Uli, who had rested quietly against me, shook her head at the news. “They must stop, Bhim. They must. It’s madness.”
I didn’t have a response.
Then she whispered a phrase that had stayed with me also. “The seeds of hostility, the minute germs of hatred and vehemence are sown into the fertile soil of our lives.” Adam. I wondered where, how he was, and if he was safe. I thought of Sahr, and Lalji, and C.G., and Sukshmi, and even Mej. I hoped all the people in my undersized circle were tucked safely in their homes.
Beyond the shuttered windows the streets were deceptively quiet. In other parts of the city, pandemonium reigned. It would be dangerous moving about, especially for foreigners. But I also knew we had to leave. It was dark now and if we were to make it back to the villa, it had to be soon. “Haroon,” I asked, “is there a back way out of here.”
“Of course, over there.” He waved an arm towards one of the side rooms and a locked, heavily-barred door. “You may stay here if you wish, Bhim, but I must be going myself. I have to feed my cats or they will conspire to mutiny.” That image made me smile.
“Thank you, Maumed, but we will stay off the main streets and work our way through the gullies, maybe even be lucky enough to find a deaf taxi driver who hasn’t heard about any of this.”
“Deaf is fine, but make certain he sees well enough to take the back streets. Taxis are prime targets.”
We stood, and Haroon came from behind the bar. “A final toast: to the world becoming a more peaceful place.” The four of us clinked glasses and drank. The heat of the brandy drop into our bellies. In typical gentlemanly style, he kissed Jitka’s hand, and I was certain, even in the poor light, that she flushed from something more than Courvoisier.
Then he handed me an envelope. “The information you requested.”
I folded it and slid it into by pocket. “That was fast.”
“I have my sources, and, as you will see, the facts are minimal at best.”
Uli kissed his cheek and as he held the door for us he said, “Haroon’s will always be open for you, my friends, and I will always be here to greet you.”
Like too many promises uttered in moments of urgency, that one would not hold true. We thanked him and stepped silently into the blackness of the gullies.
Fifty-Four
My best skills as a guide were tested that night. The moment Haroon closed the door behind us, a band of six men sprinted across the opening of the alleyway. I couldn’t tell what religion they were, just that they seemed to have plenty of faith in the clubs they carried. Fortunately, the shadows concealed us. At first I lead us on shallow switchbacks through the black lanes. We passed a few people, as terrified as we were, but no one spoke to us. A young Hindu couple, the man holding a blood-soaked kerchief below his chin, passed us on the run. Reasoning that they were likely being chased, I took us on a more southerly course along back streets. Slowly, with the utmost care, we passed from the center of the city. We pressed against the walls, inside shadows, and moved in silence. We walked rapidly, and at times ran, especially when we saw groups larger than two moving about. Twice we heard shouting and a horrible screaming, and with every step we smelled smoke. The orange glow of flames painted the belly of clouds in the north. Jitka looked grim and tired, but both of them amazed me with their composure and stamina. Eventually we stole our way to Sonapura Avenue. I kept us on parallel lanes in and out of the shadows to the crossing at the Asi Bridge. We halted and I motioned us to press against the wall.
A dozen young men in tattered shirts and loongis had just crossed the bridge south, looking for something to beat, or burn, or worse. They appeared to have no other purpose than to cause havoc. Two sputtering torches waved and illuminated them. I peeked out and pulled quickly back just as the blast of another police whistle rang out. I hoped this one would have a better result than the one sounded at the Ghats.
The police were quite protective of the wealthier homes on that side of the river--my side--and I guessed that the thugs would be routed before they could do any damage. I guessed correctly. The constable guard swept in from three directions, lathis whipping shoulder to shoulder. From across the river we could hear the cracking of ribs and thighs, and within seconds the scuffle disintegrated into a full retreat.
Torches fell and the better part of the mob fled back across the bridge holding up their wounded. Three, who limped too slowly, were roped together and pushed roughly across the span.
I still didn’t like the option of crossing by foot to negotiate with the officers standing guard. I trusted no one but the three of us that evening. “I want us to move up river and find another place to cross.” My voice shook with uncertainty.
Uli squeezed my elbow and whispered, “You’re the guide, Mein Shatzki.” That helped.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to search long. Two hundred meters up the river, a small dinghy was tied high up on the bank, and after a few slippery moments, we were all gliding silently away from the north shore. I tore off the bottom of my kurta and wrapped mufflers around the oars and drew gently on the blades. Midway across, Uli pointed east where the stream flowed sleepily into the Ganga. An ember of silver moon was just rising above the fort on the far side. The scene was breathtaking—the ancient ramparts of the palace under a halo of silver on a ribbon of glittering water. Any other evening and it would be a beautiful dream, I thought. Let the sun rise on a peaceful city tomorrow.
Uli looked at me and mouthed, “I love you.” My heart sang, and then, with a soft whoosh, we reached the other bank.
Lalji astounded me that night. The front gate was not only secured with a second chain, but three of his card-playing partners were stationed inside on the patio. They held kitchen knives and four wooden clubs that I hoped hadn’t been fashioned from the legs of my chair. They jumped officiously to their feet as we arrived, and for a moment I thought they were going to salute.
“Saab, Maam and I have been so frightened. She has shredded her sari down to the chola worrying for your safety, but as you can see, I have been standing guard vagilantly.”
“Vigilantly, Lalji.” I tried to maintain a serious face, but couldn’t help but laugh. He looked a tad let down that I was finding humor in his intrepid watchfulness until I patted his shoulder and said in front of everyone, “You are the best watchman in all of Varanasi, Lalji. None better, and you gentlemen as well. I am in your debt.” I namasted deeply to each of them.
With a lot of wagging of heads and thank-yous, they relinquished their weapons and filed out the gate. I told each of them to return the following day for some payment for their night’s work. That brought another round of head wagging.
Wrapping my arm around his slender shoulders, I said, "Lalji, you did well tonight. Thank you. Lock everything up and sleep in the hammock. But sleep easily; there will be no more trouble. And let’s wrap that finger again tomorrow, shall we.”
Genuine fear born of disaster often propels us into acts of greatness, more often into acts of compassion. It is something felt in battle-scarred trenches, burning buildings, flooded neighborhoods, and riot torn cities. There is an invisible entity, a bond of humanness that draws us to a deeper understanding of ourselves, our companions, and the ones we love. As I sat with Uli, Jitka, and Sahr, sharing steaming bowls of saag paneer, rice, and dal around a familiar kitchen table, I realized that small thought. Maybe it was a big thought, but we had, that day, been terrified, numbed to the core, and here we sat, all of us trying to comfort each other. We spent the entire dinner reassuring each other that tomorrow would be brighter.
I also realized something else that evening. Varanasi would not feel the same for me ever again.
After we made a bed on the sofa for Jitka, and Uli went to shower off the smoke and fear, Sahr motioned me back into the kitchen.
“Masterji’s daughter came to see you this evening, Saab.” Her swan’s wing was buried to near invisibility in a frown.
“Sukshmi?”
“Yes, Saab. In the big car of Master Chandragupta, she came and left quite quickly.”
“Sahr, you can stop with the frowning and calling me Saab. She is Devamukti’s daughter, not my premika. My premika is in the bathroom. I’m pretty certain your bhuta and deva cards have pointed that out.”
“Well, this cheeky Brahmin girl with the fancy tinted glasses and orange lipstick asked me to give you this.” A small pink envelope appeared from behind her back. I opened it.
“Would you like me to read it out loud?” I asked.
Though I was certain her curiosity was bubbling like a geyser, she said, “No . . . not really.”
I read it anyway. “Friends in hiding wish to speak with you. The arrangements have been made. And, My Boy, please bring your new friend. I would like to meet her.” It was signed in a weak spidery script, C.G.
Sahr harrumphed.
Below, in Sukshmi’s exact cursive, her own message read, “Bhimaji, C.G. asked me to deliver this to you. Can you come to his house tomorrow at 8:30 AM. It is urgent. There is good news--and sad. By the by, who is your new friend? S.”
I didn’t read that aloud.
Fifty-Five
Mistakes were unacceptable to Sutradharak, but they were far worse when committed by himself. In the early days he had set his standards with gruesome examples, cutting out tongues or castrating those who crossed him or made errors. The idea of doing that to himself merely brought a sneer.
His identity had been breeched two days ago—an unfortunate mess he’d been forced to resolve in a very unpleasant manner. The widow girl had recognized him as he moved through the alley in his other persona. That had necessitated slicing her throat. But then there was the incident at the harijan’s speech. He was nearly recognized again, and it bothered him that both of those had come from his own foolishness.
Analysis told him that he was committing too many errors, and he knew why, the desire to be close to the flames. Vanity, inquisitiveness, ego, they had resulted in foolish mistakes. Over-confidence leads to quick death, he chided himself. Get back to pulling strings, PuppetMaster. This thought brought him to another conclusion--he needed a rest, a long one, perhaps even permanent. Retirement. He had been pondering it since the bombing at the temple back in March. Finances were certainly in order. Every euro, dollar, and yen was accessible, and with half a dozen passports, he could travel wherever he wished. He could be anyone.
More importantly, his work for his current employers was nearly done. Their primary goals would reached within days.
The decision was made. Retirement would come after this next event, and then a vanishing act. Go out with a bang, disappear into the great cities of the world to become a hazy legend, an episode on Unsolved Mysteries.
His only concern was that his employers might decide he was a risk, a liability to be dealt with. That would not be good, because he knew how difficult it was to conceal onesself from some of the most powerful, best-financed people in the world.
I’m still a chameleon, though, and the best at what I do. Take for example how I ripped apart a city with the simple press of two cell phone buttons.
Fifty-Six
The chaos of the previous night had settled like a passing thunderstorm outside the walls of my villa.
Inside, Uli and I lay curled like spoons, the sounds of breath and heart composing our sonata of love. I remembered dreamily that it had rained in the wee hours. The breeze was cooler, and for long moments I let all my senses open to the woman in my arms. I smelled her fragrance, tasted her shoulder, felt the warmth of her thighs, and gazed at her auric beauty, and asked again, how could I be so fortunate?
With a soft moan she rolled over, eyes still closed, hair drawn in soft curtains across one cheek. My hand slipped across her stomach and around to the small of her back. Her smile lengthened, one eye fluttered open, then closed contentedly again. “Hello, Lover,” she whispered. I pulled her flat against me and kissed her neck and the underside of her chin down to the top of her breast. She moaned softly, and at that splendid moment I remembered two things that I wish my memory hadn’t been so willing to recall. A pink note was summoning me to be somewhere in two hours, and I wasn’t positive, but I thought I had told Mej I would play Frisbee with him that morning.
“Uli?” Her hips wiggled against me. “Uli?”
“Do I have to open my eyes to answer?”
“Not really, no. You can keep them closed, but I believe I have to get up.”
“Like get up, go to the bathroom and come back to bed, get up?” Her accent was thicker when she wasn’t fully awake.
“Er, no. Like get up, brew some coffee, and cancel a Frisbee game with Mej. Not that I believe he’s actually going to show up after the events of last night . . . but he can be pretty committed when it comes to these things.”
“Oh.” Disappointment. “Well, you do need to keep those legs in shape, but you cannot go if it is dangerous. My orders. Go make us a cup and I’ll be right there.”
Throwing back the sheet and setting my feet on the floor was the last thing I really wanted to do.
I set two cups of hot coffee, warm nan, butter and marmalade on the table, and turned as she stepped into the kitchen. Her hair was pulled back by a cobalt hair band that matched her eyes. I assumed it came from another one of those pockets in her handbag. She had one of my white kurtas on, and the same purple skirt from the day before. It was torn at the hem, and smelled of smoke.
I didn’t wait for my sip of coffee, I pulled her close, kissed her, and said, “Listen, I want to promise you that it’s going to be safe now and that it will all settle down. But I can’t. To be truthful, I’m worried. There are too many ugly things happening right now, and I don’t have answers.” I paused and took a breath. “So, what do you think about going up to Nepal for a couple of weeks, maybe a month, that is unless…” The thought had come to me in the blackness of the night before as we avoided a gang of thugs. It was simple thought. I didn’t want to lose her to anything. “Unless, you think you want to fly home with Jitka. I don’t want you to, but I also don’t want you to stay here just for…”
I didn’t get to finish. While still holding herself flat against my body, she sucker-punched my middle just hard enough to hurt.
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say it, Bhim. Never. I’m not going anywhere. Not to Denmark, not to Paris, or the moon without you. I’m here, right where I want to be und where I’m going to stay.” She looked hurt and angry, and that was a first.
Taking another breath and rubbing my abdominals, I whispered, “I had to ask, Uli. It’s gotten too crazy and dangerous, and I don’t want you hurt. I just thought it might be good to give you the option.”
“Well, I don’t want the option.” She rubbed my stomach and then brought both of her hands to the sides of my face. “I am home, Bhim, inside these arms, and I don’t want to be more than this far away from you ever. Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll make you an agreement. I’ll never ask that question again, and you let me know next time you feel like punching me in the stomach. Sound like something we can agree to?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? That’s not particularly fair.”
“I’m reserving my woman’s right to punch you whenever your eyes wonder too far from mine.”
“Umm, then I guess I’d better tell you where we’re going this morning, and who you are going to meet.”
Her hands slid around my back. “Let me guess, the beauty from Haroon’s?”
I nibbled her ear, felt her quiver, “You are so amazingly clairvoyant. Adam will be there also.”
She beamed. “He is okay, unhurt?”
“I don’t know that, but he’s alive. A message came through Sahr last night. We’re meeting them at Professor Chandragupta’s house inside the university.”
“One of the pundits you worked with, yes?”
At that moment Sahr walked through the back door with Meghaduta chattering happily on
her shoulder. The kitchen melted instantly into a noisy exchange of squawks, good mornings, and kisses.
It took about three seconds before I started becoming jealous of the parrot. Uli stroked its head and wings, cooed over it, and gave it all the attention I had just been receiving. I did have to admit he was cute—little green suit with a flashing red waistcoat. Noble features, too. He chirped and hopped about the counters while Sahr added to my trifling attempt at breakfast.
“I have three readings today, Bhimaji,” she announced as fritters and pakoras settled onto the table. “I thought to postpone them, but with all the uncertainty of last night, my clients want more certainty in their future.”
“Not a problem. Uli and I will be gone most of the day anyway and won’t be back until the afternoon. What have you heard of the city? Has it quieted?”
“The gossipers say it has, but you should go carefully. So, how many should I count for dinner?”
“Three, I suppose. Plan for that.”
Jitka came in, freshly showered, and showing a long purple bruise on her jaw. I pulled out a chair for her. “Sahr’s very traditional Indian breakfast is designed to chase away all memories of sneaking through an Indian city in the dark.”
She gave a small shudder. “Ach, what a night. I woke up thinking it must have been a dream.”
“It was a dream, a bad one, but these are guaranteed to help.” I pushed spicy pakoras and yogurt cucumber sauce in her direction.
Sahr explained all of Meghaduta’s clairevoyant talents while the sisters ate. With the parrot hopping across all the counters, and everyone comfortable, I went to the courtyard.
The morning sky was clear, the air washed clean of smoke by the rains during the night. Lalji, looking as if he hadn’t slept, squatted on his heels outside the gate with two of my three erstwhile guards. I was pleased to see them. I needed information.
“No, Sahib, this bad business has stopped,” the shorter one replied to my question.
The PuppetMaster Page 26