A Walk Across the Sun (33 page)

When she reached the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, she found that it wasn't properly closed. Her first instinct was to shut it and move on, but she was seized by a dreadful curiosity. Perhaps the filing cabinet could explain the images and the girls across the courtyard.

Her heartbeat quickened as she slid the drawer open. Inside, she found folders hand-labeled in foreign script. She removed the top file and found a dozen Polaroid pictures. Each picture showed a Caucasian girl dressed in underwear standing in an empty room. The walls were bare and crumbling with age. The girls regarded the camera with glazed eyes. No one else was present in the room with them, but the angle of the lens was identical in all of the frames. Also in the file was a sheet of paper printed in strange characters. Sita wondered if the words were names.

Placing the file carefully back in the drawer, she skimmed the folders behind it, all of which contained Polaroid photographs accompanied by an indecipherable list. She pulled the drawer all the way to its stop and found a stack of pornographic magazines in the well behind the folders. Recoiling in disgust, she shut the drawer and picked up the rag from the floor.

When Tatiana returned for her, she felt such relief that she nearly hugged the woman. Tatiana gave her another chore, and Sita applied herself to trifles for the rest of the day, trying to forget the things she had seen.

That evening at the restaurant, Uncle-ji told Sita that Varuni was ill and that she would be waiting tables. Sita donned a patterned sari supplied by Aunti-ji and wiped the tables in preparation for opening. Afterward, she hastily memorized the menu. It was written in Hindi and translated into French and English.

Aunti-ji scurried around arranging tablecloths and place settings. She gave Sita the job of lighting a candle at each table. In her haste, Aunti-ji had little time for criticism. For the first time since Sita's arrival, she treated her with a modicum of respect.

The customers began to arrive at seven o'clock. Uncle-ji greeted them and Sita ushered them to their tables. If the patrons were Indian, she spoke to them in Hindi. If they were Caucasian, she used English. Uncle-ji stood nearby to intervene in case she needed to communicate in French. She tried to mimic Varuni's delivery, but the effect was awkward and her inexperience showed. When all else failed, she smiled and recommended the chicken tikka masala.

Business was slow, but enough regulars showed up to keep Sita busy. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in intelligence. She had always been proud of her memory for detail. She took orders and delivered dishes to customers without using a notebook.

“Your new waitress is quite pleasant,” one of the regular patrons said to Uncle-ji. “Where did you find her?”

“She is the daughter of my cousin in Bombay,” he said. “We are privileged to have her with us.”

Sita couldn't tell whether the praise was sincere or feigned, but she received it as a positive sign. Perhaps Uncle-ji would allow her to wait tables with Varuni when the weather warmed. It was preferable to scrubbing the bathroom with a toothbrush.

The last two customers—an elderly Indian couple—left a few minutes before closing. After wiping down their table, Sita retrieved a broom from the closet and swept the floor. A few minutes later, Uncle-ji took a call on his cell phone that left him visibly agitated. He paced in front of the door to the restaurant until a shadowy figure appeared.

The restaurant owner let the man in and welcomed him with a handshake. Sita looked at him and something jogged in her mind. His back was to her, but his hair and jacket seemed familiar. She continued her sweeping, watching the man out of the corner of her eye. At last the man turned around.

The stranger was Navin.

When he saw her, she blinked, astonished by the condition of his face. His cheeks were covered with red welts and one of his eyes was black.

He regarded her without emotion. “It seems she worked out well,” he said.

“Yes,” Uncle-ji replied, motioning Navin toward the corner booth near the window. He looked at Sita. “Bring our guest a bottle of brandy and a glass.”

She retrieved the alcohol and returned to the table quickly. Placing the brandy and tumbler in front of Navin, she noticed that Uncle-ji's hands were trembling. The restaurant owner barely glanced at her. She moved away and continued to sweep the floor, listening intently.

Navin spoke quietly, but she picked up two words: “arrested” and “police.”

Uncle-ji replied in a louder voice: “You didn't tell them anything, did you?”

Navin's response was inaudible, but Uncle-ji's reaction was not.

“What does this mean?”

Navin didn't respond. Instead, he eyed Sita and tilted his head ever so slightly in her direction. She turned away quickly, focusing on her sweeping. The room was silent for a moment before Uncle-ji barked:
“Wait in the kitchen!”

She stiffened and scampered away, her mind abuzz with questions. Had the police been searching for her? Did Navin tell them where she was? She lurked in the doorway to the kitchen, straining to pick up more of the conversation. She heard only murmuring until Uncle-ji raised his voice.

“You have to help us!” he blurted out. “You brought her to us!”

Navin frowned. He glanced toward her and stood up abruptly, letting himself out of the restaurant. She watched through the window as he disappeared into the night.

She looked at Uncle-ji, wondering what he would do. He sat in the booth with his back to her, muttering to himself. The bottle of brandy sat unopened before him. He lifted the tumbler and stared into it for a long moment. Then he turned around and walked quickly toward her, his eyes wide and full of fear.

“You must come with me now,” he said, taking her by the arm.

He led her through the kitchen and into the flat. Aunti-ji looked at him strangely, but he ignored her. He took her to a closet in the bedroom and turned on the light. The closet was stuffed with clothing.

“You must stay here,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, thoroughly frightened.

“No questions,” he said, pushing her inside.

When he closed the door, Sita sat down on a pile of shoes and struggled against claustrophobia and terror. Even after her eyes adjusted, she could see only the faintest glimmer of gray at the foot of the door. She forced herself to take deep breaths and clutched the little Hanuman figurine that she had secreted in the folds of her sari.

She thought of the Coromandel Coast before the horror of the waves. The sea sparkled. Ahalya was there, playing at the edge of the surf. Her mother and father watched from the bungalow's gardens. Jaya busied herself at the clothesline. When the vision faded, tears came to her eyes and she began to cry. She carved a space for herself in the clutter and rested her head against something soft that felt like a wool hat. This was the second closet she had inhabited during her stay in Paris.

But at least this closet was warm.

Sita was startled when the closet door opened the following morning.

She was famished and desperate to relieve herself. She blinked at the light from the bedroom and looked up at Uncle-ji, hoping he would offer her a plate of food and a visit to the bathroom. Instead, he summoned her with a wave.

She stood in the rubble of shoes and walked with him to the entrance of the flat. Dmitri was waiting for her in the alcove. She breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn't have to endure the day in the loneliness of the closet. Tatiana would feed her a good lunch, and she would return to the restaurant to wait tables in the evening. Despite Navin's visit and Uncleji's fear, things were not going to change after all.

After donning her coat and hat, she trailed Dmitri out of the courtyard and down Passage Brady to the black Mercedes. Tatiana met her in the foyer of the flat and assigned her the task of cleaning the rooms on the second floor.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Sita was in the master bedroom, dusting a shelf of books. She glanced at the clock on the wall and watched the door for Tatiana. The woman didn't come. Four turned to four thirty and then five o'clock. At last Tatiana appeared and led her to the kitchen. She saw one of Dmitri's girls standing before the stove, dressed in jeans and an apron. She was stirring a pot of soup and tending a skillet of sausage.

“Ivanna,” Tatiana said to the girl, “this is Sita. She help you this evening.”

The girl nodded obediently.

Sita's mind raced with confusion and apprehension. She was not afraid of Tatiana, but she was terrified of Dmitri and Vasily. The flat was haunted by terrible secrets that daylight seemed to hide. She did not want to be there when darkness fell.

Ivanna spoke little English, but she pointed and gestured, and Sita offered her whatever assistance she could. The food was very different from Indian cuisine—it was meat rich, savory with herbs, and accented by vegetables. Ivanna pointed at a pot and said, “Borscht.”

Sometime after six, Ivanna served Vasily, Tatiana, and Dmitri in the dining room and Sita and herself in the kitchen. Sita ate the food hungrily. After dinner, she helped Ivanna clear the dining room table and clean the kitchen.

At seven o'clock, Dmitri appeared and Ivanna tensed visibly. She put down her dish rag and followed him. Sita heard their footsteps in the hallway, and then a door opened and closed. The sound was different, lighter than the thump made by the front door of the residence. Sita's heart raced and she wondered whether Dmitri had taken Ivanna to the basement.

Tatiana came for her a few minutes later. The woman took her up the stairs to the second floor and showed her to one of the bedrooms she had cleaned earlier in the day.

“You stay here,” Tatiana said, showing her the bathroom and fluffing the pillows. “I come in morning.
Bonne nuit
. Have nice dreams.”

She closed the door behind her, and Sita heard a lock click in place. The room had a queen-sized bed, a pair of reading chairs, and a broad window overlooking the courtyard. It felt like a palace in comparison to Suchir's attic room and Uncle-ji's closets.

She walked to the window and looked down at the white van and the silver Audi. The black Mercedes was absent. She browsed the shelves and found an English-language novel. Taking a seat in one of the chairs, she passed the evening reading. She heard occasional voices beyond the door, but the words were muffled and distant.

Sometime after ten o'clock, she heard sounds coming from the courtyard. She stood in the shadows and watched as Dmitri led Natalia, Ivanna, and the other girls to the white van. All of them were dressed provocatively in short skirts, high heels, and revealing tops. Although it was still winter, only Natalia wore a coat. None of them spoke or looked at the others.

Dmitri opened the rear doors of the van, and everyone but Natalia climbed in. Dmitri motioned for Natalia to get into the Audi. He spoke briefly to someone in the van, and then the van disappeared through the archway. Dmitri placed a call on his cell phone and took control of the Audi. He whipped the car around and left the courtyard.

Retreating from the window, Sita prepared herself for bed. The bath she took was luxurious, and the pillows and bed sheets were softer than anything she could remember. But she couldn't shake the persistent feeling of dread. For all their wealth and good taste, there was something diabolical about Vasily's family.

Where had Dmitri taken the girls?