As Rebecca slipped into her blouse, fussing with the trim on her transparent sleeves, Daniel opened his briefcase and retrieved a velvet box. There would be no better time to give her the earrings, and the longer he waited, the more awkward it would be. “I wanted to give you these the other day, but I didn’t have them yet.”
“The other day?”
“Our anniversary.” Daniel studied her carefully, but if the word made Rebecca relive the crash, she managed to hide it. She looked down at the box and bent back the lid. The lapis lazuli was a rich blue, studded with flecks of gold. They reminded Daniel of the twilights Rebecca had loved when they had driven together to Nevada, Arizona, and Utah.
“How thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you.”
She looked unsurprised. Or maybe it was disappointment. When he asked if she liked them, she said they were beautiful and snapped the lid shut, placing the box on the dresser.
“You like lapis, don’t you?”
“I said they’re lovely.” She pushed the box a bit farther away.
“I thought you could wear them tonight.”
Her expression was clear now: it was disappointment. “Daniel, I know you like giving me jewelry, but have you ever noticed that I don’t really wear any?”
“I’m sorry for giving you earrings,” Daniel said calmly before turning and leaving.
In the hall, he almost walked into Laila, who materialized from the guest room. There was a long, inviting slit on the side of her dress. Her gait was different, and he noticed she was wearing heels. Her eyes were fringed with lashes that had to be fake, and her lips were red. Yes, it was true. Laila was sexy, and not just in the chess-club way of their adolescence.
It was six o’clock when the guests began to arrive. Daniel assumed Ambassador Jack Sutherland would bring Peter with him, since he was staying at his home, but instead the ambassador turned up with Greenwood, the Dannaco-Hastings consultant, who was dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with a tie. Daniel was surprised he had come, but less surprised to learn that corporate priorities trumped old friendships: the Sutherlands had sent a car to collect Peter from the airport, and he had agreed to stay at the Khushal Hotel so they could accommodate Greenwood. Daniel could almost smell Agent Ruby on the young man, who stood in a wide stance and purposefully straightened his tie, which was adorned with a silver clip bearing the Harvard insignia. His class ring was the size of his knuckle. He turned back and craned his neck as he entered the house, looking back through the courtyard gates at the lepers, who had begun to form their nightly line.
“They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” Daniel said.
“Ah.” Greenwood nodded. “Kind of like bears.”
In the parlor, gloved waiters came and went with trays, offering drinks and canapés.
Rebecca dropped a James Brown record on the turntable. The ambassador gave her a peck on the cheek. “How’s my fastest typist tonight?”
She hugged him halfheartedly, like he was a toy she had outgrown, and when she walked away, she curled her fingers into her palms. Ian arrived with liquor on his breath and Pamela on his arm. She dispatched a series of quick, kissy hellos and began twirling to the music, her batik skirt a whimsy of colors, almost all of which matched some aspect of her makeup, nail polish, or jewels. She teetered on pink stilettos adorned with girlish silk flowers, part of a closetful of shoes that Rebecca had derisively nicknamed the “fuck-me collection.” These were known as “Fuck me, I’m barely legal.”
Laila stood with her hands on her hips, glaring openly at the million-carat diamond on Pamela’s hand. “You could go ice-skating on that. Or feed a small country with it,” she said.
“If you tell me which country, I’ll send it to them.” Pamela’s cheeks grew red as she eyed the carpet. Then she looked up. “We’re throwing a Labor Day barbecue this year. We’re inviting some of the unemployed locals Ian knows through the Corps,” she said, the words squeezing through a gridlocked smile.
She didn’t seem to understand that people who spent their lives looking for work might not enjoy a day dedicated to celebrating labor. Daniel thought Pamela’s gaffe would amuse Rebecca. He set off in search of her and found her near the door that divided the parlor from the foyer and the rest of the house, checking her watch and peering at the entryway.
“Shouldn’t you be mingling?” he said.
“I have to powder my nose.” She clacked her way through the foyer and disappeared into the guest bathroom.
Daniel didn’t want to join the Sutherlands. They were glued to Greenwood, who stood with both hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. Nor did he want to partake in Laila’s increasingly animated dialogue with Pamela. Ian was mixing drinks at the wet bar. Rebecca returned, her nose looking exactly the same as before. On the stereo, James Brown managed to make an ordinary word sound obscene. There was still no sign of Peter Whitbourn.
There was, however, a sound that only Daniel seemed to hear. A car that came and went, idling in the street before crawling away. Cars were scarce on this unpaved cul-de-sac, and he knew what the neighbors’ cars sounded like. This wasn’t one of them.
“Peter’s late,” Rebecca said. She glanced at her watch and tapped its face.
She left behind a cloud of Chanel. It was one of only two perfumes he could identify, the other being Charlie, because Laila wore it. Rebecca asked a server for a glass of Chablis. Laila ordered the same. The house was filled with the aroma of saffron, cardamom, and rosewater mixed with hair spray and the women’s clashing perfumes. Pamela spilled wine, her nails unable to negotiate stemware.
Outside, the engine growled. Daniel could no longer stand it, but by the time he reached the door, there was a knock. Elias and Peter had arrived at the same time. The journalist stood as far from Peter as he could while still claiming the same steps. They were facing each other as if poised for combat, their arsenals consisting of not guns but words, which could decimate the enemy in the hands of a skilled marksman.
Looking past them, Daniel could see the street through the courtyard gates. A sedan was in view, the Khushal Hotel logo stenciled on its side. With its missing taillight, it looked half-asleep as it inched away. It didn’t sound like the prowling engine from before. Elias’s Vespa was lodged safely inside the courtyard, leaning against the house.
The journalist stepped inside quickly, looking more relieved than happy to see Daniel. His jeans were torn at the knees, his shirt a tie-dye reminiscent of Pamela’s skirt. He lifted a six-pack from a brown paper bag, casting a furtive look over his shoulder.
“We don’t all know the American ambassador, but I have other sources.” Elias winked. “Is Laila here?” When he learned that she was, Elias examined himself in the hallway mirror. He pulled his fingers through his hair, dusted his jeans, and strode off, politely greeting Rebecca, whom he crossed on the way to the parlor.
Alone with his wife and Peter, who was tonight’s guest of honor, Daniel extended his hand. Peter’s grip was weaker than it used to be. Their hands remained clasped as Peter looked Daniel in the eye and wiped his shoes on the mat for longer than necessary. Rebecca greeted him with a smile that Daniel tried not to analyze. He was happy to see Peter, a man he had once called a friend, perhaps the closest he’d ever had.
Peter had aged in these eight years. Rebecca had once described him as “handsome in a pinched sort of way.” The “pinched” was taking over. The professor had a lean build, brown eyes, sharp like a fox’s, and an aristocrat’s nose. But there were shadows under his eyes, and a few silver strands were scattered through thinning hair, though he was just thirty-nine. His shoulders were hunched from too much time leaning over papers, books, and solo meals.
“I have something for our hostess.” Peter produced a cube from a bag he was holding and offered it to Rebecca. “I apologize for the ribbon. It didn’t travel well.” He fussed with the dejected
bow, trying to coax life into its curls. “Open it.”
It was a snow globe. Trapped under the dome, the Eiffel Tower was the backdrop for a tiny skater striking an Olympic pose.
Rebecca stroked the ornament like it was a precious work of art, the corners of her lips upturned sweetly and her cheekbones almost as pink as Pamela’s shoes. “I left my collection at my parents’ house.”
Dancing in from the parlor, Pamela clapped her hands in delight before introducing herself. “Make it snow!” she said.
Rebecca shook the globe, sending silvery flakes into aimless shimmies. Only now did Daniel see that she was wearing the earrings. They swayed by her cheeks, softening the angular beauty of her jaw. Daniel wanted to thank her with a glance, but she avoided his gaze. From deep under the sands near a soulless highway, the dead girl said, She doesn’t see you. You’re perfect for each other.
In the parlor, Peter greeted each guest by turn. The hellos went on, Laila and Rebecca both mingling and darting back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, overseeing last-minute things. Daniel usually loved seeing his wife like this, radiant and lively, swaying through the room with a deceptive nonchalance. It was a stark contrast to Laila, who walked in self-consciously short steps, clutching at the slit of her dress. But tonight, something about both women was off.
The car returned, louder this time. It was approaching. Servants came and went with trays. Greenwood was on all fours, looking for his tie clip on the regal multicolored carpet, and Ian was on one knee, singing a tune from Show Boat to his wife. Meanwhile, Ambassador Sutherland smiled like someone used to feigning interest. Nearby, Elias was trying to keep Laila’s attention. Would she be at the demonstration on Thursday, he asked. Maybe, she replied, distracted, although not by Ian’s singing. Her eyes were on Peter. His eyebrows were raised as he listened to Greenwood, who was now back on his feet.
Daniel opened the windows, killing the ceiling fans in favor of the breeze. Outside, the failing day blazed Catholic red. Rebecca stopped the music by lifting the needle instead of pulling the off switch, and the screeching sound made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Half of their LPs skipped because of her. She loaded the cassette player with a tape of bluesy tunes.
The dinner gong sounded. Daniel led his wife and Laila from the parlor to the dining room and told them they were beautiful. Laila blushed and made too many self-deprecating jokes as she held on to his arm. Rebecca stroked his face and smiled quietly. He could see the outline of her shape under her white silk blouse and the floor-length skirt—no, not a skirt, but flowing slacks with sheer panels on the sides. She had painted her toes a frosted white. They matched the shimmies in Peter’s snow globe.
On the table, crystal candlesticks glimmered next to vases overflowing with flowers from the yard. Daniel lit the candles as the guests stood behind their chairs, their features warmed by the flames and the dimly lit chandelier. They were waiting for Ian, who was using the restroom for the third time. Each place setting was marked with a name card. Daniel had forgotten to tell Rebecca about Bob Greenwood, so his had hurriedly been added. His name was scribbled in Laila’s doctorly scrawl.
The servers brought in platters of rice piled high with lamb, chicken, and colorful sides. Peter smiled at Rebecca. Daniel wished he could leave.
Greenwood raised an eyebrow at his name card and turned a dinner plate over in his hands, examining its credentials. Peter stared longingly at his own seat. Signs of jet lag were etched on his face. Elias was watching Laila. Noticing, she firmly tied her scarf over her bare throat. Small talk rose and fell in little waves. Daniel thought of what his mother used to say: that some talk was so small it was easy to miss altogether. Ian returned, apologizing as he bolted forward with short steps, elbows high like a speed-walker’s. Waiters uncorked bottles; wine splashed into glasses.
Before Daniel could welcome his guests and propose a toast, Greenwood said, “So Daniel, is it true that Professor Whitbourn got you your job?”
10
“He wrote a reference for me. It was very good of him.”
Daniel did not say that Peter had owed him.
Back in college, it was Rebecca who had convinced Daniel to take a course with Peter. By his senior year, Dr. Whitbourn had become Peter. One night, over pints of Guinness at the Beerded Matron, Peter congratulated him on his engagement to Ms. Rebecca Menlow. As Peter and Daniel made progress on their goal of drinking immoderately, the alcohol loosened their inhibitions and tongues. The professor told Daniel he was tired of teaching. He had little respect for most of his students, even less for his colleagues. As for the school’s administration, he was too civil to use any of the precise adjectives.
To Peter the whole world was, by and large, a personal insult. He found the glazed boredom in his students’ eyes a direct affront. Ditto for their slouching torsos and unfortunate syntax. Those who were bright he disliked even more for the demands they made on his time. The dean had told Peter he had “great pedagogic talent,” but that was an insult, too, an excuse to force him to expend energy on people destined to remain unsung.
After his fourth beer, Daniel confessed something as well. He wasn’t sure how to handle girls. He had visited America with his father as a child, but living here was different. The idea of women in sequential or simultaneous romantic liaisons was alien. At parties, girls talked about sex like it was just another facet of life, joking about details, comparing notes. He knew there was nothing wrong with this, that it signaled a progress he believed in, but sometimes these principles were easier to praise in the abstract than to live. It was so hard to shake the rule he’d been raised with: that a woman should save herself for her one true love. As Daniel emptied his beer at the Matron, Peter listened, never taking his eyes off his own sweating bottle, refusing the day-old peanuts the bartender shoved into view. Finally, he said, “Daniel, every man has two selves caught in perpetual battle. You should ignore their fights, except for the epic ones. The Sonny-Liston-versus-Muhammad-Alis. Pay close attention to those. And don’t choose sides ahead of time. Just let the best man win.” When fighting with yourself, it wasn’t always easy to tell who the best man was, but this seemed like something to drink to, so they did.
Less than a year after that, Rebecca revealed a secret of her own. Daniel knew Rebecca had been with men before him, but had never imagined there would be any more after him. After they’d graduated in 1968, she’d suddenly withdrawn, insisting she needed time and space. She’d spent that summer with friends in England and France, returning with promises of devotion and love. Daniel had taken her back without question.
Months later, he stared at her across the candlelit table in her beachfront studio, wondering when her speech would end. The candles flickered as she spoke. She insisted the “thing with Peter” had lasted only weeks, during the time she was away. Which meant that Peter had come to Europe to be with her. When she was finished, she sat with her head low. “Say something,” she whispered.
Daniel fetched an almost empty bag of chips. The only ones left were broken and small. Faced with his silence, Rebecca tried to explain herself, her tone shifting between urgency, regret, and defiance.
Daniel prepared for a fight, but not with her. It was a death match between his two selves. He told her it was all right. He kissed her good night and walked out of the apartment, leaving her in her chair with her knees to her chest and her head in her hands. The screen door bounced shut behind him.
Stalking up Ocean Boulevard toward home, he passed the bluff where he’d asked Rebecca to marry him above the emerald-studded sea. He turned right on Montana Avenue. When he reached Wilshire, he picked up his pace, running past gas stations and convenience stores and homeless men who made comments about his speed or asked him for spare change. He had always wished he could fly, wanting to go faster, wondering why his feet wouldn’t simply lift off the ground like the feet of a small Kochi boy alongside the road.
/>
“Run, brother, run,” said a man from his box for a bed. Daniel nearly fell over a shopping cart shoved into his path by another man who was cursing someone called Jane while waving a fist at the moon.
Once he was home, Daniel flipped through the phone book and looked for a place that would teach him to fly. He wanted to rise into the sky in a plane big enough just for one or maybe two, so he could watch the world from above when he couldn’t bear to be in its midst.
Then he revisited a place he had not been in more than two years. When he’d first come to California in 1963, he’d been determined to free himself of old ideas that had no place in his modern life. But it wasn’t as easy as throwing away the broken pieces of chips at the bottom of a bag. He decided to think of ideas as living things that belonged in one of two different houses: the good, modern ones lived in a sparkling high-rise, the old ones in a mud shack in Kandahar. When a belief he didn’t like popped into his head, Daniel would seize it by its imaginary arm, toss it into the mud shack, and padlock the door. In the beginning, Daniel had to play this game almost every day.
The night of August 20, 1967, with Rebecca’s confession about Peter reeling in his head, Daniel walked into his apartment, opened every window, and drank a warm beer while taking a cool shower, lay naked on his bed with his eyes closed, and let a storm flood the Kandahar shack, dissolving its walls and washing away everything inside until all that remained was a pile of sludge and a ruined lock he swore he would never need again.
11
Sitting around the table with his guests, Daniel could smell the muddy waters of that old shack as it struggled to reconstitute itself. He tried not to think of yesterday’s tryst in the kitchen, the shadow of another man tainting the memory. His efforts were in vain. Rebecca wrapped her hand around her glass, and he remembered her fingers like a shock along his spine. Her lips were pink yesterday morning, like now, but it had been the work of lust then, not lipstick.
The Opium Prince Page 10