Flash House

by Aimee E. Liu

  Mrs. Shaw was speaking too hard and quick for me to interpret all she was saying, but I gathered that someone for whom she cared very deeply had gone missing, and she did not know what to do next.

  The man turned and put his hands on her shoulders. He spoke in a slow, strong voice with a wide accent that sounded British, but different from any I had heard before. It seemed to stretch, as if with the capacity to bind the space between them. I think Lawrence meant to calm Mrs. Shaw, but she was inside of herself now in a way that not even he could penetrate. At first I had thought he might be her husband. As I watched her push him away, I realized I was mistaken.

  In the same instant, however, I thought, if Mrs. Shaw won’t help me, and she will not permit Lawrence to help her, then perhaps he would help me!

  “Please, sahib” I said, appealing now in a new scramble of languages. “I will work for you. Clean, cook, sweep, I take care of you. Please, sahib, I am telling the memsahib, this place is no good for me. I must not be safe here. Come,” and I reached up and plucked at his fingers, prying his hand from her shoulder, feeling her skin and his at once and gathering strength from a connection that was yet barely a ripple in my mind.

  He stepped back from us both but looked at me, squinting against the rain of sun. I had succeeded in distracting him. “She’s the one,” he said, “isn’t she?”

  I straightened up and lifted my chin. Mrs. Shaw gave me a sad, brief nod. She studied me just for a moment, then hurried to her office.

  Both the man and I watched, wordless now, as she moved about in the open doorway gathering up her belongings—the straw man’s hat she had worn the day she tended Surie, a leather briefcase, her red pocketbook. As she recrossed the courtyard she said to Lawrence, “Stay here. Take care of her.”

  “Here! Jo, I’m coming with you.”

  But she was insistent. “It’s all right. You’ll be safe with him, Kamla.”

  Her voice was too high, too loud. She reminded me of a spring wound to the breaking point. She turned away, and the sun caught her face, flashing against tears.

  Lawrence took her arm. He would not let go, and before I could think how to keep either one of them, both had gone.

  2

  Joanna insisted on driving. “If I just sit I’ll go mad.” So Lawrence climbed in beside her and said nothing more.

  Her shoulders hunched, she chewed her lips, leaning over the steering wheel as if negotiating a typhoon rather than the slow crosscurrents of Indian cyclists and tonga traffic. When the car swerved, narrowly missing a beggar who had hobbled into traffic, Joanna blinked behind her dark glasses and recovered control without touching the brakes. She gripped the wheel so tightly that her knuckles looked carved, and watching her Lawrence felt a pang of remorse.

  Accidents happen, he told himself. Games can go wrong.

  Abruptly, she raked a hand through her hair and yanked the gold clips from her ears. With her high cheekbones and angular face, there was a ferocity about her even in the grip of denial. When Aidan had asked him to “keep an eye on her and Simon,” Lawrence had predicted this would not sit well with Joanna. But now she needed him. As he would need her.

  She let him accompany her as far as the American Ambassador’s anteroom. There, while a bobbed blond receptionist pored over her Time magazine, Joanna rummaged in her purse.

  “I don’t know how it’s gotten so late,” she said holding out a fistful of rupees. “Would you pick up Simon at school? Take him—I don’t know—swimming or something. Buy him an ice cream. Just don’t say anything about Aidan, all right? Not yet. There’s nothing to tell, yet. Right?”

  “Right.” Lawrence did not remind her that Simon was supposedly “busy” that afternoon, or that he had originally offered to do just as she was asking. Instead, he gently pushed the money back at her. “You sure you don’t want me to drop him home and come back here?”

  For a second he thought she might weaken. He had her hands between his, curling fingers over the wad of rupees. But she was a fortress, this one. Though he could feel that tremor of need run through her like an aftershock from an earthquake, it stopped abruptly.

  She shrugged and stuffed the money back in her purse, looking down as his hands fell away. “No. Thanks, but… I’ll meet you at the Cecil?”

  “Joanna,” he said, “you have no proof that Aidan’s even in danger.”

  She nodded but still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Outside the embassy a squadron of kneeling camels took up half the road. Indian traffic typically peeled around such obstacles, but a horse-drawn tonga stopped directly opposite made the bottleneck virtually impassable. The wagon was done up for a wedding with marigolds and rose petals, the white horse dressed in red and green and gold with a feathered headdress and mirrorwork blanket. The tonga driver and camel driver, deep in conversation, seemed oblivious to the honking motorists and cyclists.

  Lawrence strode over to the elderly tonga driver and offered to hire the rig for an hour. The bottleneck promptly opened.

  Luckily, the driver didn’t speak English. Though he shot Lawrence occasional curious glances, he left him to his thoughts. Which were as confused as they were guilty. Aidan would never have gone to Kashmir if it weren’t for Lawrence. Did that make him responsible? It would in Jo’s eyes—if she found out. It would in Jack Battersby’s, as well. “Just send him to stir up a little mischief,” Jack had instructed him. “Do your mate a favor.” But when favors went wrong there was hell to pay. Especially when the real favor was to Jack. During the war Battersby had once taken it into his head that a lad who’d given him a bum code in Hong Kong was serving the other side. By way of redress, he had the lad sent out to join the coast watchers in Guadalcanal. Poor bloke died of dysentery within the first month.

  This time, stripped of the cover of war, Jack had even more at stake. Oh, he’d couch it in terms of honor. International respect and cooperation. The defense of the free world. Serving the Alliance. In reality, it was all about claiming position. Jack wanted to be recognized as a player by Washington and Whitehall, but to achieve this recognition he had first to convince his own doubting government of the merit of an Australian foreign intelligence network. So he’d appointed Lawrence as his “free” agent and set Aidan as his pawn. Lawrence had heeded grudgingly, Aidan unwittingly. If one of them had to pay, it shouldn’t be Aidan.

  He could never let her know it, but Lawrence needed to find Joanna’s husband as badly as she did.

  Simon was waiting by the school gate. Nothing if not obliging, the lad let out a whoop of delight when Lawrence waved him aboard, and began pelting his classmates with handfuls of rose petals from the wagon’s bed as they lurched out of the car park. Then he climbed up front and the driver let him handle the reins.

  Simon gave Lawrence a puzzled look but evidently decided not to question a good thing. He took the reins and yelled a delighted “Giddyap!”

  He had sandy hair and light brown eyes, this boy, and teacup handle ears. He looked nothing like either of his parents, really, and yet was the image of both of them. Joanna’s coloring had crept into his skin and hair, and his eyes were the same elongated shape as Aidan’s. He had his father’s lean build, his mother’s candor, their combined intensity. When they got down by the Kwality ice cream cart in front of the hotel, Simon clutched the change Lawrence gave him and was nearly sucked under by the surrounding swarm of Indian schoolchildren, but when he eventually emerged he wore a triumphant expression and held his cone high as an Olympic torch.

  In the pool they splashed from one end to the other drawing scowls from a cluster of Brahmins sitting on the deck. Lawrence wiggled his ears at them, and Simon yelled his approval, kicking up fat droplets of water that sparkled like coins in midair. Lawrence threw him, shrieking, half the length of the pool, as once he had tossed his own son.

  “Watch, Lawrence!” Simon clambered out and up onto the diving board. He stood backward, breathing hard, arms tight a
t his sides. Lawrence watched from the shallow end expecting a backward somersault, but suddenly Simon crumpled as if punched in the stomach.

  The water broke with a bone-chilling crack as he tumbled in bottom first.

  Lawrence held himself back. Tried to check his imagination. This was not his son. He counted, one… two… three. The surface began to resolve itself, but the boy remained below.

  He took in a gulp of air and threw himself forward. Three long strokes, and he dove, got an arm under the sinking child. His own heart roared in his ears as he cradled Simon’s limp body to the surface. “Simon! Can you hear me!”

  The boy’s eyes flew open. The body squirmed.

  “Gotcha!” He let out a whoop and pounded Lawrence’s shoulder. “You should see your face! Boy, oh boy!”

  Lawrence felt a spasm of rage, convulsive as an electric shock. His grip tightened so that the child’s laughter ratcheted abruptly into fear.

  “Hey, Lawrence!” Simon gasped. “Hey, I give up! C’mon, let go!”

  But Lawrence could not let go. He found his footing on the ramp of the pool bottom. His hands closed on slippery ribs and shoulder blades—chicken bones, he’d once teased Davey. Were all small children so constructed, with this boggling union of fragility and recklessness? He pressed his cheek against the small forehead, smelled the residue of boy-dirt in the wet hair, chlorine seeped in the pores.

  “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, lad. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  For all that he remembered, he had forgotten this—the sensation of one small, brightly pounding heart, another complete universe pressed against his skin.

  Simon went silent. He brought his slight, strong arms up and clasped them around Lawrence’s neck, wrapped legs around his thick waist. They were still standing like this, rocking back and forth in the water when Joanna appeared at the far end of the pool deck, her gaze fixed on them.

  She walked unsteadily but quickly past the Brahmins. Lawrence took a deep breath and gave Simon a squeeze. “Here comes your Mem.”

  The boy loosened his grip, turning to his mother.

  “Simon!” she said in a voice too loud for her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Simon gave Lawrence a conspiratorial glance. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She frowned, lifting her head so her hat’s shadow cut across her mouth. “Of course. No reason. Time to get out, though.”

  “Why?” But the boy climbed out obediently, and Lawrence followed.

  “We’ve places to go and things to do.” She wrapped a towel around her son, pulling him against her. “I need to talk to Lawrence for a bit. Can you get changed by yourself?”

  “’Course I can!”

  As Simon pranced across the hot pavement to the dressing room, Joanna looked close to tears.

  Lawrence drew a towel over his shoulders. “What did he say?” he asked.

  She faced him. “I have to go up there. Aidan’s plane didn’t come back. Minton claims that’s all they know, but a rescue team has been sent out, so it seems to me there must be more.”

  “When will you go?”

  “Tomorrow. There’s a flight at eight in the morning.”

  “Minton gave you a permit?”

  She waved a hand. “He tried to talk me out of it. But I can’t just sit here twiddling my thumbs.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Thanks, but there’s no reason for me to make you crazy, too.”

  “You won’t make me any crazier than I am.” He smiled, but she wasn’t having any of it. He said, “Shall I stay with Simon, then?”

  She shook her head. “I’m taking him with me.”

  “Joanna…are you sure that’s wise?”

  “I’m sure it’s probably not. But Simon’s never been away from me, and I don’t know how long this could take. Besides…” Her voice broke as she looked in the direction the boy had disappeared. “I couldn’t leave him now.”

  Lawrence reached for her arm, but she pulled away. “Don’t.” She met his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t do well with sympathy.”

  He let it go. “What are you going to tell him?”

  “The truth. His father’s lost. And we have to find him.”

  Simon reappeared clutching his dripping swimsuit as he watched a flock of bright green parrots wheel across the sky.

  “What will you let me do, then?” Lawrence asked.

  She passed a hand aimlessly across her face. “Keep things together for me here. I called Hari from Minton’s office, but I’m afraid I must have sounded like a madwoman. I’m completely abandoning my post—”

  “I’ll see that he understands.”

  “And that little girl we rescued today.” She shook her head. “She needs more help than Simon or I do.”

  “If you say so… It’s not sympathy, you know, Joanna. I feel… responsible.”

  Her voice sharpened. “For what?”

  He hesitated. “For you and Simon. I promised Aidan—”

  “I know,” she cut him off. “He asked you.” She picked up Simon’s rucksack. “Tell you what. I’ll cable as soon as there’s any news.”

  He made one last stab. “Aidan wouldn’t want you going up there alone.”

  But she forced a smile as the boy rejoined them. “I’m not going alone,” she said slipping an arm around her son’s shoulders. “Simon will keep me company.”

  3

  The U.N. military observers in Srinagar were headquartered in a large square whitewashed building that seemed to give off an odor of institutional bureaucracy even before Joanna reached the front door. As she led Simon inside, that smell was compounded by the reek of cigarettes and mildew. Two armed guards listened impassively as she explained her mission, and waved her down a dimly lit corridor toward the last office on the right. General Farr’s office. The source of the telegram.

  According to the U.S. embassy, the plane carrying Aidan Shaw also had been carrying three military observers, and even as he grudgingly issued her travel permits, Ambassador Minton had reminded Joanna that the cease-fire between Pakistani, Indian, and separatist Kashmiri forces was tenuous at best. Two years of war for control of this province, on top of the carnage here during Partition, had resulted in more than a million refugees and tens of thousands of murders, rapes, and “accidents.” Foreigners were by no means immune, he’d cautioned, and it was no place for women and children.

  Joanna looked down at Simon trudging the length of the hallway and gave his hand a squeeze. She knew she should not have brought him, but how could she leave him? All the way up on the plane that morning, he’d chattered as if they were going on holiday, and in answering his thousand and one questions about flight and clouds and the landscape below she had almost been able to push from her mind the true purpose of their trip. As long as he was with her, she would not allow herself to fall apart. And as long as he believed his father was merely waiting to be rescued, that really this was just an elaborate game of lost and found, then there was a chance she could believe it, too.

  In spite of the smell, the corridors had a barren, hospital-like feel, and she caught herself fantasizing that Aidan was through one of these doors resting comfortably with a broken leg. A cracked rib. A fever. Something minor and finite, within her means to repair.

  Unfortunately this was no hospital, and Aidan was not here. They had come to the end of the hall. She kissed the top of Simon’s head and thrust open the heavy door.

  A young male secretary with an Italian accent showed her to the inner office, where the Canadian general charged with overseeing the observer force stood and gravely nodded. In a glance she took in the sparsely furnished room, found an armchair for Simon next to an unlit charcoal brazier in the corner. She settled him there with a new comic book, then returned to the general’s massive teak desk and reached across to shake hands.

  General Farr was a narrow rectangular man with concave cheeks and fading blond hair shoved behind his ears, his blue e
yes cool and brusque as his grip. He gestured for her to sit down. “Mrs. Shaw, I’m sure you want me to get straight to the point, but I’m afraid I have little to tell you. Our rescue team has not yet reached the crash site, and it could still be several days before we know anything.”

  She dug her fingernails into the soft skin of her palms. “I’d appreciate your telling me everything you do know.”

  “Well, you realize, the possibility of sabotage and the delicate state of the peace agreement here in Kashmir mean that we must take seriously all reports of armistice violations along the cease-fire lines. A team of my observers was flying to the northern region to look into one of these reports. Your husband went along to cover the investigative procedure.”

  “You’ve located the site…?”

  Farr glanced over at Simon, now absorbed in his comic. “Some wreckage was spotted on a slope just south of Leh. Unfortunately, it’s not easily accessible.” He slid a map of Kashmir across the desk. Two strings of mountains—the Ladakh Range and the Zanskar—seemed to collide at the circled red star the general indicated.

  Joanna tried to picture Aidan’s face as the wall of rock hurtled toward him. Terror was not an emotion she had ever known in him. Even now she could only imagine him watching, recording—anticipating.

  The image flickered, then, as if by a switch, went out. She asked, “Are you positive my husband was on board?”

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Shaw, you would not be here if we weren’t.” And, his tone implied, we’d both be spared this unpleasantness.

  Somehow she managed to control her voice. “I think it’s obvious, General, that we’d both prefer this meeting never had to take place. I’m asking how you know.”

  “Well, for one thing, he was seen boarding the plane.” Farr pulled an envelope from under his desk blotter. “Before that, your husband checked out of his hotel here, but he’d left this for the desk man to post. The embassy in Delhi said you were on your way, so I kept it for you. I’m afraid circumstances necessitated our opening it.”