Tulip Season (10 page)

“Okay, but we have to keep it quiet. Her husband doesn't want us to look for her.”

He squeezed her hand, a stroke of playfulness as well as masculine assertion. “It's really good to see you.”

She shifted back in her chair, hard against her back. Something bothered her, the intimate atmosphere he'd created, just like the last time. What assurance did she have that he wouldn't disappear again?

“But it distresses me to see you so concerned,” he said, eyes fully on her. “I know what it means to lose a kindred spirit.”

She poked at the remains of her parfait and didn't reply, hoping that he'd say more. She wanted to understand his thought processes. Otherwise, she wouldn't rest easy.

“I didn't have friends when I was young,” he said. “There was one boy, Klaus, a bully. He was bigger than me, and mean. He would practice all the curse words he'd learned on me. I'd say
schlecht
, and run away. Later in high school, when we were older, he began to like me and gradually we became the best of buddies. Then one day, he broke down while studying with me. His mother had run off with another man, leaving him and his father. He said he was flawed. He said he was good for nothing. I tried to talk to him. That only made him mad. He sweated. All of a sudden, he yelled at me, slapped me, and walked out of the room. Then he also dropped out of school. I thought I'd never see him again, but a year later, he called. He'd gotten a job fixing elevators. A month later, he lost that job. He came
to see me and cried on my shoulders. Again, he lost his temper because I couldn't loan him money. His emotions seemed to climb up and down—he couldn't control them. Still, we stayed in touch. I became closer to him than my parents. Then we lost touch again.”

She put the spoon down, wondering why he'd told her this story when he could have talked about his family. And yet she had to admit to herself she was enjoying listening to him. Wanting to stay a little longer, she asked, “Now that you're here, do you miss Klaus?”

His foot brushed against her leg, although he made it seem casual. “Yes, very much. But a teacher of mine once said that in the broad scheme of things, everyone is disposable.”

She felt tingling all over the leg, a kind of pleasant warning. “I disagree. I like to think that each of us counts. Our thoughts, words, actions, our very presence make a ripple somewhere, at least in people closest to us. If not, why do we bother to shop, cook, sprinkle the lawn, or even open the curtains in the morning?”

His hand found hers and held it for a moment. “So you're saying that whatever we do, we do for the sake of love, either getting it or giving it?”

“I'd rather not dissect love.” And yet she uttered the word love silently, wrapping her tongue around its sweet roundedness. Love:
pyar
,
prem
,
muhabbat
in her native country.

He lavished her with a long warm inclusive gaze. “I had plenty of time to read this past week,” he said. “It seemed like every magazine I picked up, even the German ones, had a piece on India. Do you miss your country?”

Mitra had been asked that question quite frequently. Sometimes happily, at other times painfully, it had reminded her of her other existence. How do you convey there was no ‘missing your country?’ Your country was always there, as integral to your existence as the pillow that cradled your head at night.

“My friend Kareena puts it so well,” Mitra replied. “When she last visited India, she wrote me a letter. How everything washes over her all at once. How she surrenders herself unconditionally to the experience, how she's shocked and charmed and crushed by its huge weight. There she remembers her dreams, every single one in all its colors, but never in Seattle. Isn't that amazing?”

He looked down at the table, contemplating. “What do you miss the most about your country?” Mitra asked.

“The bread.” He laughed, as though trying hard to make a joke. “Our bread is dark, heavy, dense, and filling. Where I lived, you could find a baker's shop at every corner. In the morning, the whole neighborhood smelled of yeast. I still have trouble starting the day well without that smell.” He stayed silent for a moment. “I like this parlor. It reminds me of a café back home. This is the first time I've lived outside Europe. It takes a lot to really feel at home—how do you say it?—to sink new roots.”

Mitra commented on how she daily observed the phenomenon of a plant slowly putting down its primary and adventitious roots. “My friend, Kareena, is good at putting roots down, making new friends. I wish she was back.”

His foot danced over hers. “Anytime you need help in finding her, you can call me. Let me give you my number.”

She jotted it down, then peeked at her watch. It was 9 P.M, time for her to break this slightly strange, somewhat cozy encounter and go home.

With an eye to her, he stuck a hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny book with an elegant gesture. Opening the book to a dog-eared page, he recited from a poem by Heinrich Heine about palm trees and burning sand. The words roused feelings in her. She visualized the two of them lying on a warm beach, bodies touching, an ecstatic feeling pervading, palm fronds nearby being ruffled by the wind.

He shut the book. Something shook inside her. “That was lovely,” she said.

He must have picked up on her feelings, for he placed a hand on the table and leaned toward her, a sensuous flicker in his eyes. “Why don't I take you out to dinner tomorrow night and read more poems?” He might have been inwardly rehearsing this invitation for the last fifteen minutes, but acted as though it had just now clicked inside him.

What did she hear inside her? An alarm bell?

“I have a meeting.” She lied and didn't like it that she did, but had no choice. She just couldn't possibly deal with another disappearance of his.

“How about Friday?”

“Sorry. Meeting with a girl friend.” Lied again, feeling worse.

“Saturday?”

Her heart fluttered in a way it shouldn't. He hadn't been around lately and tonight had been just a chance meeting. Had another date stood him up? Despite these misgivings and against her best judgment, she nodded, then wondered what was it about him that she gave in so easily.

She rose to leave. Tall as he was, he leaned forward, as though sniffing a flower, and met her lips. He captured her, just for that instant. They left the table together, her mouth slackened, her stroll to the door a bit unsteady.

A sixty-something woman sitting at an aisle table glared at her from over her half-moon spectacles.
These shameless youngsters,
she was probably muttering to herself. Or it might be that a kiss bestowed on another pair of lips had taken her to a long-ago missed opportunity. Yet something in the disapproving glance from that stern matriarch made Mitra snap out of her dream. Why did Ulrich have to confide in her so much about Klaus, the crazy guy? As she drove home, that story stayed fishbone-stuck in her mind.

SIXTEEN

THE NEXT DAY,
Mitra rang Detective Yoshihama. She had reasons to call him, didn't she?

His voice brimmed with hidden cheer. “I was just thinking about you, Ms. Basu. What's on your mind?”

“Have you spoken with Adi?”

“Yes, the money demand is not a hoax. Mr. Guha said he wanted to handle the matter himself—he doesn't want us in the picture. But I advised him against secrecy, told him of the potential danger he faced. We've got to do our job. We want to bring Ms. Sinha back alive. We're getting more people involved.”

“Why do you think is Adi so bent on keeping it under wraps? Does the note contain a threat to his life if he divulged any information?”

“That could very well be the case. He's also conscious of his community's reaction and has asked us to respect that.” The detective paused briefly, then asked, “How're your flowers doing?”

“Oh, I'm not spending as much time with them this season as I usually do. My tulips didn't bloom. This is the first year that has happened to me.”

Yoshihama seemed to have covered the phone to speak with the dispatcher. “I wish I could talk with you longer,” he said, “but I've just gotten a call. I need to rush to a school shooting in Rainier Valley.”

Mitra said goodbye and hung up. Obviously, Yoshihama had a more urgent matter to deal with. She understood that. But Adi—he made her feel as though she didn't deserve to be let on in this matter.

In the evening, still feeling deflated, Mitra busied herself making a marigold garland, threading a needle into the stem and out through the heart of a blossom, then on to the next. This side gig, contracted by an Indian couple for their daughter's wedding, would bring her some much-needed cash. And it steeled her mind. As she
tied the ends of the last garland, her eyes darted to the clock: 8 P.M. This would be the perfect time to telephone Mother; it was morning in Kolkata. Mother adored marigolds, so much so that she'd put its lemon-scented, filigreed foliage in a small bowl and place it on her lamp table. She'd be tickled to hear of the lush marigold specimens Mitra grew—tiger eye, yellow fire, and tangerine gem.

Mother came on the line, talked about the novel she'd finished last night, ignored Mitra's question about her health, and asked, “Did you go shopping with your girl-friend?”

How should Mitra reply? Wouldn't Mother be enraged if Mitra revealed her blood connection with Kareena? She couldn't risk it. Then, in a moment of either weakness or rationalization, in her need to express grief, she confided that Kareena had vanished. The kidnappers were trying to extort money from her husband.

“Kidnapping and extortion is a growth industry in India,” Mother said. “Easy money, I guess, but it's a crime. The Section 364 of Indian Penal Code can be used to punish the criminals. Careful now. Big country, all kinds of
bapper,
and you're alone.”

Mother's favorite word
bapper
implied happenings with an unsavory connotation. “Don't call it a
bapper
, Ma. I live in a safe neighborhood.”

“Speaking of neighborhoods, I just opened this morning's
Hindustan Standard
. The headline talks about gang activity in Kolkata, not far from my place.” She paused. “This is not the city you grew up in. Gang wars from Mumbai are spilling over here. Five hooligans broke into the office of my neighbor's cousin. They fired several rounds at him. He died instantly. They believe it's a case of extortion. Another time, the same thugs threw chili powder on a guy they were angry with at Howra Station. The poor fellow got serious injuries to his eyes. Those gangsters are ruthless, brutal. They're still at large.” Mother paused and added, “But eve-teasing incidents in public busses are down.”

Eve-teasing—sexual harassment of women; a term Mitra considered rather cute. “Should I be worried about those gangsters, Ma? Are you safe in your apartment?”

Mother laughed. “I'm quite safe. I keep myself up-to-date on what's going on and avoid certain streets. The other day, I was
coming home in the evening. An evil-looking guy approached me. ‘What's your name?’ I yelled at him. ‘What's your game? What do you want?’ The guy looked confused and turned away.” She paused. “But I should be helping you find your friend.”

“You mean that?”

Mother gave such an emphatic yes that Mitra stood up in surprise. “You'll fly all the way here to play armchair detective?”

“I don't want to armchair anything. I want to act. I'll follow directions to the right place and meet whomever I need to speak with. No one is threatened by a gray-haired lady who wears wrong colors, doesn't talk sports, and is not snooty. When you're invisible, you don't rouse suspicion.”

Mitra smiled to herself. Then, picturing her mother scurrying through Seattle's speeding cars, bicycles, trucks, and impatient pedestrians, she trembled. Suppose Mother, a frail woman, collapsed in the middle of traffic? At the same time, Mitra couldn't spoil the intimacy of this moment. Her clever, resourceful mother could certainly be of help. But then, what'd happen when she found out Kareena's parentage? Wouldn't she feel betrayed?

“I don't want to take you away from your books,” Mitra said.

“How often does one face a challenge like the ‘Kareena Affair’? Pardon me. An affair is what a novelist would call it. I live a hermit's life. It's time I got back into the grind, became a useful member of the society, contributed to the collective good, cracked a real-life mystery, wouldn't you say?”

“You'll have to fly for more than twenty hours to get here, Ma. Wouldn't that be strenuous?”

“You think I'm a weakling, don't you? How I wish you'd seen me in my college days. All I had to do was breeze through the door wearing a pretty sari, my mother's locket, and a smile, and doors would swing open for me. I'd leave with treasures—satisfactory results—in my handbag. In those days, happy endings didn't seem corny, delusional, or fictionalized, just a natural outcome of events. Maybe I could have a taste of those days again.”

In Mother's mind, in her memory, she must have always been a dashing heroine who could take on any task she wanted and finish it with aplomb.

Mitra was about to blurt out a yes when Mother said, “Wait just a second. I have to take my medicine.”

When she returned to the line, Mitra asked, “Are you sick?” Mother cleared her throat, which took a few tries, then mumbled what could be either a yes or a no. “Ma, don't you feel well?”

Mother said she was fine, which Mitra didn't buy. It was the quiver in her voice, the thinness of her protest, the brevity of her remark.

“Why don't you hire help to do your chores?” Mitra asked. “I'll send a money draft right away.”

“I need a head bath,” Mother said. Hair-washing time, a stalling technique. She simply didn't wish to speak about her illness. She said goodbye.

Click, her last command, indicating that Mitra should get back to her work.

Though she'd put the receiver back, Mitra knew the conversation wasn't finished in Mother's mind. Her arm curved on the table, she'd rehash the exchange for half the night, refilling the brass tumbler with water many times. She had a tendency to discard the present moment as valueless and dwell on what had happened in the past.