Spark: A Novel

by John Twelve Hawks

  “Did Jafar Desai work for your company?”

  “No! Worse than that! He’s my son-in-law. I have five children, Mr. Underwood. All four of my sons have joined our company. One is an excellent worker. Two are adequate. One is a failure. But the real problems have all been caused by my only daughter, Nalini. I spoiled her, Mr. Underwood. I will admit that. She wanted to go to university and told me that it would enable her to find a suitable husband. I foolishly consented to her attending Nehru University … a notorious left-wing institution. My daughter majored in art history. The history of what? Pretty paintings. What could possibly go wrong? And then, in her third year of study—”

  A soft buzzing sound came from over the doorway. Mr. Pradhani picked up a black plastic device that looked like a television remote control. When he pressed a button, the door lock clicked open and Miss Mehta entered with a tray that held a teapot, fragile-looking china cups, and a plate of coconut cookies.

  I liked the way Miss Mehta placed each article from the tray on the invisible straight lines that led from the edge of the glass coffee table. Then she poured a cup of tea for Mr. Pradhani, adding cream and three cubes of sugar.

  “Cream and sugar, Mr. Underwood?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  “You Westerners are so sensitive about germs,” Pradhani said. “This water has been boiled. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t want tea at this moment.”

  Pradhani flicked his fingers and Miss Mehta bowed her head and retreated from the room. For a few minutes, we both sat there without speaking. I stared at the gold and blue teapot while Pradhani pushed two cookies into his mouth.

  “Do you have any children, Mr. Underwood?”

  I shook my head.

  “When children are young, they think they can do whatever they wish to do. They don’t always realize that they are connected to a family of the past and a family in the future.”

  “So what did your daughter do?”

  “During Nalini’s third year of study, she met a young man named Jafar Desai. He was a Kachchi Patel, a lower caste than ours. Jafar said his father was a government official, but he made tea. This is not a theory, but a fact. My brother’s friend saw him making tea for a division head at the Ministry of Surface Transport. And the mother, of course, was nothing—squatting in the dirt to make dung patties while the flies buzzed around her face.”

  “But your daughter fell in love?”

  “Love!” Pradhani spat out the word. “Too many romantic films, Mr. Underwood. Too many romantic songs. Yes, she was infatuated, and Jafar saw an opportunity. They announced that they were engaged and, because they were ‘modern,’ there would be no dowry. I should have had Jafar killed, but he defended himself with paper armor—his examination papers. He was clever and had done well in school. So after many tears and much negotiation, I consented to the marriage. You should have seen this family at the wedding! I caught one of his aunts stuffing food into her purse.”

  Another cookie disappeared into his mouth. “They both moved to Gujarat and we gave him a job. At first, this was one level higher than a tea boy—a clerk’s job in Operations. But gradually, it became clear to all of us that Jafar was intelligent and a hard worker. When Nalini gave birth to a son, I gave Jafar an important job. He became an assistant to the man who was in charge of our black money accounts. Most of this money comes from reporting real estate deals as much smaller than they actually are. We send the money out of the country using the hawala networks, then invest those funds in overseas businesses. I can assure you we pay our share of taxes here in India. But why should we give everything to those scoundrels in the government?”

  A sip of tea. “Everything seemed to be going well. Then the man in charge of our black money had heart problems. He retired and Jafar took his job. We are a well-known family who respect tradition. Yes, Jafar was a lower caste, but he acted in a quiet, conservative manner … no Italian sports car or a vulgar mistress. He and Nalini built a house that was exactly right for their income and position.”

  “But there was a problem?”

  “Two weeks ago, we needed to withdraw money from one of our international accounts, but our contact in Malaysia never received the transfer. On Friday, Jafar told me that he would look into the problem, but over the weekend Jafar, Nalini, and their son, Sanjay, disappeared from their home. There was still food in their cupboards, clothes in their closets. Their cars were still in the garage. We thought that they had been kidnapped by criminals or terrorists, then my oldest son discovered that six of our black money accounts had been looted. Jafar had transferred the funds so many times that we couldn’t track the final destination. This was not a small sum of money, Mr. Underwood. He had betrayed me, betrayed our family, and stole approximately forty million American dollars.”

  “And then he passed through the Dubai airport,” I said. “And he sent an e-mail to a young American woman at BDG named Emily Buchanan.”

  Pradhani slapped his fist onto an open palm. “Yes! Correct! She was part of the plan!”

  “Are Jafar and his family in Dubai?”

  “No. They’re in Paris. An ordinary thief steals money and hides in the darkness, but not Jafar. Five days ago, he sent me a long e-mail that mentions Nalini’s inheritance. Naturally, she gets less than my sons because she’s a woman. That’s our tradition. Jafar said that he took Nalini’s ‘fair share’ and they’d moved to France. He boasted about his crimes … and then he threatened me. He swore that if anything unpleasant happened to him or Nalini, then all the information about the black money accounts would be displayed on the Internet.”

  “So Emily Buchanan is—”

  “Jafar’s insurance if he gets killed. Her identity was secret, of course, but then you found out about her and Miss Holquist contacted me.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Pradhani leaned forward as if he expected his own voice to emerge from my mouth. “I want you to fly to Paris. You can do that. Correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Right now, the criminals are living in a building near the Luxembourg Gardens. I’ll give you a few days to evaluate the situation and obtain a weapon. Then I want you to kill Jafar, Nalini, and their child.”

  For the first time since my Transformation, I felt something. Not anger. Or hatred. Or disgust. No emotions at all. But my Spark created a vision that I was falling through the stepwell. Looking up, I could see a circle of sunlight above me growing smaller and smaller until it vanished completely.

  “You want me to kill your grandson?”

  “Sanjay is not my true grandson. Poison is in the child’s blood. If we kill the father and let the son live, he will grow up and attack the rest of our family.”

  “I work for the Special Services Section.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You pick the target, but I follow their instructions. Not yours.”

  “I will pay five times your regular fee and my staff will transfer the payment into any account you wish.”

  I stood up quickly. My Spark was cloudy and weak at this moment and I wanted to be alone. “I’ll fly to Paris and neutralize Jafar. But any other targets require approval from Miss Holquist.”

  Pradhani shook his head. “I expected to meet a soldier, a coldhearted warrior. Instead, they send me a clerk with a gun.”

  “Yes, I’m an employee. I receive and complete job orders. If my work is satisfactory, I receive payment for my services.”

  Pulling the phone out of my pocket, I walked over to the desk and picked up the revolver. Mr. Pradhani’s sleepy eyelids opened fully when I pointed the gun at his head.

  “Laura, access downloaded emotion file,” I said. “Show fear.”

  Almost immediately a photograph of the French actor Jean LeMarc appeared on the touchscreen. It pleased me that the black-and-white image of fear matched the expression on Mr. Pradhani’s face.

  “I don’t care about your family or the stolen mon
ey or any of the other things you’ve mentioned. I like dogs, Mr. Pradhani. But I’m indifferent about you.”

  I pressed the release button, swung the cylinder out from the revolver, then tilted the gun backward and let the bullets fall into my left hand. After pocketing the ammunition, I tossed the weapon into the trash basket.

  “Give me the address and the photographs. I’ll be in Paris tomorrow.”

  When I reached the Delhi airport, I sent a message to Miss Holquist:

  // Met with the client in India. He asked for extra work that was not mentioned in our original discussion. I told him to contact you regarding this matter. On my way to Paris.

  Then I flew nonstop to France and spent the night at the Ibis Hotel at Charles de Gaulle Airport. The Ibis was a transit hotel for travelers arriving or leaving on a plane. It was clean and functional with fluorescent lightbulbs that hummed softly. Bare walls.

  I like hotels where you can check in at an electronic kiosk and never have to speak to a desk clerk. I dislike a gold-wrapped chocolate on my pillow, a turned-down sheet, a bathroom towel folded so that it resembles a flower, or any other “personal touch” that gives humans the illusion that they are surrounded by a friendly universe. In reality, the universe is neutral about our existence. Only dogs care.

  I would have preferred to stay at the airport during my time in France, but my target lived in the center of Paris. It would take me several days to watch Jafar and his family, obtain a weapon from a supplier, and come up with a plan. The next morning, I told Edward to make a reservation at a hotel on the Left Bank, then drank a bottle of ComPlete and checked out.

  The train clattered past dairy farms where white cows were grazing or staring at the horizon. Darkness as we entered a tunnel tagged with graffiti, and when we returned to sunlight the pastures had been replaced by modern apartment buildings with balconies and red-tile roofs. Looking up, I saw that overhead wires had divided the sky into a grid.

  Surveillance cameras were everywhere, but two young men stood near the tracks spray-painting gigantic words on a retaining wall: JEUNESSE SANS AVENIR!

  I typed the words into my computer and spoke to Edward. “Translate, please.”

  “Youth without a future.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Checking, sir …” As always, Edward’s voice was calm and polite. “The language analysis program states that it is ‘a pessimistic slogan popular with antisocial elements.’ ”

  The train stopped at a suburb called Aubervilliers that was filled with big, chunky housing projects that looked like stacks of children’s blocks. Back into darkness, and then we arrived at Gare du Nord. This was my first time in Paris and my Spark was vibrating rapidly as I found the Metro entrance and bought a card for ten rides.

  The Paris Metro smelled different than the New York subway—perhaps because of the rubber tires on the cars. When the train entered the station with a whooshing sound my mind saw a steel-blue color like a knife blade. I took a train to the Left Bank and when I emerged from the underground I was standing next to the Seine. The river was a dark green ribbon of energy contained within a stone channel. On the other side of a bridge, there was a huge building with spires and towers and flying buttresses holding the walls together.

  Paris wasn’t as dusty as India and beggars weren’t tapping on the car window, but the city made me uncomfortable. The Parisians on the Left Bank didn’t march forward in straight lines like the office workers climbing out of the subway on Wall Street. I disliked the open-air booksellers with their metal boxes filled with books beside the river. I disliked the cafés on the Quai des Grands Augustins with their small round tables and the curved-line chairs—everything too random and squeezed together.

  I had made a reservation at a hotel that was a few blocks away from the Pont Neuf bridge. The desk clerk took me upstairs in a tiny elevator that couldn’t speak or answer voice commands. Instead of a plastic access card, I was given an ornate key with a thick silk tassel that I had to carry around in my pocket. The furniture in my room was carved with scrolls and flowers and there were framed drawings of ballet dancers on the walls. I covered the bathroom mirror with newspaper and masking tape, drank a bottle of ComPlete, and then asked Edward if there were any messages.

  “No e-mail, sir. Do you wish to contact someone?”

  “No, thank you. Switch off now.”

  Lying on the bed, I tried to come up with a plan for finding Jafar Desai and his family. But gradually these practical thoughts were pushed away and images of India floated through my mind. I was sitting in the back of the Ambassador, leaving the airport for downtown Delhi. The driver turned his head, and I realized that it was Mr. Pradhani.

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  I knew that the little girl was tapping on the window, but I refused to turn my head and see her.

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  Mr. Pradhani nodded and I saw a revolver lying on the seat beside me. It had a long barrel and an ivory handle and looked like an old-fashioned six-shooter from a cowboy movie. I realized that Pradhani wanted me to pick up the gun, cock the hammer back with my thumb, and shoot the child on the other side of the glass.

  Tap-tap.

  But now my eyes opened and I realized I was lying on a bed in a hotel room. I fumbled around in the darkness for my phone and Laura responded immediately:

  “Good evening, Mr. Underwood. How can I help you?”

  I wondered what my Shadow would say if I described the situation. Most speech-recognition systems listened carefully to your statements and then repeated them back to you using different phrases. Dr. Tollner, the hospital psychiatrist, followed the same pattern.

  “Laura …?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Should I kill a child?”

  “It sounds like you’re feeling uncertain about killing a child. So why do you feel that way, Mr. Underwood?”

  “I’m not uncertain at all,” I said, and switched her off.

  If Miss Holquist refused Pradhani’s request, then I would kill Jafar. If she agreed to his request, then I would neutralize all three members of the family. I could think of no logical reason why I should refuse this assignment. Both Good and Evil were only words swirling through my thoughts like dead leaves pushed by the wind.

  But I found it difficult to sleep. Back in New York, I could have walked across the Brooklyn Bridge or followed a straight line up Sixth Avenue, but this was a foreign city with narrow, crooked streets. I needed thoughts that were powerful enough to push away the image of the child, so I propped myself up with pillows and entered the shadow land of memory.

  After the motorcycle accident, I was in a coma for three weeks and two days. According to my medical file, I was breathing, my heart was beating, and there was neural oscillation—which meant that my central nervous system was generating electrical activity that followed a silent rhythm.

  But my thoughts were lost in a darkness that was constant and absolute. My Spark was buried alive, trapped in a tomb, while my Shell was static, unmoved.

  The record shows that my case was discussed every two or three days by the staff of the hospital’s intensive care unit. Was I in a permanent coma? Should I be moved to a convalescent facility? During this entire period, there was only one inexplicable moment recorded in the “Staff Comment” section of my chart:

  Patient’s primary surgeon consented to pet therapy for comatose patient. Handler arrived with dog #3, “Diamond.” Handler placed dog on bed next to patient and nurse lifted patient’s right arm and placed it on Diamond’s back. No response for approximately five minutes, then nurse began moving patient’s hand in petting motion along Diamond’s back. Patient eyes fluttered, but did not open. Mouth moved slowly. When nurse removed hand from dog, face stopped moving. Nurse returned hand to dog. Finger moved slightly in stroking motion.

  Did the softness of the dog’s fur and the warmth of its skin touch some primitive core within my brain? Did the dog’s energy somehow ent
er my body? It’s only past a certain point that I can recall what happened. First I saw fragments of scattered light that flashed within dark clouds and then disappeared:

  As time passed, these fragments melted into lines, became connected, and formed a rotating wheel of luminous energy.

  The wheel moved faster and faster until it was condensed into the Spark—a single point of light contained within a Shell.

  Have you ever seen a spark explode from a campfire? Pushed upward by the hot air, it darts, then drifts, then rises up above the flames. A spark is a brief event, a fragment of fire that is absorbed by the darkness.

  But my Spark—

  Remained.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw a plastic IV bag hanging from a steel pole near the edge of my hospital bed. The bag seemed alive at that moment, like a translucent jellyfish floating in the sea.

  Although it was painful to move, I could see objects clearly and could smell the hospital around me. The different way I perceived scent was the first sign of my Transformation. Yes, I could identify smells like a living person—the stench of dry blood and spilled urine not quite masked by the bleach-laundered sheets and the pine-scented disinfectant they used to mop the floors. But now these smells combined into a color that I could see in my mind. And the color wasn’t yellow like urine or red like blood. When I closed my eyes, I saw an ash gray.

  Darkness. And when I opened my eyes again, a middle-aged woman with wavy hair and a thin, pointed nose stared down at me.

  “Mr. Davis? Are you awake? Can you hear me, Mr. Davis?”

  I was looking at a human face, but there was no meaning there. I could perceive the physical movement of the woman’s lips and eyebrows and the subtle adjustments of her head. But this Human Unit was as indecipherable as a water pump or a sewing machine. Although my Shell was numb with drugs and pain, my Spark instantly perceived this limitation and realized that some sort of capability had been lost.