Ignoring the frenzied cries of the vendors, Ellie thought back to the number of times she’d walked into a room and caught Frank talking to himself, as if he was losing some furious argument. And the way he sat for hours on the porch, staring at the sea, looking almost comatose at times, wildly animated at others. And oddest of all was the tic in his left eye.
“He twitches,” she said.
“What do you mean, he twitches?” Nandita asked.
“Just that. I mean, he’s jumpy and anxious, his eyes dart about, and well, he twitches. Plus there’s this weird thing his left eye is doing.”
A skinny youth tried to brush up against Nandita, and she fixed him a baleful glare as she skillfully avoided him. “You think Frank is depressed?”
“I don’t know. I’d love to put him on an antidepressant and have him try Xanax for a few weeks. But he won’t hear of it.”
“He’s still under a lot of pressure, eh? But at least now that Ramesh is back, things will ease up.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Ellie paused for a second. “It’s funny—I thought when he found out why Prakash took Ramesh to Goa, he’d be relieved. I thought it was such a sweet gesture. But if anything, he seems even more angry.”
“Well, he probably feels a little foolish, don’t you think, El? I mean, the police search and all that was a little excessive.”
“Tell me about it. I begged him to not do it, but he was like a madman. Unstoppable.” Ellie shuddered. “It was an awful, awful week, Nan. That first morning when his hair went gray overnight, I was so scared.” She made a rueful face. “I had really hoped his hair would revert back to its original color.”
Nandita squeezed her arm. “That’s okay. I say he still looks like a stud muffin, even with the gray.”
Ellie smiled. “You’re shameless. I’m so glad you came with me today. I think shopping therapy is what I desperately need.” She peered into a store. “Can we go in here for a minute?”
They entered together, trying to ignore the clamorous, aggressive sales pitch of the rival shopkeepers. The proprietor raced up to them, bowing and nodding. “Come in, come in, madams,” he said. He snapped his fingers, and a teenage boy appeared. “Arre, can’t you see we have two guests?” he cried. “Go get two cold Coca-Colas, quickly.”
Ellie opened her mouth to refuse and then thought better of it. Experience had taught her that she was no match for the famed Indian hospitality—or the aggressive Indian sales pitch. “Can I see that turquoise ring?” she asked.
“Of course, madam, of course.” The shop owner turned to Nandita. “And for you, madam? Nice-nice gold silver jewelry we’re having.”
They wandered from the jewelry counters to the cloth section. Two men deftly unfolded spool after spool of brightly colored silks for them to inspect. “Enough,” Ellie protested, surrounded by a multicolored sea of fabrics. “Please don’t go through the trouble.”
“No trouble, madam,” one of the men grinned. “If you don’t see, how you buy?”
“Now, don’t buy anything out of guilt,” Nandita whispered to her as they sipped their Cokes. “These people are pucca businessmen.”
In the end, she purchased the turquoise ring for herself, insisted on buying a silver chain for Nandita, and got talked into getting a men’s silk kurta for Frank, despite knowing that he would never wear it.
The other vendors were thrown into a frenzy as the two women emerged with their shopping bags. “Madam, nice American products we are having,” they yelled after her, not understanding that that was the last thing that would hold her interest.
“Ignore them,” Nandita instructed her. “Don’t make eye contact. Otherwise you’ll emerge carrying ten bars of Hershey’s chocolates.” She shuddered visibly.
“Oh, you are such a snob.”
“Guilty as charged.” Like most upper-class Indians, Nandita thought American chocolates were awful.
“Like Cadbury’s is any better. Or Lindt, for that matter.”
“Careful. You’re trampling on hallowed ground.” Nandita pretended to look offended. “Next thing you know, you’ll be insulting the queen,” she sniffed.
Ellie grabbed Nandita’s hand. “You’re nuts. Now come on. Let’s find an auto rickshaw. I need to get home.”
“Hey, before I forget,” Nandita said after they were in the rickshaw. “You know my cousin Divya? The one who lives in Australia? She’s going to be in Delhi on the twenty-first. Will you go with me to see her for a few days? Shashi can’t get away. So I thought it could be an all-girls outing.”
“I’ll have to look at my calendar,” Ellie said.
“Ae, screw your calendar. Just say yes, why don’t you? I’ve been wanting for eons for her to meet you.”
Ellie laughed. “I want to meet her too. How long will it take to get there?”
“We can take the overnight train. I’ll have you back home in six days, I promise.”
“Well, it sounds lovely.” Ellie sighed. “And I’d like to get away for a few days, Nan. The mood at home—I dunno, it’s too heavy at times.”
“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll buy the train tickets.”
CHAPTER 32
Somehow, he managed to shake Ramesh off. Told the boy he couldn’t jog with him this morning. He made himself ignore the hurt puzzlement he saw in the boy’s eye. It’s for his own sake, Frank told himself.
And now he was sitting on one of the large boulders that were submerged in the water, the waves nipping at his bare feet. Staring at the sun rising from the water. Trying to talk himself out of the plan he was hatching even while he knew that he had come here to this lonely spot to put on the finishing touches. To work it all out, so that it would unfold like a play, like a poem, when the time came.
There would be violence. There would be blood. This he had to accept. He had come here to take his own measure, to take measure of his love for this boy. To ask himself if he was willing to pay any price, in order to have Ramesh. To weigh the joy of having Ramesh against the tarnishing of his soul.
There was no other way. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Lord, if there were another way, he’d take it. If he could’ve legally adopted Ramesh, for instance. But they—Prakash, Edna, Pete, Ellie—they had all blocked his way. Until there was no way but this. And this was what he had to work out. Work out every last detail, like writing up a business plan.
But that wasn’t why he’d come here. The details of the plan he could work out in any setting—while Satish drove him to work, while eating breakfast, while lying awake in bed, Ellie breathing quietly beside him. No, he had come to this quiet spot for the reckoning. To hold his greedy human heart in one hand and his immortal soul in the other. To see which one he would favor, which way the balance would tip. To mark this moment, this precise spot where he stood between the Frank that he had been and the Frank he would become. To see what he would value—the sweet, turn-the-other-cheek religion he had been raised on or the liberating, amoral theology that had appeared to him when he was sick with the pneumonia. To ask what was fueling him—the thick, gelatinous hate that gripped him at the thought of Prakash or the light, effervescent love that filled him at the thought of Ramesh. To resolve the paradox that both his hate and his love were leading him to the same dark, bloody place.
Above all, he had come here to tax his imagination—to see whether he could imagine a life in America without Ramesh in it.
He tried. He sat on the boulder with his eyes closed, the sweat dripping down his face. And all he saw was emptiness. Darkness. Ellie and him growing old in Michigan, running out of things to say to each other, occasional words dripping out of them like drops of water from a faucet. Ellie and him not turning on the porch light during trick-or-treating, afraid of the flocks of happy, rambunctious children skipping down their street. Ellie and him staring hungrily at other people’s kids at the mall, at parties, at the playground, until their parents, sensing that hunger, pulled them away.
He opened his eyes. The w
orld looked hazy for a moment and then came back into focus with such sharp clarity that Frank gasped. He pushed himself off the boulder and hurried out of the water, shaking off the seaweed that had wrapped around his foot. He had wasted enough time already. And he knew exactly what he had to do next.
CHAPTER 33
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Frank told the man sitting across from him. “I appreciate it.”
For a moment the man who was built like a building—tall, wide, impenetrable, his face a blank facade—did not stir. Then, Gulab nodded slightly. “Of course, sir. My pleasure.”
Frank looked away to escape Gulab’s dark, reptilian eyes. His gaze caught on and followed the slow descent of a green leaf from a tree outside his window.
“Sir?” Gulab said. “You were saying.”
“Ah, yes.” Frank’s voice shook a bit as he spoke. “Listen, Gulab. I wish to talk to you in confidence. Can I expect you to—”
“Sir. Everything you ever say to me is in absolute confidence. I am a trained army man, sir. I was taught to keep my mouth closed.”
Frank nodded. He eyed Gulab’s large, thick hands, remembered what he had once said—I have killed men with my bare hands. A long time ago, he had been repulsed by the brute force they represented. But ever since Gulab had helped him in his search for Prakash, he had come to see him as a trustworthy, capable ally. Today, he saw these hands as helping him carry Ramesh safely ashore to America.
“I don’t know if you remember this,” Frank said. “But many months ago when you were at my house you said something about coming to you if I ever needed to take Ramesh back with us to America. What did you mean?”
Gulab’s face was unreadable. “I said only to ask me if you were truly ready, sir.” He looked deep into Frank’s eyes. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” he said, his voice firm. But his hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he was glad that his desk hid the fact from Gulab.
“Then it will be my pleasure to assist you.”
“I want Prakash gone.” The words came out in a rush. “I want you to—take care of him. For me.”
Gulab’s face was impassive. “Done, sir.”
He had to make sure. “Do you understand what I am saying? What—what I’m asking you for?”
Gulab did not skip a beat. “Of course, sir. No problem.”
Frank’s left eye began to twitch, and he hoped Gulab couldn’t see this. He felt the sweat bead up on his forehead and fought the urge to wipe it off. This was no time to act like a schoolboy. He struggled to recapture some of the clarity he had felt after coming to his decision at the waterfront two mornings ago. “What about Edna?” he asked.
Gulab shrugged. “I’ll take care of her, also.”
Frank permitted himself a pang of regret. He remembered Edna’s eager, upturned face, her sincere pride in the interest Frank took in her son. But it couldn’t be helped. Edna would cling even more strongly to Ramesh if her husband was dead. She had to be—dealt with—also.
“Are there any other relatives who could come forward to claim the boy?”
“Who, sir? You heard what Edna’s parents said when the chootia dragged the boy to Goa. And Prakash has no kin.” Gulab smiled. “Even if someone shows up, I will…convince them.”
With nobody to claim Ramesh, he and Ellie could begin adoption procedures. Ellie was too softhearted to abandon Ramesh, he knew. And under the circumstances, he was sure that Tom Andrews would help them jump through the immigration hoops. Hell, he might have Ramesh with him in America by Memorial Day.
Frank realized he had been holding his breath. “If I were to consider this, where—how—would you carry this out?”
Gulab thought for a moment. “Best to do this late at night, sir. When they’re sleeping. Easy to access their shack directly from the street. Still, better if you and your missus are out of the main house when it happens.”
Frank nodded. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking. Ellie’s taking a trip to Delhi with a friend on the twenty-first. What if I take Ramesh out of town that same weekend? Can you do it then?”
“That will be perfect, sir. Will give me enough time to make preparations. You will leave Saturday morning, yes?”
He nodded, his mind racing. He had already decided that he would tell Prakash he wanted to take Ramesh to Bombay to see the All-India Soccer tournament. Frank’s jaw tightened with anger at the thought of kissing up to Prakash. But it’s only for a few more weeks, he reminded himself.
Gulab cleared his throat. “Sir, one other thing. You needn’t worry about coming home and finding the…bodies. After the job is done, I will place an anonymous call to the police, saying I heard gunshots. They will check out the house and then will call you, sir. So your vacation will be interrupted. Unfortunately.”
It’s like we’re planning a picnic instead of a murder, Frank thought. He imagined the stricken look on his mother’s face if she overheard this conversation, imagined her dismay at how far her son, the altar boy who had sung at St. Anne’s every Sunday, had fallen. But there is no other way, he reminded himself. Between Prakash’s obstinacy and Pete’s ultimatum, he was left with no options. Besides, he had to think about Ramesh’s future. God knows nobody else was thinking of him.
“There’s another thing, Gulab,” he said. “You have to do this yourself. I don’t want anyone else involved, no one. And this—this can never be traced back to me, you understand? I—believe me, if I could think of another way to settle this, I would. But under no circumstances—”
“Frank sahib,” Gulab interrupted. “Don’t worry so much.” His tone had changed and was more relaxed, jocular. “This is nothing.” He flicked his wrist. “Like killing off a mosquito.”
Frank didn’t like this flippancy, this carelessness. He wanted Gulab to understand the gravity of the situation, to give it the weight it deserved. “Listen, Gulab,” he said. “This—what I’m doing—goes against everything that I know and believe in. Do you understand? I—we Americans believe in the sanctity of life. I was brought up to believe, Thou Shalt Not Kill.”
Something bright flashed in Gulab’s eyes. But when he spoke, his tone was flat, his face expressionless. “Yes, sir. World over, Americans are known for respecting life.”
Was the guy mocking him? Frank peered closely, but Gulab’s expression was as blank as a wall. “In any case, I want an assurance that you will—you will do this job yourself.”
“No problem, sir.”
“And—one more thing. How much—that is, what do you charge for this job?”
Gulab’s smile was thin and stretched. “No fixed rate, sir. This is not exactly my profession, to bump off people. Just as a favor to you. So whatever your heart tells you to pay is good.”
Frank felt the sweat forming on his forehead again. He felt weak, nauseous, and his hands fluttered in his lap. “Gulab, I have no idea what would be fair.”
“Would one lakh be possible, sir? A special discount rate for you,” he added.
One lakh. Frank did a quick calculation. That was about twenty-five hundred dollars. He felt something twist in his heart. He now knew the value of a human life. Of two lives.
Gulab was waiting for his answer. “That’s fine,” Frank said. “But this money has to come from my personal account, obviously. And I have to withdraw it without making my wife suspicious. So I need to think about how—”
“Buy a carpet.”
“Excuse me?”
“My friend has a shop, sir. Sells handwoven carpets. Good quality. You buy a very cheap one. He will give you receipt for one lakh. You just give me a bearer’s check next week. And I will get you the invoice. Carpet delivered few days after—after the job.”
So Gulab knew how to launder money. It shouldn’t surprise him, really, that someone as worldly as him would have the whole thing figured out. This, after all, was a country where bribery was so common that middle-class businessmen openly boasted about never paying so much as a traffic vio
lation fine. He himself had gotten used to paying baksheesh for every doggone license and permit that he needed at HerbalSolutions.
“One other thing, sir,” Gulab was saying. “We should decide now only the date you will pay me. Best I come here to pick it up. After that, there should be no contact between us until—after. Safer for you, that way.”
“Okay,” he whispered. “But…what if something goes wrong, Gulab?”
Gulab sat up straight in his chair and threw his shoulders back. “I don’t know if you remember, sir. But a long time ago—when the Anand situation was going on—you held me responsible for what had happened to that boy. At that time you said that I owed you.” To Frank’s consternation, Gulab swallowed hard, and Frank realized that his careless words had deeply affected this man. “Well, Gulab Singh doesn’t like to owe any man, sir. So I give you my word, if something goes wrong, I will not betray you. I will hang from the gallows before I do that. I will say I had an old score to settle with Prakash. Okay?”
And Frank had the unreal sense that in the space that it took Gulab to make his promise, the world had broken into a million jigsaw pieces and been rearranged again. This man whom he had thought of as a coldhearted killer had suddenly displayed the sensitivity of a butterfly; had taken his nonchalant Americanism—you owe me—and heard it as a challenge to his honor. He thought back to the revelation he’d had during his illness. A kindly old God with a long, flowing beard could’ve never created as complicated a being as Gulab; it took the randomness of an indifferent universe to have birthed a man who was this immoral and honorable.
“Okay,” he said.
He sat in his chair for a long time after Gulab left. Multiple voices competed for his attention—his mother’s voice, reading the Bible to him as he lay in his boyhood bed, Scott discussing Hegel and metaphysics with him when they were both young men, Ellie reading out loud passages from Father Oscar Romero’s last sermon, Benny reciting the prayer that he said every night before going to bed:
The Weight of Heaven: A Novel Page 31