“So this is where the famous criminologist spends his time when he’s not teaching,” Indiri said with a forced gaiety that fell just short of its mark.
I grunted. “You could have seen the criminology professor anytime on campus, even if you are majoring in agriculture,” I said easily. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“I didn’t come to see the professor,” Indiri said, leaning forward on my desk. “I came to see the detective. I would like to hire you.”
“Now, what would a lovely, intelligent young woman like you want with a seedy private detective?” Immediately my smile faded. The girl’s flesh had paled, isolating the painted ceremonial dot in the center of her forehead, lending it the appearance of an accusing third eye. It had been a stupid thing to say. Worse, it had sounded patronizing, and Indiri Tamidian was not a woman to be patronized. “How can I help you, Indiri?”
“I want you to find out what’s bothering Pram.”
“What makes you think anything is bothering him?”
“He hasn’t called or come to see me for a week. Yesterday I went over to his room and he refused to see me.”
I turned away before my first reaction could wander across my face. Pram Sakhuntala was one of my graduate students, and a friend of sorts. A good athlete, Pram often worked out with me in the gym as I struggled to retain and polish the skills that were a legacy of the nightmare years I had spent headlining with the circus as Mongo the Magnificent. Like Indiri, Pram was part of a U.N.-funded exchange program designed to train promising young Indians for eventual return to their own land, where their newly acquired skills could be put to optimum use. Pram was taking a degree in sociology, which explained his presence in one of my criminology sections. He was also Indiri’s fiancé and lover. Or had been. Losing interest in a woman like Indiri might be an indication that Pram was losing his mind, but that was his business. It certainly did not seem the proper concern of a private detective, and that’s what I told Indiri.
“No, Dr. Frederickson, you don’t understand,” Indiri said, shaking her head. “There would be no problem if it were simply a matter of Pram not loving me anymore. That I could understand and accept. But he does love me, as I love him. I know that because I see it in his eyes; I feel it. Perhaps that sounds silly, but it is true.”
It did not sound silly; Indiri came from a people who had produced the Kama Sutra, a land where life is always a question of basics. “Still, you don’t have any idea what could have caused him to stop seeing you?”
“I’m not sure,” Indiri said hesitantly.
“But you do have a suspicion.”
“Yes. Do you know Dr. Dev Reja?”
“Dev Reja. He’s chairman of Far Eastern Studies.” I knew him, and didn’t like him. He strode about the campus with all the imperiousness of a reincarnated Gautama Buddha, with none of the Buddha’s compensating humility.
“Yes,” Indiri said softly. “He is also the adviser to the Indo-American Student Union, and coordinator of our exchange program. Last week Pram told me that Dr. Dev Reja had asked to speak with him. I don’t know if there’s any connection, but it was after that meeting that Pram changed toward me.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen Pram for more than a week. He had missed my last class. This, in itself, was not significant. At least it hadn’t seemed so at the time.
“What could Dev Reja have said to Pram that would cause him to change his attitude toward you?”
“That is what I would like you to find out for me, Dr. Frederickson.”
I absently scratched my head. Indiri reached for her purse and I asked her what she was doing.
“I don’t know how much you charge for your services,” the girl said, looking straight into my eyes. “I don’t have too much—”
“I only charge for cases,” I said abruptly. “So far, this doesn’t look like anything I could help you with.” Tears welled in Indiri’s eyes. “Not yet, it doesn’t,” I added quickly. “First I’ll have to talk to Dr. Dev Reja before I can decide whether or not there’s going to be any money in this for me. If I think there’s anything I can do, we’ll talk about fees later.”
I was beginning to feel like the editor of an advice-to-the-lovelorn column, but the look Indiri gave me shook me right down to my rather modest dwarf toes and made it all worthwhile.
2
Famous. That was the word Indiri had used—half in jest, half seriously—to describe me. It was true that I’d generated some heat and some headlines with my last two cases, both of which I’d literally stumbled across. But famous? Perhaps. I never gave it much thought. I’d had enough of fame; Mongo the Magnificent had been famous, and that kind of freak fame had almost destroyed me. What Indiri—or anyone else, for that matter, with the possible exceptions of my parents and Garth, my six-foot-plus police detective brother—could not be expected to understand were the special needs and perspective of a dwarf with an I.Q. of 156 who had been forced to finance his way to a Ph.D. by working in a circus, entertaining people who saw nothing more than a freak who just happened to be a highly gifted tumbler and acrobat. Long ago I had developed the habit of not looking back, even to yesterday. There were just too many seemingly impossible obstacles I had already crossed, not to mention the ones coming up; the look of disbelief in the eyes of an unsuspecting client seeing me for the first time, choking back laughter at the idea of a dwarf trying to make it as a private detective.
I squeezed the genie of my past back into its psychic bottle as I neared the building housing the Center for Far Eastern Studies. Mahajar Dev Reja was in his office. I knocked and went in.
Dev Reja continued working at his desk a full minute before finally glancing up and acknowledging my presence. In the meantime I had glanced around his office; elephant tusks and other Indian trinkets cluttered the walls. I found the display rather gauche compared to the Indian presence Indiri carried within her. Finally Dev Reja stood up and nodded to me.
“I’m Frederickson,” I said, extending my hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. I teach criminology.”
Dev Reja considered my hand in such a way that he gave the impression he believed dwarfism might be catching. But I left it there and finally he took it.
“Frederickson,” Dev Reja said. “You’re the circus performer I’ve heard so much about.”
“Ex-performer,” I said quickly. “Actually, I’d like to speak to you about a mutual acquaintance. Pram Sakhuntala.”
That raised Dev Reja’s eyebrows a notch, and I thought I detected a slight flush high on his cheekbones.
“My time is limited, Mr.—Dr.—Frederickson. How does your business with Pram Sakhuntala concern me?”
I decided there was just no way to sneak up on it. “Pram has been having some difficulty in my class,” I lied. “There’s an indication his troubles may stem from a talk he had with you.” It wasn’t diplomatic, but Dev Reja didn’t exactly bring out the rosy side of my personality. “I thought I would see if there was any way I could help.”
“He told you of our conversation?” This time his reaction was much more obvious and recognizable; it was called anger. I said nothing. “Candala!” Dev Reja hissed. It sounded like a curse.
“How’s that?”
“Pram asked you to come and see me?”
“Is Pram in some kind of trouble?”
Dev Reja’s sudden calm was costing him. “It must have occurred to you before you came here that any discussion Pram and I may have had would be none of your business. You were right.”
I didn’t have to be told that the interview was at an end. I turned and walked to the door past a blown-up photograph of a tiger in an Indian jungle. It was night and the eyes of the startled beast glittered like fractured diamonds in the light of the enterprising photographer’s flash. In the background the underbrush was impenetrably dark and tangled. I wondered what had happened to the man who took the shot.
Pram showed up
at the gym that evening for our scheduled workout. His usually expressive mouth was set in a grim line and he looked shaky. I made small talk as we rolled out the mats and began our warm-up exercises. Soon Pram’s finely sculpted body began to glisten, and he seemed to relax as his tension melted and merged with the sweat flowing from his pores.
“Pram, what’s a ‘candala’?”
His reaction was immediate and shocking. Pram blanched bone white, then jumped up and away as though I had grazed his stomach with a white-hot poker.
“Where did you hear that?” His words came at me like bullets from the smoking barrel of a machine gun.
“Oh, Dr. Dev Reja dropped it in conversation the other day and I didn’t have time to ask him what it meant.”
“He was talking about me, wasn’t he?!”
Pram’s face and voice were a torrent of emotions, a river of tortured human feeling I was not yet prepared to cross. I’d stuck my foot in the water and found it icy cold and dark. I backed out.
“As far as I know, it had nothing to do with you,” I said lamely. Pram wasn’t fooled.
“You don’t usually lie, professor. Why are you lying now?”
“What’s a ‘candala,’ Pram? Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“What right do you have to ask me these questions?”
“None.”
“Where did you get the idea of going to see Dr. Dev Reja?”
Like it or not, it seemed I’d just been pushed right into the middle of the water. This time I struck out for the other side. “India’s been hurt and confused by the way you’ve been acting,” I said evenly. “Not hurt for herself, but for you. She thinks you may be in some kind of trouble, and she asked me to try to help if I can. She loves you very much, Pram. You must know that. If you are in trouble, I can’t help you unless you tell me what it’s all about.”
Pram blinked rapidly. His skin had taken on a greenish pallor, and for a moment I thought he would be sick. The fire in his eyes was now banked back to a dull glow as he seemed to stare through and beyond me. Suddenly he turned and, still in his gym clothes, walked out of the gym and into the night. I let him go. I had already said too much for a man who was working blind.
I showered and dressed, then made my way over to the women’s residence where Indiri was staying. I called her room and she immediately came down to meet me in the lobby. I wasted no time.
“Indiri, what’s a ‘candala’?”
The question obviously caught her by surprise. “It’s a term used to refer to a person of very low caste,” she said quietly, after a long hesitation. “A candala is what you in the West would call an ‘untouchable.’ But it is even worse—I’m sorry to have to tell you these things, Dr. Frederickson. I love my country, but I am so ashamed of the evil that is our caste system. Mahatma Gandhi taught us that it was evil, and every one of our leaders have followed his example. Still, it persists. I am afraid it is just too deeply ingrained in the souls of our people.”
“Don’t apologize, Indiri. India has no monopoly on prejudice.”
“It’s not the same, Dr. Frederickson. You cannot fully understand the meaning and implications of caste unless you are Indian.”
I wondered. I had a few black friends who might give her an argument, but I didn’t say anything.
“Actually,” Indiri continued, “the most common name for an untouchable is ‘sutra.’ A candala is—or was—even lower.”
“Was?”
“You rarely hear the word anymore, except as a curse. Once, a candala was considered absolutely apart from other men. Such a man could be killed on the spot if he so much as allowed his shadow to touch that of a man in a higher caste. However, over the centuries it was realized that this practice ran counter to the basic Indian philosophy that every man, no matter how ‘low,’ had some place in the social system. In Indian minds—and in day-to-day life—the concept of candala fell under the weight of its own illogic.”
“Go on.”
“Candalas were forced to wear wooden clappers around their necks to warn other people of their presence. They were allowed to work only as executioners and burial attendants. They were used to cremate corpses, then forced to wear the dead man’s clothing.”
I shuddered involuntarily. “Who decides who’s who in this system?”
“It is usually a question of birth. A person normally belongs to the caste his parents belonged to, except in the case of illegitimate children, who are automatically considered sutras.”
“What about Pram?” I said, watching Indiri carefully. “Could he be a sutra, or even a candala?”
I had expected some kind of reaction, but not laughter. It just didn’t go with our conversation. “I’m sorry, Dr. Frederickson,” Indiri said, reading my face. “That just struck me as being funny. Pram’s family is Ksatriyana, the same as mine.”
“Where does a Ksatriyana fit into the social scheme of things?”
“A Ksatriyana is very high,” she said. I decided it was to her credit that she didn’t blush. “Ksatriyana is almost interchangeable with Brahman, which is usually considered the highest caste. Buddha himself was a Ksatriyana. A member of such a family could never be considered a sutra, much less a candala.”
“What about Dr. Dev Reja? What’s his pedigree?”
“He is a Brahman.”
I nodded. I had no time to answer Indiri’s unspoken questions; I still had too many of my own. I thanked her and left. The subject of our conversation had left a dusty residue on the lining of my mind and I gulped thirstily at the cool night air.
I needed an excuse to speak to Pram, so I picked up his clothes from the common locker we shared in the gym and cut across the campus to his residence.
It was a small building, a cottage really, converted into apartments for those who preferred a certain kind of rickety individuality to the steel-and-glass anonymity of the high-rise student dorms. There was a light on in Pram’s second-floor room. I went inside and up the creaking stairs. The rap of my knuckles on the door coincided with another sound that could have been a chair tipping over onto the floor. I raised my hand to knock again, and froze. There was a new sound, barely perceptible but real nonetheless; it was the strangling rasp of a man choking to death.
I grabbed the knob and twisted. The door was locked. I had about three feet of space on the landing, and I used every inch of it as I stepped back and leaped forward, kipping off the floor, kicking out with my heel at the door just above the lock. It gave. The door flew open and I hit the floor, slapping the wood with my hands to absorb the shock and immediately springing to my feet. The scene in the room branded its image on my mind even as I leaped to right the fallen chair.
Two factors were responsible for the fact that Pram was still alive: He had changed his mind at the last moment, and he was a lousy hangman to begin with. The knot in the plastic clothesline had not been tied properly, and there had not been enough slack to break his neck; he had sagged rather than fallen through the air. His fingers clawed at the thin line, then slipped off. His legs thrashed in the air a good two feet above the floor; his eyes bulged and his tongue, thick and black, protruded from his dry lips like an obscene worm. His face was blue. He had already lost control of his sphincter and the air was filled with a sour, fetid smell.
I quickly righted the chair and placed it beneath the flailing feet, one of which caught me in the side of the head, stunning me. I fought off the dizziness and grabbed his ankles, forcing his feet onto the chair. That wasn’t going to be enough. A half-dead, panic-stricken man with a rope around his neck choking the life out of him doesn’t just calmly stand up on a chair. I jumped up beside him, bracing and lifting him by his belt while, with the other hand, I stretched up and went to work on the knot in the clothesline. Finally it came loose and Pram suddenly went limp. I ducked and let Pram’s body fall over my shoulder. I got down off the chair and carried him to the bed. I put my ear to his chest; he was still breathing, but just barely. I gr
abbed the phone and called for an ambulance. After that I called my brother.
3
Pram’s larynx wasn’t damaged and, with a little difficulty, he could manage to talk, but he wasn’t doing any of it to Garth.
“What can I tell you, Mongo?” Garth said. He pointed to the closed door of Pram’s hospital room, where we had just spent a fruitless half hour trying to get Pram to open up about what had prompted him to try to take his own life. “He says nobody’s done anything to him. Actually, by attempting suicide, he’s the one who’s broken the law.”
I muttered a carefully selected obscenity.
“I didn’t say I was going to press charges against him,” Garth grunted. “I’m just trying to tell you that I’m not going to press charges against anyone else either. I can’t. Whatever bad blood there is between your friend and this Dev Reja, it obviously isn’t a police matter. Not until and unless some complaint is made.”
I was convinced that Pram’s act was linked to Dev Reja, and I’d hoped that a talk with Pram would provide the basis for charges of harassment—or worse—against the other man. Pram had refused to even discuss the matter, just as he had refused to let Indiri even see him. I thanked my brother for his time and walked him to the elevator. Then I went back to Pram’s room.
I paused at the side of the bed, staring down at the young man in it who would not meet my gaze. The fiery rope burns on his neck were concealed beneath bandages, but the medication assailed my nostrils. I lifted my hands in a helpless gesture and sat down in a chair beside the bed, just beyond Pram’s field of vision.
“It does have something to do with Dev Reja, doesn’t it, Pram?” I said after a long pause.
“What I did was a terrible act of cowardice,” Pram croaked into the silence. “I must learn to accept. I will learn to accept and live my life as it is meant to be lived.”
“Accept what?” I said very carefully, leaning forward.
Tears welled up in Pram’s eyes, brimmed at the lids, then rolled down his cheeks. He made no move to wipe them away. “My birth,” he said in a tortured whisper. “I must learn to accept the fact of my birth.”
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 25