Tulip Season (12 page)

Mitra didn't have an answer. She only bristled with Grandmother's negative attitude toward Kareena. Then again, she told herself, the other side of having a grandparent was being a grandchild, which involved a certain amount of deference to their opinion or at least maintaining the appearance of it.

Tampopo meowed at the back door, a sure sign she wanted to be fed. She grazed at just about anything edible. Grandmother trudged back inside, saying she'd be back in a minute.

The setting sun cast its last rays over the yard. Once again, an inner voice confirmed the conviction that Kareena was hibernating somewhere. Mitra would see her again.

And yet the muscles in her shoulders tightened.

NINETEEN

IN THE FAINT LIGHT
of late afternoon, Mitra scrutinized the chic hand-painted sign at the entrance to Sabnam's Sandals in an upscale strip mall in Bellevue. She'd called the proprietor earlier in the day and made an appointment to speak with her. Now she inspected the window display, a cheerful jumble of women's clogs, thongs, sandals, and flip-flops in earth and sun tones, all style, flutter, and whimsy, and all obviously imported from India. In contrast, Mitra's feet were encased in a pair of constricting loafers.

Had this been a happier time, she'd have been tempted to march inside and scoop up the red-and-blue thongs so attractively arranged on the bottom of a shoe tree, or the white two-strap slides on top. Suddenly, Mitra was transported back to India where her open-air footwear kept her lower extremities cool, gave her freedom to stride, and lent her a sense of playfulness even when seated.

Through the glass panes of the store, a petite forty-something woman waved and motioned her to come in.

“Mitra Basu. We have an appointment.”

“I'm Sabnam Garg, the proprietor. May I be of service?” When she spoke, it was as though temple bells were chiming a melody. Underneath an ankle-length tangerine-print dress, her feet were bare, save for an emerald toe ring. Her cheeks exuded a glow that showed through her dark complexion.

“One of your customers, Kareena Sinha, is a friend of mine. She's missing, if you haven't heard. I'm desperately trying to put all the puzzle pieces together. Any information will help. As it stands now, I'm stymied.”

“Why do you think I might know something?” Her tone of voice turned cold and brittle. “Are you from the police?”

Mitra shook her head, a strong shake. Sabnam, apparently mollified, waved toward a comfy couch pushed up against a wall.
Mitra took one corner of the couch. Sabnam swerved around her, hurried to a tea table situated just beyond the cash register and pressed the button on top of a tall black thermos. Amber liquid accompanied by a gurgling sound streamed from the spout into two ruby tea glasses. Sabnam offered Mitra a glass, without asking first, and edged in beside her. She held her glass beneath her nose and inhaled, a dreamy expression stealing over her face.

Searching for a way to begin that would set Sabnam at ease, Mitra zeroed in on the windowsills painted the color of young turmeric. “You've chosen your colors well.”

“Kareena thought it was an encouraging sign that I broke out of my brown funk and went instead for reds, oranges, and yellows. She's not only a customer, you see. I'm a survivor. I owe my life to her.”

“Maybe now you can help save her life,” Mitra said. “Did she ever confide in you about any marital problems, or about being abused herself?”

“No, Adi would never hurt her. He can be gruff and he's complicated, but he loves her. He's not like the
dushman
I was married to.” Evil man.

Mitra took a swallow of her glass and found the strong taste to her liking. “What's in this tea?”

“You like it? It's Kareena's favorite, too. It's my own formula. I doctor up Darjeeling tea leaves with honey, cardamom, black pepper, hazelnut flavoring, and a few ingredients I prefer to keep a secret. I sell only a limited quantity of this tea. An Indian gentleman was just here to buy a pound, a stylish man.” She paused. “Do you know how to forget the pain of nightly beatings by your husband? Drown your senses in excess.” Her body sagged into the couch under the huge weight of memories that she must have wanted to erase. “I loved my husband—I still do. He was my temple, my
mandir
. You can never make yourself believe that you'll get severe, severe injuries in the temple. I required four operations.”

The scalding glass Mitra held caused a burning sensation on her palm. She had never before met a survivor of such terrible physical abuse. From Kareena's brief descriptions of the violence suffered by her clients, Mitra could piece together a scene at the “temple”—closed doors, sounds of slaps and crashes of furniture, shrieks of pain followed by trickles of blood and years of painful memory.

A ghost-like pall hung over the room, but Mitra cut through it. “How many years?”

A shadow of regret passed across Sabnam's face. “Twelve.”

Kareena and Adi had been married eight years. “Twelve? Did you think that—?”

“Yes, every morning I'd wake up and say to myself he'll be different today, and he would be from time to time. He'd be waiting there with a tea tray in hand when I woke up. He'd smile and kiss me before going to work, as if the night before hadn't happened. Once he came home with a dozen yellow roses and knelt before me. It was like seeing Taj Mahal on a moonlit night. And like a love-struck teenager, I stupidly forgave him.”

“How did you meet Kareena?”

Sabnam looked around the room, then began giving the details. She'd found a calling card of a women's advocacy agency by the washbasin of a restaurant in Bellevue and shoved it in her shoe. She'd gone straight to a pay phone, called the advocacy number, and spoken to an counselor with a kind voice.

Mitra leaned forward. “Aren't you glad Kareena was there for you?”

“An angel is what she is. She showed up at precisely the right time, just as I was giving up hope. The first time we sat down together, she held my hand and I felt reassured enough to talk. It was plain to her I wasn't ‘crazy making,’ as my relatives would put it. ‘Clear out as soon as you can,’ she advised me. ‘Make a new movie with your life.’ She could tell what I'd been going through all these years, like a dear sister would.” Sabnam gazed at a wall, as though haunted by heartache, shame, and secrecy. “She asked me to temporarily hide in a women's shelter.

“Once I found a place of my own, I went through the legal process. It was then that Kareena suggested that I open a shoe shop. In those days, I looked like a mess, but still always had the smartest shoes on. Kareena saw me as a born entrepreneur, a retailer, trendsetter, and nurturer of women. When I applied for a bank loan, Kareena came with me. Oh, how she flirted with the bank officer. I was jealous. I didn't have the confidence to laugh and joke with a man. But I got the loan.” Sabnam paused, apparently noting Mitra's
raised eyebrows. “Why do you look so surprised? Kareena was a sharp woman who knew how to use her looks. Of course, she also had a weakness for handsome, well-dressed types—didn't you know?”

Mitra hadn't known. What else about her sister didn't she know? “Could you tell me which bank it was and the name of that loan officer?”

“I don't remember. I'm sorry, but now business is picking up and I have a wonderful rapport with my customers. It's like having a second family. They give me flowers, truffles, show tickets. Someone even gave me a puppy. I owe it all to Kareena. She helped me make my own movie.” Sabnam paused. “You said you needed help finding her? Did you watch the old Nixon movie on television last night?”

Mitra set the empty tea glass down, fighting the frustration in her throat. “
All the President's Men
? I've seen it.”

“Remember what Deep Throat said? ‘Follow the money.’” Sabnam laughed sarcastically. “I say follow the love. Love takes you to more troubled spots.”

Mitra had the sensation of being knee-deep in mud and fighting to take the next step. Yet hope hovered over the air. She had just gotten the first hint about a new possibility as to why Kareena vanished: she had a lover.

“So are you saying Kareena had an extra-marital affair?” she asked.

Outside, a man laughed, laughter with a bite, likely some drunk from the tavern next door.

“You ask too many questions,” Sabnam said. “Slow down, Mitra girl. Tell me more about yourself. I want to know you better. You remind me of Kareena, same vibes. Are you privileged like her?”

Privileged? Mitra recounted to Sabnam how her mother couldn't afford tuition money for her college education. When she turned eighteen, Mother had shipped her off to an uncle and aunt in Anchorage, relatives she'd never met. She had never been outside her hometown of Kolkata either, but Mother gave her no choice. “Go west, young woman,” she told Mitra. Mother had picked up that phrase from a Western novel. Mitra's uncle and aunt weren't overjoyed to
receive her, nor was she ecstatic at the prospect of staying with them for four years. They didn't let her go out of the house, except to her classes and the corner store for six miserable months, those backward folks. Finally, Mitra moved out, rented a studio apartment, and picked up a full-time job of cashiering in a tattoo parlor while carrying a full load at the university.

“I was brought up differently from Kareena,” Mitra said. “And we
are
different. Only now I'm finding out how much she didn't share with me.”

Sabnam's gaze fell on Mitra's shoes. “Why don't you have a look at my new-season sandals? I just got a shipment from Sultan, Kareena's favorite brand. You won't find that brand in any department store. We women live on our feet. When we stop indulging in shoes, you know the economy has gone south, households have turned more dysfunctional, and our society is in danger of collapsing.” She paused. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Mitra felt herself smiling. “I'm seeing someone.”

Sabnam stood and turned toward a shoe display. “Then try a new style. I'll give you an excellent price.” She held a pair of three-inch heel, iridescent sling-backs before Mitra. “Go ahead! Be outrageous! Make your own movie.”

Buying a pair of shoes just might help Mitra get through the afternoon. And if Kareena liked the brand, so would she. She shook the loafers off her feet and slid inside the straps. Suddenly she was on her way to a carnival, feeling foolish, impractical, and reckless, responding to the insistent throbbing of drums in the distance. She couldn't wait to tell Ulrich about this encounter, or to go out with him wearing this impractical footwear.

“Your new man will go wild when he sees you in these sandals,” Sabnam said. “He'll kneel down and kiss your toes.”

Mitra followed Sabnam to the cash register. Through the window she noticed a handsome, well-dressed man ambling toward a motorcycle at the far end of the parking lot. Whether it was his posture, his agility, or the cocksure quality he projected, he stood out somehow and piqued her interest. She noticed the
jhola
on his shoulder and her heart thumped faster. She gave him another look. Yes, it was the same man she'd encountered at Soirée.

“Excuse me,” she said to Sabnam. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

She rushed through the door and sprinted toward the
jhola
man, waving and shouting, “Wait, please, I want to speak with you.”

He whipped around, narrowed his eyes when he noticed her, donned a helmet, and jumped onto a parked motorcycle, a Suzuki maxi-scooter. Before she could get the license number, he'd exited the lot, the noise deafening her ears.

You jerk,
she said silently.

He tore up the street and soon faded from view. No trace of him remained, only the wind howling.

A missed opportunity. A sour feeling on the stomach weighed on Mitra, but on second thought, she'd sighted him. The
jhola
man. He was still around.

TWENTY

AFTER HER VISIT
with Sabnam and that sighting of the jhola man, Mitra returned home. Her thoughts turned to dinner. She went to the kitchen, heated up a pot of leftover potato-cauliflower curry, and placed slices of fresh focaccia bread from Essential Bakery in the oven. She put together a relish plate of cucumber, tomatoes, sweet onion, green chili, and cilantro and allowed it to rest on the counter to develop flavor.

Hearing the crunching note of leaves, someone stepping on the porch, she bustled to the door and looked through the peephole. Ulrich stood there, looking casual in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, his hair disheveled. Her insides went through a foolish, twisted motion on seeing his smooth bare skin. Today's temperature, scrambling to an unseasonable 70 degrees, could be considered an April bonus.

The neighbor's dog set to yammering, as he always did when Ulrich showed up.

“Hi, Uli, come on in,” Mitra said in a bright voice.

Ulrich glided in, a six-pack of Pilsner cradled in one hand and a cluster of white wisteria in the other. Bundles of tiny blossoms—shy, delicate, and fragrant—drooped like snowy grapes from thin stems. He handed her the flowers and spoke of the luxuriant vine that covered the fence of the apartment complex where he lived, the blossoms that maddened him with its sweet fragrance.

He nibbled her lips. “They reminded me of you.”

She skipped into the pantry, grabbed a slim-neck crystal vase, filled it with water at the kitchen sink, and crisscrossed the stems for a cascading effect. He watched her finish the arrangement, then drew near and kissed her fingers. “Your fingers are as pretty as your lips.”

Mitra tried but failed to suppress a spontaneous laugh. Her hands—calloused, chapped, and specimen of labor—weren't her
proudest feature. Even her nails, naturally pink, were cut in utilitarian half-moon shapes and polish-free.

They ambled into the kitchen and stood against the counter. She brought him up to speed on her visit to Sabnam's shoe store and her accidental encounter with the mysterious
jhola
man.

“Strange coincidence.” He opened the upper cabinet and began poking around the glasses, pushing them into each other, with no apparent care of protecting them. Pink-faced, he mumbled some German expletives, adding, “Where's my beer mug? It's supposed to be here.”