Tulip Season (19 page)

She was surprised and a touch embarrassed when Mary, Robert's assistant, offered a subdued greeting. “I'm afraid I have bad news.” The voice was soft, fading, teary.

Mitra gripped the phone. She had had plenty of bad news lately. How much worse could it get? “What is it?”

“Robert took his life this morning.”

Impossible. This didn't make any sense. What did Mary say? “Robert?” Mitra stared blankly. “But why? What happened?”

“He didn't show up for work and didn't call. His next-door neighbor suspected something was wrong when he saw lights on. Robert was careful about turning off lights when he left his apartment. The neighbor's dog had been barking off and on most of the morning. Finally, the man contacted the superintendent who used his master key to get in. They found him in his bathroom. Blood all over. It was ghastly. His depression got him.”

Mitra couldn't trust the floor she stood on, nor did she hear the rest. Robert's last recorded remarks still echoed in her ears. “I'm puzzled,” she said. “Robert left a message on my phone this morning. He didn't sound depressed at all.”

“He also left a message for his sister, although nothing out of the ordinary.”

For a few seconds Mitra couldn't speak, as though words didn't exist for her. She only heard the screeching sound of a car outside. Suppose she'd taken Robert out to dinner sooner. Suppose she'd been home this morning to take his call. Could she have made a difference?

“Did he have any family other than his sister?” Mitra eventually asked.

“He was divorced, a loner, loved his job. He'd been depressed ever since he and his wife split four years ago. He had no close relatives nearby. His parents are dead. There is only his sister. She'd asked him to relocate to Los Angeles, thinking the lack of natural light was aggravating his condition. Seattle's such a suicide-prone city. But he wouldn't budge. We all knew he had a problem, but no matter how much we tried, none of us could reach him. He was a private man.” Mary paused. “We're planning a memorial service. I'll let you know as soon as the arrangements have been made. I have to call other freelancers now.”

It took Mitra half a second to realize Mary had hung up. She sagged and leaned her forehead down to her knees. After a while, she raised her head and stared outside. It was beginning to get dark. The streetlights twinkled. She sent Robert a wish: may his soul meet with peace. She visualized him basking in an aura of white light in a high spot, taking his solitary journey, away from his troubles.

It reminded Mitra that life was fleeting, that she must act upon the present moment, and that there might not be a moment to act upon tomorrow, if she waited. Kareena stole into her mind. In a flowing
salwar
suit and T-strap shoes, she walked along a noisy Kolkata boulevard. Despite the wave of faces around her, she saw no one she recognized. Mitra imagined Kareena longing to pour out the history of this past month, the fear and pain bursting through her. Mitra felt even more compelled to reach her.

She'd do it. She'd fly to Kolkata. She'd stay as long as necessary to make contact with Kareena and warn her of the prickly path ahead. Even if Mitra's finances didn't justify the trip, she would take it.

Breathing deeply, she contemplated her arrival. Kolkata—noise and dust, twisty alleys, impossible traffic, and still with scenic beauty and friendliness. Would Kareena gasp in amazement when she saw Mitra in the midst of such chaos and beauty? Would she want to empty out the contents of her heart and say, “Let's go sit and catch up?” With warmth and only the tiniest touch of chiding, Mitra would convey her concerns:
How could you leave your best friend imagining the worst for so many weeks? Don't ever go missing on me again
.

She phoned Detective Yoshihama to commiserate.

His voice heavy, he answered. “All the ‘should haves’ I've been thinking about the last few hours. I should have stayed more in touch with Robert.”

“I'm still wondering about the message Robert left me this morning. Something about the lead I gave him.” A sense of fear set in Mitra's body. It felt as though her heart had been drained of vital fluids. “What if he hadn't committed suicide? God, what if someone tried to shut him up for good, made it seem like a suicide? He was a former crime reporter, after all.”

“There'll be an investigation. We're waiting for the coroner's report.” He paused. “Would you like to have coffee with me early next week? We can talk about it.”

“Sorry, I can't.” She filled him in about her plan to take a trip to Kolkata. “Robert's death has done it for me. I don't want to lose another friend.”

For a nanosecond the detective stayed silent. “At least you're doing something positive.” He wished her a bon voyage, adding, “Record any conversation with Ms. Sinha, will you?”

Mitra got off the phone. Belatedly, remembering Grandmother's invitation, she picked up her car keys. Within fifteen minutes, she arrived at Grandmother's house. Grandmother opened the door and said brightly, “Hello, dear. Come in.”

Grandmother's composed, beatific expression calmed Mitra, at least temporarily. She mumbled a greeting, as she stepped in and
followed Grandmother to the living room. They sat on either end of a suede sectional couch. Mitra's gaze fell on a shadowy corner where a baby spider plant rested.

“Are you all right?” Grandmother asked.

Grief gnawed at Mitra's stomach as she brought Grandmother up to speed on the news of Robert's suicide.

“I'm so sorry, Mitra.”

Mitra reminisced about Robert, all the ups-and-downs she'd experienced with him in the early days, and how they were getting closer. She finished by saying, “How do you know when to take better care of your friends and when to leave them alone?”

“Well, your friends do what they want to do.” The nasal quality in Grandmother's voice was more pronounced, a sure sign she was drifting into a melancholy mood. “It's their life, after all. We're just bystanders.”

“My work's cut out for me. I can't be a by-stander anymore. I must fly to Kolkata.”

Grandmother leaned across. “Kolkata? But why?”

“Robert's friends, including myself, didn't reach him,” Mitra said. “I want to reach Kareena before it's too late.”

Grandmother fell back on the couch. “Doesn't she have relatives in Kolkata?”

“No, she has no family there.”

“What about that actor you were telling me about?”

“I get conflicting stories on him. I won't tell Kareena how to run her life or anything like that. I want to be there in case she needs someone to confide in. Who better than me? And, to tell you the truth, there could still be a chance of foul play. Not everything is making sense. Maybe her actor-lover kidnapped her. Maybe it's the Stockholm syndrome—she's joined her kidnapper. I don't want to see her being victimized.”

Without hesitating even for a fraction of a second Grandmother said, “Let me buy your ticket.”

“Oh, no, I can't let you do that.”

“Listen, you've spent many more hours in my garden than you've billed me for. Don't think I haven't noticed it. And you've told me yourself that lately you've taken on far fewer clients than you did in the past. Let me do this for you.”

She kept insisting. Mitra finally agreed.

“I'll be happy to mow your lawn,” Grandmother said. “I'll get your mail, water your plants, whatever else you might need done around the house.”

Mitra promised to write down instructions on how to take care of her plant babies and explain them to Grandmother before leaving for Kolkata.

Grandmother put an extra color in her voice as she said, “Let's have dinner.”

They both retreated to the dining room. On the table, Grandmother spread white carryout cartons with red dragon images and spilling with soba noodles. A mélange of smells and rich appetizing colors surrounded Mitra. She felt hunger pangs. Grandmother arranged tiny plastic take-out cups of sauces—soy, chili, vinegar, and rice wine—well aware that Mitra liked to season her meal in her own particular way. They progressed through the layers of scallions, carrots, celery, and noodles, talking about this and that. At times, Mitra went silent, grief overtaking her. Soon their plates were bare. They lingered in the companionable stillness.

As Mitra helped collect the dishes, she peered into grandmother's garden now deep into the shadows beyond the circle of light cast by the floodlight above the deck.

The evening had set in. There was no color anywhere.

Returning home, Mitra had barely stepped on the porch when her gaze fell on the bunch of wisteria that sprayed out of a vase placed near the door. Oh, Ulrich had stopped by. How terrible; she'd missed him. He'd left a sweet note on a post-it stuck to the door, saying, “Mit, my darling, call me when you can.”

Glancing at the white purity of the flowers and placing the vase on the coffee table in the living room, Mitra forgave him for his mini-absence. She called, but no one picked up the phone. She recorded a message on his voice-mail about Robert's suicide and her sudden decision to travel to India. “Come over soon. I want to see you before I leave. And thanks for the flowers.”

Surely, he would return her call, probe further about her trip, challenge her impulsiveness, and try to slow her down. He called her “Hurry Meister.”

Tonight she could use cheer, slowness, and the warm cocoon of his arms.

THIRTY-ONE

OUTSIDE MITRA'S WINDOW,
the sky resembled an unlit charcoal oven. The drizzle continued. “Gray as Granny's picture album,” intoned the weatherman on the television news hour. “And it's getting just as old,” he added, referring to the long stretch of overcast weather, dismal enough to dampen even the sunniest mood. Around here, Mitra reminded herself, the weather-induced malady wasn't called by its full name, Seasonal Affective Disorder. Rather, it was appropriately called SAD.

The India trip was coming up in a matter of days. The message Mitra had left on Ulrich's voice mail about the trip had gone unanswered. She wouldn't press him, however. Since Robert's death, she'd decided to go easy on her loved ones.

It was late enough for her to give dinner some thought, though she didn't relish the prospect of preparing a meal. She peeked inside the refrigerator only to find a useless assortment of ingredients: stale potato bread, a jar of stinky old garlic pickle, and a bottle of celery juice.

Through the sound of rain on the roof, she heard the doorbell screeching. Ulrich stood at the door, one eye swollen, with a blue-black smudge under it.

It was as though someone had squeezed all the comfort out of Mitra. “Uli, what happened?”

Unshaven and uncombed, his face damp from the drizzle and scruffy in a worn crew-neck pullover, he stood in silence. He looked nothing like the man she'd gotten close to, and that knowledge came like a blow. He bent and touched his lips to hers. The taste—a musky sweetness—was pure Ulrich.

She pulled him inside, wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned her head against his chest, smelling the drenched alpaca of his sweater and listening to the discontent beating of his heart. Noticing scrapes on his knuckles—swollen purple mounds—she winced.

She stepped back and appraised his face more carefully. “What happened to your eye?”

“I had a disagreement with a colleague.”

Didn't Nobuo say something about Ulrich being arrested? Was this incident something similar? Her gaze fell on a tear at the neck of his sweater. He seemed self-absorbed, not noticing her reactions. They walked through the entryway into the living room where he claimed his favorite end of the couch and she took the other end.

Staring at his face, she asked, “A disagreement? Is that how you got that injury?”

“
Ja
. One thing led to another, and we got into a fight.” The injured eye threw off the symmetry of his features. “It's okay between us now. I'm stronger than that bastard, even though he's bigger. I did more damage.”

She shivered. “How badly did he get hurt?”

“He'll be okay.”

“Did the police—?”

“Don't mention the police to me. I despise them.”

Perhaps noting the freaked-out expression on her face, he made an effort to smile through his dry cracked lips. “All that's over now, Mit. I understand that you don't care for fights, but sometimes a man has to defend himself.”

Something in his tone of voice made her cringe. She might as well be direct with him. “Where have you been the last several days?”

“Do you know that house up in Ballard?” he asked and she nodded. He'd boasted about the “redemption” of the 1905 single-family dwelling with which he'd been entrusted, Mitra recalled. “I took it apart, with the help of a few other workers, and put it back together. You should see it. We're almost finished. The windows, siding, floors, and plumbing have all been redone. We're painting now. This past week has been extremely busy. I'll have to show you one of these days what I did.”

She nodded her assent, her watchful gaze on him. There must be more to his story and she'd somehow get to it.

Silence darkened between them until he finally said, “I got your message. What is this thing about you going to India?”

She related to him her findings in Kareena's house and all that had transpired since.

“Your friend abandoned her husband and took off? She had a lover, you said? You've found some stories about him on the Net? ” He laughed, if such a contemptuous sound could be classified as a laugh. “She didn't even tell you where she was going. Don't put a guilt-trip on yourself and try to find her.”

Mitra had already chewed that matter to pieces. Still, his attitude slashed through her. “I want to make sure she's safe. I'm not sure if Adi ever physically abused her, but that actor—”

“If she's the kind of woman who abandons her mate, she's asking for it. Any husband or lover would be tempted to hit her.”

Hit her?
Mitra choked on those two words and was able only to say, “What?”

He caught himself and drew in a pleasant expression. “Oh, no, I'd never hit a woman.” He shifted forward and slipped her a tiny kiss, but she didn't feel the usual swoon. “Who would help you in Kolkata?”