A Walk Across the Sun (29 page)

“He's not happy,” she said, answering his question. “You upset him.”

“
I
upset him? I think he upset himself. Life didn't turn out the way he wanted, and he's got to find someone to blame.”

She shook her head. “You misunderstand him. He has a right to care about my decisions.”

“Does that mean he has the right to control your life?”

Priya's eyes flashed and she pushed herself away from him. “How can you say that? I chose you, remember? I went against his wishes. I gave up four years for you.”

He took a deep breath and calmed down. “Is that how you think of it?” he asked, quieter now. “That marrying me was a sacrifice?”

Her eyes moistened. “It was the hardest decision of my life.”

“But do you regret it? If you do, I'll leave right now.”

She looked away and sipped her beer. She was beautiful in profile, her black hair a striking contrast to her brown skin and eyes.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing at his wrist.

He saw the edge of Ahalya's bracelet peeking out beneath the cuff of his shirt. “You didn't answer my question,” he said.

Her eyes spoke a challenge. “I'll answer yours if you answer mine first.”

He showed her the bracelet. “The girl we rescued from the brothel gave it to me.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, suddenly intrigued.

He tried to keep the story short, but Priya would have none of it. So he delivered her the long version, complete with details of the raid, Ahalya's confrontation with Sumeera in the brothel lobby, his visit to the ashram, the photo of Sita, and the binding of the band.

When he finished, she gave him a piercing look. “Do you know what this means?”

“What?” he asked, mildly exasperated. “I told her I'd send the picture to Andrew Porter at Justice, and I did that this evening. I can't do any more. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“You've never heard of a
rakhi
bracelet?”

“Oh no. Why does that sound ominous?”

“Could you drop the wisecracks? This is serious.”

“Sorry.” He held up his hands in apology. “Bad habit.”

She collected her thoughts. “It's a tradition in India that goes back thousands of years. A woman delivers a bracelet to a man to wear around his wrist. The bracelet means that the man is her brother. He is dutybound to act in her defense.”

“You're joking, right?”

“Not in the least,” Priya responded, enjoying his discomfort. “Legend has it that the wife of Alexander the Great saved her husband's life with a rakhi bracelet. She gave one to King Porus during Alexander's misadventures in the Punjab. Porus had a chance to kill Alexander in battle, but he restrained himself because of the promise implicit in the gift.”

Thomas touched the many-colored band. “So, what am I supposed to do about it? I'm not James Bond. I'm just a lawyer working for an NGO. The police and the CBI can't find her. What are the chances that I can do what they can't?”

“A bit remote,” Priya conceded.

“More like inconceivable.”

“Don't be so gloomy. Maybe you'll catch a break.”

Thomas shrugged. “That happens in the movies. Not in real life.”

Priya looked at him with sudden gravity. “It happened to me.”

It dawned on him that she had answered his question. “Does that mean I can see you again?” he asked.

She smiled. “Does that mean you're going to honor your promise to Ahalya?”

“A quid pro quo. I can handle that.”

She raised her beer. “A toast.”

“To what?”

“To miracles.”

Thomas touched her mug with his. “To miracles. May a miracle find Sita Ghai.”

Chapter 16

The most dangerous thing is illusion.
—R
ALPH
W
ALDO
E
MERSON

Paris, France

One evening at the end of January, Sita was in the kitchen closet organizing cleaning supplies when a well-dressed couple entered the restaurant. The evening had been slow, and there were few customers in the dining room. Sita watched through a crack in the door as Uncle-ji met the couple and escorted them to a seat in the corner. The man was stocky with a square, rugged face and close-cropped hair, and the woman was an attractive blond with pale skin. Sita thought nothing of them and returned to work.

Sometime later, after most of the guests had left, Aunti-ji shut down the stove and placed a plate of leftovers on the countertop.

“Mop the floor, scrub the stove, and then you may eat,” she said, heading to the flat.

Sita filled up a bucket with soapy water and began to mop. When she reached the entrance to the dining room, she saw Uncle-ji talking with the couple in the corner. Uncle-ji beckoned to Kareena's sister, Varuni, and pointed at the kitchen. Sita ducked out of view, hoping he hadn't seen her.

After a moment, Varuni entered the kitchen and retrieved a halfempty bottle of Smirnoff from a shelf. Sita thought to warn her about the wet floor, but she was too late. Varuni's foot slipped, and she fell in a heap.

Sita ran to her aid. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

Varuni winced when she tried to stand. She rubbed her ankle. “Take this to Uncle,” she said, handing the bottle to Sita. “The customer wants a refill.”

Sita shook her head. “Aunti-ji told me to stay out of the restaurant.”

Varuni gave her a reassuring smile. “She's not here. You'll do fine.”

Sita took the bottle and walked hesitantly into the dining room. Uncle-ji and the man with the square face were conversing in French. The restaurant owner frowned when he saw her. He took the bottle of Smirnoff and waved her away. The man with the square face looked at her unblinking, and the woman beside him fingered her necklace.

She was about to turn around when the man said something to her in French. Seeing her blank stare, he tried again in English. “What is your name?”

The question took her by surprise. “Sita,” she said after a moment.

“You are new here.”

She traded glances with Uncle-ji, not knowing what to say.

The restaurant owner stepped in, sounding nervous. “She came from India. She is helping out in the restaurant.”

The man seemed to ponder this. Then he looked at Uncle-ji and held up his glass. Sita retreated to the kitchen, feeling profoundly selfconscious. Varuni was still on the floor, massaging her foot.

“See, it wasn't hard,” Varuni said.

“Who are they?” Sita asked.

“They are Russians, I think. Uncle calls the man Vasily. They live near my grandmother.”

Sita looked at the clock and saw that it was after eleven. “Why are they still here?”

“Uncle and Vasily speak sometimes. I don't know what they say.”

Varuni stood slowly and put weight on her ankle. “I need to finish up with the tables,” she said, limping toward the dining room. She stopped on the threshold and tilted her head, listening. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Sita in puzzlement.

“What?” Sita asked.

“I think they're talking about you,” Varuni replied.

“What are they saying?”

Varuni listened a moment longer. “Something about an arrangement.” She shook her head. “I don't know.”

Sita spent the night in a state of anxiety. She was desperate to find out what Uncle-ji and the man called Vasily had been saying, but Varuni had left for home before she could talk to her again. The next morning, Uncle-ji woke her early and told her to dress. He pointed at a coat folded neatly on a nearby chair. It was the coat Navin had given her on her first day in Paris.

“Put that on,” he said, “and wait for me at the front of the restaurant.”

Sita donned the coat and took a seat at one of the tables near the window, her apprehension mounting. Uncle-ji stood beside the door, looking out at the passage. Around seven thirty, a young man appeared and Uncle-ji greeted him in French. The man wore jeans and loafers and a leather jacket and carried himself with an air of authority.

The man nodded at Uncle-ji and looked at Sita without expression.

“
Viens,”
he ordered and held the door for her.

Sita didn't know the word, but she understood the man's intent. She glanced at Uncle-ji and began to tremble.

“Go,” Uncle-ji said in Hindi. “Dmitri has work for you. He will bring you back later.”

Sita hesitated a moment longer and then followed Dmitri out the door and down the cobbled lane to the nearby boulevard. The sky was clotted with gray clouds and the chilly air stung her cheeks. It was the first time she had been outside in nearly a month, but she was too afraid to appreciate it.

A black Mercedes was waiting at the curb, its hazard lights flashing. Dmitri opened the back door, and Sita climbed into the plush interior. Dmitri slipped into the driver's seat and accelerated quickly up the street. After a minute or two, they stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors. The street was narrow and buildings crowded the lane, leaving it in shadow.

Dmitri got out of the car and approached a keypad beside the door. He punched in a code and the doors opened automatically. He drove the car through an arched passageway and into a cobbled courtyard. A silver Audi coupe and a white Volkswagen van were parked at the foot of steps leading up to a stone porch. Dmitri parked the car and let Sita out. Sita followed him up the steps to a red door.

She watched as Dmitri keyed another set of numbers into a security pad beside the door. The lock disengaged, and they entered a foyer lined with gilt-framed artwork. To the left was a sitting room furnished with thick rugs and antiques. To the right was a dining room with a polished table and high-backed chairs. A hallway extended straight ahead to an alcove and kitchen. Beside it was a staircase that led to the second floor.

A woman came down the stairs. Sita recognized her from the restaurant. Dmitri spoke to her in a harsh sounding language that Sita didn't understand. The woman glanced at Sita unsmilingly and motioned for her to follow. They climbed the stairs and crossed the landing to a paneled library. The woman handed her a dust rag.

“I am Tatiana,” she said. “Clean bookshelves.”

Sita obeyed. The library was large with many shelves. All the books were coated in dust and looked as if they had not been touched in years. She removed each volume from its shelf and gently dusted its edges and spine. The library reminded her of her father. He had kept a study in the bungalow by the sea, and he had curated his book collection with care. Most evenings after dinner, he had retreated to his desk and pored over some monograph or another in the lamplight. Sita had often asked him what he was reading, just to see his eyes light up. His answers had been long-winded, but almost always she had learned something.

The chore of dusting took many hours. Tatiana brought her a sandwich for lunch. She appraised the shelves Sita had cleaned and smiled thinly.

“Job is good,” she said. “Keep doing.”

Sita finished the last book just before Tatiana reappeared. “Done?” she asked, and Sita nodded. “Good. Dmitri take you home now.”

She followed Tatiana down the stairs to the foyer. Dmitri and Vasily were talking in the sitting room. A blond girl dressed in a halter top and black pants sat beside Dmitri, staring at the floor. Tatiana called to her son, and the blond girl glanced at Sita across the distance. Her eyes widened perceptibly, and the look struck Sita like a blow.

The girl was scared.

Sita averted her gaze and followed Dmitri out the door. Whatever had happened to the girl was none of her business. Working with Tatiana was far preferable to suffering the abuse of Aunti-ji. As far as she was concerned, the reassignment was a boon.

At long last, Lakshmi had smiled on her again.

Sita returned to the flat the next day and the day thereafter, escorted by Dmitri. Each morning, Tatiana met her in the foyer and gave her a task. She dusted the furniture in the sitting room and polished the dining room table and chairs. She cleaned the bathrooms and brought order to the linen closet upstairs. She worked for eight hours with a fifteenminute break for lunch. Tatiana was a perfectionist, but Sita was exacting and met her expectations.