The Redemption of River

by Eli Easton

  Inside, the place was surprisingly reminiscent of a classic British pub. A long bar in a polished mahogany loomed to the left. There was a mirror behind the bar with a long row of huge glass jars of kombucha in front of it. The jewel tones of the kombucha were bright and appealing, lit from above by recessed lights, and reflecting colored beams into the mirror behind. They looked like magic potions. The colors ranged from raspberry to deep red, from gold to green to a dark brown that looked like iced tea. It was a beautiful display. Heavy barstools lined the bar, and to the right was a brick wall with small round wooden tables along it. There was only a single narrow aisle.

  In the restaurant business, atmosphere was everything, and Brent liked the vibe of the place very much. It was sort of old and funky and sort of hip at the same time, casual, warm, and cozy. It seemed like the kind of place college students and young professionals would hang out, though it was deserted at this early hour of 10:00 a.m. local time. They’d only just opened.

  Brent had emailed the owner, a man named Falan Acharya, and Falan had readily set up an appointment. But Brent wasn’t sure what to expect now that he was here. Falan came out to greet them with enthusiasm, wiping his hands on a white apron. His black jeans and red stripped button-down shirt were informal, and his thick black hair was long and floppy. He looked close to Brent’s age, maybe a few years younger. His nose and broad grin were both slightly crooked, but his expression was unambiguously friendly.

  “Hello! Mr. Brent McKay! All the way from Seattle!” Falan gave Brent a hearty handshake, pumping his hand. “And who is this?” He looked at River.

  “My name is River Larsen. I’m a work associate of Mr. McKay’s. It’s an honor to meet you.” River placed his hands together and gave a slight bow.

  Falan did the same. “The honor is mine, Mr. Larsen. I am so pleased you are both here! It is not every day I get to meet with fellow restaurateurs from so far away. Come, come. Let’s sit down and have something to drink. It’s going to be hot today!”

  They sat at the bar, Falan between River and Brent. There was a young man working behind the bar, and he came right over.

  “You want to try the booch, yes?” Falan asked.

  “Absolutely!” Brent eyed the glass jars with interest. “Do you have a sampler?”

  “A sampler? What do you mean?”

  Brent explained the common practice in microbreweries, where you could order a beer taste sampler. Usually it was served in a wooden tray with six or more small glasses.

  “We don’t offer such a thing currently,” Falan said, “but I like the idea very much. I may have to use it. Ahmed, would you please put a little bit of several brews—” Falan held his fingers up a few inches apart. “—in glasses. Let’s see… Let’s start with lemonade, health tonic, turmeric, and raspberry mint please.”

  They sat at the bar and tasted kombuchas for a good hour. They learned that Falan had been born in Mumbai and studied at Oxford. His parents had wanted him to go to medical school, but his grandmother had been all about using food and herbs as natural remedies, and Falan became fascinated with the subject himself.

  “Kombucha has so many beneficial properties,” he told them with the fervor of a true devotee. “The enzymes help your body absorb the vitamins and minerals in other foods, you know. So it is good to have kombucha with every meal. It’s loaded with healthy probiotics that keep your gut running optimally. And it improves your immune system. Me? I am never sick! And if you ever are sick, in the stomach…” He rubbed his hand over his belly. “…kombucha can help restore balance and cure nausea. It’s very good for those with stomach problems.”

  Brent couldn’t contain his smile. Falan was just so enthusiastic. “Is it popular here in Mumbai?”

  “Very popular! Besides this bar, we also sell the brews to many restaurants and hotels in Mumbai. We cannot even keep up with business. Kombucha is not as popular in the United States, I think?”

  “It’s still considered a specialty product, but it sells quite well in groceries stores,” Brent said. “I think Seattle is ready for a kombucha bar. This is delicious, by the way.” He sipped the one Falan called lemonade. It tasted like a fizzy, deeply steeped Arnold Palmer, part iced tea, part lemonade, with a ginger kick. It was fantastic.

  “You can try them all if you like,” Falan waved his hands at the glass jars. “When we first began, our kombucha master tried many recipes from books. I can recommend some to you.” He rattled off the names of a half-dozen kombucha books available online. “As time went by, we perfected our own recipes. Big trade secret.” He winked. “I’m sure the same will be the case for you. But even simple recipes will taste good. You really cannot make a bad booch. Have you ever made it yourself?”

  Brent looked at River.

  “I have,” River said, sipping the raspberry brew. “Where I grew up, we made it. It was even a project in school.”

  “Really?” Brent asked, surprised. He realized he didn’t know anything about River’s childhood.

  River nodded. “Yup. Kefir and yogurt too. I grew up thinking everyone did that.”

  Brent wanted to ask River more questions but decided he should save that discussion for later. “Do serve food here?” he asked Falan instead, looking around for a menu.

  “Not us, no. The place next door is owned by my cousin. We encourage patrons to bring his food to our tables and vice versa. As I said, we also make kombucha for many other businesses, so we have our hands quite full.”

  Falan took them on a tour. The kombucha was made in the basement, which was a large room, much larger than the storefront upstairs. It resembled a mad scientist’s laboratory with wooden racks filled with glass jars of kombucha and yeast cultures, baskets of fresh fruit and herbs, things growing in pots under lights, big commercial sinks, and a row of enormous wooden tables where the prep work took place. There was a yeasty, earthy smell, and it was quite warm.

  Falan introduced them to a pretty, petite Indian woman in a long gray tunic, slim white trousers, and flats. “This is our kombucha master, Mrs. Anya Acharya. Who also happens to be my wife.”

  River greeted the woman with a slight bow, so Brent did the same. Anya appeared shy and unsure of what to say. She quickly excused herself to return to cutting up oranges.

  Something about Anya’s petite build, and the fact that Falan and Anya worked together, reminded Brent of Kathy. A gut-churning wave of sadness washed through him. He wondered what she would think of this new café project or even of this Mumbai bar. He fought an urge to say something to Falan—something about appreciating the time they had together while they had it. Healthy young people didn’t like being reminded of such things, and he was not close enough to Falan for such advice anyway.

  When he turned away, he found River watching him, his eyes knowing.

  “What is this?” River asked Falan, pointing to a glass jar of kombucha in a gorgeous rose color. It seemed like he was trying to give Brent some space.

  “Ah, that is a very special kombucha we make only this time of year,” Falan said proudly. “It is made with local cherries that are in season for a short while. We can never make enough of this one to please our customers. Every year there is a mad clamor for the stuff. I would let you taste it, but it’s not ready yet. Isn’t that right, Anya?”

  She nodded. “No tasting for another week. It must sit.”

  “I bet it’s delicious. I love cherries. And what a beautiful color,” River commented.

  Brent nodded. “Seasonal drinks are super popular at my coffee shops in Seattle too. For example, there’s a drink we only do for two weeks around St. Patrick’s Day. It is amazing how customers go crazy for that. They count down the days, come in every day to get some while they can.” He smiled. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I guess.”

  “It’s human nature. You always want something more when it’s hard to get,” River agreed.

  He gave Brent a meaningful look, like he meant something deeper by that. And Brent
felt it down to his toes. But what could he mean? Brent was certainly not hard to get. River was the one who qualified for that description. Or maybe Brent was reading way too much into it.

  “Mrs. Acharya, could I ask you some questions about your mother cultures?” River asked.

  Anya’s eyes lit up and she readily agreed. She led River over to jars that contained big, gooey, pancake-like things, which Brent recognized from his kombucha research as SCOBYs, aka Symbiotic Cultures Of Bacteria and Yeast, sometimes called “the mother.” Like beer yeast, it was the SCOBYs that fermented sweet tea and turned it into kombucha.

  Brent would have liked to listen in on their conversation, but Falan asked questions about Brent’s shops in Seattle, and soon they were deep into a conversation about coffee.

  When the talk wound down, Brent suggested they take a photo with the four of them in front of a rack of fermenting jars. Falan called down Ahmed from the bar to take the picture so they could all be in it.

  “This will be the first photo in the new café,” Brent said, checking his phone to make sure it turned out.

  “We are honored,” Falan said. “And please to email me a copy, so I can put one up here as well. It will link us kombucha purveyors across the ocean. I trust you will stay in touch and let us know of your progress. You must be a huge success. The more kombucha in the world, the better! Maybe then, people would be nicer to one another.”

  “Good gut bacteria makes you a pleasant person?” River asked with a teasing smile.

  “Well, the opposite is certainly true!” Falan laughed.

  By the time they left, it was noon, and both the bar and the restaurant next door had filled up with young people having lunch and drinking tall glasses of “booch.” Brent took that as a good sign. Not only the volume of patrons but the age. Appealing to young people was always a good sign you were on trend.

  Outside on the sidewalk, the sun was hot and nearly blinding after the darker basement. Brent took in a deep lungful of air and sighed happily.

  “So what did you think?” River asked, raising his eyebrows. “Was it what you expected?”

  Brent clapped his hand on River’s shoulder. “That was worth the trip to Mumbai all by itself. I love this place. Adore it.”

  River’s smile was relieved. “Yeah. It’s even better than I remembered. And it was such a privilege to see behind the scenes. The Acharyas are good people.”

  Brent nodded in agreement. “They sure are.”

  “So you still want to continue with the kombucha bar concept?”

  Brent laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve never been more excited about something, or more sure of it, in my life.”

  “Good.”

  As if on impulse, River slipped his own arm around Brent’s shoulder and gave him a brief squeeze. It was unexpected. They’d just spent the past two hours being very much “Mr. McKay and Mr. Larsen, his employee.” But the gesture was welcome. Very welcome.

  River’s expression was alight with such positivity and joy that it nearly stopped Brent’s heart. Here on this Mumbai street, River was in his element, and he’d never been so beautiful or, simultaneously, elusive. As if he could blend right into the crowds here and vanish in a heartbeat.

  You always want something more when it’s hard to get.

  Brent had a feeling he was going to learn the truth of that in a very real way—and very soon.

  Chapter 18

  Brent

  River grabbed Brent’s elbow and pulled him back as a moped roared through the narrow street, just missing him and an old lady in a sari, who vigorously yelled after the motorcyclist, shaking her fist.

  Brent grimaced at River. “You take your life in your hands in this place.”

  “The rights of the road are sacred here.” The twinkle in River’s eyes confirmed he was joking.

  “Maybe we’d be safer if we got around on a cow,” Brent quipped.

  River squeezed his arm. “Fear not, baby bird. I will protect you.”

  River steered them across the street—himself, Brent, and Brent’s glowing heart, which warmed in idiotic fashion to River’s teasing words, and to how close River was, brushing against him as they wove and jogged. Of course, River had to be close. The crush in the markets was like Coachella during the headliner act.

  They found a smaller side street that was less crowded and dodged into it like racecar drivers pulling into a pit stop.

  River grinned. “So a leisurely day shopping. It’ll thin out in a bit. Early mornings are the busiest, I think.”

  “Good to know. I think I’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

  “Easier said than done with the jet lag. I was up at five.”

  “Me too.”

  Brent imagined River in the hotel room next to his, lying awake at 5:00 a.m., rumpled and warm in bed, long hair spilling over the pillow, maybe reading on his phone. Brent had been doing the same.

  Imagine how much more fun it would have been to be together.

  “Were you looking for anything specific?” River asked.

  “No. Just want to take it all in.”

  River pointed down a row of promising-looking market stalls, and they headed that way.

  The Chor Bazaar district ran for blocks. There were larger streets, like the swamped PB Marg they’d just navigated, side streets, back lanes, and nooks and crannies. Some streets had long buildings with bays very much like small garage bays, only they held individual shops, their names printed at the top, their contents spilling out into the street. It was a flea-market cornucopia. Old dial telephones, plates, antique watches, brass teapots, rugs, electronics, cheap framed prints, and clothing were displayed on tables, crates, or carpets set on the brick and asphalt streets.

  The local population wore a mix of Western wear and traditional Indian clothing—lots of long white coats over white pants on men and saris on women, especially the shopkeepers. The younger Indians were inevitably in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers and drove mopeds like they were auditioning for Mad Max. He saw a Hard Rock Cafe Seattle T-shirt on a gorgeous young woman with long black hair. Soccer club logos were ubiquitous.

  As with any US flea market, most of the items for sale didn’t interest Brent. But his inner artist enjoyed the hunt for the rare golden find among the dross. They wandered for hours, Brent leading the way and River following along patiently. Brent bought a few small items he thought would be nice for the café, and some mementos for home. But mostly he soaked it in, not just the items but the people, the crowds, the landscape, as River would put it.

  By noon, the sun was baking down on them as if they were two eggs sharing a frying pan. The streets had emptied out—the natives were not idiots with limited time and less sense, unlike Brent. Even imperturbable River had wilted. His long hair was twisted back into a loose knot, the wisps hanging limply, and his white T-shirt had a dark V at his neck and spots on his back.

  They reached an intersection, where Brent started looking at some wooden chairs at the corner shop, but River stepped in front of him, arms folded across his chest.

  “We should take a break to eat. This sun can make you sick if you get too much of it. We need to get out of it for awhile.”

  “Sorry. Yeah, let’s get some food. I suppose a restaurant with AC is out of the question?”

  “Such a Westerner,” River tsked, shaking his head. But he did it with a smile.

  River took the reins and led them through the crowds until he found a restaurant to his liking. Like the amazing one they’d eaten in the day before, this was a local family-run place. River led them inside. There was no AC, alas, but the interior was cooler and had large ceiling fans that created a light breeze.

  Brent’s feet ached when he sat down, reminding him that they had been standing or walking for hours. River ordered varan bhaat, a spiced lentil dish over rice, and helped Brent decide on baida roti, which River explained was something like a meat pie, with chicken and veg wrapped in a pastry envelope. There was an iced-tea drink serv
ed with heavy cream, rather like a Thai iced tea, that Brent drank greedily. The caffeine would help.

  After the waiter took their order, Brent slumped back in his chair. Jet lag and the effects of the heat hit him like a truck. A sleepy-time truck. The breeze from the fans tickled his sweat-slick skin.

  “So we’re done with Chor Market?” River asked. His tone was hopeful, and Brent sniggered.

  “You’re not a big shopper, are you?”

  River made a noncommittal sound. “I don’t have the patience to wade through it all, not like you do. I can admire your immersion in the experience though. And you have a good eye.”

  “My, that’s diplomatic. What can I say? I know what I like when I see it.” River blinked at him, and Brent realized that sounded kind of flirty. “I mean, I recognize uniqueness and quality, that’s all.” Brent realized that also sounded flirty. But he didn’t want to take it back. Not when it was true—about shopping and about River.

  The waiter arrived with their food. Brent wasn’t all that hungry. The sun had made him feel a little lightheaded, but he tasted his baida roti. It was good. It made a good finger food. Might be something to consider for the cafe. He took a photo of it.

  “Do you do any painting or sculpture?” River asked. “You seem particularly drawn to art prints and carvings. And your sketches are really good.”

  Warmth spread in Brent’s chest at the compliment. “Uh… I did watercolors when I was younger, but I haven’t for years. The stores were my creative outlet. And the houses we owned. We flipped five of them. I like interior design, but I’d never want to do it for anyone else. I’m too selfish. When I have a vision for something, I don’t want to have to stray from it to please anyone else.”