Tulip Season Page 10

  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.”

  “Did you check the dishwasher?” she asked. Why was he pissed off about such a small matter? The lover who brought her flowers only minutes earlier had turned a stranger. If every person has a beastly side … But Mitra refused to look in that direction.

  Ulrich shook his head. Pressing a big arm upward, he reached for a tall glass on the back of the cabinet, grabbed it with unnecessary force, and poured his beer. Golden liquid cascaded into the glass and a fizzy effervescent sound charged the air. He mixed in a splash of energy cola which he stocked in her refrigerator. As he looked over his shoulder and caught her shocked expression, he made a point of grinning mischievously. His grin bridged the opening in their communication, but a seed of doubt took root in her mind.

  He joined her at the table. “I had a chance to speak with the barista at Soirée,” he said. “She's the one who'd seen that jhola man with your friend. Ah, yes, Julie says the guy is a charmer.”

  “A charmer?”

  “The guy lives in India, but he didn't say what he did there or what brought him here. She asked him if he was an actor, and he said he was.”

  “What made her think he was an actor?”

  “She's studying at The Ron Bear School of Acting. She can spot her own kind.”

  “He's graceful, vain, even shouldered, et cetera?”

  “Ja. She said he spoke each word like it was the first sip of a fine hot chocolate drink. She thought he was a bit slimy.”

  “Kareena never mentioned having an actor acquaintance, much less a slimy one, even though she's obsessed with Bollywood. Maybe that guy has bad intentions toward her. Does Julie have any idea of when exactly she saw him, how long before Kareena went missing?”

  “Early afternoon. Not sure of the day of the week or which month.” Ulrich took a long pull of his beer. “The jhola guy came alone most of the time. He always ordered hot chocolate with a splash of amaretto. Your friend met him there once. Julie said there was chemistry between them. They looked into each other's eyes, and whispered. They didn't stay long. Julie saw them going outside, walking arm-in-arm toward a car parked across the street from the café. That was the last and only time she saw them together. He's been back since then. Julie was about to tell me more when she got interrupted.”

  Mitra itched in her chair as she imagined Kareena, a married woman, her arm intertwined with that of a slimy character. Kareena, throbbing like a teenager, and he, in turn, mesmerized by her. Still, the picture didn't fit—Mitra didn't want it to, not when the adulterous woman was her best friend.

  “Why would she hide this liaison from me?” she asked Ulrich.

  “Do we ever know another person completely?” He shrugged. “Since I'm five years older, I've probably gone through a few more disappointments than you. Sometimes the best course of action is to move on. How do you say it? Cut your losses?”

  “I can't move on,” Mitra said. “Once I'm onto something, I can't quit. Even if Kareena didn't tell me everything, she's still missing, and there's a ransom note. She might be in danger. What if we drive to Soirée now and continue the conversation with Julie?”

  “It's rather odd, but this afternoon I didn't see her at the counter. I asked another barista and was told Julie no longer worked there.”

  Mitra slumped in her chair. The longer Kareena's absence stretched on, the more she felt she'd been set loose in a maze.

  “It now makes perfect sense for me to go through with what I'd been beginning to plan,” she said.

  “I'm listening.”

  “I need to look through Kareena's things. I'll have to get into her house in Adi's absence. I can zip through her closet, dresser drawers, file folders, anything that might tell me something. She must have left some trace in her house, some detail that others have passed right by without a second look. I know her tastes and quirks, almost as well as my own. I'm likely to spot what has eluded others. And if there's any information to be found about this man, even if she hid it, I should be able to find it.”

  Urichi tightened his hand into a fist. “And what if that damn detective is keeping his eyes on their house? Checking to see who is coming and who is going? You're not a suspect by any means, but this might put wrong ideas in his head. No, Mit.”

  His uneasiness could be attributed to an innate Germanic respect for rules and the law. Not that Mitra was the kind of person to break the law, but given the circumstances what choice did she have?

  “I have to take the risk. Sabnam told me to follow the love.”

  “This is unbelievable. How will you get in?”

  She told him how Kareena had once given her the key code of her garage door over the phone to let in the guests and the caterer to a surprise birthday party for Adi. Mitra had written it down on her Day Planner. It should still be there.

  Ulrich lifted a hand, as though trying to stop her from rushing out. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Think it through. That shoe store owner—can you really trust her?”

  “I believe her. She didn't spill the beans, just hinted at a few things. She probably had
more to say, but was afraid to speak. What little she told me was real. When the words ‘Follow the love’ slipped out of her, she looked like she'd let something out she wanted to take back. I've always been able to judge who's telling the truth and who isn't. You should have seen me in Kolkata. I grew up street-smart or, should I say alley-smart?”

  He looks into her eyes. “I could see you as a little girl. What were you like?”

  Mitra began describing the kitchen window of her ground-floor flat in Kolkata that faced an alleyway. She spent hours watching the neighbors and figuring out what they were up to. What she saw: a crow stealing a gold bangle from an old woman's window and being cursed; a six-year-old smoking a joint; a shadow of an unmarried pregnant woman being maneuvered out of the house by relatives after dark. The relatives would later lie to Mitra and her mother, insisting that the woman had gone to Dubai to visit a cousin and that she'd be back. You're lying, Mitra wanted to say to them. The woman never returned.

  “You can judge truth from lies, I'm sure of that.” Ulrich reached out and gripped her hand. “But I don't want anything to happen to you.”

  “I'm not going to back out now. It seems like Kareena could have run off with this man, but then where does the ransom note come from?”

  Ulrich rose to get another beer. “Let me come with you. Bitte. ” His voice turned cautious, heavy. “I'll go crazy worrying. What if Adi comes back while you're in his house? What excuse will you give him?”

  “Oh, I'll tell him I left a casserole dish there that I really need.”

  “If that creep catches you,” Ulrich said, “he could do anything he wants to you.”

  Mitra winced. “He may have beaten up Kareena, but he wouldn't dare do anything to me.”

  Ulrich's face reddened. In an ominous tone, he said, “If he does, he won't see the daylight again.”

  However much she appreciated the safety net Ulrich had proposed for her, she winced again, inwardly this time, at this hint of physical violence. Briefly, she mentioned the weekend-long session on self-defense for women that she'd attended. Looking down her nimble gardening fingers and strong knees, she reminded herself of the teacher's advice: Go for the attacker's eyes or kick him in the groin. He'll go down.

  Ulrich smiled; a caring smile. “I approve of women learning to defend themselves. But what would a one-day session do? Let me at least drive you there and wait for you.”

  Mitra agreed. They fixed a tentative Sunday date. She'd still have to check with Veen, who lived only a few blocks from Adi, about the feasibility of Adi being gone on that particular Sunday.

  She lit a jar candle with sage fragrance, and placed it between them. The notion of entering someone's house sans permission made Mitra edgy. Never had she believed she'd go to that length. Planning such a gambit with her Mann, however, gave it solidity. Outside, a hummingbird made a peep sound. Ulrich said he loved to hear the hummers.

  As she served dinner, Ulrich bent over the vegetable platter, his face flooding with pleasure. “What's in this curry? I hope you don't mind my asking.”

  “Let me think—cumin and turmeric, a splash of broth, potatoes, cauliflower, onion, garlic, and a dash of olive oil, that's about all. I'll leave the analysis part to you— and the food critics.”

  He took a forkful. “What a wonderful spicy mellow taste. As they say—hot weather and spices go together like a honeymooning couple.”

  As though in a dream, she saw herself as a bride. Ulrich would wear a suit and she would dress in ivory. The springtime ceremony would take place in Woodland Park's Rose Garden under the shade of a cherry tree blushing with blossoms. They'd have kids, at least two. Their house would be filled with rambunctious little hellions.

  The candle flame shivered, then died.

  “I have to admit I like meat,” Ulrich was saying. “Back home, I'd order curry sausage, curry ketchup, and French fries only as a—how do you put it?—afterthought. This dish proves how good vegetables can taste. Maybe I should change my diet. Did you grow any of these vegetables yourself?”

  “Yes, the cauliflower. I planted it last fall. It over-wintered. That's what happens when you take good care of your crop even in the off-season. It keeps on producing, one floret at a time, and soon there's enough to harvest.”

  “You not only take good care of your garden, you take good care of your friends.”

  He insisted on rinsing the dishes and stacking them on the dish washer. She stood there, keeping him company, and reveling in his particular scent. As he shoved the last dish into the dishwasher, their eyes met. He cozied up, his toes sliding next to her. Lost in the warmth of each other and clinging together, they headed for the bedroom, slipped off their clothes, and flung them over chairs, the dresser, and the floor. She watched her charmer, the broad expanse of his back, his smooth pale skin accentuated by three moles, and just enough body hair to be attractive. He murmured that her skin had a lovely natural smell. She sensed that there was an awakening in him, and in her.

  Much later, Ulrich, now fully clothed, walked with her to the door. After an affectionate kiss, he proposed that should she care to try a new cuisine, they could head out to the new Sicilian hangout in his neighborhood the next evening.

  “I can't. Jean wants to meet with me after work.”

  “What if we have a late supper?” It appeared as though Ulrich wouldn't take no for an answer. He praised the local restaurant scene. And oh, he could pick up her dry-cleaning; it was on his way. He'd be happy to do what he could to make it easier for her. “I don't like to see sadness in my favorite eyes.”

  How could she ignore such generous offers? She gazed at her good fortune, how he was filling the gaps in her life, and she could go on gazing forever. “Vielen Dank.”

  “Sounds sweet, coming from you. Let's practice more Deutsch the next time. Someday, I'll take you to my country.”

  Just as Ulrich stepped onto the porch, with Mitra behind him, a car pulled in the driveway. Grandmother climbed out, ascended the front steps, and joined Mitra and Ulrich on the porch. She had a cloth hat in her hand.

  “You left this on the garden bench,” she said to Mitra, extending her hand.

  Mitra thanked her adopted grandmother, but before she could make the introductions, Ulrich ducked away, mumbling a goodbye.

  Grandmother arched an eyebrow, as she watched him leave. She'd assessed Ulrich as a loser, Mitra could see that. She chatted with Mitra for a minute, said she had an errand to run, descended the steps, and walked back to her car. She hopped into the driver's seat, and was gone. A twinge of gloom settled in Mitra.

  They hadn't clicked. They hadn't exchanged even one word. Two people who meant so much to her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, Mitra was dusting off furniture and listening to the radio news when the phone rang. Mother's hello from the other end sounded a little off.

  “I'm beside myself.” Her tone dark, Mother spoke as though she were having difficulty focusing her thoughts. “Why did God take her away? Why her?”

  When overwhelmed, Mother had a tendency to flip out. “What is it, Ma?”

  “My heart has been ripped off. I couldn't get up from my chair. Then when I finally did, I slipped on the floor, although don't worry I didn't hurt myself. I tried to dial your number and dialed wrong several times, because my fingers don't work.”

  “What actually happened?”

  “Saroja's granddaughter called me early this morning,” Mother said. “Poor girl. She's having a difficult time, to say the least. Saroja, kind soul, died in her sleep last night.”

  “Aunt Saroja?” Mitra stammered. The news hit her with such a blow that her mind went blank.

  “I'm so wiped out,” Mother said. “I can't talk anymore. Call me back a little later.”

  Mitra felt drained as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. In the bleakness, she picked up her aunt's photo from a side table. Aunt Saroja had given her so much. She and Kareena would not have met, if not for h
er aunt's generosity. Mitra had dreamt of one day thanking her in person. She wouldn't be there, hard as it was for Mitra to accept, save as a portrait in a frame.

  A welcome spring shower cascaded down outside the window, the sky's attempt to cleanse and set things right.

  Nothing could set her aunt's death right.

  A few hours later, Mitra pulled herself together. She spoke with Mother again and they reminisced about Aunt Saroja's letters, how they kept her going during her college years in Alaska.

  “She was the best correspondent in the family,” Mother said. “Everyone said so, although she rarely wrote to me or called me. I was never her favorite.”

  “Why didn't you two get along?”

  “She didn't think I deserved to marry her cousin brother. May she rest in peace, but her disapproval colored our marriage. She didn't believe I could make him happy.”

  “Ma, did her disapproval have anything to do with father's first marriage? Did you wish she liked you better?”

  “Yes, especially since I loved Nalin so much. We were a mismatch, but every time I looked at him, I melted inside. How can you not fall for someone so well-mannered, so cultured, so gentle, and handsome to boot? But he gave most of his heart to his first wife.”

  “Why did you keep his first marriage a secret from me?”

  “I feared you wouldn't respect him, or his memory. You see, he'd been married to none other than Dimple Sinha, the dragon lady of Bollywood films. She'd spread the rumor that he'd punched her on the face and she'd thrown him out because of that. All lies. I can't believe I'm telling you this after all these years.” She paused. “Have you heard of Dimple Sinha?”

  Mitra couldn't answer for a moment, as she wrestled with slipping out of the memory of her favorite aunt. “No. Who's she?”

  “She was an actress before your time,” Mother said. “She couldn't act, sing, or dance, yet was always featured in Film Dunya for the gossip around her. She married and divorced at the drop of a handkerchief, had affairs galore, always treated the press reporters shabbily. God bless Nalin's soul, but how did he get mixed up with that shrew? It's beyond belief. She ruined his life and mine, too.”