‘It’s really too painful to go back to our last few weeks together. It wasn’t fun anymore. We argued. Hell, it was like seeing a train wreck before your eyes. You know what I mean?’
‘How did you cope?’
‘I started seeing other women, of course.’
Colder air blew in; summer would soon draw to a close. Maya shoved her hands in the slash pockets of her fleece vest. ‘I can only imagine how you must feel about the loss, even if you weren’t together at the end.’
Ivan, staring off in the distance, didn’t seem to hear her. Or maybe he didn’t want to express more of his feelings. Or he was hiding something.
A dry twig fell from a tree and struck Maya’s forehead. ‘I’ll peel off here.’ She pointed to a path that led to the parking lot. ‘When will you be back here next?’
‘Next Monday at about the same time. Hope you’ll join me. And do stay away from that meditation group.’ He held her gaze and spoke in a grim tone. ‘You’re the type they prey on – young, lovely, unattached.’
‘I’d make a lousy member of that group.’
‘I can see you’re different from her.’
He left an unsaid ‘but’ hanging and shook hands with her, his grip strong enough to put her on edge.
TWELVE
The next morning, Maya entered the back room of her office.
‘Good morning,’ Hank said, typing away at his desk. He paused and turned his chair to fully face Maya. ‘Thanks for turning me on to rosgullas at Jeet’s shop. Weird stuff, even better than raj bhog – they’re now a daily habit of mine. I shared a piece with my critique group buddy who writes purple prose. He put it this way, “Sweet, tender rounds, like a poetic phrase cloaked in fragrant flowing syrup.”’
Maya claimed a chair. ‘Wait till you taste my mother’s.’
‘I’m waiting. I must tell you, though, I feel for Jeet. The lady’s scared. Somebody left a dead rat at her front door. That has never happened before and she thinks it has a meaning. Who could hold a grudge against a sweet-shop lady who feeds you samples and gives you a discount whenever she can?’
Oh my God. ‘It has to do with Anna – that’d be my guess. Jeet was one of the few people who knew her well. Someone’s trying to scare Jeet so she’ll keep her mouth shut.’
‘Talk about getting weirded out.’ Hank recapped his efforts on the Sylvie case so far. He hadn’t been able to access Sylvie’s email, Facebook or credit records, all due to a lack of authorization. His calls to Sylvie’s lab had gone unanswered. He’d even disguised his voice and assumed a new identity before telephoning the meditation studio, but the woman at the other end had replied she was only an answering service and couldn’t elaborate. ‘And I thought cranking out short fiction was punishing work.’
‘Stay with it.’ Maya rose, turning toward the front office. ‘Something’s got to break.’
‘Perfect, boss. And thanks for getting me in the gym.’ Hank smiled brightly. ‘Ivan and I are now chums. I’ll have more scoop for you soon.’
The same evening, at 7 p.m., Maya and Uma attended the candlelight vigil in memory of Sylvie and Anna. Under a grove of red oak trees, Veen and her family, friends, community activists and Tibet-sympathizers assembled on the northern shore of Green Lake. Harsh blue light from the street lamp accentuated their faces.
Absent was the prayer group that had surrounded Sylvie and Anna during their self-immolation. A surprise, if indeed they were in cahoots with the two women. Maya recalled the single familiar face among them – a ruddy-skinned, mustachioed man, someone she’d occasionally seen in the neighborhood. In the last several days, taking long walks through streets near her home, Maya had tried to track him down, to no avail. Her eyes now searched for Ivan. He wasn’t present, either.
The mourners floated wood-frame white paper lanterns on the lake surface. Candles tucked inside them made each lantern gleam like a teardrop in flames. Heads bowed, holding visions of peace, the crowd maintained several moments of silence. That was followed by a few short speeches.
Standing there and listening, Maya was reminded of an in-depth article she’d browsed on the Internet that very morning, a follow-up story about the death of Sylvie and Anna. Evelyn Manus, a social scientist, had made the following observation: ‘Denial, remorse and soul-searching are some of the stages of grieving that often lead to final acceptance.’ To that list Maya could add one more item: finding the real story underneath the calamity. She pictured Sylvie. A velvety-black curtain of hair framing her face, Sylvie urged Maya in that direction, which made her investigation that much more important.
Once the speeches ended, Veen, seemingly ill at ease, scooped Maya into an embrace and said in a desperate whisper, ‘See you tomorrow at four p.m., like our usual.’ With a hurried goodbye, she vanished.
Veen’s mother, Angie-Auntie, pulled Maya aside. The robust woman, divorced for decades, usually maintained the poise that came from her years as a college professor and a public intellectual but not today. Eyes crimson and sunken deep in their sockets, her hair unkempt, she pointed to a wreath-style gold chain at her neck and said in a sad, low voice, ‘Tuesday would have been Sylvie’s birthday. During my recent visit to Delhi, I bought this chain for her. She loved gold, you know.’
Silence gnawed at Maya. The genuine gold bangle bracelet on Sylvie’s wrist the day she’d died flashed in her mind.
‘I feel horrible for Veen,’ Angie-Auntie continued. ‘I wish I knew what to do for her.’ At Maya’s troubled glance, she added, ‘Yesterday, she wrote a long, loving note to Sylvie then tore it into pieces. She hardly eats. Anyhow, keep an eye on your friend, will you, dear? You’re her anchor.’
An anchor – steady, unshakable, grounded. If only Maya could describe herself that way. She also wondered if Angie-Auntie was trying to make a point about her daughter being implicated in Sylvie’s death, if only unconsciously. Veen was not her favorite offspring, by any means.
That night, in her dream, Maya slept in a satin bed covered by a warm, creamy blanket. Someone hovered over her bed, as though trying to inhale her fragrance. She could hear his short, fast and evil-smelling breath, which blocked out all other night sounds.
Who is he? How did he get in? What does he want?
An arm snaked around her throat, tightened, then tightened some more, its touch slippery.
Maya didn’t know she was screaming until Uma’s voice from outside the door registered. ‘Are you all right?’
Maya sat up in darkness, shaking. ‘Yes, Ma, sorry to wake you. It was only a bad dream.’
She stayed awake for a long time, reflecting how much the two deaths – from the first-hand observation and countless replaying in her mind – were embedded in her psyche now. She’d have no rest until she could cut through the fog of enigma that surrounded the event.
Still mulling over that dream the next morning, Maya dragged a chair up to the breakfast table where her mother arranged platters. A spicy aroma drifted into the air. Uma looked fresh and pulled together in her light yellow sari bordered with vermilion.
Maya mumbled a ‘good morning’ and served herself from the platter of Indian comfort food: poori aloo, a combination of freshly prepared flatbread and a potato sauté. She gave Uma an appreciative glance.
Uma nodded knowingly. ‘Go ahead and fill up, my dear. Our poori aloo also empowers you. You go out, look the world in the eye and say, “Bring it on,” or whatever the current expression is. No insipid, squishy croissants for me, thank you. My stomach turns at the thought.’ She pointed at the third platter containing spongy, white rounds of luscious raj bhog drenched in sugar syrup. ‘I found these in the fridge. Tried one – heavenly. Who made them?’
Maya squirmed in her seat; Anna’s touch might still be in those concoctions. She poured out to Uma about her visit to the sweet shop and the things of interest she’d gathered about Anna. She glossed over the part about the sweet-maker’s dalliance with a supposedly bad character, so as not to wipe the gentle express
ion from Uma’s face.
Uma cocked her head to one side. ‘My God! Both Sylvie and Anna were of Tibetan origin and involved with malaria prevention?’
‘You keep up with malariology, do you?’
‘Oh, yes. I read all the tidbits I can get my hands on. Remember Doctor Palas, my malaria physician in Kolkata? Bless him. He recently made a visit to a malaria center in Holland. After he returned, I pumped him for all the tidbits I could get. Once the fever has made you feel like you’re on fire, you can’t help but be vigilant.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘The money angle, of course. Any research institute that comes up with a low-cost commercial malaria vaccine can hope to benefit from it. Pharmas will do anything to get hold of such a formula. They could mass market it and make a killing. There’s also a do-good angle. Doctor Palas hopes that a scientist with benevolent intentions will try to make such a vaccine a low-cost solution available to all.’
‘Well,’ Maya said, standing, ‘thank you for the lovely breakfast. Now I have to go run some errands.’
‘Keep out of trouble, my dear child.’ Affection shaded by fear filled Uma’s eyes. ‘I can do a few searches from home and not arouse any attention but you’re out there, stepping on toes. Evil people might try to stop you, like they stopped Atticus.’
‘No worries, Ma, I pay close attention to what’s going on around me. I’m not like Atticus. I don’t drive to the grocery store at midnight. Besides, don’t you see the danger Atticus and his guru are in? It goes beyond that. Atticus talks about his “Sylvie connection” that got him into a predicament he’d rather not have. Veen, her family, you and I all have that in common now. Those evil men out there could strike again unless I—’
‘You sound like your father.’
Maya noticed Uma’s misty eyes and allowed her a few moments. Even after so many decades, Uma had a difficult time talking about her late husband, a police detective in India who had met an untimely death at the hands of an assassin. He’d been stalked for weeks prior to his murder, in what would remain an open case.
‘Do I, really?’
‘You slip in too many questions or you imply them,’ Uma said. ‘Lie low, dear. Wrong questions scattered on wrong ears sprout like poisonous weeds.’
A warning came to Maya’s head and ramped up her pulse. ‘Have you seen that blue sedan lately?’
‘Yes. It passed by here yesterday.’
Maya stood stock-still for a moment. Somehow, she must get the full license plate number. Uma’s worried visage haunted her as she went about her day. She called Uma several times to make sure she was all right, then swung down to Veen’s apartment in a four-story green complex in Fremont. She pressed the doorbell. It was a few minutes before four p.m.
Veen emerged, closed the door quickly behind her and drew Maya into a long hug, her eyes sparkling, if only for an instant. After they left the building and climbed into Maya’s car, Veen spoke in a desperate, low voice, her face worked up in frustration. ‘I’m going insane, living with loonies. Mom has practically gone on a hunger strike. I’m both worried and pissed off. She already has heart trouble and now this? My youngest brother, Ben, flew in from New York, along with his wife and children, and they’re all still here. I’m grateful to have a full house but there are times when I fucking wish I was alone. It’s a treat to be able to get back to our sipping sessions.’
In the warm enclosure of the vehicle, keeping in mind Angie-Auntie’s warning, Maya gave her best friend a close look. Her appearance had changed dramatically. Forever on a diet, Veen had been trying to lose the thickness around her waist without achieving any noticeable success. A week since Sylvie’s death, her face was gaunt, her cheeks pale and waistline slimmer.
‘They’re taking it hard.’ Veen fiddled with the cuff of her fresh white blouse, loose around her body and missing a button. ‘Either being totally silent or bitching at me and blaming me. Why didn’t I see it coming? What did I do to her?’
Maya sensed her melancholy and gave her a warm look.
‘You know, I was never my mother’s favorite,’ Veen continued. ‘I didn’t go into law like she’d hoped. I swear too much, I’m overweight, I don’t have a boyfriend – she can’t show me off. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she stopped all contact soon.’
Maya pictured Uma: a beaming face, her way of showing her acceptance of people was with an eager voice of welcome. To Maya, Uma’s approval signature was as important as the air she breathed. She couldn’t imagine ever losing that, of ever being thrown out of a warm nest. How dark Veen’s days must be. And yet, the questions Veen’s family had raised regarding Sylvie stuck in Maya’s mind.
She met Veen’s eyes. ‘Do you mind my asking why you and Sylvie didn’t get on?’
Veen sighed, became lost in reverie for an instant. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, ever. I do, however, owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you the other day. I love you, Maya. You’re the best. But I’d just gotten the news and wasn’t in my right mind. It seemed to me that you were needlessly digging into the incident.’
Maya waved a hand to erase Veen’s concerns, saying, ‘I accept your apology,’ but inside she was rattled. What did Veen do to Sylvie, if anything at all? She considered revealing to Veen what she’d found out so far from her visits with Jeet and Cal Chodron. Then she anxiously wondered how Veen would react to her exploits. Veen, unaware of Maya’s contract with Atticus to serve as a private investigator, might consider them intrusive, and that could affect their friendship. Maya would have to tread cautiously. She couldn’t bear the prospect of losing such a dear friend. The irony hit Maya: she was pursuing this matter at least partly because of Veen and yet couldn’t be straight with her.
‘Would you like to wander up to Revenge, get your blood sugar up?’ Maya asked.
‘Oh, yes. They have the best fucking bread pudding in town. Just wish the bowl was bigger.’
‘Do you know their secret?’
Veen winked at Maya. ‘Not arsenic, I hope.’
‘No, brioche,’ Maya replied, noting Veen’s odd humor.
Maya eased into the flow of traffic. Within minutes, she pulled up to the curb in front of the bakery, elated to find an empty spot to park in. She turned the ignition off.
Veen squinted at a pedestrian through the passenger window. ‘Holy shit.’
Maya peered out through the windshield to see a familiar male figure on the sunlit sidewalk; she fell back on her seat.
Detective Justin, lanky and informal in denim jeans and a blue sweatshirt, walked toward them on the sidewalk. Maya snapped her attention away from her former lover. For an instant, her insides did a dance as she imagined what his reaction might be upon bumping into the two of them. It had happened once before, at the same haunt, in the earlier days of their courtship. Maya! he’d exclaimed, hurrying over to her, his eyes softening. What a pleasant surprise. He’d said a warm hello to Veen, joined them for tea and bread pudding, and the three of them had spent the afternoon in lively conversation. But this time, on second thought, she had reservations about engaging with him. It wasn’t only because of her last encounter with him at his house, but also the way he’d left her so many months ago.
‘Oh, it’s Justin,’ Maya said casually.
A shadow crossed Veen’s face. ‘Look – he’s with somebody.’
Maya had only noticed handsome Justin. You mustn’t use tunnel vision when you’re casing, Justin used to say. Now her gaze locked onto his companion: a young Eurasian woman, no more than twenty and flat-out pretty, even though her hair was uncombed and she appeared to be helpless, troubled and needy.
‘Oh, she could be a colleague at the police station.’ It didn’t escape Maya’s attention that Justin was keenly aware of his companion. Even from inside the car, Maya could see how he drunk in her words as she giggled at his side and swung her arms. Although the bulge in his pocket indicated he was carrying a gun, his detective eyes weren’t scoping out the place, a
nd this a man whose philosophy had always been: Always know where you’re at. Instead, he clasped her hand, smiled with delight and, after jerking the bakery door open, placed his hand on the small of her back.
A heavy black curtain dropped before Maya; it darkened her senses. She fought the urge to start her car and dash off to another café. She was about to suggest this when Veen hopped out of the car, saying, ‘I’m curious. Come. Let’s be detectives ourselves.’
Reluctantly, not wanting the strong-willed, confident Veen to see how shaken she was, Maya followed her friend. They swung the door of the bakery slightly ajar and watched Justin lead his companion to a table on the right. He sat opposite her, leaned in and spoke. She planted a small kiss on his lips. He leaned toward her solicitously.
Maya drew in a breath; a stabbing pain in her heart choked her.
Her forehead settling into a frown, a note of apology in her voice, Veen whispered intently, ‘Shall we go someplace else?’
‘Sure.’
They walked back to the car. Pulling out onto the main road, Maya gave herself a pep talk. Nothing has been lost, Maya. He’s now only a ghost in your life. You’re doing fine without him, just fine. As she drove through thick traffic, Maya silently argued with herself. Why shouldn’t Justin date other women? He was young, still under forty and handsome, was he not? He had a winning personality, had he not? She struggled through a few turbulent ‘yes, but’ moments until a scene from the past surfaced in her mind.
They’d been seeing each other for about two years then. On that evening, he’d come back to her after work, making excuses about being so late, a different air about him. There had been many other troubling signs. On that three-quarter-moon night she couldn’t take it any longer; the ache inside had made her feel like she was about to burst. Her assertiveness winning out, she’d sat him down in her living room to have a heart-to-heart. ‘We need to talk.’
Season of Sacrifice Page 10