Season of Sacrifice

by Bharti Kirchner

  Ivan smiled. ‘But scientific and cultural exchanges are still going on between our countries. Lots of foreign scientists work in Russia, including many from India and Bangladesh.’

  ‘Oh, do you know any?’

  ‘Yes, I was studying science in Moscow, so naturally I had contacts with the scientists and became friends with several. My best friend, Viktor, a Bangladeshi scientist from Moscow, is here on an assignment.’

  Must be the dude Hank had spotted with Ivan. The charmer she’d made a point to share a table with at Betty’s. She wanted to formally meet him. ‘He’s Bangladeshi? He must speak Bengali then. That’s my mother tongue.’

  ‘He’s a bigwig where he works and makes a bundle of money.’

  She didn’t want to seem overeager to meet the man. With a dismissive laugh, she said, ‘Is that all you think women want?’

  ‘Pardon me for making such a generalization. I know you’re different – you’re a serious person.’

  ‘Tell me a bit more about your friend.’

  ‘Full name is Vikram Bhusan Chattopadhya. We call him Viktor. Born and raised in Bangladesh, he comes from the Bhusan Chattopadhya family, affectionately called the BC family. They’re wealthy and aristocratic. The lineage has deep roots. From what I understand, status counts as much as money does, if not more, in your corner of the world. And Viktor has status in Bangladesh. He’d be delighted to meet someone as pretty and fascinating as you, who even speaks Bengali.’

  She played hard to get. ‘I wish I could but my mother’s visiting. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Sure you want to pass it up?’ Ivan’s smile was charming.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. There are plenty of single women around who’d probably love to be introduced to your friend. The bars are packed every night.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Maya. He’s a great guy. I’d like to take him out for dinner. He drools at the mention of grilled lamb. Since you’re a nutritionist, could you tell me where I could get good grilled lamb?’

  ‘Taj India West is a favorite of mine – it’s spacious, elegant and fancy, a special occasion type of a place. I like Chef Arun Singh’s style – fusion cooking inspired by Indian spices and French techniques. I’m not a wine connoisseur but they do offer a varied wine list.’

  He slowed his pace. ‘Sounds divine. My mother has a proverb – appetite comes with eating. You’ll enjoy yourself when you get there.’

  ‘OK, then.’ The invitation was, indeed, an opportunity. Maya saw herself sharing a table with two suspects in a public place. Wine would flow; the aroma of grilled lamb would pervade the air. If the situation started to get sticky or worse, she would walk out.

  ‘Is your friend here strictly on business or for pleasure as well?’

  Ivan still smiled but his eyes turned watchful. ‘A bit of both.’

  She felt cold looking at him. Even the purplish-gray clouds in the bruised sky seemed to issue a warning. Rows of tall trees surrounding the lake gave the water an unnatural green tint. ‘He’s a scientist? I don’t suppose he specializes in malaria.’

  Ivan shot her a glance. ‘He does, actually. He’s a honcho in his company.’

  A chillier sensation spread over Maya’s neck.

  ‘Do you have a business card?’ Ivan asked.

  She considered, then fumbled in her purse and produced a colorful card from her past that read, Nourish: Eat Well, Live Well. That was followed by her name, a business phone number and email address.

  Ivan gave her an extravagant smile, plucked the card from her hand and scanned it carefully.

  Maya was about to turn when Uma swept into her mind. How her wise mother always insisted on finding out about a person’s background, including caste and family lineage, questions she felt were perfectly acceptable and which often led to more useful data.

  Maya adopted a look of exaggerated interest. ‘You can fill me in about Viktor, if you like.’

  ‘He’s not at all a geeky scientist. He works out a lot and is an engaging conversationalist. In Moscow, where I met him, we used to run in Gorky Park together. Some of our mutual acquaintances say he’s full of himself but I get along well with him. He’s as handsome as they come. And if you were to talk about high ideals, he has them. He loves eating out in restaurants, travels the world, likes to dance. Got the dance part from his mother, who danced to Bollywood tunes. He’s also down-to-business when he needs to be.’

  That description sounded too good to be true; warning bells chimed in Maya’s head. As they walked past a pile of dry leaves coated with mud, she fired another question, as though this man Viktor really intrigued her. ‘What town in Bangladesh?’

  ‘You want to check him out? His family is from the Chittagong district.’ Ivan gave her a triumphant look. ‘He wouldn’t mind getting married if the right woman came along.’

  She knew zilch about that district. And Viktor’s marital status was of no importance to her. ‘And, oh, changing the topic, another question concerning Sylvie—’

  A touch of fierceness fleeted across Ivan’s face. ‘You know you might regret …’

  The sun had vanished; the sky wore an ash-blue mantle. Maya halted, caught by the dark tone of his voice. ‘Regret? What? Why?’

  He stood, facing her. ‘A Russian cousin of mine used to say, “We Russians make good friends and the worst enemies.”’

  Broad daylight. Two mothers pushed strollers nearby and an exerciser did bar dips. Still, the sky above Maya tilted. She stalled for another instant. Obviously Ivan was warning her, intuiting she had suspicions about him.

  Ivan forced a smile. ‘Lighten up, will you? I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll fix a date and time for our dinner. And don’t concern yourself with that crazy message from a stranger.’

  Maya waved goodbye and turned toward a trail path bordering a golf course. She could feel Ivan watching her. The lush golf course, the pink roses on the trail’s chain-link fence and the white oak towering over the path in a neighborly manner failed to quiet her. That ultimatum came back to her: Back off or you’ll be dead.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Standing by the produce aisle in Organics Only the following weekend, Maya watched Uma, who stopped squeezing a kale bouquet and shoved it into the cart. A joyous yet surprising expression on her face, Uma asked, ‘Are we having anyone over for dinner tonight?’

  Come Saturday, Uma loved to fill the house with friends: the buzz of banter, long, slow meals lasting for hours and the sweet clatter of utensils, all of which she found so energizing. It crushed Maya to have to disappoint her, especially as Uma had wanted to invite Hank over. Here was Maya’s dilemma. Ivan had confirmed the dinner date less than fifteen minutes ago, just before Maya left the house. ‘Sorry, Ma, I’ll be out on a dinner date.’

  ‘And the lucky man?’

  ‘A scientist from Moscow, a member of the aristocratic Bhusan Chattopadhya family of the Chittagong District in Bangladesh, the BC family. Have you heard of the family?’

  The glow faded from Uma’s face. ‘Of course. My mother used to tell stories about them. Although not as famous as the Tatas and the Birlas, they were apparently known in pre-independence India. They lived in East Bengal, which after independence was called East Pakistan. Eventually, after a bloody battle, it became the independent nation of Bangladesh.’

  ‘Give me a minute, Ma.’ Maya went to a quiet corner of the store, texted Simi Sen in Kolkata and asked about the BC family, then rejoined Uma. ‘While I wait for the official report, will you fill me in on what, if anything, you know about the BCs?’

  ‘At the time I was growing up in independent India, you couldn’t help but hear gossip about the BCs, even though they lived at least a hundred miles away in Bangladesh.’ Uma grabbed a few oranges and put them in the shopping cart. ‘They were rather prominent.’

  Maya pushed the cart toward the checkout counter. ‘No kidding. They were that famous?’

  ‘Infamous, I should say. Have you accepted the invitation?’

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nbsp; ‘Yes,’ Maya answered in a whisper.

  ‘You did?’ Uma’s voice rose as she walked alongside Maya. ‘Without first checking him out?’

  ‘Will you cool down, Ma?’

  Uma shot a few glances over her shoulder. ‘It gives me the chills.’

  Already mired in doubts about Ivan and his associate, Maya wondered if she’d made the wrong move. She paid for the produce, hastened to the parking garage, helped Uma into the passenger side and plopped into the driver’s seat, only then catching her breath.

  She merged with the traffic. A blue sedan came terrifyingly close then passed her, took a right turn at an exit sign and disappeared. She got a quick view of the driver, a beefy man of about forty, whom she’d never seen before, and the full license plate number: AMH2647. She’d have to track down the owner of the automobile.

  Within minutes, Maya turned on her street and coasted into her driveway. Together, she and Uma mounted the porch steps. Maya glanced around before inserting her key into the door lock. Did she hear a small, crackling sound somewhere?

  Once inside the living room, her intestines icy, Maya asked, ‘So what’s the big deal about my seeing that guy?’

  ‘Does it matter so much if you’re dateless on a Saturday night? Are you so bored with me?’

  ‘I’m not bored with you. That’s not it.’

  ‘Wait till you hear all the reports.’

  Uma went to the kitchen with the groceries, leaving several troubling questions in Maya’s mind.

  Half an hour later, Maya received a phone call. Simi Sen greeted her from the other end.

  ‘Got something for me already?’ Maya asked her boss.

  ‘Yes, we have access to databases and informers and, personally, I know a bit about the BC family. You’re going to have your hands full. It’s a fairytale and a nightmare blended together. The BC family, those crooks, as I remember from my childhood days, lived in style in a big gated mansion in Chittagong. They were believed to have revived the ancient principle of Sleep Temple, also called Dream Temple, and profited hugely from it.’

  ‘Sleep Temple? Dream Temple? Never heard of either.’

  ‘You’re far too young, Maya. A Sleep Temple, a shrine of sorts, was a healing sanctuary where people brought their sick relatives, where you would literally lie down, fall asleep and receive waves of hypnotic suggestions.’

  Were drugs part of the equation? ‘So it’s hypnotherapy?’

  ‘Hypnos means sleep in Greek. So yes, it is, in a way, hypnotherapy. The BC family, going generations back, lived in a village, which at the time belonged to India and is now a part of Bangladesh. Hypnotism was a skill handed down by the male members of BC families from one generation to another. They could make people do things. Some insist they actually cured people of their ailments – mental, physical or spiritual – and they specialized in heartbreaks of various types.’

  Were Sylvie and Anna drugged and hypnotized? ‘How interesting,’ Maya replied. ‘How did they manage to cure heartbreaks?’

  ‘With loving, hypnotic words, I believe.’ Sen drew a portrait verbally and Maya visualized it so clearly: a tiny chamber in a hamlet, a simple cot covered with a thin mattress, a pillow fragrant with a fresh herbal scent, a lit lantern flickering on a nearby table and sunset outside the window. The patient lay on the bed and took deep breaths, eyes closed and body covered with a white muslin sheet. A priest and his retinue popped in and surrounded the patient’s bed. They sang, chanted, recited mantras and beat drums. In a deep, heartfelt, hypnotic voice mingled with the various sounds, a male member of the BC family made powerful suggestions, planting the seeds of healing in the patient’s deeper mind. I’m getting better. My eyes can see clearly now. My legs are strong and supportive. My heart is pure, new. I’m whole and complete and safe, immersed in this ocean of love. Those positive suggestions enveloped the patient like a warm blanket and even created a hallucinatory effect, until she fell into a deep slumber.

  ‘Do you suppose they administered a few narcotics—?’

  ‘To lower the resistance to getting into the trance state?’ Sen said. ‘That could very well have been the case. Getting back to my story – night after night, like a puppet, the patient lived in a semi-conscious, relaxed state and accepted the suggestions in her subconscious mind, which supposedly cast out bad influences. If she was at all receptive, those suggestions began to take root. Upon awakening from the trance, she felt better, even though she wouldn’t remember much. The symptoms, in many cases, went away. And, supposedly, after a few such sessions, the patient was on her way to getting her life back.’

  ‘I suppose the patients were mostly women?’ Maya asked.

  ‘Yes. We ladies give too much of ourselves to those around us and often don’t get enough back. It’s different with men. Men are like pillars. How many will admit their heart is so broken they can’t function?’

  ‘Is there any scientific evidence of such a cure?’

  ‘Aren’t there mysteries science hasn’t been able to penetrate?’ Sen said. ‘This is one of them. You see, the cure depends on how suggestible a person is. Individuals differ in that respect. I’m told many patients did reverse their conditions, although they were made to believe a mysterious power had waved a hand and healed them.’

  ‘You don’t actually believe people can be influenced so easily, do you, from where you sit?’

  ‘I go back and forth, only because I see instances of such influence every day. A billboard, a television ad or an Internet pop-up does a similar sort of thing when it screams out the name of a product or service. It flaunts before you pleasant, sometimes lurid images of the results you’ll get if you spend money on it. If you repeatedly expose yourself to the ad or hear the product name sung to you, you’re likely to go for it, aren’t you?’

  Maya mulled that over. ‘Yes, I would. But both you and my mother seem to have quite a bit of hesitation about the BC family.’

  ‘Perhaps because both of us have heard stories about how they misused their talking cure to take advantage of patients, generally young women who had suffered major losses in their lives and were, therefore, vulnerable. They’d get them high and talk them into having sex with the male hypnotist. A remedy of some sort, I presume.’

  Maya remained silent and allowed Sen to continue.

  ‘Because the BC family members were such experts at this “cure,” it wasn’t hard to get the patients to pay through the nose for the treatment, and so, over time, the clan became quite wealthy. That’s not a good thing in my book. They claim they use the money for charitable purposes but who’s keeping track?’

  ‘Narcotics – that makes sense,’ Maya replied. ‘But all this was a long time ago. I doubt the family could continue this type of a scam.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. During the troubled days of Bangladeshi independence, those practices stopped or went underground. My guess is they were kept secretly alive by the family members. It wouldn’t surprise me if the cheats and puppet masters were again back to their game. To get what they want. Wherever they can find it. And whoever might fall for it. The family is known to be pretty ruthless. Most of the males in the family study either chemistry or medicine. They grow many types of plants in their family home, some of which are believed to be intoxicants.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they smuggle drugs here?’

  ‘No need,’ Sen replied. ‘You can get plenty there. Let’s talk more after your dinner date. Be sure not to lie down anywhere near this guy. Now, I have to go to a client appointment.’

  After disengaging, Maya emailed Hank and asked him to research the Sleep Temple concept. Less than an hour later, a reply from him popped up.

  ‘Who came up with this Sleep Temple scheme, you ask? Ancient Indians or Egyptians – who can say for sure? Regardless, it took hold in India. You explained to me once how India tolerates, even absorbs, all sorts of notions, however bizarre they might be, and makes them work. Sleep Temple is a prime example. And that license plate nu
mber you wanted me to look up? The car owner’s name is Chuck E. Davis. He has no criminal record. That’s all I’ve got for now, Maya.’

  Chuck E. Davis – a familiar name. He was a retired policeman, a former colleague of Justin. She’d heard the name from Justin, although she’d never met him. Why would he be following her?

  Maya turned, only to see Uma standing at the doorway. She recounted the details, except for the Chuck Davis part, adding, ‘Don’t concern yourself about my date. We’re meeting in a public place, Ma, not a sleep shrine. Other diners will be around. Ivan, too, will be there to introduce us and we have a rapport of some sort. I’ll be sure to have an exit strategy ready if I sense something’s wrong. I’m not easy to zap – I don’t believe in hypnosis. I know better than to drink anything that’s not bottled.’ She paused. ‘Do you have any other friends or relatives in India who I might contact to get an additional scoop?’

  Yes, Minerva and Urvasi – you’ve met both my friends. They still have relatives in Bangladesh and visit them often. They might be able to give you a fuller picture. Let me dig up their numbers.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The same afternoon, with a few hours to go before her dinner date, Maya received Bill Cameron at her house, Justin’s fishing buddy. A gregarious ex-Californian, Bill had a broad white smile and tousled blond hair. Although Maya had met him through Justin, they’d formed their own friendship. Standing in her backyard, Bill asked Maya for her advice on installing an herb garden on his patio. Maya offered her suggestions, then led him into chit-chat, mentioning Justin’s name only in passing. Jokingly, Bill said that both he and Justin had been eaten by mosquitoes earlier this summer while fishing in the Sierra. But given that Jennifer worked for a malaria clinic in Seattle, they’d surely be able to get prompt medical treatment, should that ever be necessary.

  Malaria clinic, Maya noted breathlessly, put on an innocent look and asked, ‘Jennifer?’