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Voice strained, possibly from confessing so much, he asked, “Would you like to go out for dinner? I'm famished.”

  Her hunger had dwindled, leaving her with deep weariness. “I'd like to take a rain check. There's only three days before my trip—lots to do.”

  “You're really taking that trip?” His fingers caressed her cheek. “You're insane and adorable.”

  He didn't get her reasons at all. She sighed in disappointment. “Why, yes, I am taking the trip for Kareena. To make sure she's not in any danger.”

  His body stiffened. “Do you want to know the fucking truth? That time when I met your friend at Soirée, she flirted with me. She would have gone to bed with me.”

  Why had he lied to her about that before? Or was this current version a lie? Where in his mind did lighter shades of truth start blundering into an opaque distortion? “Really? Just flirted? That's all you did?”

  “Lots of women find me attractive.”

  She sat quietly, uneasily for a second. She needed to see if he could tell the truth about anything. “Have you ever been arrested by the police? Have you ever been in jail?”

  “What's that got to do with anything? You ask strange questions.” He paused, as though to make light of her queries. “No, I haven't. Don't mention the police to me.” A thick silence swallowed them until he stared at her lips and said, “Are you sure you don't want to go out to dinner?”

  She shook her head. She was so sure that it tormented her. Making a move to rise, she said, “I better start packing.”

  “You're going to leave me and go to India?”

  “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

  He straightened, thumped his feet on the carpet, and started toward the door. “You don't love me.”

  He sounded childish, selfish, suffering from separation anxiety, like Klaus. “Uli, Uli.”

  He rushed through the door, slamming it after him. She ran after him, but to no avail. Standing on the porch, she watched the streetlight reflect yellow on his blue pullover. He hopped into his Saab. The car roared, accelerated away from the curb, and disappeared into the bleakness of the night.

  Muted sounds drifted from the neighboring houses: a baby howling; another car speeding, a dog whining. She felt her heart dividing at the thought of Ulrich's rage, his time in jail for reasons unknown.

  After shutting the door, she reflected on his insinuation about Kareena's flirtation. How far had it really gone, if at all?

  Then there was the fact that he was Klaus. His emotions ran every which way, as he'd once said. He couldn't control them. She shivered again. No one seemed to be who she believed they were.

  THIRTY-TWO

  AFTER SPENDING MOSTLY a sleepless night replaying Ulrich's visit, Mitra felt a pang of fear as she rolled out of bed. A warm familiar face had become an illusion. A lover had morphed into a stranger with aggressive tendencies. Ulrich didn't at all understand the reasons for her trip. And he'd confirmed that neither he nor Kareena were the people Mitra thought they were.

  Outside, the day emerged from its dark shroud. Mitra worked on her travel shopping list for a few minutes. What gifts should she buy for Mother? She picked up the phone and punched Mother's number. How much she wanted to hear her soothing voice.

  “Ma, I am coming home on Monday.”

  “You're coming home?” Mother exclaimed, a spark of joy in her voice. “Oh, my precious. I can't wait to see you.”

  “Apparently, Kareena is in Kolkata. I'll look for her.”

  “My, that's a surprise. I hope the weather doesn't slow your search. No one has seen such a scorching spring. The gods are not kind to us. I drink fifteen glasses of water a day and still I'm thirsty. It's impossible to get around in Kolkata in the best of times, and now we have days like a furnace in hell.”

  “After the cool spring we've had here, I'd appreciate hot weather,” Mitra said. “I'm going shopping shortly. What can I bring you besides novels?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I have all I'll ever need. You just get yourself over here safely.”

  Mitra kept pressing until Mother said, “A box of truffles—I want to give them to the children in my building. Nowadays, they go for chocolate more than sandesh and rosgulla.” She paused. “My neighbor's ten-year-old boy snaps fabulous photos with his camera. I have never looked through a camera lens.”

  “I'll bring you a digital point-and-shoot camera.”

  Mother laughed, her laugh edged with a wistful note. “I'll ask Naresh to pick you up.”

  “Naresh?”

  “You'll enjoy meeting him, my neighbor who lives on the top floor of my building. He's like a son to me. Isn't Naresh a nice name? Naresh is young, unmarried, and looks a little like Jawaharlal Nehru, half Kashmiri and half Bengali. He has no vice other than eating out too often.”

  Mother was already trying to fix her up with a prospective husband, and Mitra would try to get her to back off for now. “There's no need for Naresh to meet me at the airport. I have an early arrival—I'll just take a taxi.” She paused. “I have a boyfriend here, Ma.”

  Mother's tone became alight with interest. “A new boyfriend? Is he Indian? Is he coming with you? Are you two serious?”

  The details of last night were still too fresh in Mitra's mind. Her voice faltered, as she said, “No, he isn't coming with me. He's German. We're just dating.”

  “You don't hear the shehni?” Wedding music.

  “Neither wedding bells nor shehni tunes—I've been preoccupied lately.”

  “Well, I'll call Preet and let her know you're coming. She's pregnant again, with her second child.” This was Mother's way of pointing out what Preet, a high school friend, had achieved and she hadn't. Once again, Mother had erased her daughter's accomplishments from the chalkboard of life with a sweep of her hand.

  “Preet—yes, I'd very much like to see her.”

  “It's about time you got reacquainted with your birthplace and your old friend.” Mother sniffled.

  Mitra got the impression Mother wasn't feeling well. Still, when they bid goodbye to each other, Mother sounded more cheerful than in their recent conversations. A rush of excitement ran through Mitra, as she got busy updating her shopping list. The list overflowed with trifles that Mother, a charitable soul, might want to give to her neighbors: fountain pens, games and puzzles, photo frames, and candles. What about Preet, a high school friend Mitra hadn't seen in ages? She, a young mother focused on the needs of her son and unmindful of her own, might appreciate a few luxuries—perfumed soap, stationery, and a home facial kit. And Mitra mustn't forget picture books for her son.

  Remembering Detective Yoshihama's suggestion, Mitra added a digital voice recorder to her list. It excited her to think she'd hear Kareena's voice again.

  A question seized her mind: without an address or phone number, how would she find Kareena in Kolkata?

  There was one person who might be able to supply her with that information, a person she must visit, even if she still suspected him of wrongdoing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  UNDER FAST-FADING DAYLIGHT, Mitra parked her Honda in front of Adi's house. Dropping in unaccompanied on him wasn't without its perils and she dreaded the prospect. However, she'd have to take this risk to solve several puzzles before she flew to Kolkata two days from now.

  If she'd consulted with Veen before this visit with Adi, she would have growled. “No, Mitra, don't go to him, you'll get nothing but grief,” and would have tried to talk her out of it.

  Had Adi, by now, noticed her cardigan on the floor of his garage? If so, what had he done with it? Or to her good fortune, did he still walk around his house as oblivious as he was before Kareena's estrangement?

  Adi was apparently at home. Lights in the living room shed a pale aura on the white curtains on the bay window. Mitra surveyed the front yard. The greenery looked withered, as though Kareena's absence had disrupted the spontaneity of nature.

  Stepping into the entry porch, Mitra pushed the doorbell. The cold evening air h
it her face and momentarily hampered her breathing. The door opened with a jerk. She jumped back involuntarily.

  Adi's eyes flashed both surprise and annoyance. Their gazes locked just below a hanging petunia basket. For an instant, neither of them could summon a greeting. Her eyes ran over his lightweight black t-shirt. Just below the glaring company logo of his software company, Guha Software Services, a slogan screamed: Save Your Business Soul.

  “What are you doing here, Mitra?” Adi said in a nasal voice. He coughed deep in his lungs, his face flushing like an autumn maple leaf.

  “Just happened to be in neighborhood. Looks like you have a cold.”

  “A touch of bronchitis,” he said. “Got it playing golf. Can't seem to get rid of it. I'm resting, cooped up here.”

  “I'll be happy to make you a pot of tea. That might help break up the cough.”

  Adi's face softened. “Come in.”

  Stepping aside, he opened the door a little wider and she walked in. Precious little had changed in the passageway or the kitchen since she had been here. The mail basket still overflowed. An old note in Kareena's handwriting was affixed to the memo board tacked to a wall. The smell of furniture polish lingered in the air, indicating the cleaning lady still did her job.

  The thermostat ought to have been cranked up, but everyone knew that Adi was impractical about daily living, even if he had fallen ill.

  “I'll make the tea,” Mitra said.

  “Let's wait a while.” Adi gestured toward the living room. On the coffee table sat an open laptop, a wine goblet, a remote control, and a Kindle. Mitra crossed to a plump club chair, the one close to the door. Adi offered her first a glass of Chateau Ausone and then orange juice, both of which she refused.

  He slumped down on the sofa, reached for his glass, and leaned toward her. “So what are you doing in my neighborhood?”

  “I'm off to Kolkata to visit my mother and thought I'd stop by before I leave.”

  Adi's face turned ashen. He stayed silent.

  Most of Mitra's Indian acquaintances would have jumped in with: Could you carry a gift for my auntie? Otherwise, I'll have to pack the darn thing, fill out a customs slip at the post office, wait in line, and hope it arrives in one piece. My auntie will surely ask you to stay for dinner. Adi did not.

  His face, so introspective, so lacking in his typical predatory alertness, struck Mitra as odd. Bereft of his throne, his script, and his restless gaze, he seemed half the usual Adi.

  Slumped in his chair, seemingly weak and broken, he asked, “Did the detective tell you she's in Kolkata?”

  The best defense, Mitra figured, was to be bold. “That's not the main issue. I think we both have a vested interest in Kareena's welfare.”

  “Look here—my throat hurts if I talk too long.” The strong downturn in his sentence indicated he was starting to bridle again at her interference. After a pause, he added, “Mademoiselle Basu, Kareena happens to be my wife. Our marriage is a private matter.”

  “Did she leave you? I can't imagine how devastating it must be for a DV counselor to be married to an abusive man.”

  Adi stared hard. “Okay, you've said your piece. If you want to know the truth, here's how it actually went. A wife becomes bored with her loving, faithful, hard-working husband and decides she needs a little thrill. She starts flirting with men. She starts coming home late. The husband finds out, asks her to stop.”

  “And he ‘straightens her out?’”

  “Things are seldom quite that simple.” Adi's voice thickened. “Suppose the husband tells the wife he loves her, he'd do anything for her, and it is for her sake he gave up his family. They'd tried their best to stop him from marrying her.”

  Mitra inspected Adi's face. His eyes were soft with anguish. He wasn't lying.

  “She keeps defending her right to see whom she pleases,” he continued. “She's been faithful to him a long time, but not any longer. She calls him dull. Her extravagant taste is the only reason she's stayed with him. Finally, the husband can't take it any longer.”

  Mitra could still picture Kareena's bruised forearm. “Yeah, right. It's the woman's fault. She pushed his buttons. How do abusers get away with such rationalizations?”

  “Let me tell you the rest. He leaves town for a week. The wife goes to visit her lover during that weekend, comes back with bruises on her arm. Apparently, he has a temper. She defends him. She says things happen in a moment of frustration.”

  “You're trying to tell me that those bruises were someone else's doing?”

  “Yes. Do you think she would have taken any beatings from me? She'd have called the police and they'd have picked me up.”

  It struck Mitra, the irony: Adi would rather be portrayed mistakenly as an abuser by Mitra and possibly other community members than someone left behind. With a pained expression, he turned to the empty wine goblet poised in his fingers. His fixation spoke of loneliness, desolation, and lost time.

  Mitra found herself swollen with doubts. Kareena had never shared her contempt of her husband with her. If what Adi said was true, that is.

  Adi began coughing, the sound ragged. He flung himself up and lurched toward the kitchen. She glanced at the window as a wave of light from a passing car broke against the glass, reminding her she needed to get out of here soon.

  An incident from the past floated back to Mitra: the occasion of her twenty-eighth birthday. She and Kareena had driven to Spice Route, a popular Indian hangout. Adi was waiting just outside the restaurant entrance on that chilly evening, cradling a pair of purple-and-white orchid bouquets. Smiling gently, he presented a bouquet to each of them and wished Mitra many happy returns. With delight and gratitude, she accepted the exquisite flowers, but noticed Kareena frowning over hers.

  “Orchids make me sneeze,” she said.

  On that day Mitra had noticed Kareena's petulance, her lack of appreciation for her husband's sweet gesture.

  Sitting in Adi's living room, Mitra fleetingly saw that both the parties were at fault.

  Adi reentered the room, tissue in hand, and dropped back into the sofa, harder than necessary.

  “I still need to go to Kolkata and see if I can find her,” Mitra said. “From what I hear, Kolkata has changed a lot. I wouldn't know where to start. If I'm going to have any chance of tracking her down—”

  Adi rearranged his feet. “Go to the Gariahat shopping area. She probably hangs out there. Try some private restaurants. She goes to exclusive places—I don't know any names. I trust you'll keep all this to yourself? This is for her security.”

  Gariahat—at first Mitra had a hard time believing Kareena would spend time in such a congested section of Kolkata. Then again, the area boasted shopping bargains. Kareena took special delight in finding them. Mitra now had a location to scout.

  The mention of the word security, however, had alerted her and reminded her of another issue. “Have you paid the rest of the ransom?”

  Adi wrung his hands, avoiding her gaze, and she wondered if he wasn't purposely holding back. After a moment he said, “Do you know what my biggest regret is? I was too driven, didn't spend enough time with her, didn't show her my love often enough. She wanted a kid. I said no. I wasn't ready. She asked again. I still said no. Now I'd like to have children, I very much would. You know what I mean? I did it all wrong.”

  Poor Adi—he was stuck. He'd tried to buy Kareena during their marriage, and now he was still trying to buy her back. And for all his faults, he had standing in the community. If all this ever got out, it would drop a truckload of shame on him.

  Mitra's heart wavered—was Adi the victim of Kareena's betrayal, or had he driven her away? She was no longer sure.

  “I wish you and I had gotten along better,” she said, “talked more, shared more.”

  “I called my family yesterday,” Adi said. “Finally, after a decade, everyone spoke with me. My mother asked me to come visit her in Mumbai. My kid sister, Malti, wants me to meet her new husband. I never told y
ou about her, did I?”

  Mitra shook her head.

  “She's eight years younger,” Adi said in a hurt voice. “We used to quarrel a lot and, of course, being older, I always won. When we talked yesterday, she said exactly what you just said. I wish we'd gotten along better. I wish we'd talked more.”

  A queasy guilty feeling gnawed at Mitra. Perhaps she'd judged Adi too harshly, without realizing he was going through so much stress. “What will you do now?”

  “I'll be a nomad, a desk-less person for a while. Then I'll outsource myself somewhere. It's time for me to move on. I'll have to put all this behind me and turn over a new leaf. Is that a good aphorism for a gardener?”

  Mitra smiled a yes. Now that he'd opened up, he might appreciate the irony of the secret she'd suppressed from him: Kareena was her half-sister. She and Adi were related, after all.

  Was now the golden moment? In Adi's face, she read pain, confusion, and resignation.

  Some things, like fallen leaves, were best burned in a fragrant fire.

  She drew herself up from her chair.

  Adi glanced at her and held his lips tight, as though stifling a thought. “Wait just a sec.”

  He returned and handed her a shopping bag, with a flourish. “I think you left this here.”

  A row of pewter buttons protruded from a camel-colored cardigan. Mitra felt a flush on her cheeks. However fond she was of this sweater, she would never wear it again.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled and started toward the door, turning and apologizing for any possible inconvenience and expressing wishes for his speedy recovery.

  He followed her, maintaining a respectable distance. As she reached her car, she heard the torment of Adi's coughing. She turned and took one last look over her shoulder. Although he should really be inside, there he was, leaning over the railing, his shirt billowing in the cool evening breeze, the front door wide open.

  “Mitra!” he called out to her, with the tiniest glimmer of hope in his voice.

  Clutching the car key, she took a few steps closer to the balcony, and looked up at him.

  “If by some stroke of luck you do find her, will you tell her …?” His voice caught and he turned.