Tulip Season (6 page)

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 other 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.

TEN

HOW MITRA WISHED
she had raised a little more money. $7,000 wouldn't do it. Yesterday, on day six, wanting to raise enough money to offer a reward for information on Kareena's return, she and the task force had held a benefit auction. Mrs. Talukdar, a community elder, contributed her wedding silk sari worked with gold threads. Another community member gave away a pricey rosewood throne. Mitra donated five gardening consultations and her entire sari collection, many gifted by relatives back home, thus parting with many sweet childhood memories.

She had to dip into her savings to come up with the amount needed to announce a reward for Kareena's safe return: $10,000.

She continued her search this morning. One other place to try: Aunt Saroja, a cousin of her late father. Mitra would never have met Kareena if not for this aunt. All the more amazing when you consider that she'd maneuvered such a feat from New Delhi, thousands of miles away. She knew a few of Kareena's relatives and might be able to provide Mitra with information she wouldn't otherwise get.

As a child, Mitra had a special affection for Aunt Saroja, a wise woman, willowy and well groomed. She called her Masimoni, Jewel of an Aunt.

When Mitra went to college in Alaska, Masimoni, wrote often, speaking her mind on pale lavender pages, her script firm. After graduation, Mitra was trying to decide on where to settle when Masimoni suggested in her usual direct style, “Why don't you give Seattle a try? I hear it rains constantly there, but that should be ideal for growing plants.”

Much as Mitra adored her aunt, she stayed in Alaska for nearly four years, taking a job on an organic farm in the Matanuska Valley. Eventually, the winters got to her. She pulled up stakes, moved to
Seattle, and got hired by the Seattle Parks Department. At that point Aunt Saroja wrote again: “My friend's cousin's daughter lives in Seattle and likes it. Her name is Kareena. You two are alike in so many ways. I think you'll really hit it off. She'll help you get situated.”

A month later, Mitra picked up the phone, called Kareena, and introduced herself. She did this more for Aunt Saroja's sake than out of any personal desire. Kareena sounded lively and approachable and suggested having coffee the next day. During their long coffee session, they shared everything about themselves and also their memories of home. Kareena said she was undergoing a periodic episode of homesickness for India, the country she'd left behind, but not entirely. Mitra, too, experienced the same longing from time to time. Her country was always there, soft-edged like breathing, hard-edged like crunching ice between your teeth. She didn't usually talk about it, but in Kareena's company she did. It was as though her voice had freed up.

Three weeks later, Mitra moved from her apartment into this house she'd just bought. On that day, it was snowing heavily and she lived on a hilly street. She'd have stayed put but her lease was up and someone else was moving in. Friends who promised to help didn't show up and she didn't blame them. Then the doorbell rang. Kareena stood there, perky in her corduroy slacks, wool hat, and boots, all in matching black. What a relief. Kareena immediately took control, called Adi and a friend. The roads were slick and stalled cars blocked traffic. It took them the whole day to get the move done, but Kareena was just as cool at the end of the day as when she came in.

“You've introduced me to an angel,” Mitra said to Aunt Saroja on the phone later that evening.

A month later, in another conversation, she further told Aunt Saroja that Kareena was who she wanted to be. Kareena dressed well, entertained fabulously, had a wide circle of friends, and was always ready to lend a hand when a friend needed it.

“We have a splendid time whenever we get together, you know,” Mitra told Aunt Saroja. “I'm really comfortable with her. It's like we've known each other forever. There's nothing I couldn't discuss with her.”

“I am just so pleased,” Aunt Saroja said.

In the months to come, with Kareena's encouragement, Mitra opened a landscaping business of her own, and that shifted her life for the better. What a joy to be your own boss, even though the hours were longer. She'd been thankful to Kareena ever since. Kareena, who had an extravagant taste, often asked Mitra to provide flower arrangements for her parties. Mitra did so free of charge. The gigantic bouquets she supplied often cost her several hundred dollars each, but she didn't mind.

They got together on most Fridays. Day would turn into twilight as they relaxed over drinks, gabbing, laughing, and trading opinions, oblivious to the time. As the years passed, all through the days and nights and springs and summers of their friendship, Mitra thanked Aunt Saroja silently and in her letters. She, suffering ill health, answered only sporadically.

“You're always there for me,” Kareena once said to Mitra, “more than any other friend. If I were ever in trouble, you'd be the first person I'd call.”

But she hadn't.

On this day, the seventh day after the vanishing of her friend, sitting in her living room, Mitra punched Aunt Saroja's number.

She came on the line. “So nice to hear from you, Mitoo,” she said, calling Mitra by a nickname only she used.

Mitra gave her an account of Kareena's disappearance and the shadowy events surrounding it.

“A lovely person disappeared into thin air like that? How terrible. There's a cause. I smell something.” Aunt Saroja paused. “I know how much she means to you. I still remember one of your letters. You talked about your time with her so poetically that I memorized it. ‘We don't parse our friendship. It just is. We scatter the gems of our hours freely, then retrieve them richer in value.’”

“You knew Kareena through her relatives long before I met her. What can you tell me about her?” Mitra asked.

The line went silent for a moment. “There's something I can tell you, my dear Mitoo. In fact, it's been on my mind a long while, also something of value.”

“What is it, Masimoni?”

“Will you promise to keep it to yourself and not say a word about this to your mother? The poor woman has a weak constitution and I wouldn't wish to disturb whatever peace she has in life.”

“I promise.”

“Well, dear, Kareena is your half-sister, your father's child from his first marriage.”

Mitra jumped up from her chair. “Half sister? How can that be?”

“Well, it might shock you, but here it is.”

Mitra's stunned ears absorbed the disclosure: Her father Nalin had taken a job after college as a technician with a film studio in Mumbai. At the studio, he fell in love with a sexy struggling young actress and married her. In the fifteen months the marriage lasted, they had a child, Kareena. After their divorce, Nalin, shattered and disillusioned, packed his bags and took the train back to Kolkata, where he met Mitra's mother. They were married within a year. Nalin's ex-wife never allowed him any contact with his daughter.

Kareena was Mitra's half-sister. She was family. That felt so right. Mitra's cheeks burned in joy.

“Are you happy that I've told you?” Aunt Saroja asked.

“Oh, yes,” Mitra said. “What a surprise that'd be for Kareena. I don't believe she knows. I've never mentioned father's first name to her. And Basu is such a common surname in India. Do you know what puzzles me? My mother has never mentioned father's first marriage to me.”

“Your mother had a hard time accepting that marriage. Remember, it was over thirty years ago. Divorces were considered a matter of shame and acting wasn't a respected profession, not to mention the low reputation that an actress had. Relatives who had the knowledge didn't consider it proper to talk.”

“So Mother wasn't told about father's first child?”

“Never.”

“Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?”

“There's much in my long life I regret,” Aunt Saroja said. “This is one of them. Ultimately, your secrets drag you down. The longer you wait, the more monstrous they get. They eat at you, they make you frail.” Her voice broke.

“Are you okay?” Mitra asked.

Aunt Saroja assured Mitra that her health was sound and that she'd check with her large circle of friends to see if anyone had heard from Kareena. “God, who knows what's behind it? We won't waste a minute.”