The trees around us are tall, with thick, reddish trunks. Vic tells me they are redwoods; in some parts of these hills they are thousands of years old. If we have time, he’ll take me to see them. Everyone needs to see a thousand-year-old tree at least once. I say nothing, but I don’t think I’ll have the time. If Rob Davis the writer turns out to be my father—and these enchanted woods make me feel that such a thing is perhaps possible—I’ll spend the rest of my stay with him. If not, it’s time I went home.
I’ve memorized Rob Davis: his age; his education; his intelligent eyes behind frameless glasses; his controversial books, which received awards and hate mail; his craggy, sunburned face; his temper; his divorce from a famous magazine editor; his love of solitude; his tousled brown hair threaded with gray; his drinking problem, now overcome; his money problem, still present; his inability to write in recent years. Coming from her predestined, predictable life, my mother would have been amazed by a man like him.
The road narrows; the ocean sends intermittent sapphire sparkles over the distance; the fog is draped across the tops of trees like fairy lace. When Vic turns off the engine, the silence, punctuated only by birdcalls, is like nothing I’ve experienced before.
I see him right away, to the side of a cabin, piling firewood. He wears jeans and a green plaid shirt and is thinner than I had guessed. His face is leathery from being outdoors. Laugh lines radiate from the corners of his eyes. Hope overcomes the flimsy ramparts I’d built around my heart. Maybe I’ll be third-time lucky, like in the fairy tales.
“I’m Korobi,” I say with a smile. “The one who’s writing the book.” I put out my hand and guess that his grip will be strong and calloused. But I don’t find out because he steps back with a frown.
Vic, who’s waiting in the car, jumps out. “Is there a problem?”
“You know there is!” His gaze rakes us. “She lied to me. She isn’t writing a book. She’s a fraud, going around the country milking men she can con into believing that she’s their daughter.”
I’m shocked into silence.
“That’s not true,” Vic says hotly. “Who told you this?”
“An anonymous caller. I didn’t believe him, but here you are, exactly the way he warned you’d be. Next you’ll ask me about Anu Roy. I can tell you right now I’ve never known anyone by that name. Now get off my property.”
A trembling goes through my body. I remember what Mariner had said: I was alerted.
The reach of Mitra’s vengeance was long, indeed. He would be ecstatic if he ever discovered its consequences.
There’s nothing for me to do except turn around, my face burning, and get into the car.
“What now?” Vic asks on our way down.
I stare out the window, too crushed to answer. All this time, against all logic, I’d been convinced I’d find my father. I’d believed that my mother, who had started me on this quest, would help me. At last, because I must, I call Rajat.
“I failed.”
I’m afraid that he will deluge me with kindness, and then I’ll break down completely, but he only says sleepily, “You must be disappointed. But you did your best and now you can come home. God, Cara, I need you so much.”
How about what I need? I want to ask.
“Go to Papa,” he adds. “Stay with him in New York until he can get you a new ticket. He’ll put you on your flight, and I’ll pick you up in Kolkata. You’ll never have to be alone again.”
Safe forever in the care of the men of the family. A month ago, I would have been grateful.
“I’ll tell Maman to start the wedding preparations. She’ll be delighted.”
“Okay,” I manage to say.
Rajat waits—perhaps for a greater show of enthusiasm. Finally he says good night.
But it isn’t night for me.
Vic, who has heard everything, raises an eyebrow.
“No one cares that I didn’t find my father,” I say. “All the troubles I went through, searching, the dangers I faced—no one even wants to know about it. All they want—even Grandmother—is for me to go back, pull the blanket of status quo over myself, and dwindle into a wife.”
“I agree with Rajat,” Vic says, shocking me. When I turn to him angrily, he adds, “About one thing: It’s time you stopped searching. Why are you so obsessed with it, anyway? You need to look away from someone else’s past into your own future. You think that if you learn who your father and mother were, it’ll teach you who you are? But you are someone already. You’d see it if you weren’t so busy focusing elsewhere.”
He pulls the car over and takes my hands.
“I’ve been falling in love over the past weeks, watching the brave, loyal, headstrong woman you are struggling against odds that would have defeated most people a long time ago. I’ve held back because you’re engaged to be married. But I can’t let you go back into a life that may no longer fit you without pointing out that you have other choices.” He waves at the wooded hills blueing into the distance. “You can stay with me in California.”
I look at him, surprised and yet not so. Somewhere deep inside, I must have felt this coming. My heart unfurls, a sudden red flower.
“Sid wants to make me a partner at Mystic City,” Vic continues. “I can tell him to take you on, too. I know I’ll love the work—and I’d love to have you by my side. You’ll enjoy the adventure of turning the place into something unforgettable. Plus you’ll have your own money—earned by yourself, not handed to you by family. If you want, you can even continue searching for your father. What do you think?”
It’s tempting. In spite of the troubles I’ve faced here, I love what I’ve seen of America. And there’s so much more, unbounded and bristling with possibility. Here I could become a new Korobi. Vic—easygoing, good-humored—wouldn’t try to mold me into his concept of sweetheart or wife. It would be so easy to fall in love with him. Maybe I am already half in love.
But what I feel for Rajat is true, too. The morning in the temple when he slipped his ring onto my finger is etched deep into my being. When he kissed me in the driveway, under Grandfather’s disapproving eye, wasn’t that a breaking of boundaries? He shared his dreams for his business with me, asked me to be his partner in creation. Things have not gone the way we hoped, but when the storm settles, as sooner or later it must, can we not resume our interrupted adventure?
“Don’t answer now,” Vic says, kissing my palms. “You’ve been on an emotional seesaw. I wouldn’t even have brought this up if that phone conversation didn’t make me fear that time was running out. Think carefully about what kind of life would make you happy. That’s what I really want.”
Now I must call Mr. Desai to give him my news.
“All our leads have turned into dead ends,” I say. “What now?”
If the pragmatic Desai also tells me to stop searching, I’ll have to make my next decision: Vic or Rajat, America or India.
“Someone called yesterday,” Desai says. “A Meera Anand from Phoenix. She claims she’s the other woman in the photo. She left a number. Would you like to phone her?”
Rajat has come to hear Sarojini’s news. But first he makes his own triumphant announcement: Korobi’s coming home! When Sarojini looks saddened by Korobi’s triple failure, he shrugs. “It’s for the best, isn’t it?”
Sarojini nods dubiously.
“Now tell me your deep, dark mystery.”
There’s no good way to broach the subject, so she says baldly, “I need to sell the house.”
His voice cracks in outrage. “Sell this beautiful, historic home and have it destroyed? Why would you want to do such a terrible thing?”
She gives him a faint, bitter smile. “Why do people sell their belongings?”
“You need money? Tell me how much. I’ll get it for you! Never mind from where! Why do you need it anyway?”
She sighs. He would, too. He’s that kind of man. To prevent him from embarking on a foolhardy and dangerous endeavor, she lies and says she isn�
��t unhappy about it. The old house was becoming too much for her, anyway. What will she do with it, once Korobi is married and has gone to live with Rajat? But then, because it’s too much to hold inside her, and because he’s part of the family now and sooner or later must deal with its secrets, she tells him about her conversation with Sardarji.
He sits staring, his tea cold and forgotten.
“So that’s where all the money went,” he finally says. “To pay off people to keep their mouth shut about Korobi so her father would never know. And Grandfather never told you any of this?”
She shakes her head. The humiliation of Bimal’s having withheld the news of Korobi’s father’s visit from her when all kinds of other people knew about it stings her hard, once again. To prevent more questions, she pushes the house contract toward Rajat. He examines it carefully. The details seem reasonable to him, but he’s not willing to take a chance, not where Sarojini is concerned. He suggests they show it to Papa, who will return in just a few more days. Then Rajat hesitates, something else clearly on his mind.
“Your old driver said Grandfather was really upset after meeting Korobi’s father. What do you think the—uh, problem was?”
“I can’t imagine,” Sarojini says. But that’s not entirely true. Imagining that terrible problem is exactly what she’s been doing, over and over.
At the door, as Rajat wishes her good-bye, she lays a hand on his arm. “By the way, has Bhattacharya contacted your parents recently?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“No reason,” says Sarojini, suppressing her disappointment. “I was just wondering.”
“I can’t believe I’m talking to Anu Roy’s daughter, after so many years,” Mrs. Anand says over the phone in her gravelly, cigarette smoker’s voice. “I didn’t even know Anu had a daughter. I thought she—Oh, never mind! It’s quite by chance that I picked up a paper at the Indian grocery. Usually I never read that stuff. Tell me, do you look like your mom? . . . Only her eyebrows? I remember them! She was so serious, your mother—at least in the beginning, when we lived in the same student co-op. Whenever she needed to make a decision, those thick eyebrows would scrunch up. I’d make fun of her for being so meticulous with the tiniest things, like what to wear to class or whether to go out with a group of friends if some of them were guys. She told me her family had taken a big risk in sending her to the US and she wanted to make sure she didn’t let them down. She never let me forget that a lot of eyes were on her, all the way from Kolkata, because she was the first daughter of the Roys who was allowed to go so far from home. It sure made me thankful that I didn’t come from a famous family. Especially later, when the shit hit the fan.
“Don’t get me wrong. She was fun, too. She always had the wittiest comments, though often she would only whisper them into my ear. She liked trying new things. I remember she went to International House to learn folk dancing on Fridays. She’d come back all flushed and happy and show me the new steps and try to get me to go with her. But I was a bit of a couch potato and never made it. Oh, yes, that’s where she met your dad.
“Your mother had strong values. If she thought something was wrong, she wouldn’t take part in it. Sometimes we’d all get together and smoke pot—it was normal. She didn’t say anything—she was never preachy—but she’d walk out of the room. She annoyed the heck out of me at those times, but deep down I admired her, I really did.
“That’s why the incident with your father was such a shock. You see, she’d already told me about her promise not to marry against her father’s wishes. But even the strongest of us has a chink in our armor. Hers was love. She’d never experienced it in India. Never had a chance, I guess, the way she was guarded, and that’s a dangerous condition for any grown woman to be in. She was swept away. Those early days after she met your father, she’d walk around dazed, like she was on something stronger than pot. I guess she was, really.
“I tried to warn her, to get her to break it off before it was too late. But from the moment she kissed your dad, it was already too late. Worst thing was, she knew what she was doing would bring pain to a lot of people she loved. I could see it tearing her apart. That’s when she told your grandpa, hoping he’d understand. But that didn’t turn out so well, did it?
“Right after, she lost a lot of weight. Couldn’t sleep. Her grades went down. She told your dad she couldn’t see him again. I think they tried that for a while. Then one day she was gone from the co-op without a word. That upset me because I thought we were friends. I was sure she’d gone back to India, but later I heard she’d moved in with your dad. . . . No, I don’t know when they got married, or where. I don’t think they invited anyone. I didn’t see much of her after that. It’s a big campus, and she may have been avoiding people.
“I ran into her one last time on Sproul Plaza. She was walking with your dad. She was pregnant with you by then and looked pretty happy. She told me she was going to India as soon as the semester ended, that she’d talked to her father. This was her chance to make up with her family, and she was determined to succeed. Rob stood there with his arm around her, smiling in his ignorance. He had no idea about Indian families. I said good luck, though I didn’t have much hope. There’s no one as stubborn as a traditional Hindu father—I should know. He doesn’t forgive easily, not when you choose the kind of man she’d chosen. Your dad was a nice person—I’m not saying otherwise—and educated, too. But still . . .”
“What do you mean by ‘that kind of man’?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
The first day that Shikha rode with Pia-missy to her school, Asif thought nothing of it. He even enjoyed hearing the two of them chatting in the back, Pia telling Shikha about a new music DVD, and Shikha describing the young painter Mrs. Bose would be exhibiting next month. To tell the truth, Asif felt sorry for Shikha. She was so pinched and plain, not like Pushpa with her come-hither eyes. She’d probably never get herself a husband. Let the poor woman laugh at Pia-missy’s jokes, he thought magnanimously. I doubt she gets many opportunities. He was a little surprised when she returned to the house with Pia in the afternoon. Perhaps she needed to pick up something for Memsaab? But Shikha only walked Pia to the elevator and then asked Asif to take her back to the gallery.
Asif is no one’s fool. When Shikha shows up again the next morning, he catches on at once. So this is what Memsaab thinks of him. He drives to the school through a red haze, and during his lunch break he contacts Mahmoud. He’ll take the job with Sheikh Rehman if it’s still open.
It is. He can start as soon as he wishes.
“I’ll begin tomorrow, then.”
On the way back from school, Asif’s eyes keep straying to Pia, who is bobbing her head to the beat of a song. He longs to explain why he’s quitting this job, to tell her how insulted he feels, that he would have stayed for her, if he could have. He’s furious, too, that this is coming so soon after he put himself in danger to protect Memsaab from the goondas at the gallery. That man called him a traitor to his own kind. Maybe he had been.
But Pia—how he’ll miss her smile, her small, sweet demands, her confidences, her innocent faith in his intelligence. He clears his throat as he pulls up to the apartment. He must say something before she goes in. Who knows when he’ll see her again, if ever? He remembers the last time he saw his sister, as she climbed into the train that was to take her to her husband’s village. He had wanted to tell her he would miss her, that he was there for her if she ever ran into trouble. But the platform had been full of the bridegroom’s relatives, bustling around self-importantly, and he didn’t get a chance. He’s not going to make the same mistake again. At the very least, he must tell Pia-missy that he’s leaving. He wishes Shikha would get down so he can have a moment alone with Pia. But Shikha is watching him, brows jammed together, mobile clutched like a weapon in her hand. She pushes at Pia. You go first. His chest tightens with rage. He imagines driving very fast, taking Shikha not to the gallery but to the deserted r
iver road. Scare the life out of her. That would serve her right.
From outside the car, Pia-missy gives him a wave, just like every day. “See you later, Asif,” she says, using his formal name because Shikha is listening.
It’s his cue to respond, See you later, Missy. But today he cannot. A scorpion is squeezing his heart with its pincers.
“God bless you, Pia-missy, and keep you safe always.”
Her eyes widen. He has never said anything like this to her. “God bless you, too, Asif.”
Then she’s gone. He stares after her until Shikha, still clutching the mobile, asks in a testy voice if he might possibly get her to the gallery sometime before it closes.
Night has long ago settled over 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road. The birds in the tamarind trees have tucked their heads under motionless wings. The street dogs are curled into balls of silence. Bahadur rides the train of slumber back to the Kathmandu of his childhood. Cook is transported to the Roys’ village home, where she sits on the porch frying fish, each as large as her forearm. Lying in Korobi’s bed, where she has moved because she misses the girl so much, Sarojini is mired in her own dream. In the dream, the roof of the house has been transformed into glass and she can see through it to a bright blue expanse, where a blimp hangs. The banner suspended from it reads KOROBI ROY’S FATHER IS A LEPER.
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