The Colossus
Authors: Ranjini Iyer
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
THE COLOSSUS
Astor + Blue Editions
Copyright © 2014 by Ranjini Iyer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by:
Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10003
www.astorandblue.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
IYER, RANJINI. THE COLOSSUS.—1
st
ed.
ISBN: 978-1-938231-85-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-92-6 (epdf)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-86-5 (epub)
1. Mystery—Thriller—Fiction. 2. Woman discovers mysterious document—Fiction 3. Cozy mystery—Fiction 4. Ancient civilizations—Mystery—Fiction 5. Health & Medicine—Fiction 6. Pharmaceutical mystery—Fiction 7. Chicago, London, Pakistan, and India I. Title
Jacket Cover Design: Danielle Fiorello
This digital document has been produced by
Nord Compo
.
For Amol
From ignorance, lead me to truth;
From darkness, lead me to light;
From death, lead me to immortality
(from Brhadaranyaka Upanishad—I.iii.28)
ONTENTS
The Colossus
Mohenjo-daro—“Mound of the Dead”
Site of the 5,000-year-old Indus Valley civilization
Around 400 km from Karachi
1935
Dr. Samuel Rosen opened his new leather-bound diary. The rich brown cowhide smelled raw and earthy. He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen.
About fifty yards away was the Colossus’s tomb.
Samuel wanted to recreate what might have happened in that tomb over two thousand years ago.
He began writing.
The artist mashed lumps of red clay into the water, dipped his brush into the paste, and painted the branches of a banyan tree with broad strokes. The foreman dozed beside him.
Sunlight streamed down through the stairwell and lit up a column of fine dust. The pungent odor of dried cow dung and lime that covered the walls hung heavy in the air.
Fifty men had spent the past two months digging out the tomb, carefully watched by the head priest who had supervised every minute of their work, their meals, even their sleep. Today, miraculously, the priest had left them alone.
There was some writing on the east wall. The artist went over to it. He and his kind would never know the divine power of the god men—to read and write. He touched the curves of the beautiful symbols. The wall felt cool. His fingers tingled as he thought of the secrets it held.
The foreman raised himself up on an elbow. “Is the demonic priest back?”
The artist shook his head. “Tell me,” he said, “why was this man called the Colossus?”
The foreman looked at the artist’s painting and frowned. “You’ve made him too short. He must be taller, bigger.”
The artist went on, “And is this his story written here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” the artist said. “These murals, this writing, that priest watching us like a hawk?”
The foreman sighed. “You’ve kept your lips sealed long enough, I suppose.” He picked up a brush and started to clean it. “The Colossus’s name was Soodhanta,” he said. “He was a rich trader. About ten years ago, he visited a faraway island, Ikaria. He found an unusual tribe living there. He was the first from these parts to trade with them.”
“Unusual how?” the artist asked.
“People in this tribe had wrinkled faces, their skin hung loose all over their bodies, and they had lost most of their hair.”
The artist’s eyes grew wide. “Were they diseased?”
“They were old,” the foreman said. “How long do our people live? Thirty-five, forty summers? These people had seen more years than we can ever hope to. And their bodies had shriveled up as a result.”
The artist gasped.
“The tribe refused to sell Soodhanta their secret.” The foreman paused for effect. “And so he stole it.”
“What was the secret?” the artist asked.
“A concoction of vegetables and herbs, rolled into little discs.” The foreman held his forefinger and thumb slightly apart to indicate their size. “About this big.”
The artist’s jaw fell open.
“Soodhanta stole urns full of them,” the foreman said.
There was a rustle above ground.
“Did anyone here eat them?” the artist whispered. “Are there any left?”
The foreman stretched his arm and pointed to the large urns lining the back wall.
The artist put a hand to his chest and with a sharp cry, rushed to the urns and tugged at the sealed tops. He couldn’t pry them loose.
“Stop!” the foreman cried.
The artist picked up a sharp rock.
The foreman was panic-stricken. “They will cut off your neck and not even bother to wipe the blade before they get to mine. Listen to me—”
Footsteps could be heard near the mouth of the tomb.
“They’re coming!” the foreman said in a frantic whisper.
But the artist paid no heed.
The priest descended the narrow steps leading to the tomb, his elaborate jewelry jangling with his every step.
And yet the artist was too fixated on the urns to notice. He brought the rock down hard on one of them. It cracked. Little green pills spilled out. The artist grabbed a handful and swallowed them.
Samuel put down his pen. Beside him sat a vial of the same green pills. What a wonder that they had stayed intact for centuries. Were they just an early multivitamin? No, surely they were a lot more than that. The pills extended lives, the locals said. But something in them choked life away, too. The pills were cursed.
Samuel Rosen didn’t believe in curses. He was a scientist. And he was determined to unlock the secret this little pill had held for so very long.
Maxine Rosen’s apartment
Lincoln Park, Chicago
June 2000
The alarm went off. The first few bars of “Metamorphosis” began to play. For the sixth time.
This time, Max raised her groggy, disoriented head from her pillow. Her long curls were plastered about her head and face. She brushed some stray hair out of her eyes. A power nap had turned into a two-hour-long siesta. With a grunt, she turned the alarm off.
Even though it was Philip Glass, at this quiet twilight hour the soft piano notes felt like a grater against her nerves.
Max threw her legs over the side of the bed and looked down. Bare thighs stared back at her. One of these days, she promised herself, these soft thighs would not rub. No sir. They would stand taut and firm, with that fashionable gap between them. She’d finally start wearing mini skirts that would ride up, revealing—
Max jumped off the bed before her mind could race off to unpleasant places.
She set a pot of coffee to brew and looked out the window at the lake. Her condo, inherited from her late father, was a large two bedroom with a magnificent view of Lake Michigan and the curving Lake Shore Drive. Joggers were moving up and down the running
path parallel to the lake, their rhythmic movement taunting Max for her lethargy.
Why couldn’t they stay in just once? Watch TV or something.
The aroma of coffee slowly filled the room. Max poured herself a cup. It was almost 8:00 pm. Late, but she could still go for a run. She should go for a run. Well, more of a lumbering jog, really, one that would have her looking like she was about to keel over with every step. Unless she kept at it at least twice a week, her happy size ten would be quickly left behind. Going up half a size over two weekends was not unusual for Max. It was a battle she had grown up fighting, and one she felt herself losing at every turn.
Her phone started to ring.
She answered it. “Maxine Rosen speaking.”
“Front desk, Miss Rosen. Good evening. There’s a visitor for you. A Mr. Lars Lindstrom from London.”
“Who?” Max rubbed her eyes.
“He’s been calling for you all day. He’s finally here now. He says he knew your grandfather Samuel in Germany. It’s urgent, he says.”
Max yawned. “How’s he dressed? How does he sound?”
“Impeccable.”
“Okay, send him up, please. Uh…in about ten minutes.”
Max pulled on a skirt and scrubbed the sleep off her face as she went over her schedule for the next day. At noon she was seeing the principal of a private school about catering their lunches. After that, she had meetings with her accountant and two organic meat and produce vendors. Her accountant was insisting that it was time she mastered QuickBooks. He would send her into a dizzy spell with lengthy discourses on cash flow management. Bargaining with the vendors would feel like a fencing duel. Max wondered, not for the first time, why she had taken all this on.
Because I love to cook and this is the best way to do what I love and make money,
she told herself. It was an oft-repeated mantra.
She went to the kitchen and looked over her tasting menu for the school. Ravioli, check. Chickpea salad, check. Sweet potato fries, and yes, the hummus and the peas curry. She had prepped some of the
items. She could do some more tonight and finish first thing tomorrow morning.
An unwelcome pit formed in her stomach. She shouldn’t do the fries. They would turn soggy. In fact the entire menu she had planned was child unfriendly. She began twirling a lock of her hair, slowly at first, then at a more frantic pace.
Calm down,
she told herself. Hadn’t they asked for healthy, and if possible, vegetarian food? Well, that was what she was giving them.
There was a knock at the door.
It would be fine, she thought as she undid the various locks. The school would hire her. And there was that one lead to cater board lunches at the Jewish Students Awareness Association. They might want kosher though. With a sigh she opened the door.
A man, probably in his late seventies, stood in the hallway, wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit. He was slim. His head was covered with thinning white hair and his eyes were dark behind rimless glasses.
“Mr. Lars Lindstrom?” Max said. “I’m Max Rosen.”
He took her hand and held it in a firm, almost desperate grip.
Max winced.
“You…you look like your grandfather,” he said in a polished but shaky voice. “The same large brown eyes, blemish-less skin. He was a handsome man.”
Max blushed, not sure how to respond.
“Seeing you reminds me of times I have done my best to forget. Still, it’s nice to meet you,” he rasped.
Max stood aside. “Uh, come in, have a seat. I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. I have several meetings tomorrow that I must prepare for.”
“I’ll make this brief. Let’s see, what time is it now?” He glanced at the cuckoo clock by the door and started.
Max laughed. “That clock has never told the right time.”
It was her 11:32 cuckoo clock. Or rather, her father’s. The cuckoo clock’s needles were frozen at 11:32, had been for years now. Since just before Papa died, actually. Every time she was tempted to throw
it out, she stopped. She and Papa had laughed about the fact that the clock, which had never told time correctly, would now at least tell the right time twice a day. It had been one of their last happy moments together.
“Would you like some coffee and a sandwich, Mr. Lindstrom?” Max asked, moving towards the kitchen. “I was about to have dinner.”
“Call me Lars. Just coffee sounds wonderful.”
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Max said, motioning toward the living room. She made a sandwich with leftover chicken and homemade red pepper paste, poured two cups of steaming coffee, and settled down in a chair facing Lars.
“So you knew my Opa—my grandfather,” she said.
“I knew Samuel well, yes, but I’m really here to talk about your father.”
Max took a sip of coffee and bit into her sandwich. “Hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. I’m famished.”
“Oh no, go ahead,” Lars said, his voice and manner tense. “Now, before I say what I must, I need you to trust me. I’m one of very few people that have an ancient seal from the Indus Valley. Samuel gave it to me when he returned from his visit there. Do you know about this seal?”
Opa’s Indian seal.
Yellowed memories began to grow vivid in Max’s mind.
When she was about ten or eleven, she had stumbled upon her grandfather’s diary. Not long after she’d turned to the first page, where she saw a bright red seal’s embossment looking like a melted piece of candy, Opa had found and scolded her. Her tears had softened him, and he told her that the mark was made by his lucky seal. “This seal is from the Indus Valley, formerly in India,” he had said as he showed her the seal. “An advanced civilization lived there thousands of years ago. This is a copy of a real seal. The original belonged to a man they called the Colossus. An archeologist friend gave it to me when I was in India visiting the Colossus’s tomb.”
His face and voice had taken on a somber tone. Max had wondered why was he so sad talking about it, if it was his lucky seal. He didn’t offer any more stories, and asked her not to mention it to anyone else. It was to be their secret.
A few months later, Opa died. And with him all his stories.
Max put her sandwich down. “I do know about the seal, but—”
Lars Lindstrom held up his hand. “Hiram—uh, your father—was doing some research before he died. It was work he took over from Samuel. I knew this work too. You see, I was Samuel’s assistant in his lab at Berliner Pharmaceuticals. In Germany.”
A knot formed in Max’s stomach, its grip slowly growing stronger. She drew back a little.
“Oh dear, I’ve upset you,” Lars said gently. “This must be so unsettling. A stranger comes to your door and starts yammering about your father and grandfather.”
Max shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m just—” She gave a little laugh. “I’ve had a harrowing day, that’s all.”
They sipped their coffees.
“So you’re from London,” Max said at last. “I’d love to visit someday. What brought you to Chicago?”
Lars smiled. “I came here to say goodbye to some old friends at the French pastry school. And I thought it was time that I see you.” He let out a loud sigh, rubbed his hands together, and put them on his thighs. He looked at her with melancholic eyes. “Five years ago, following your father’s death, I received a package from him, sent by his lawyer.”
Max raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“It contained a coded research document and a letter.” Lars handed her a sheet of paper.
Max recognized her father’s handwriting.
“Go ahead, read it,” Lars said.