly, but a finger was found near it.”

“Near it?”

“Yes, it was severed and had a ring like you described.”

“An owl?”

“Exactly. There was also an unusual callous.”

I felt the one on my own hand and interrupted, “The middle finger, inside the vee, near the knuckle?”

I heard him smiling through the receiver. “Precisely. I observed that you also had a callous in this same place.”

I laughed, not deeply, because it wasn’t from humor. “Indeed, Inspector, keen observation. It comes from throwing Frisbees. The edge of the disc wears on the middle finger.”

“I suspected so.”

“There was no other identifying evidence? Just the finger and ring.”

“Yes, the were found together. At any rate, I thought you should know that the file will be closed, and the actions of the PuppetMaster will be, like my pursuit of him, relegated to the history books.”

“There will be other opportunities, Inspector. Unfortunately for all of us, there are too many of his kind still out there. In the meantime, you have a daughter . . .” I thanked him and hung up. Rumir could be a father now, but he was wrong. Mej always wore the owl on his baby finger.

In the courtyard, Lalji, Sahr, and I cried as we said our good-byes. None of us tried prevent it or wanted to. I started to remind Lalji to take good care of his mother, but held myself. It was clear that he would, and besides, Vinduram was there.

With a last hug and more tears, I took a seat in the front of the taxi. Vin drove, I listened. The turban wagged as he chatted, and the city passed by, and as we neared the station, he told me two more things that altogether didn’t surprise me. He was going to ask Sahr to be his wife soon, and the transvestite of Shivdaspur had walked into the wrong section and been given additional alterations during the previous night. Vinduram smiled and added that he doubted anyone would ever seek out his--or her--favors again.

Black madness flies;

Comes memory;

And before my eyes

My love I see.

Kalidasa from Sakuntala

Linguists often take note of changes that others might fail to observe. I noticed that in less than twenty hours I went from a place where the villages had suffixes of pura and das to lands where everything ended in burg and dorf—an etymologist’s puzzle. From Hamburg I took a commuter flight to Freisburg, feeling the entire time as if I were in a dream, a sweet one where I knew where I was headed. Pictures of Uli rose and sharpened in my mind. I saw her face in the Chowk marketplace. I pictured her arm sparkling through a dozen bracelets on our first date. I felt her wrapped naked about me, and I tasted honeyed almond keer on her lips and patchouli in her hair. The lapis in her eyes caressed my soul. Soon, very soon.

The wheels of the plane bounced and rolled too damned slowly to the gate. I passed immigration and customs, recovered my duffles, and was mildly disappointed that I wasn’t pounced upon by my premika as I left the terminal. I stood like a tourist in front. I was a tourist in front. The air felt refrigerated, but to the natives it must have felt balmy—a warm July evening perfect for pastries and ice-cream. I searched the sidewalk. I peered like Devamukti into each car as it pulled to the curb or passed by, and still she wasn’t there. A small tic of nervous energy originated in my left foot and began tapping into my ankle all on its own. I inhaled deeply and thought of going back inside to call, when behind me I heard, “How could a woman not at least say hello to cute und fascinating? Und Gott, this one is both.”

I spun, and she stood three meters away in burnt orange pajama pants and a white kurta--one that used to be mine--and it was as if the eons of being apart melted away in one vision. “Hello Lover,” she said, and we fell into each other’s arms to wrap like forest vines.

“Hello, Uliana Hadersen,” I replied. With a shy touch, I kissed her lips, and then like incoming waves, her neck, and eyes, and brow. “You look more beautiful than all the flowers of spring. Did I ever tell you how much I love my shirts on you?”

She lay her head against the opal on my chest. “I think so, uhmm . . . yes you have told me. I am only feeling pretty because you are here and my hands can touch you again.” She started crying, which of course started me doing the same.

I pulled her head back and kissed the salted moistness on her lips. “There is so much to tell you,” I whispered.

“And so much time to do it, Bhim.”

I laughed. “It may take a little getting used to, but I think you could begin calling me Marty. No one but you and Jitka know Bhim outside of Varanasi. How is she, by the way?”

“Gut, Mr. Marty, delighted to be in her own feather bed with our mother’s cooking on the table, though I think she secretly misses Johnny Chang’s und our Afghan café. She told me she is searching internet recipes for masala dosas. Speaking of that, Mein Schatzki, are you hungry?” Her hand slid beneath the buttons of my shirt and along my stomach, and I wanted to shout with the happiness that boiled inside me.

“Yes, I’m starved.”

“Gut,” she replied. “I happen to know a small hotel with huge beds, big windows, and a small restaurant across the street.”

“The amenities sound perfect. And, My Lovely Premika, I am now passing the torch, you are the guide, so lead on, McDuff.”

“Oooh…I like that,” she giggled.

We didn’t undress slowly like the last time we made love. We tore at each other’s clothes, though I did keep in mind how much I liked seeing my kurta on her shoulders and breasts. That was laid across the back of a chair. The pants were yanked off, hers and mine. Mixtures of hungry, greed, generosity, passion and love reunited. In our climax, both of us started weeping again. Afterwards, as we lay stretched sideways on the bed, I pulled her on top of me. “Like that night on the train,” she whispered.