The PuppetMaster (31 page)

I lifted her into my arms.

It had been a long day of riots, and fear, and revelations—a day of dispiriting ugliness and sad stories of the past. Uli had said during our dinner that fate had drawn us together. That sounded rather like Sahr’s constellations. I wasn’t certain, but whatever it was, it felt right. Those strange events of that day ended with lips smeared of almond kheer, and sweet kisses, and as all such evenings should end, it faded gently into undiluted passion.

Forty-Nine

The PuppetMaster gathered information like a squirrel in autumn—every item gleaned from a cadre of shiftless, faceless informants. Intelligence was transmitted to him via a vast network of carefully compensated individuals totally unaware of the source of their stipends—taxi spies, stall merchants, mendicants at the river, boat handlers. Most were malefactors from the dregs of the city—thieves, addicts, and pimps who knew how to avoid authority and melt into the cracks unseen. They garnered tidbits, trivial or vital, and passed them upward to superiors, who passed them along to until they reached the three trusted associates of the Puppetmaster. From them he learned all he needed of the region.

It was in this cumulate manner that he first began to hear reports of the holy man at the river. Initial reports made him out to be the Madman of Manikarnika--a common lunatic spewing nonsense, and there were certainly plenty of those in that loathsome place. He ignored the news as unreliable drivel. But the reports continued and began to shift in ways that intrigued him. This lunatic was, it seemed, drawing larger crowds, and perhaps he wasn't such a lunatic. Sutradharak learned that the man possessed a level of intelligence higher than originally assumed. And if he knew how to draw a crowd, he was not totally useless to the PuppetMaster’s plans.

Then, and unexpected order came from above. His superiors needed an additional, unscheduled event, and Sutradharak had to devise something quickly, to improvise. It wasn’t in his nature to do things quickly, but he knew better than to refuse his employers. His thoughts came around to this speaker at the Ghats. Perhaps he could be a catalyst. With this in mind, the PuppetMaster dressed once again as Ahkmed Jamil, goat-products merchant.

Basic principals. To survive in his shifting, tenuous world he needed to follow basics principals to the letter. Disguise wasn’t merely a matter of dabbing on make-up and changing attire; it required creating an entire persona, every detail perfected, every voice inflection, accent, mannerism, and history. In this way, he had given birth to two people, completely separate and each with its own purpose. One allowed him to blend into city and conduct the intricate business of terror; the other was an escape hatch that also allowed him to travel freely through the country. When he wished to blend in, he became the goat's milk merchant, a character so commonplace no one would think twice about who he was.

The only risk came in the very unlikely possibility that someone might recognize him as both, connecting the two. The numerical probability of that, he decided, was far too low for concern.

As the merchant Ahkmed, he set off for the Ghats to see for himself what this “holy man” was all about. With him were a bloated hide bag, and an umbrella to shield his face from sun, rain, and scrutiny. Dark glasses obscured his eyes, a felt cap concealed his hair, and the umbrella was angled expressly across his face.

From a carefully selected position on the upper bank of Manikarnika, Sutradharak listened with a curious smile. He made no comments about the sermon to those around him, and conversed only casually with a few others to gather information. The most cogent fact he learned was that the speaker was a harijan. He was also a genius, or something close to it. Sutradharak saw this quickly, and also noted the man’s influence on the crowd. This orator, with all his idealistic pig-shit, just might be a useful. If the timing coincides, a small diversion.

From his remote viewing place he witnessed a most amusing sight; a ferenghi with a shiny bicycle arrived and was summoned like a houseguest up to the harijan’s inner circle. It almost started him laughing. It was oddly humorous after all.

Moments after the speech, as he was moving up the path through the gullies to the loft, the unthinkable happened—an event of the slimmest of chances, that should never have occurred. But it did. As he was crossing the gulley behind the Golden Temple, in the tightest quarters of the lane, he bumped against a young woman and continued on. He had been looking down and had not seen her face. But she had seen his. Then he heard his name—his other name. It was called out in a puzzled manner, as if the speaker wasn't altogether certain of his identity. The woman called a second time, and he made the disastrous mistake of turning. He was recognized by the woman and knew immediately that it was a monumental blunder. It took him, however, less than the time to eat a small meal to repair the damage. With a quick decision, and a quicker smile, he offered a few hastily manufactured words of explanation. He lured the woman to a secluded boathouse and without warning spun like a pit viper and sliced her larynx. The only sound that issued from her was an indistinct gurgle. She looked at him with the astonishment of someone who realizes she has just crossed paths with death, then she slumped to the boards of the boathouse. He quickly added contusions, torn garments, and some more knife work, all of which would send the authorities searching down false paths.

Regrettable, he thought as he leaned over the planks to rinse the blood from his blade. With his foot he rolled the corpse into the fetid water and then partially opened the outer portal to the river. With another push, she drifted out.

That afternoon Sutradharak began putting to use the information he’d gathered about the speaker. He sent messages to his lieutenants, who in turn sent orders that rumors should be circulated, all slandering the harijan. A call was placed to the office of Yakoob Qereshy and a small, but exceptionally active riot took place the following day.

As he planned for the unscheduled bombing, his thoughts passed indifferently over the woman again. Too bad really. Fate, bad timing, or a rare error in judgment. Who can say?

Fifty

I woke next to Uliana for the second time in my life, and it was indescribably more delicious than the first. I curled into her back, drifted into her scented hair, and kissed her shoulder. She sighed and pulled my hand up to feel the morning rhythm of her heart. As I slipped back into honeyed sleep, I heard her say, “Let's stay like this forever.”

When I awoke again I was alone and warm. The electricity had disappeared again, leaving the fan above me hanging idle. Voices drifted in from the kitchen, light laughter and whispers. I slipped on my pajama bottoms and searched around for my top.

“Who paid for it?” I heard Uli asking.

“Him, I told him it was his responsibility if he wanted me to go anywhere with him. And I made him buy coconut dessert, too.” More giggles.

I padded through the dining nook to see Sahr and Uli sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee steaming merrily in their hands. Sahr was smiling, but looking less energetic than normal. Uli sat in my pajama top and nothing else.

“What's a man have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” I joked.

Sahr began pushing away from the table and I motioned her to stay put. I could get my own coffee this morning. I was more than a little curious to hear about her evening and arched my eyebrow to say, 'Do please continue.'

“Well. . . then he drove across the pontoon bridge to the sand beach south of the palace. Such a fine taxi he has. We walked barefoot in the water. I haven't acted so silly since I was twelve.”

Uli patted Sahr’s fingers. “Silly is good if it makes you feel young, Sahr. Did he try to kiss you?”

I had forgotten that women enjoyed getting to the core of things rapidly in regards to men. Sahr looked relieved when I said, “It's okay, O Great One, just pretend I'm not here.”

“No, but I let him carry my shoes. I think he wanted to hold my hand, but I would not allow it. It was a first date.”

It was my turn. “And is there a second date in the works?”

Mild embarrassment showed in her smile. “There was some talk of it, Saab. He wants me to meet his mother and sister.”

“Meet his mother? And his sister? My God, that sounds positively serious. We’d better start saving for the wedding. And by the way, you called me Saab. Are you’re upset with me?”

“Oh no, Bhimaji. Far from it, I've never been happier with you. You are the wisest man I know.” She touched Uli's hand this time.

“Well, every now and then I think I make a few good decisions. So what can I fix you two for breakfast?”

The morning session at Devi’s was a combination of poignant recollections of Soma’s short life and a celebration that our cure might be for something I’d identified. Me, The Keeper of Notes and Photographs.

Before I left my villa I made the decision not to mention the nabi’s séance with the pundits. It just wasn’t the sort of news I wanted to divulge, or the questioning I wanted to face. I packed my backpack while Uli and I made plans to meet at the Afghani cafe for lunch. Jitka, whom both of us were feeling guilty about leaving alone so much, would join us, and afterwards the three of us would go down to hear Adam's discourse.

Master announced over the first cup of chai, “The police came to speak with me yesterday. They first believed Soma might have been a victim of a crime of passion and that she was violated. But now they say there is no evidence that she was. She was murdered without reason.” He stared across the front wall at some movement along the avenue. “Who could do such a thing to a child?”

I closed my eyes. Yes, I thought, who could kill an innocent. A monster perhaps. “Do the police have any idea when she was killed? Or where?”

“Not precisely. They believe she was not in the water very long, so it is likely she was killed that same afternoon.”

If that’s true, I thought, then she must have been hiding somewhere for a day before she was murdered.

We all assured ourselves that the police would do their best to find her killer, though without it being mentioned, we knew they wouldn’t. A low-caste widow didn’t generate much expense or energy. C.G. again offered to establish a source of money for her relatives, but we all arrived at the same sad conclusion. There were no relatives to receive it. As the two of them discussed the details for her cremation, I learned a final item. Her last name was Tarahansa. Devi, seeing my sadness, said, “She will have a fine cremation, Bhim. We will see to it.”

After a moment of quiet, I made my announcement and concealed my excitement in studied casualness. “By the way, Punditjis, I think I may have figured out what our disease is.”

Tea cups almost cracked as they were set down. “Brilliant, I told you he was brilliant didn't I, Devi.”

“Let him continue please, C.G.” Master looked at me with obvious pride.

“Diabetes. We’ve been translating two words incorrectly. Change ‘self’ to ‘body’ and ‘water’ to ‘urine’ and the whole thing fits.”

After reading my new notes, they chuckled and began patting me jubilantly on each knee. “It does indeed, my boy. How did you figure it out?”

I had told no one about Uliana. Satnam Kangri had guessed, and Sahr knew, of course, but no one in Master's house knew about the confluence of Uli and Bhim. Lack of opportunity or some other excuse had held me back. Explaining to Sukshmi that we wouldn't be dancing to Randy Dogs again would be an interesting conversation. Without thinking I said, “A friend helped me solve it.”

“A friend! Oh My. Is that prudent, Bhim? To reveal our project to another after all this violence?”

I defended the decision. “It’s someone I can trust. She won't say a word.”

They both stared at me silently. Then the pin that everyone can hear, dropped. C.G. coughed into his handkerchief “She?”

Master focused his condor eyes on mine and nodded slowly, then patted my knee one last time. “Good for you, My Boy. Good for you. I’m happy indeed. And I suppose this is the reason you are not having your regular lunch with us today?” I just returned his smile.

After a moment, I added Satnam Kangri’s observations. “He knew the plants and the pressure points, and believes the combinations show great promise as a cure. Tests need to be done, of course.”

“Kangri, eh? If there was ever a physician’s opinion to be trusted, it would be his. Top shelf reputation.” Master obviously felt the same way about the doctor that I did.

C.G. fell into another racking coughing spell and looked at me with a melancholy that perplexed me. “Satnam? He understands his subject only too well.” With a fold of his hands, he asked, “So, my friends, is it time to tell the world about our discovery?”

I hesitated. “Punditjis, I am. . . only your student, The Keeper of Notes and Photographs, but I have some concerns about how we're going to tell the world. If we publish that we've found an addition to the Samhitas, the world of Sanskrit will take notice.” I paused. “But if we announce that it involves a possible cure for diabetes, the entire world will take notice. Meddling people will swarm in, many of them greedy. There could be battles, and companies with a lot of money will use all sorts of tricks, bribing officials, filing injunctions, that sort of thing. I worry about this being misused or becoming legally entangled.”