A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  The customers began to arrive at seven o’clock. Uncle-ji greeted them and Sita ushered them to their tables. If the patrons were Indian, she spoke to them in Hindi. If they were Caucasian, she used English. Uncle-ji stood nearby to intervene in case she needed to communicate in French. She tried to mimic Varuni’s delivery, but the effect was awkward and her inexperience showed. When all else failed, she smiled and recommended the chicken tikka masala.

  Business was slow, but enough regulars showed up to keep Sita busy. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in intelligence. She had always been proud of her memory for detail. She took orders and delivered dishes to customers without using a notebook.

  “Your new waitress is quite pleasant,” one of the regular patrons said to Uncle-ji. “Where did you find her?”

  “She is the daughter of my cousin in Bombay,” he said. “We are privileged to have her with us.”

  Sita couldn’t tell whether the praise was sincere or feigned, but she received it as a positive sign. Perhaps Uncle-ji would allow her to wait tables with Varuni when the weather warmed. It was preferable to scrubbing the bathroom with a toothbrush.

  The last two customers—an elderly Indian couple—left a few minutes before closing. After wiping down their table, Sita retrieved a broom from the closet and swept the floor. A few minutes later, Uncle-ji took a call on his cell phone that left him visibly agitated. He paced in front of the door to the restaurant until a shadowy figure appeared.

  The restaurant owner let the man in and welcomed him with a handshake. Sita looked at him and something jogged in her mind. His back was to her, but his hair and jacket seemed familiar. She continued her sweeping, watching the man out of the corner of her eye. At last the man turned around.

  The stranger was Navin.

  When he saw her, she blinked, astonished by the condition of his face. His cheeks were covered with red welts and one of his eyes was black.

  He regarded her without emotion. “It seems she worked out well,” he said.

  “Yes,” Uncle-ji replied, motioning Navin toward the corner booth near the window. He looked at Sita. “Bring our guest a bottle of brandy and a glass.”

  She retrieved the alcohol and returned to the table quickly. Placing the brandy and tumbler in front of Navin, she noticed that Uncle-ji’s hands were trembling. The restaurant owner barely glanced at her. She moved away and continued to sweep the floor, listening intently.

  Navin spoke quietly, but she picked up two words: “arrested” and “police.”

  Uncle-ji replied in a louder voice: “You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”

  Navin’s response was inaudible, but Uncle-ji’s reaction was not.

  “What does this mean?”

  Navin didn’t respond. Instead, he eyed Sita and tilted his head ever so slightly in her direction. She turned away quickly, focusing on her sweeping. The room was silent for a moment before Uncle-ji barked: “Wait in the kitchen!”

  She stiffened and scampered away, her mind abuzz with questions. Had the police been searching for her? Did Navin tell them where she was? She lurked in the doorway to the kitchen, straining to pick up more of the conversation. She heard only murmuring until Uncle-ji raised his voice.

  “You have to help us!” he blurted out. “You brought her to us!”

  Navin frowned. He glanced toward her and stood up abruptly, letting himself out of the restaurant. She watched through the window as he disappeared into the night.

  She looked at Uncle-ji, wondering what he would do. He sat in the booth with his back to her, muttering to himself. The bottle of brandy sat unopened before him. He lifted the tumbler and stared into it for a long moment. Then he turned around and walked quickly toward her, his eyes wide and full of fear.

  “You must come with me now,” he said, taking her by the arm.

  He led her through the kitchen and into the flat. Aunti-ji looked at him strangely, but he ignored her. He took her to a closet in the bedroom and turned on the light. The closet was stuffed with clothing.

  “You must stay here,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked, thoroughly frightened.

  “No questions,” he said, pushing her inside.

  When he closed the door, Sita sat down on a pile of shoes and struggled against claustrophobia and terror. Even after her eyes adjusted, she could see only the faintest glimmer of gray at the foot of the door. She forced herself to take deep breaths and clutched the little Hanuman figurine that she had secreted in the folds of her sari.

  She thought of the Coromandel Coast before the horror of the waves. The sea sparkled. Ahalya was there, playing at the edge of the surf. Her mother and father watched from the bungalow’s gardens. Jaya busied herself at the clothesline. When the vision faded, tears came to her eyes and she began to cry. She carved a space for herself in the clutter and rested her head against something soft that felt like a wool hat. This was the second closet she had inhabited during her stay in Paris.

  But at least this closet was warm.

  Sita was startled when the closet door opened the following morning.

  She was famished and desperate to relieve herself. She blinked at the light from the bedroom and looked up at Uncle-ji, hoping he would offer her a plate of food and a visit to the bathroom. Instead, he summoned her with a wave.

  She stood in the rubble of shoes and walked with him to the entrance of the flat. Dmitri was waiting for her in the alcove. She breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t have to endure the day in the loneliness of the closet. Tatiana would feed her a good lunch, and she would return to the restaurant to wait tables in the evening. Despite Navin’s visit and Uncleji’s fear, things were not going to change after all.

  After donning her coat and hat, she trailed Dmitri out of the courtyard and down Passage Brady to the black Mercedes. Tatiana met her in the foyer of the flat and assigned her the task of cleaning the rooms on the second floor.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Sita was in the master bedroom, dusting a shelf of books. She glanced at the clock on the wall and watched the door for Tatiana. The woman didn’t come. Four turned to four thirty and then five o’clock. At last Tatiana appeared and led her to the kitchen. She saw one of Dmitri’s girls standing before the stove, dressed in jeans and an apron. She was stirring a pot of soup and tending a skillet of sausage.

  “Ivanna,” Tatiana said to the girl, “this is Sita. She help you this evening.”

  The girl nodded obediently.

  Sita’s mind raced with confusion and apprehension. She was not afraid of Tatiana, but she was terrified of Dmitri and Vasily. The flat was haunted by terrible secrets that daylight seemed to hide. She did not want to be there when darkness fell.

  Ivanna spoke little English, but she pointed and gestured, and Sita offered her whatever assistance she could. The food was very different from Indian cuisine—it was meat rich, savory with herbs, and accented by vegetables. Ivanna pointed at a pot and said, “Borscht.”

  Sometime after six, Ivanna served Vasily, Tatiana, and Dmitri in the dining room and Sita and herself in the kitchen. Sita ate the food hungrily. After dinner, she helped Ivanna clear the dining room table and clean the kitchen.

  At seven o’clock, Dmitri appeared and Ivanna tensed visibly. She put down her dish rag and followed him. Sita heard their footsteps in the hallway, and then a door opened and closed. The sound was different, lighter than the thump made by the front door of the residence. Sita’s heart raced and she wondered whether Dmitri had taken Ivanna to the basement.

  Tatiana came for her a few minutes later. The woman took her up the stairs to the second floor and showed her to one of the bedrooms she had cleaned earlier in the day.

  “You stay here,” Tatiana said, showing her the bathroom and fluffing the pillows. “I come in morning. Bonne nuit. Have nice dreams.”

  She closed the door behind her, and Sita heard a lock click in place. The room had a queen-sized bed, a pair of reading chairs, and a broad w
indow overlooking the courtyard. It felt like a palace in comparison to Suchir’s attic room and Uncle-ji’s closets.

  She walked to the window and looked down at the white van and the silver Audi. The black Mercedes was absent. She browsed the shelves and found an English-language novel. Taking a seat in one of the chairs, she passed the evening reading. She heard occasional voices beyond the door, but the words were muffled and distant.

  Sometime after ten o’clock, she heard sounds coming from the courtyard. She stood in the shadows and watched as Dmitri led Natalia, Ivanna, and the other girls to the white van. All of them were dressed provocatively in short skirts, high heels, and revealing tops. Although it was still winter, only Natalia wore a coat. None of them spoke or looked at the others.

  Dmitri opened the rear doors of the van, and everyone but Natalia climbed in. Dmitri motioned for Natalia to get into the Audi. He spoke briefly to someone in the van, and then the van disappeared through the archway. Dmitri placed a call on his cell phone and took control of the Audi. He whipped the car around and left the courtyard.

  Retreating from the window, Sita prepared herself for bed. The bath she took was luxurious, and the pillows and bed sheets were softer than anything she could remember. But she couldn’t shake the persistent feeling of dread. For all their wealth and good taste, there was something diabolical about Vasily’s family.

  Where had Dmitri taken the girls?

  The following morning, Tatiana fetched Sita for breakfast. Before leaving her room, Sita glanced out the window and saw that the van and the Audi had returned. The riddle of the girls’ destination deepened when she met Ivanna in the kitchen, preparing the meal. The girl looked no different from the night before. Sita helped her serve the food and watched her for any sign of distress. The girl’s blue eyes were vacant, but she didn’t miss a step.

  Sita spent the next few days in the same manner, performing the duties of a household maid, laundering the girls’ sheets and underwear, and helping Ivanna in the kitchen. Each evening the van left the courtyard at ten o’clock and returned before dawn. On Sita’s second night—a Sunday—Ivanna and another girl accompanied Dmitri in the Audi. On Monday and Tuesday, only Natalia went with Dmitri. Sita watched the nightly muster from her window and tried not to think about where the girls were taken or what they were forced to do.

  On Wednesday after breakfast, Sita was summoned to the sitting room where Vasily was waiting. Soon thereafter, Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji came in with Dmitri. The Indian couple took their seats without looking at Sita. She stared at them in confusion. She had been told nothing about the purpose of the meeting.

  “Here are the documents,” Vasily said, opening a folder on the coffee table.

  In the folder, Sita saw passports and airline tickets. Her heart lurched. Had Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji decided to leave France? What did they intend to do with her?

  “How much will this cost us?” Uncle-ji asked in a quiet voice.

  Vasily shook his head. “I told you before. It will cost you nothing. We are helping you, and you are helping us. It is an even exchange.”

  “And when we get there?”

  Vasily shrugged. “That is up to you.”

  “Merci beaucoup,” said Uncle-ji. “You have done us a great favor.”

  He glanced at Sita and she saw guilt in his eyes. She inhaled sharply. Suddenly, she was certain the meeting had to do with her.

  Vasily handed the documents to Uncle-ji, and the men shook hands.

  “Thank me tomorrow,” Vasily said. “Until then, watch your step.”

  Part Three

  Chapter 19

  The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.

  —BLAISE PASCAL

  Mumbai, India

  Thomas sat in the Air France lounge at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, sipping a glass of red wine. It was just after midnight on Wednesday, one week after the deputy commissioner of police had released Navin. His flight wasn’t scheduled to depart for another hour and a half. He considered reading a newspaper, but he knew the articles wouldn’t hold his attention. He was a bundle of nervous energy. He closed his eyes instead, breathing steadily, remembering.

  It had been an eventful week. He’d talked to Greer the day after the raid, expecting the field office director to tell him he was crazy and that CASE couldn’t spare him while he gallivanted around Paris in search of Sita. Greer, however, had surprised him. Beneath his world-wise exterior, Greer, it seemed, was an idealist. He grilled Thomas only long enough to see that he was serious. Then he imparted his blessing, asking only that Thomas keep in touch.

  Priya had been a different story. After the meeting with Greer, Thomas had called her mobile number, thinking she wouldn’t answer. It was a Thursday and she was at the hospice facility in Breach Candy spending time with her grandmother. When she picked up on the first ring, he knew something was wrong. Her tone confirmed it.

  “Thomas,” she said, “my grandmother just passed away.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m so sorry.”

  She took a while to speak again. “She was chatting two days ago. The nurses said she started slipping during the night. By the time I got here, she couldn’t talk. She looked at me like she wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. I was holding her hand when she died.”

  Priya broke down and began to cry.

  Thomas left the office and climbed into a rickshaw. “Does your family know?”

  “I was about to call my father.”

  He raised his voice above the throb of the rickshaw’s two-cylinder engine. “It’ll take me an hour to get to you.”

  “Come to my grandfather’s house. They’re taking her there for preparation.”

  It took him eighty dizzying minutes to reach Malabar Hill. He paid the fare at the gate and entered the grounds. The garden was cool and filled with the scent of jasmine and the chirping of birds. He stood for a moment and surveyed the sanctuary of Vrindavan. Three cars were parked on the stone drive. Priya’s convertible was among them.

  He braced himself for the inevitable confrontation with Surya. He hadn’t spoken to the Professor since the mendhi event. He had no idea whether Priya had informed her father of the time they had spent together. The whole thing felt like déjà vu. It was as if he and Priya had been sneaking around in Fellows Garden again. Except that now they were married.

  No one was on the veranda, but he saw movement beyond the windows. He knocked cautiously at the front door, hoping that Priya would greet him. He was not so fortunate.

  The Professor opened the door and frowned. “Priya is with her grandmother,” he said.

  “She asked me to come,” Thomas replied.

  When Surya didn’t respond, he thought the man was going to force him to wait outside. Then Surekha appeared and extended an olive branch.

  “Thomas,” she said, rebuking her husband with her eyes, “Priya will be out in a moment. Why don’t you wait in the sitting room?”

  Surya glared at him but stood aside. Thomas took a seat on a couch, listening to the sound of distant female voices speaking Hindi. After a few minutes, Priya appeared and beckoned him to follow her onto the terrace.

  “How are you?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know,” Priya replied. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. “I didn’t expect it to come so soon.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.

  “What happens next?”

  “Her body will be adorned and laid in state. There will be an open house tomorrow for people to pay their respects, and then she will be cremated by the sea at Priyadarshini Park. After that, my father and his brothers will fly her ashes to Varanasi. We will mourn her here.”

  Thomas was silent for a long time. “I’m sorry. I know you loved her.”

  “I loved her as a child. I barely knew her as an adult.”

  “I am much to blame for that.”

  Priya looked ac
ross the grass toward the fountain. “We’re both at fault. But blame is useless now. All we have is the future.”

  Thomas took a breath and let it out. “I keep wondering how this is going to work.”

  Priya shook her head. “You can’t think your way through it.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  Priya looked at him. “Why do men persist in asking that question? You’re not supposed to do anything. You’re supposed to be yourself. We’ll figure it out together.”

  “Why do women persist in speaking in riddles?”

  “Because love is a riddle,” she replied. “As is life itself.”

  The Hindu funeral rites that followed were elaborate, and the public wake drew a crowd of nearly five hundred. The family garlanded Sonam’s body with flowers and placed her on a bier with her feet facing southward, toward the abode of the dead.

  On the evening of the second day, Surya and his brothers carried the bier to a hearse and drove their mother to Priyadarshini Park, where a pyre was lit and her body was cremated. A group of Brahmins chanted mantras to the percussion of the sea, and both the elite and commoners of Bombay paid their last respects.

  After the cremation, the crowd dispersed and the family returned to the bungalow. While Priya tended to her grandfather, Thomas drifted along on the periphery of things, wondering when he would get a chance to talk to her about Paris. He felt guilty thinking so much about Sita. But as the hours passed, he grew more certain she was within reach and more afraid that time was against him.

  At last, three days after Sonam’s death, he took Priya aside after supper and led her onto the terrace beneath a darkening sky.

  “You look troubled,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  Thomas told her about the capture and release of Navin.

  Priya was scandalized. “The commissioner is a family friend! He and his wife were at the open house. If one of his deputies is working for the goondas, he should know about it.”