Tulip Season Page 4

  Filled with nervous excitement, she entered her house. Neither the hot shower she took, nor the mug of holy basil tea she drank, tempered the anxious thoughts racing through her head. What really had happened to Kareena?

  * * *

  The next morning, Mitra stepped outside to get the newspaper. It hadn't arrived yet. The morning light shone on her front flower bed. An errant branch of camellia needed to be pruned. Its shadow stole sunlight from her plants. A stray buttercup had established itself at the base of a velvety coleus. She pulled the buttercup and threw it onto an impromptu compost heap, she'd just started. Next, she noticed the prolific clovers, threatening to overtake part of the space occupied by the tulips. Suddenly angry, she bent over and grasped a handful of the clover blossoms by their throats. Her muscles tensing, the blossoms practically bleeding on her fingers from the tight grip, she pulled and pulled them and tossed them into the compost pile. How dare they invade Kareena's tulips? Mitra wouldn't allow it. She refused to let them win.

  With the weeds gone and blank spots in the soil staring up at her, she inspected her beloved tulips closer, an ache in her belly. All their buds were shriveled and brown, as though singed by blight, the dried stalks drooping over to return to brown earth.

  Why were they dying on her so soon?

  She fell to her knees and caressed the plants, lifting a wilted leaf to examine it, and squeezing its brittle stalk. She rolled each wizened bud between her fingers, but failed to find a single one with any hope.

  With a pebble in her throat, she brooded about the broken promise of these tulips and reflected on Kareena, so vibrant, so full of life.

  EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mitra sat down to a breakfast of steaming whole grain cereal, soy milk, and maple syrup. The kernels were soft and puffy, promising a satisfying fullness in her belly. Ulrich's dense face and wary green gaze floated in her mind. She finished only half of the bowl, losing her hunger thinking about him, and dumped the rest into the kitchen compost bucket.

  On the evening she'd first met him at a fancy modern ice cream parlor, the place was packed, so packed that she had decided to head for the exit. She heard someone at a table calling her name. Carrie, a former neighbor, sat at a crammed communal table for eight. “Come sit with us. There's an extra chair.”

  She introduced Mitra to her friend, Ulrich, first names only. Mitra got her parfait and joined them.

  On her own, she might not have noticed this brooding man, with a round face and a neat haircut. His eyes were a tame tortured green. He seemed quiet and content, aloof from the clamor of the scene and blending into the bone-white walls. Fit enough to suggest narrow hips, he was dressed in a wool-knit sports jacket. Speaking above the cello music that poured from the sound system, he informed her in his slightly accented English that he'd only recently moved here from Hamburg.

  Mitra liked the foreignness about him, a closed window she'd like to open. “I've visited only one town in Germany for any length—Heidelberg,” she said. “I went there for a week when I was on summer vacation from college.” She recounted for him how she got caught up in the drama of the sky and mountains and loveliness of the university campus, the thrills experienced when trains pulled into the station on time—the way you wish your prayers were responded to, as one fellow American traveler put it. “My grammar wasn't perfect—I'd often forget to put the verb at the end of the sentence—I had had only one semester of German. But no one laughed and most of the time they understood me.”

  He leaned closer. “Why did you study German?”

  “To satisfy the foreign language requirement, but mostly because I loved the long syllables. To call a grocery store Lebensmittelgeschäft is to give it heft.”

  Silence for a moment. She listened to the cello. “Do you like the music?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

  She was glad he asked. Quite likely, they had a common taste. “Is that David Geringer? I seem to recognize the fingering.”

  “Yes.” He lowered his gaze to her hands. “Are you a musician?”

  “No, I'm a landscape designer.”

  “I appreciate the earth sciences. Tell me more about what you do.”

  Thank God Shiva, she didn't disappoint him. Sitting up straight, she described her typical day—visualizing, sketching, digging, transplanting, and appreciating the nature. But then did she really have to talk about the sheer delight of composting? She knew she was talking too much, but he stared at her with fascination, affecting her the way early spring lighting did. She shed her usual bashfulness, handed him her business card, and asked him how he liked the rainy city.

  “I've found a good barber,” he said, “as well as a European deli and German beer at Trader Joe's, and I don't mind the rain, but I can't find my way around here. Yesterday, it took me an hour to locate the house of an older German couple. I didn't think I'd be making friends with retired Germans here, but that's the way it has turned out to be.”

  She almost liked it that he didn't have many friends yet. She heard him saying, “But you have a circle of friends here, correct? From the way you carry yourself, you seem like what we call gemütlich, cozy.”

  “Well, my first three months in Seattle weren't gemütlich. I'd just moved from Alaska.” She related to him the joy of strolling through one landscaped Seattle neighborhood after another in a state of touristy euphoria. Premature calendula blossoms lent a yellow-orange cast to the atmosphere—in February, no less. Compare that with Alaskan roads, as solidly frozen as a reign on death. But, as she'd soon discover, Seattle had a wintry side. If the weather was easy here, forging a network wasn't. In cafés she connected with bright, interesting minds. They discussed monorail as mass transit, the Koolhaas-original library, and the farmers' markets. But it wouldn't go further than that; she'd go home and curl up on her couch with a blanket and a book. She concluded by saying, “I did volunteer work at the Arboretum and met people on a casual basis, but didn't become intimate with anyone.”

  “You had—what do they call it here—trust issues?”

  She nodded slightly. He fixed her with a gaze that said she was the only woman in the universe, at least in that room. She didn't know why but a slight discomfort rose in her, a feeling she pushed down.

  He moved to other topics. Between chilled sweet bites, she disagreed with him in a pleasant manner when he suggested that the universe could be reduced to a giant computer program. She argued in a happy voice that billions of lines of codes wouldn't be enough to explain the life-force that transformed a tiny seed into a colossal pine tree, the determination in the heart that inspired a human of average strength to conquer Mount Rainier, or even what made each person's iris individually unique. If a computer program could decipher the mysteries of life, then they ought to destroy those lines of code. Some things were best left unexplained.

  He didn't offer a differing opinion, just smiled. There was enough in that smile to distract her. She didn't even notice when Carrie and the others left.

  By the time they had gotten up to leave, Mitra's head spun with abstract ideas, whereas her insides quivered with a delicious anticipation. She didn't head home alone that night.

  Closing the compost bucket and heading toward the sink to wash the breakfast bowl, Mitra thought of the Deutscher, the green of his eyes, his caress. She couldn't wait to hear his sleepy sexy mumble. Why hadn't he called? They had so much in common: both came from far-away places; both spoke a foreign tongue; both were cello aficionados. In the past few days, she'd imagined seeing Ulrich everywhere; as she fidgeted in the grocery store check-out line, mended a garden hose, waited her turn at the ATM machine, or fed the parking meter.

  Walking over to the kitchen window, she replayed his voice in her head. She practiced pronouncing gut for good, bobbed her head up and down, said ja, doch, the way he conveyed agreement. She injected a musical “z” for “th” in certain words, as if she, too, were a German struggling with English pronunciation.

  Was that one night with hi
m no more than a casual dalliance? She felt a blush of embarrassment creep into her cheeks.

  Still, she couldn't help picking up the cellphone and calling her friend Carrie, who had introduced her to Ulrich, and dropping his name in the conversation. It was spring, after all, with waves of green growth just outside the window, and what else could Mitra think of?

  Carrie caught on. “Oh, he's probably still around. He's finished putting new cabinets in my cousin's kitchen. I don't know what he's doing next. I'll call you back with his work number. You two seemed so cozy that night.”

  Within a couple of hours, Carrie called back. “Ulrich doesn't work for that outfit anymore. But my cousin says she's seen him painting a house at the northwest corner of 42nd and Latona. You know the rambler with a holly tree shading the front? Good luck.”

  Following an impulse, Mitra picked up the car keys, fired up her car, hurried to the said intersection, and parked on the curb, then looked through the car window. Sure enough, Ulrich was standing on the grass, scraping the exterior paint of a house across the street, his body snug in a gray sweatshirt, his back turned toward her. He seemed so much into the task at hand. His movements were smooth, with no wasted motion. She watched his hands going up and down, how the breeze ruffled his hair. His tall frame was a solace. She'd like to confide in him.

  If only he would turn around so she could see the depth of his eyes, the determined jaw. If only he'd notice her and dash out in her direction, saying, “Mitra!”

  He picked up a bucket and moved to another corner, no longer visible to her. Should she exit the car and approach him?

  No. Mitra put her hands on the steering wheel, lurched away from the parking spot, and started toward her house. She'd seen him at least, which was satisfaction of some sort.

  That afternoon, Mitra went to a private reception for Professor Devi Laal, a visiting social studies lecturer from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi on domestic abuse. Even though she didn't feel festive, Mitra had a twofold purpose in attending the reception. She wanted to meet Professor Laal—Kareena had more than once mentioned her name with respect—and she wanted to exploit this opportunity to mingle with the Indian community. Kareena remained her highest priority and the community could be of help.

  In the reception hall, Mitra joined a small web of guests. Professor Laal, a stout woman in a simple white sari, spouted the creepy worldwide statistics of one in three women suffering physical abuse at home. Mitra recognized one of the people listening to Professor Laal from another community function; it was Dr. Sardar, a biotech engineer in his forties.

  Dr. Sardar lifted his shoulders under his pricey sport jacket. His huge dark eyes made him appear perpetually curious or cross. “Of course, family violence happens,” he countered, “but it doesn't happen with us. I'm sure the police get loads of calls from Rainier Valley and Central District.”

  A hush fell over the group. Mitra wanted to laugh at Dr. Sardar's denial. Blame it all on the working class and their neighborhoods.

  Before Professor Laal had a chance to respond, Mitra stared Dr. Sardar in the eye and said, “Excuse me. I'm friends with a woman who's a DV counselor. Do you know where Kareena Sinha's clients come from?” She surprised herself by asserting that violence occurred as often in million dollar lakefront mansions as in apartment houses with chipped paint, shattered windows, and streaming cockroaches. Several women spoke up in agreement.

  Mitra went one step farther and suggested, as Kareena would have, that it was time to educate the men. Such teaching should start at diaper age. Boys mustn't witness violence at home, or they'll carry germs of that behavior in their psyche forever.

  Dr. Sardar blinked, seemingly in annoyance. “Excuse me,” he said and headed for the samosa table.

  Mitra wouldn't let him off. Minutes later, she cornered him as he dug into a flaky vegetable pastry, and talked to him about her effort in finding Kareena. When she finished, she noticed his eyes softening. “If you need any help,” he said. “Call my office.”

  It gave Mitra momentary pleasure that she'd overcome her shyness, stood up for what she considered was right, and taken Kareena's message forward.

  Although the evening had been a success, alone in bed that night, Mitra found herself puzzling over Ulrich's absence. She pictured him lying next to her, the warm comfort of his skin. Her breasts craved his touch. Her mouth pined for his clinging kisses. She stayed awake a long time.

  NINE

  MITRA'S GAZE FELL ON the vase of dried eucalyptus on the accent table in her living room. Kareena had always admired the fragrant arrangement—she adored all objects of beauty. Now she, a beautiful soul, was reported missing. On the morning of day five, Mitra considered it good fortune to finally be able to get an appointment with Kareena's supervisor.

  Twenty minutes later, Mitra made her way through the corridors of the Domestic Violence Prevention Office to a cubicle, expecting to meet with a friendly face. Sandra Williamson hung up the phone. A sturdy woman with bitterness around her eyes, dressed in a well-fitted black twin-set, she appeared to be approaching fifty.

  She shot Mitra a nasty look. “What can I do for you, Ms. Basu?”

  “I'm trying to find Kareena. As you know, she's been missing for several days. Could you share with me what you're doing to find her?”

  Williamson crossed her arms. “I've spoken with the police. They plan to form a multi-disciplinary missing person task force. They haven't gotten back to me with any new information.”

  Mitra settled deeper into her chair. “Multi-disciplinary missing person task force? That's long term stuff.”

  “There doesn't seem to be any immediate course of action to pursue.”

  “Do you believe that? Are you going to sit around and watch the police do little?” She paused. “Let me ask you this. Did you notice anything unusual during Kareena's last few days? Neighborhoods she might have ventured to? People she might have met?”

  “We don't watch our counselors. They operate on their own.”

  “Couldn't you Mapquest the searches she's made on her computer? That might give you an indication about her whereabouts.”

  The look on Williamson's face said she'd just as soon Mitra got lost.

  Mitra leaned forward. “You won't do anything at all for her?”

  “Relax, Ms. Basu. This is way above my pay grade. We only deal with family issues. We don't give out information about our employees or their whereabouts. We deal with partner violence. Period. Maintaining privacy is of the utmost importance to our organization. This is for the safety of our clients and, I might add, a legal requirement.”

  Mitra stared at the oak tree outside the window. She mustn't raise her voice or Williamson would show her the door.

  “You're confusing the issues. Kareena was a counselor, not an abuse victim. Or are you saying she was being battered at home?”

  “I think your time is up. And this is no place for gossip. I wouldn't have made an appointment to meet with you, except you're so persistent. You must have left, what, ten messages?”

  “No, twelve. Look, I'm not here to waste your precious time or mine. My friend is a top employee of yours. There must be some clues here.”

  “She was a top employee.”

  “Are you saying her work had been slipping? And, if so, what do you attribute that to?”

  Williamson lowered her gaze to the ground. Her deeply lined forehead was capped with a lock of gray hair.

  “Please, Ms. Williamson. You may be able to help our search for her. She's your best employee.”

  “Best employee? Ha! She'd been talking about quitting.”

  “Quitting? I find that hard to believe. She's totally dedicated. How can you be sure?”

  Williamson laughed derisively. “Counselors resign all the time. Often because they can't take it any more or they have other plans. Kareena is no different. She'd been struggling with that decision. She thought it'd be her life's work, but then …”

  “What ot
her plans did she have?”

  Williamson stayed mute. Mitra heard argumentative voices from a nearby workstation.

  “Could somebody have abducted her? The husband of one of her clients, for instance?”

  Williamson laughed. “She was not in any obvious danger. Only once in my quarter-century career, have I seen a case where a husband kidnapped a counselor, and then only for an hour. You just don't understand, Ms. Basu.”

  “You're right. I don't understand why you're not taking this seriously.”

  “You're young, Ms. Basu. You'll learn not to get excited over everything. We all do eventually.”

  Mitra stood up. “But I'll always get excited when it concerns someone I love dearly. Good day, Ms. Williamson.”

  Mitra strode out of the office building, legs stiff and mouth dry, and climbed into her car. She'd learned something new about Kareena—she was considering quitting her job. How did that fact fit in with her disappearance? She couldn't tell for sure.

  Under the bright sun, Mitra made a resolve: no one was going to stop her, not Ms. Williamson, not the police. Once she made up her mind about doing something, she stuck to it. She didn't normally use the cellphone while driving, but this time she gave in. She reached the investigative officer in the SPD office.

  “The longer the wait, the colder the trail,” the officer said. “But you seem to be doing all the right things. You have a pretty cool head. And we're in touch with Adi Guha. We'll give him status information. He's our primary contact.”

  The officer was probably rifling through papers on his desk with one hand and cradling his cellphone with the other. To him, Kareena was no more than a computer profile of another lost soul to be summarized in a paragraph, another poster to be printed, whereas to Mitra and their mutual friends Kareena was a person of importance.

  She said goodbye to the officer, frustration percolating in her. On second thought, he didn't really owe her anything. She wasn't family to Kareena.