As she watches in horror, the blimp swings around. On its other side is another banner: bimal roy’s pride killed his daughter.
No! cries Sarojini. Lies! But at least one of the statements is true—she knows this. She weeps so hard, she cannot breathe. Maybe she’s dying. That’s good. It’s the best thing that could happen to her. But with that thought, she wakes up. The phone is ringing. Let it ring until the caller gives up! But the ringing continues until finally she gropes through the unaccustomed dark to the corridor and picks it up. It’s her granddaughter.
“I’m sorry about your failure but glad you’re coming home soon, shona,” she says sleepily. “Rajat gave me the news. It did my heart good to see how happy he was. You’re lucky to have a man who loves you so much. . . . What was that? Slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“Grandma, I think I’ve found my father!”
Sarojini’s hands begin to shake. Just when she had hoped it was all safely over. Folly to think that. Nothing was ever safely over. By this stage of her life, she should have known it.
“Mother’s friend, the one in the photo, saw our ad and contacted us. She told me so many things about my mother in America! I’ll tell you later. Some of it was sad. But most importantly, she knew my father. His name is Robin Lacey. He was a history major at another university in the area. She heard he took a job teaching somewhere in the South. Desai is searching for him right now.”
This Lacey, he doesn’t sound too disreputable. But Sarojini’s heart is still beating hard, her fear metamorphosing into irritation.
“He’s not too good at his job, your Desai. Why couldn’t he locate him all this time?”
“Because we all made a huge wrong assumption. Grandma, I want you to sit down on the little stool by the telephone before I tell you. My father’s not white. He’s black.”
“Speak up. The line’s garbled. It sounded like you said my father’s black.”
“That is what I said. My father’s African-American.”
Is Sarojini still dreaming? Or has Korobi gone crazy, over there in America? “That can’t be,” she explains in her most reasonable voice. “Then you would have looked African, too.”
“Mrs. Ahuja explained that my dad was very light skinned. But his features and especially his hair—they were African-American.”
“Hair,” Sarojini repeats. She tries to visualize the kind of hair Korobi’s father might have. It takes a moment because she has only seen black people in movies. But things that mystified her for years begin suddenly to make sense. Why Korobi has such curly hair. Why Bimal was livid when he met Korobi’s father. She remembers how carefully Bimal would examine Korobi all through her first year in the village. So it wasn’t purely out of concern for the baby’s health, or for love of his only grandchild.
“Grandma, are you there? Are you upset?”
She appraises the question, turning it around in her mind. “No, shona. But I’m afraid a lot of people will be shocked if they find out.” She swallows. It is hard for her to say the next part, but she must. “Mrs. Bose. Maybe even Rajat.”
“Rajat? You think Rajat—”
Sarojini wants to explain the complicated gradations of race prejudice in India, how deep its roots reach back. Why, for so many people, having Korobi’s father turn out to be black would be far worse than if he were merely a foreigner. But it’s beyond the present capacities of her muddled brain. “Don’t open that can of worms,” she begs her granddaughter. “Just come home.”
“Please don’t ask that of me.” Korobi’s voice is tortured. “I can’t! Not after getting this far!”
Sarojini sighs. What other answer could she have expected from Anu’s daughter?
“I’ll call my father as soon as Mr. Desai finds his number,” Korobi says. “I don’t have the money to fly to him. Is it too much to hope that he’ll come out to California to meet me?”
Sarojini doesn’t answer that question, which is more of a prayer than a query. Or that other unspoken query: What if he doesn’t want anything at all to do with me?
“Who else knows?” Sarojini asks briskly, hiding her trepidation.
“Only Vic. But he’s very discreet, a true friend.”
“Mr. Bose?”
“No. Mr. Desai says, I’m his client, and whatever he discovers is confidential until I inform him otherwise.”
Sarojini can feel her shoulder muscles loosen a little. Maybe the situation can still be salvaged.
“Do a kindness to an old woman—don’t tell anyone about this father of yours until you’ve talked to him. Not even Rajat. If Lacey isn’t keen on meeting you, you should just forget about the whole thing.”
“How can I forget?” Korobi’s voice is bitter. “I’ll never forget! My whole world has been turned upside down all over again. Today I was looking at myself in the mirror, my skin, my hair—I’m seeing everything differently now. Every detail has taken on a new meaning. But since you ask, I won’t say anything, not even to Rajat. For the moment.”
Sarojini must satisfy herself with that. “Thank you,” she says formally.
“You’re welcome,” Korobi says just as formally. “I’m sorry I woke you. But I had to tell you.”
“I understand.”
Korobi lets out her breath in a ragged sigh. “I love you, Grandma! It matters so much to me that you aren’t upset because my father is black. That I am half-black myself.”
Sarojini weighs the statement. Amazingly, it’s true. She’s astounded, worried—but not upset.
“I’ve kept you up too long. Go back to sleep now!”
Sarojini hadn’t thought she would ever again find anything funny, or at least not for a long time. But her granddaughter’s blithe supposition that she can sleep after this conversation—it makes her laugh out loud.
THIRTEEN
Sheikh Rehman is an amalgamation of opposites that continue to surprise Asif. He finds himself enjoying the experience more than he had expected. The sheikh prays five times a day, though not necessarily at the prescribed hours. An oversize, handsome man, he has a hearty laugh. His servants—many of whom have been with him for decades—adore him in spite of what they affectionately term his “short fuse.” Already, within three days of being hired, Asif can understand why. Rehman never holds a grudge, is generous with money, and takes care to learn the details of his servants’ lives. A shrewd businessman, he is ruthless with dishonesty or incompetence, but if someone is in genuine trouble, he’s likely to bail him out. When alone in the car with Asif, he likes to chat. One of his favorite topics is the interpretation of Islam. Yesterday he told Asif about the trip he made two years ago to Mecca. It was a life-changing experience, something every Mussalman should undertake. If Asif ever decides to visit, Rehman would be willing to pay for his journey.
The sheikh is not married. Plus he loves good food and wine. As a result, almost every night he visits one of the best restaurants in the city. Sometimes it’s a business dinner, but often the reason is unabashed pleasure. He has a bevy of glamorous girlfriends, models or starlets who, Asif is surprised to learn, coexist quite peacefully. Rehman, who likes to lay things out, has informed them that he isn’t serious about any of them, but he’s happy to make sure they have a good time whenever they’re with him. In return, he asks that they don’t get possessive and dramatic, because he hates drama. It also helps that one of his lawyers has the women sign an agreement.
Rehman likes lawyers. Several work full-time for him, handling the varied and complex facets of his life. He likes chauffeurs, too. He employs four of them because, he has told Asif, he wants them to be there for him 100 percent, alert and cheerful. They can’t do that if they don’t get enough rest. Whenever Asif has night duty, he will get the next day off until noon. What a luxury it will be to sleep in late—Asif can’t remember when he’s ever been able to do that! At the Boses, he always had to be ready by 7:00 a.m. to take Pia-missy to school. Even on weekends, there were extra classes, badm
inton, or dance. He tells himself he’s lucky; this job is really a step up.
But the truth remains that Asif misses Pia deeply and illogically, even though he has tried to stop himself. He’d give up all the mornings of sleeping late, present and future, just to hear her say, Come on, A.A.! I know you can go faster than this! When he’s alone in the car, he finds himself tuning in to her favorite station. If one of her special songs comes on, he turns the volume up loud, the way she liked it, and imagines he hears her singing along.
Tonight Asif is on restaurant duty for the first time and determined to do an outstanding job. Rehman has brought an associate from Hyderabad to the recently opened El Jadida, on the river, which has been garnering excellent reviews. It’ll be work and fun combined: he’s invited two models to join him. Asif has been warned by his fellow chauffeurs that he’s not to step away from the car, not even for a minute, not even if his bladder’s bursting. It’ll probably be a long night. But it’s also probable that the sheikh will suddenly decide to bring the party home. If Asif isn’t standing ready when he does, Asif will be out of a job.
The sheikh owns four cars, which for a man of his financial status shows immense restraint. Asif admires him for that. He admires Rehman’s choice of cars, too: a red Hummer for strenuous trips to beach resorts or countryside villas; a black Rolls to demonstrate his appreciation of special visitors; a gray Honda for when he wants to go around town incognito, like Haroun al-Rashid; and a tiny white Bugatti Veyron, kept shrouded in Lycra in the air-conditioned garage, just because.
Tonight, Rehman has chosen the Rolls. The car moves like a razor through silk, making Asif shiver with pleasure. Once Rehman and his party disembark, Asif maneuvers the car to the far corner of the lot to protect it and buffs it lovingly with a piece of chamois. How Bahadur would have appreciated this car! But he’ll never be able to show it to the old man.
Then his eyes are caught by a vehicle he knows too well, a Mercedes that cruises the lot looking for parking and ends up a few rows away. Asif tenses as he sees Rajat and Pia get out. His first impulse is to turn his back so they don’t notice him. But why? He hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s the Boses that have insulted him, forcing him to quit.
Pia-missy is wearing black pants, a sequined, black kurti, and high heels, looking “very glam,” as she would say. What’s she doing here on a school night when she should be finishing homework? Really, sometimes her family is so irresponsible.
Stop! he tells himself. You have no right anymore to think like this. And no need.
Whatever the reason for this midweek escapade, Asif has to admit they make an eye-catching pair, brother and sister, laughing together. Suddenly, he remembers: it was her birthday yesterday. This dinner celebration is a birthday treat.
How could Asif have forgotten! Every year on her birthday, he gives Pia a gift—something that, based on her chatter through the year, he knows she wants. Nothing expensive, maybe a CD or chocolates or a book, but Pia-missy always makes a big deal of it. When she cuts her birthday cake, she saves a piece for him and sends it down through Pushpa. He had bought this year’s gift from the Air Conditioned Market a couple of months back, after Pia mentioned how cool it would be to have a mood ring. It’s packed away in his painted trunk, under his bed in his new room, along with the photograph she took of him. Now he’ll never get the chance to give it to her.
As he stands, not sure what would be worse—her not knowing he’s there, or her noticing him—she turns. Her eyes widen. She pulls at Rajat’s sleeve, whispering. Does she want to say hello? Rajat shakes his head firmly and starts moving toward the restaurant. But Pia digs in her heels and stands with her hands on her hips, a stubborn stance that Asif knows well. They argue. Rajat throws up his hands. Then he softens—it is her birthday, after all—and puts his arm around her shoulder. He brings his mouth close to her ear. He’s explaining something. Is he telling her why Asif left them? Indignation rises in Asif like heartburn. He wants to inform Pia that whatever Rajat is saying is inaccurate. Even if Rajat has good intentions, how would he know Asif’s truth? Has he ever seen Asif, really seen him? Only Pia has, and that’s why what she believes matters to him. He wants to shout this across the rows of cars. But she’s turning away, walking with her brother toward the restaurant. The big doors swing open, light and music pour out, a chorus of fun-filled voices, and into that Pia disappears.
Asif yanks open the door of the Rolls and sits heavily in the driver’s seat. Forget her, forget her. He’s better off with Rehman. Maybe in a few months he’ll ask to go on that pilgrimage. His life could do with a transformation.
A car drives slowly across his line of vision. This one, too, is familiar, with its silver sheen. Sonia’s? Yes, there she is at the wheel, talking on her mobile. Did she see Rajat and Pia enter the restaurant? Of course she did. Clearly she followed them here. And now she’s going to go in and make sure they see her, too. Maybe create a scene. Spoil poor Pia’s birthday treat. Asif feels indignant. Then he’s just tired. He’s had it with the rich, their self-created, egotistical theatrics. Let her do what she wants. What is it to Asif?
But Sonia doesn’t go into the restaurant. She doesn’t even get out of her car. She drives slowly past the Mercedes, examining it intently. Asif stiffens. Is she planning to sabotage it? Visions of slit tires, even car bombs, whirl frantically through his head. But he’s overreacting. What’s wrong with him this evening? In another moment, she has passed the Mercedes. She turns her car sharply, exits the parking lot, and disappears into the dark.
What was that about?
I don’t care, Asif tells himself. It’s none of my business. He thinks of Pia again, how docilely she had nodded at her brother’s explanation of Asif’s perfidy. How easily she was convinced. She hadn’t looked back, not even once. He’s a fool to care, to think that there was a bond between them, an affection powerful and real, cutting across the compartments society had constructed. In the end, he’s just a chauffeur, easy to replace.
Every time I think of calling Rob Lacey, I grow dizzy. Twice I punch in the number and delete it. This is the most important call of my life, and I have only one chance. If I come across wrong—I’m not sure what he’ll do then. Hang up on me? Block me from calling again? Report me to the police for harassment?
“Stop stressing!” Vic says as he watches me chew on my lip. “Just be yourself.”
But I’m not sure my self is enough. “Take me to the ocean, please,” I say.
We cross a park with windmills and buffaloes and cascading nasturtiums. Finally we’re on a beach, the sands sprinkled with driftwood. I can see purple jellyfish and scuba divers in gleaming black suits. Circling gulls cry a raucous warning. Rocks like lopsided pyramids glint in the setting sun. And, yes, there are oleanders. Windswept, dusty, but still beautiful.
“Want me to stay?” Vic asks.
He’s brought me this far on my quest, and I’m grateful. But what I need to do now must be done alone.
“I’ll call you when I’m finished,” I say, then shiver at the word I thoughtlessly chose.
I unfold the material Mr. Desai faxed to the motel, information I still haven’t digested. Here’s a blurry photo. Professor Lacey—I don’t want to jinx my chances by thinking of him as father—has woolly hair cut close to his scalp. His glasses glint in the camera’s flash, obscuring his eyes, as he stands at a lectern, wearing a dark suit. His expression is pleasant but businesslike, a man who has places to go and doesn’t wish to waste time getting there. Not the kind of man who would drop all his responsibilities and fly out to meet a maybe-daughter.
The information about him is generic; Desai hasn’t had time to dig up anything eccentric or intimate. Lacey graduated from San Francisco State the year I was born and moved to Texas a year later. He has stayed with the same university all these years. He has a couple of books and several articles on ancient civilizations. He’s married—my heart twists a little at this—and has three children. His wife, also African-
American, is a nurse-practitioner at a local hospital. They are active in their church and well regarded in the community.
In short, he’s crafted for himself a complete, productive life. The last thing he needs is a grown daughter, an Indian, appearing out of the woodwork.
It’s not as if I have anything to lose, I tell myself. But that’s not true. I have something frail and precious right now: hope. I wonder how my life will feel if that’s gone. I punch in the numbers.
If he doesn’t pick up, I might never get up the nerve to call him again.
A deep, raspy voice answers, “Rob Lacey here.”
I have neither the desire nor the energy for subterfuge. I say, “Hi. My mother was Anu Roy, from Kolkata. I’m looking for my father, Rob Lacey. Are you him?”
There’s silence at the other end. Uneven breathing, as when someone climbs up a steep staircase.
“My name is Korobi, after the oleander.”
He makes a sound that could be a swift, soft curse. Then he says, “My daughter is dead.”
“Not really,” I say, feeling absurdly apologetic.
“No. I saw my daughter’s ashes when I went to India. I still have the death certificate somewhere.”
I’m at once taken aback and jubilant. So my father didn’t just continue with his life when informed of the deaths of his wife and daughter. He made an effort to find out what had happened. The knowledge is an unexpected gift, although I’m confused about the death certificate and the ashes. I look out across the ocean at the setting sun, with my father’s voice in my ear, and feel a sense of resolution at last. This is the view, I realize all at once, that my mother had shown me in my dream, the night before the engagement.
“You came to India? When?”
“Didn’t know that, did you, miss? Does this change your script? What kind of con game is this?” His tone is well on its way to hostility. “Are you trying to get some sort of paternity suit started? Let me tell you, you’ve come to the wrong—”
Oleander Girl Page 26