The World We Found (21 page)

The two women sat in embarrassed silence on the sofa, not looking at each other. Then Mumtaz said, “I’m sure I know where he put it. After all, he’s not taking your passport to work with him everyday.” She turned toward Nishta. “You know that safe that Ammi has? I’ll bet you anything he’s hidden it there.”

Nishta shook her head no. She was in shock over Iqbal’s treachery. How far will he go? she wondered. Where will it end? Who is this man I’ve spent all these years with?

“Yes, you do,” Mumtaz insisted. “It’s the small brown one where Ammi keeps her wedding jewelry. We took her jewelry out of it and gave it to Sharma uncle to hold for us during the riots, remember? Ma told him she trusted him like her own brother.” There was a vibration, a tremor in Mumtaz’s voice. But it barely registered, like the roar of the traffic under her window.

“I think so,” Nishta said vaguely.

“You stay here. I know the code. I’ll go visit with Ammi for a few minutes and then tell her I need to borrow her jewelry for a party. I’ll be back soon.”

Mumtaz returned twenty minutes later and triumphantly pulled the blue book out of her handbag. “I knew it. I’m telling you, I can read my brother’s mind better than anybody.”

“Did Ammi see?”

“She was in the other room. Don’t fret so much.” She tossed the passport on the coffee table and turned toward Nishta. “There’s something I should say,” she began. “On behalf of my whole family, I apologize to you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Nishta said. “You had nothing to—”

“No. I mean it. I had—I feel responsible for who my brother has become. Stealing his wife’s cell phone, hiding her passport. It’s shameful, but I understand why he has become this way.” Mumtaz swallowed hard and then shook her head abruptly, as if to dismiss any softening toward Iqbal. “But I don’t excuse it. In fact, I reject it.” She paused for a second. “One thing I promise you, bhabi. I will help you. Even if it means bearing Iqbal’s wrath. And in any case, I know Iqbal. He can’t stay angry for long. Once you return from America, he will forgive me.”

Nishta forced a blankness to fall across her face. Because she had almost said it out loud: If I go, I’m not coming back. If I can escape the prison my life has become, I am flying away forever.

Chapter 17

L
aleh had the driver drop her off at the entrance of the club that she and Adish belonged to. She usually avoided visiting the club in the evening. The diamond-encrusted women in their silks and chiffons, their bossy, preening husbands who asserted their power by barking orders at the waiters, their whiny children who harassed their tired-looking ayahs while their parents played cards or stuffed themselves with oily, heavy food—Laleh reacted to all of them as if they were personally insulting her. If she went to the club at all, she usually went in the afternoon, to swim for an hour. Or she might occasionally treat a friend to lunch there, on the verandah overlooking the sea, before the evening crowds descended.

But Adish came here after work three nights a week to play tennis, and this was one of those nights. Laleh had made her peace with the fact that he would be home late tonight, but as the evening wore on she found the waiting to be unbearable. Not when she had such wonderful news to give to him.

“Just stop here,” she told the driver. “I’ll call when I’m ready.”

As she approached the tennis court, she spotted Adish immediately. He was ready to serve, reaching up on his toes to smack the ball, when he caught sight of her. He stopped, called out something to his partner and hurried toward her. “What’s wrong?” he said immediately.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Can’t I just come to watch you . . .”

“Bollocks.” Adish pulled a white towel off the chair on the side of the court and mopped the sweat off his face. “What is it? The children?”

“Go finish your game,” she said, suddenly annoyed at herself for not having waited until he got home. Poor Adish. Tennis was his one relaxation. She smiled to reassure him. “Everything’s okay. I just have some news to give you. But it can wait.”

Instead, he trotted over to where his tennis partner was waiting impatiently. “Sorry, yaar. Family situation. Do you mind if we stop?”

“Just when I was about to beat the pants off of you.” The other man grinned. “Well, I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”

They found a quiet spot near the swimming pool and Adish ordered a scotch for himself and a cocktail for Laleh. “So?”

“We—Kavita heard from Nishta.” She waited for him to react, but he stared at her impassively. “Nishta contacted us. Turns out Iqbal had confiscated her cell phone. Can you imagine?” She waited for her own revulsion and outrage to be reflected on Adish’s face but it had turned to stone.

“Say something,” she finally urged.

“What do you want me to say?”

She ignored his last remark. “She wants to come. To America, to see Armaiti. So we have to figure out how to help.”

“Why are you telling me this?” There was a flash in Adish’s eyes that she knew meant trouble, but she wasn’t about to acknowledge it.

The waiter set their drinks before them along with a bowl of beer nuts. Adish popped a fistful into his mouth, chewing hard, his eyes never leaving Laleh’s face. “You know I gave my word to Iqbal,” he said. “You know I would never—”

“Adish,” she said urgently. “This is our friend. She is in a bad marriage. We can help her. What is there to discuss?”

Adish closed his eyes. “Iqbal was our friend, too. My mother always told me one never knows what goes on between a man and a woman. And Iqbal has suffered so much. I wish I could tell you some of the things he told me.”

He was getting that stubborn look on his face, the lower lip jutting out, that Laleh had come to know only too well over the years. She knew she only had a few minutes to get it right. “It was Mumtaz who phoned Kavita,” she said quietly. “Iqbal’s sister. Why? Because even she knows injustice when she sees it.” She saw Adish raise an eyebrow at the mention of Mumtaz, and she pressed her advantage. “He makes her wear a burkha, janu. A
burkha
. He’s broken her spirit. You remember what Nishta used to be like, so carefree and easygoing. She’s a nervous wreck these days. Why should she continue living like this? Tell me. Just so that you can say you kept your word?”

“A promise is a promise.”

“Damn your promise.” She had spoken louder than she intended, and he put a warning hand over her wrist. She shook it away. “A promise is only meaningful if it is just.”

“I know a lot of lawyers who would disagree with that interpretation, sweetie.”

She stared at him in anger. “What do you think this is, Adish, some bloody game? I’m not discussing some esoteric principle here. I’m asking . . .” Angry tears filled her eyes. “I came here to ask you to help.” She rose from her chair. “Forget it. I’ll take care of this myself.”

“Laleh.” Adish’s voice was low but urgent. “You’re making a scene. Now sit down and let’s talk like adults.”

She looked down at him, focusing on the tiny bald spot that had started on the top of his head. “No. You talk. You spend your life discussing things, clinging to your ridiculous promises.” She moved away from the table and then stomped back. “You know what you promised Iqbal, don’t you? You promised to keep your mouth shut and look the other way. That’s all you promised him, darling.” She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m going home.”

“Wait,” he called, but she ignored him.

A
dish didn’t get home until ten that night. Laleh had calmed down enough to regret her outburst at the club. She waited for him to enter their bedroom but when he didn’t after fifteen minutes of being home, she went into the kitchen where he was sitting with the children.

She noticed immediately that he wasn’t making eye contact with her. And, apparently, so did their son. “So what did you guys fight about?” Farhad asked after a few minutes and they both jumped guiltily. “Nothing,” she said. “No fight,” Adish stammered.

Farhad looked at them languidly and grinned. “Then how come Papa didn’t kiss you when he came home?” he said.

Adish smacked his son on the arm. “Mind your own business,” he said. “You’re turning into a bloody nosey parker.”

Farhad grinned more broadly. “It
is
my business, that you two get along,” he said as he opened the fridge and took out a can of Coke. He paced the floor in a manner that reminded Laleh of her father. “Imagine if you two kept fighting,” he said. “Soon you’d get divorced. That means Papa has to give Mommy half his money. Then let’s say both of you remarry. Your new spouses may have their own children. That means”—Farhad threw his hands open for dramatic effect—“my inheritance is cut in half. Possibly more.”

“You keep this up and you’ll be lucky to have any inheritance at all,” Adish said.

“Speaking of inheritance, can I have some money now?” Ferzin chimed in. “I’m going to a night-show with my friends,” she added.

Adish turned to Laleh. “What do these kids think we are? Do they just see us as walking, talking moneybags?”

She shrugged, but a smile played on her lips. Adish seemed to have softened toward her. Thank God for the kids, she thought. They had a way of diffusing the tensest of situations. “It’s not their fault they have the world’s most generous father.”

“Not to mention the world’s prettiest mother,” Farhad said immediately. As she looked at her gangly son—the unruly eyebrows, the crooked smile—Farhad, ugly in that beautiful way teenage boys were, Laleh felt love stir in her heart. Why didn’t Nishta have children, she wondered? That would have helped her so much.

Adish’s eyes twinkled. “Arre, saala, stop flirting with my wife.”

Laleh sat there a little longer and then returned to the bedroom. Adish followed ten minutes later, unbuttoning his shirt as he entered. “We’ll need Nishta’s passport information,” he said casually, as if resuming a conversation. “I’ll contact Joseph and have him make a visa appointment for her. It’s lucky we didn’t pay for your tickets yet. Now we can get all three.”

She flew across the room and flung her arms around him. “Thank you. Oh, I just . . . thank you. And I’m so sorry about the horrible things I said.”

“No. My fault. I let my pity for Iqbal blind me to the real victim here. And that’s Nishta.”

“We already have her passport number, by the way. Mumtaz gave it to Kavita.”

“Good work.” He picked up the phone and then looked at the wall clock across the room. “I’ll call Joseph first thing in the morning,” he said.

Laleh tugged at Adish to sit on the bed next to her. “So what happened? Between the time I left the club and you came home? To change your mind, I mean?”

“Nothing.” He stared at his feet and then turned toward her. “I just decided a few minutes ago, while talking to the children. While looking at Ferzin.” He paused and when he spoke, there was a tremor in his voice. “If some bugger told my daughter that she had to wear a chador each time she left the house, I would choke him. I wouldn’t care if he was a boyfriend, husband, nothing.” Even as he spoke, a muscle on his forearm twitched, as if he were performing the action. “And you said—didn’t you say Mumtaz called? Iqbal’s sister?” Laleh nodded. “Well. So obviously even his own sister disagrees with what he’s done,” he said, as if to himself.

Laleh put Adish’s hand in her lap and stroked the twitching muscle. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” she murmured. “I don’t know how you do it, but you come through time after time.”

Adish grinned. “They don’t call me Mr. Fixit for nothing.”

Laleh smiled. “This is the best present we could’ve given Armaiti,” she said.

“You want to phone her?”

Laleh considered. “She’s on vacation. With Richard and Diane. I don’t want to disturb her. I’ll send an e-mail to Diane.” She bit her lower lip. “I guess her coordination is bad enough now that she can’t type anymore. Diane does her e-mails for her.”

Adish kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll go brush my teeth. And then let’s go to bed, okay? It’s getting late.”

Chapter 18

N
ishta clutched the thin plastic bag that contained the potatoes and spinach she would cook later today. Muddy, dirty water ran into the streets, and she lifted the hem of her burkha as she gingerly made her way. The bazaar was teeming with people, and although it was still morning the heat was unbearable.

The first time she had ever worn a burkha was fifteen years ago, but she still wasn’t used to the claustrophobic, buried-alive feeling. Iqbal had accompanied her that first time, and for a few moments a childish delight, a mild form of hysteria had enveloped her. As a little girl she had been enthralled by the idea of invisibility, of using pens with invisible ink, of donning a cloak that would allow her to move around undetected and unseen. Every Sunday she would stop whatever she was doing to watch the old American series
Invisible Man
on television. Now it seemed as if that old childhood wish had come true; if not for the fact that Iqbal was by her side, she could wear this cloak and disappear within it, be reduced to nothing more than a pair of eyes looking out onto the world, spying on it while it couldn’t spy back. Like a uniform, the burkha conferred instant anonymity—it obliterated her features, swallowed up her identity, made indistinct her facial features, and even her shape. She could be a potato in a sack, for all the difference it made. The anonymity made her feel powerful—she could stick her tongue out at the world and it would never notice.