The PuppetMaster (24 page)

Adam held nothing back. He struck out at every government, religion, or ideology that condoned violence, ignorance, or intolerance. He swept aside the illogical like fine talc and replaced it with new visions.

Ignoring any reaction from his audience, he finished with, “And then, my brothers and sisters, imagine dying. It isn’t so hard or frightening. We are made of the great energy after all, composed of it. We don’t disappear at death or get wrapped into a fatherly embrace on a couch of puffy clouds, nor do we get to frolic with a bevy of shapely virgins. False pictures from old books, and they are wrong. Death, if we may employ the metaphor, is a melting of salt crystals into the ocean. That is death, energy into energy, light into light. The brilliance of a billion suns growing a fraction brighter, neither terrifying, nor permanent, only a transformation of energy, the greatest, purest compassion there is. Universal bliss.” Adam’s arms stretched out to the crowd in a parental embrace. “Absolute compassion, my friends, pure science, and common sense—very simple.” His arms dropped slowly to his sides. There was no folding of hands, no wave of good-bye, merely a folding of his canvass chair and it was done.

For the first time since I had been attending his lectures—admittedly only three--there was an ovation. Perhaps two hundred of the Benarsis in attendance began clapping while vendors and entertainers circulated quickly to ply their merchandise. The disgruntled drifted away in small groups. Others turned to glare at the speaker and his followers.

For some time, I couldn't say how long, I stood in the shade of the palm as if in a dream. It felt like a time when I was very young and my parents had set me on a blanket in a park above the ocean. I drowsed to the sound of the waves, at peace. There were no bruises in my world, no bandaged knees, only goodness. It had been a long time since I had felt that. Satnam’s words echoed back. “In my opinion, my boy, this is not merely a preventative or a temporary stay of the symptoms. It is a cure.” A cure. Good deeds would be done, and I had a part to offer. I looked up to see Uliana Hadersen recently of Tönder, Denmark smiling at me.

Adam, appearing almost child-like, ascended the steps above me. As he moved away he whispered, “Enjoy it, Bhim, all of it, but do not tarry. You are an impetus.” Puzzled by this odd statement, I wondered how much he knew. And how? Damn!

Uli’s voice sparkled behind me, “Svester, the best guide in Varanasi is taking us to our new home today.” I felt her arm slip inside mine, her hand wrapping warmly about the base of my thumb. I turned from Adam’s retreating back to the blueness of her eyes. “He tells me it even has a real view of the river und a kitchen with an oven.”

I believe she was already moved in.

Jitka’s granite voice restated her sentiments of the day before. “It could be a schwein pond und it would be better than where we are, Uli. Gott, my back feels like twisted bread.”

At that moment I felt dreadfully shy. It was the doubt that always follows a first date. I hoped the feeling at the end of our evening together was genuine. It had been true, hadn’t it?

Uli, squeezing my thumb, whispered in my ear, “It was the most beautiful date I’ve ever been on. Ever. When can we go again?” I wondered if she heard my sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Choose the time and I will make a new tour.”

Jitka seemed to be gradually accepting the notion that I wasn’t preparing to kidnap her sister and sell her into slavery. I guess she'd also found the stir-fry at Johnny Chang’s to her liking, so I could be trusted, to guide her to good food sources at any rate.

The crowd was thinning, drifting away to other distractions. Men and women in semi-clothed wetness returned to the river’s edge. The water had changed, and not just in my imagination. A dusky, yellowish-gray stained the surface. The effluence from the gullies had washed into the rainwater, cleansing the lanes, but staining the current with additional filth. Suddenly, I wanted to move south, away from the shala.

“Are either of you hungry?” I asked optimistically.

Jitka grinned and nudged me with an elbow. “I could eat one of those damned cows standing up there. You know a place with bratwurst und spatzel?”

“Might be hard to find in this section of town . . . but I do know an Afghani cafe with kabobs and pilaf that might measure up. We can get lunch and then I’ll show you the flat and introduce you to the landlord. If it looks right we can move your belongings this afternoon.”

Then I became nervous that I was directing too much.

Uli, who still hadn’t released my arm, smiled slyly and said, “Lead on Macduff.” And into the slickened gullies I did.

Lunch was a success all around. Jitka, I soon discovered, became a tamer and rather humorous beast when fed sumptuous quantities of lamb accompanied by nan, currants, and pilaf. We sat cross-legged on a dais layered with plush carpets as a studious-looking Afghan brought us appetizers and milkshakes. The air was heavy with drafts of water pipe tobacco, baked bread, and Hindustani music.

As the cucumber and yogurt soup arrived, the conversation turned to Adam’s extraordinary speech.

“Ist klar, what he says,” Jitka rumbled through lumps of nan. “Science will pull us out of the mess humans have brought the world to. Bestimmt!” Three crumbs shot capriciously towards my tea cup.

Perhaps I was less hopeful of science being a panacea, but added that I thought the world in general could use a dash more common sense.

It was Uli who delicately reminded us, “It must be all three. It is as he said, none more, none less than the others. A way of love, science, and good judgment.” I felt her toes edge against the side of my foot and a current of electricity shivered up my leg. “It is strange, but I believe I could remember every word he said. It stays here,” she tapped her temple. “like it is printed.” I knew what she meant. The words returned easily.

We ended our meal with pistachio dessert and more dialogue. Harmony and good deeds were pleasant thoughts. Jitka kept us amused with jokes about projects involving stinky methane and soybean diesel. It was clear she had a solid foundation in physics and chemistry. “You know,” she rumbled, “He knows his quantum physics, this Adam. He understands string theory, und that is saying something. You know, the little spaghetti pieces?”

I nodded distractedly. Since his discourse, a nagging uneasiness had begun hopping gnome-like in the back of my mind. I’d observed the mood of some in the crowd—the negative and sour. People don’t embrace change so easily, especially when it involves faith, and especially in a city like Varanasi.

The bill arrived on a small silver tray surrounded by cardamom seeds, the local after dinner mint. I wanted to treat, but was firmly outvoted. They would pay. After all, I was the guide and apartment finder. As they buckled their sandals and I laced my worn tennies, I voiced my apprehension. “You know, sometimes in a city like this, with all its old traditions, new ideas aren’t accepted so easily. I hope Adam is . . . careful how he . . . expresses himself.”

Uli glanced up and said, “It proves again how dangerous it is to be good.” I must have looked puzzled trying to remember where I'd heard the quote before. “George Bernard Shaw when he was told that Mahatma Gandhi had been assassinated,” she said.

Thirty-Nine

The tip of Sutrdharak’s knife nicked a miniature hole in the large map in front of him. Five lines converged at the tiny perforation he had made, but the lines didn’t captivate his interest, only the place where they joined.

He frowned at his indiscretion. The chart was still essential in the planning and couldn’t be reduced to ash quite yet, and now there was a tiny clue for anyone who cared to study it. The chart was topographical and highly detailed. Sutradharak calculated the curved lines around the nick again, and since the map was already marred, took a blue pen and drew a series of small lines on either side. Next to those, he penciled numbers. Satisfied with his calculations, he allowed himself a rare smile. Location, undoubtedly the most essential factor to the success of battle. He touched the lines with a finger. Sufficient height and depth, and at the correct time of year. It will suit our purposes well.

The team he had assembled wasn’t large, and that pleased him. Four to place the detonators and run the ire, a fifth as a communications specialist. There was also a back-up driver if the situation became necessary. Each of them were highly trained, held valid documents of residency, and were totally disassociated. There were no connections, physically, financially, or otherwise to himself or the employers.

The cell phones, RDX, wire, and blasting caps had been sealed inside cloth bound copies of the Islamic Hadith. They, in turn, had been posted to a non-existent madrasa religious school in Delhi. The address was real, the school was not. The PuppetMaster delighted in the irony—instruments of death inside holy books, and any interception would only add further confusion for the intelligence agencies and media.

He folded the map into a tight square, sealed it in plastic, and pushed it into the recess near the high-speed cable behind the baseboard.

Now only a few details remained—the most critical being correctly positioning himself for the detonation. He realized this was his one act of vanity, and admitted that it came from two things, pleasure and ego. But unless the explosions were simultaneous, like the temple and rail station in Varanasi, he always bore the responsibility of pressing the buttons. Watching the fireworks display, and the instantaneous or lingering death, was his reward.

Just as he was closing the laptop, a window popped onto the screen announcing a new message. That’s odd, he thought.

He opened the message and read it with a combination of mild irritation and tingling excitement. His employers desired a small change in plans. Their schedule had changed, which meant his would change. They needed an additional event, something small, but enough to attract attention.

Sutradharak transmitted an assenting response and spun the ring on his smallest finger. This would require swift planning and implementation. That was not always sensible; he liked thorough, meticulous preparations with sufficient time. Rushing led to mistakes.

Pondering this change of schedule, he donned his hat and jerkin and once more transformed into a purveyor of goat products.

Forty

“Bhim, It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

It wasn’t really perfect, but it was pretty hard not to like it; the flat was airy-fresh with a good view of the river. When the haze lifted you could see the palace on the far bank. There were two small bedrooms with single beds of reasonable firmness, a fan, kitchenette, and water that flowed with a semblance of clarity. When I led them to the rooftop with the water tank and an even better view, they were ready to move in.

Trying to polish my champion image, I added, “With some scrubbing and bit of fixing up we can make it work. I’ve got tools for the leaky faucet and oil for the doors and windows, and I’m pretty sure Lalji has hidden a couple of old paintbrushes somewhere.”

As Uli began arranging scarves around window frames and lit sticks of incense, all culled from her magical handbag, I went below to speak to the landlord.

I wanted a local’s rate and was prepared to squabble for it, but he agreed to my price quickly when it was discovered I was one of his brother’s most loyal customers. He also knew Sahr and Devi, neither of which surprised me.

When I returned, Uli offered Jitka a proposal, “Bhim and I will fetch our bags und you can do a bit of cleaning. Ist good ya, Jitka?”

Jitka stopped bouncing on the mattress long enough to say, “Ya, ya, ya! Go, und fetch them and I will have our meitshaus shining like spiegals when you return.”

Against an oddly gnawing apprehension, I let Uli to lead us back to the hotel by way of the river. She wanted to go along the water, she said, and return to the flat by taxi. Surya was stowed safely under the steps at the flat, but an inexplicable unease still nibbled at me. At first I thought it was the nervousness of being alone again with Uliana, but I knew that wasn’t it. She made it all so easy.

Eventually, I pinpointed the source, and oddly enough, it was from the color gray. I had seen it in the river right after the rains, gray from the slime and gray in the scowls on some of the faces in the crowd. The clouds had reassembled in dark shades of gray. Sahr would undoubtedly have said it was some invisible bhuta whispering to me, and only when Uli reached out to take my hand did the apprehension recede. “Come on,” She smiled. “You can recite to me more poetry, and I will be the guide. I want to hear how the lovers wrap like vines und rub each other’s feet again.” From that simple request my fear dissolved, and I realized something deeply significant, Uliana Hadersen wanted to be with me for reasons I hadn’t fully understood before. She didn’t pity me, or regard me as some temporary novelty in a strange city, or even as a decent tour guide. She wanted to be with the peculiar fellow who walked alone and wrote poetry and joked with his housekeeper, the one that saw the loveliness in the sunrise and made small talk with shopkeepers. A wall tumbled and I knew I would never be nervous next to her again. And somehow, in some strange way, I was certain Lilia was smiling at my revelation and nodding with approval.

My hand slid like a coil of pearls into hers.

While Uli threaded us a path along the Ghats, I told her stories about the old fort across the way and some of the intrigues of the rajah’s court in the waning years. She led us over steps, around shore temples, and down to the boats, and all I could think of was sliding my fingers through her hair. I watched her skirt and blouse swell and ripple in the breeze. A burnt-orange scarf, draped about her shoulders, fluttered as if pulled by tiny strings. Un-polished poetry rose. Like unfurling petals folded and the yielding of speckled shells. Like sun on wings of dragonflies and mist in mountain springs—you touch me. Sensing my thoughts, she squeezed my hand and stopped abruptly to look straight into my eyes. “Me too,” she whispered. Nothing else.