Oleander Girl (43 page)

L
ate at night I’m pulled bleary-eyed from sleep by the insistent ringing of the phone. I’d been awake until late, worrying about Rajat, and had just fallen into a doze. Who could be calling at this ungodly hour?

“Sorry to wake you,” Desai says, “but it’s urgent. My office was broken into when I was helping Mr. Bose with the art sale. By the time I got back after dinner, most of the files had been torn up. My computer was smashed, as were disks with client information. Whoever did it was smart enough to figure out the alarm and disconnect it.”

I’m so shocked I can’t speak for a few seconds. “I’m terribly sorry,” I finally stammer. I can’t even imagine how Desai must feel. Hundreds of hours of work, destroyed. His whole business, probably. What will he do?

Desai gives a mirthless bark of a laugh. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, though I have to confess it gave me quite a turn. It’s the first time I’ve been vandalized like this. Luckily, I’d taken precautions. I have client information backed up off-site, and insurance will cover most of the damage. The reason I’m calling you is because I realized something just a few minutes ago, after I went through the debris. Your file and disk aren’t here.”

I feel even worse. I’m the cause of his troubles. “Mitra?” I whisper.

“Definitely. He’s desperate. I bet within a day or so he’ll try to blackmail
your in-laws with the information he stole. And now he has more ammunition than what he hoped for—he knows your father’s black, and that your parents weren’t married.”

I’m still in shock. I’d guessed that Mitra was dangerous. I’d warned Rajat that he might try to harm the gallery, or even Papa. But I’d never guessed that he’d choose me as the vehicle of his revenge. How one-eyed I’d been, like the deer in the fable.

“You need to forestall Mitra. That’s why I disturbed you so late at night. Call your fiancé immediately and tell him about your father.”

“I can’t! Rajat is in the hospital with a concussion. I changed my ticket to get back to him as soon as I can.”

“It might be too late by the time you get to Kolkata. If Mitra gets to the Boses with the information before you do, he could convince them that you meant to deceive them. If you can’t talk to Rajat, tell Mr. Bose. He’s a levelheaded man—”

“No!” I cry. “Rajat has to be the first to know. I can’t let him hear this news from anyone else. I owe him that much. And I have to be with him when I tell him. If he has reservations, I’ll see them in his face. Then I’ll know I can’t marry him.”

“Korobi, forgive me, but you’re making a big mistake. And you’re being too idealistic. Any man would be shocked by this news—even a man who really cares for you. If he loves you, he’ll get over it. You’ve got to give him that chance.”

But I remain silent until Desai lets out a sigh. “That pigheaded Vic has been a bad influence on you, I can tell.”

Lying in bed, Rajat meditates on the softness of his pillow, the crisp, clean smell of his sheets. How wonderful to be back in the privacy of his own room, with a feathery strain of jazz floating through the air. He can hear Pia in the kitchen, begging Maman to let her stay home from school today in honor of Rajat’s release from the hospital. Rajat does not expect Maman to agree. She’s a stickler about Pia’s studies. Perhaps she’s making up for having been too indulgent with Rajat. But to his surprise,
she says yes with a distracted air and goes off to answer the phone. It is probably the foreman again. Negotiations are proceeding favorably with the union; following the incident on the river road, and in light of Rajat’s injuries, they’ve modified their demands. Finally, Rajat thinks, with some irony, he’s been of use to the family!

A triumphant Pia settles herself at the foot of Rajat’s bed. She has taken upon herself the task of making him drink the pomegranate juice the doctor has prescribed. She tells him sternly not to dillydally with the glass she has handed him. Why is he so quiet? Is he still groggy from the painkillers?

He nods because it’s hard to explain. The painkillers, which have been reduced, have little to do with his mental state. A strange calm, different from anything else he has ever experienced, has descended on him. Through its filter, the world appears dappled, like sunlight through leaves. Pia’s voice is like a treeful of birds, more music than meaning. The various dramas surrounding his life—the strike, Korobi’s search for her father, the night attack—all seem part of an intricate design, not fully comprehensible but engrossingly interesting.

This calm had descended on him at the very moment the car flipped over, even as a part of him was screaming in agony and terror. The painkillers had shrouded it, but it has now spread itself across this beautiful day, this turquoise sky outside his window, stippled with possibility. He recalls a line from a song he heard on the radio when visiting Sarojini:
Anondo dhara bohiche bhubonay.
A river of joy flows through the world. He’ll have to ask her how the rest of the song goes.

“Never mind,” Pia says. “You don’t have to talk. You just rest. I’ll tell you everything you’ve missed in the last few days.” She launches into a dramatic description of her time in the hospital, the hateful smell of disinfectant, the terrifying tetanus shot, the awful food the nurses forced her to ingest. They were scary, especially the head nurse, who with her saucer eyes and big, crooked teeth resembled the demonesses in the
Amar Chitra Katha
picture books Pia used to have as a child.

The police had been to see her, too, she adds importantly. They brought a detective with them, a mousy man who didn’t look anything like a detective should. He asked her a slew of questions. He was so
disappointed because she hadn’t seen the men’s faces or a license-plate number that Pia had considered making something up.

“Pia! I hope you didn’t!”

“No,” she says regretfully. “Anyway, they’d taken off the license plate—that’s what Asif told them—and he would know, because he’s very observant.”

Rajat’s body is made of glass and filled with colors. Asif’s name stirs them up until they are a rainbow.

“You’ve seen Asif?”

“Oh, yes, I went to see him twice, and Maman came, too. We took him flowers the first time and a big basket of fruits the second time, because now he can eat regular food as long as it’s cut up into little pieces. Next I’ll take him some Cadbury’s. He likes the orange chocolate bar the best. Maman made me wait outside while she talked to him. I don’t know what she said. I almost eavesdropped, but then I thought it wouldn’t be right. Plus I knew A.A. would tell me if I asked. I think she said sorry and thank-you. She was crying when she came out. I’ve never seen Maman cry before. Have you? Then she let me go in by myself, which was good because A.A. won’t really talk if she’s there. I could tell A.A. wasn’t angry with her anymore. I stayed with him until visiting hours were over, and she didn’t try to rush me out.”

“How is he doing? I want to go see him, too.”

“You can come with me as soon as you’re stronger. Bahadur will take us. Grandma has loaned him to us for now. A.A. looks terrible. His head is still bandaged up, all his bruises have turned purple, and they’ve put a big black collar around his neck. But his nurse, who was quite friendly with me—I guess they treat you better when you’re not a patient—said it looks a lot worse than it is. She said he’s really lucky. A.A. made a face at me from behind her back when she said that. He broke a couple of ribs, but they’re healing well, and they didn’t puncture a lung, which they could easily have done when he hit the steering wheel. Oh, he has a cast, just like you. I wrote on his cast, too.

“So, anyway, those same policemen came in to question him while I was there. They asked me to step outside but I wouldn’t because you know how police can be sometimes with people who don’t have money.
Plus A.A. said I could hear anything he had to say. They asked him if he had any idea who those men might be. Were they workers from the warehouse? A.A. said he couldn’t recognize any faces, it was too dark and too much was going on. Then . . .”

Pia hesitates.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Sweet P. You never were any good at keeping secrets!”

“I am, too!” But she lowers her voice. “A.A. told them that he saw Sonia in the parking lot that night.”

“Sonia?” The colors inside Rajat coagulate into a muddy brown.

“Yes! At first the detective said it could be a coincidence, she could have been there for the restaurant. But A.A. said she didn’t go in, she just stopped near our car, made a phone call, and left. The police got quite excited when they heard that, though the detective said it would be hard to prove anything. Anyway, they told me I must not mention it to anyone because word can travel and they don’t want to alert her. Plus it might be dangerous for A.A. if someone finds out that he talked. So I didn’t say anything, not even to Maman. I wasn’t going to tell you, either, but I’m glad you made me. It was hard, keeping it all to myself. What do you think was going on?”

Rajat shakes his head, unready to conjecture. At some point, he knows, outrage will overtake him. But he doesn’t want Sonia to ruin this silent, calm happiness that envelops him.

Pia continues with her adventures. “I hardly got any time to talk to Asif because right after that his employer—who is a sheikh and very powerful, A.A. told me later—came in. He was this big man in an expensive white suit and had two bodyguards. He was so angry, his face was red and his nostrils all puffed up. His voice was quiet but it was scarier than if he had shouted. He asked what the hell had A.A. done, did he know how much the car that he had totaled cost? Even if he worked all his life for the sheikh for free, A.A. wouldn’t be able to pay for it. AA kept saying, ‘Sorry, Huzoor.’ He got so upset that his blood-pressure machine started beeping. So I held his hand and told the sheikh to please not stress him, couldn’t he see that A.A. was just coming back from death’s door. I
explained that A.A. had saved my life and yours. He still looked furious, so I added that I would ask my parents to pay for the car.”

“God, Pia! That car is unbelievably expensive. We don’t have the money—”

“But I couldn’t not offer! It was only right. A.A. almost died for us, didn’t he? Anyway, the sheikh turned to me with a huge scowl and said in a booming genie kind of voice, ‘Who is this person?’ A.A. and I answered at the same time. AA said, ‘This is Pia-missy, I used to work for her,’ and I said, ‘I’m his friend.’ Then the sheikh asked if I was such good friends with Asif, how come he didn’t work for us anymore? I told him there had been a misunderstanding, but it was cleared up now and we would really like A.A. to come back—if the sheikh allowed it, of course. I would like you to know I was most polite.”

“You took a lot upon yourself. What are Maman and Papa going to say?”

“I think I can talk them into it. The sheikh thinks I’m pretty persuasive.”

“He does?”

“Oh, yes. After he’d asked me some more questions, he said, ‘You are quite an outspoken young woman and persuasive as well as stubborn. I can tell that your husband will have his work cut out for him.’ I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but I thanked him very nicely and he laughed. Then he took our names and address and said he would be in touch.”