Tulip Season (20 page)

“I can count on a few people over there, like my mother.” Actually, she wasn't sure about her mother, who might be ill.

He touched his black eye, as though it hurt.

“Have you been in fights before?” she asked.

He took a long pause. Looking away from her, he mumbled, “I haven't told you everything.”

The crack in his voice disturbed her. “I need to hear it all.”

“You remember my friend Klaus I told you about?”

She examined Ulrich's face, focusing her gaze on his good eye. “Oh yes, the bully, all the way through school, wasn't he? Later, you became friends.”

“There's no such person. I'm Klaus. Everything I told you about Klaus happened to me. I changed my name when I came here.”

Mitra looked down and smoothed the sleeve of her ribbed knit top. She'd been guarding her own secret involving a half-sister, but that seemed trivial compared to this. How much else about this man was a lie? Might he been hiding instances of emotional disorder? What had landed him in jail, if only briefly?

“I didn't want to use the name my parents gave me,” he said. “Let me go back to the beginning. My father was a government official in Germany. We lived almost too well for the salary he made. Even as a
child I picked up on that. I wondered how we could afford a fancy BMW, Rosenthal china, wine receptions for large groups. And still my parents acted angry, crazy, depressed. You know about the collective German guilt about the Second World War, don't you?”

She nodded uncomfortably.

“They took pleasure trips to Milan and Paris to forget their unhappiness. They'd leave me alone in the big house with a servant, like I didn't matter to them. My head would pound. I'd cry until my voice was choked.” He paused. “It came out a year later that the money for our extravagant life came from embezzled public funds. Father was found guilty and sent to prison. We lost our house, our social position, my childhood.”

“How old were you then?”

“Seven. Even a seven-year-old knows when something terrible is happening. After my father went to prison, my mother was devastated. Her tongue got sharper. She called my father names—when she was talking to me. I began to think that since I was his son, I must be damaged, too. The
ehrfurcht
—honor and fear—I felt for them, especially the honor part, went away. I got in trouble in school, bringing shame on my family. I wanted to study medicine, but my grades weren't good enough, and that was yet more shame.”

“You managed an elevator business in Germany, didn't you?” she asked, nurturing hope that he hadn't lied about that, too.

“
Ja
, but I lost that job when I punched a salesman in the mouth. The
dummkopf
didn't follow orders.” He described the scene: two angry bodies bump into each other, punching and clawing, blood and sweat mixing, crashing into furniture. Eventually one prevails and the other one lies on the ground moaning.

Why did he have to describe the scene in so much detail? With an edge of frustration in her voice, “Did you try therapy?”

He swiped a hand over his blond curls. “You name the therapy, I tried it. Finally, my counselor suggested working with plants. He found me the position of a field hand with a commercial farmer in Holland. I moved there to plant bulbs.”

“You planted bulbs?”

A wistful quality edged into his voice. “
Ja
, I was a tulip apprentice.” In recounting the episode, he described a place where the sky was smoky gray and hazy, where daylight had a thin watery
consistency, and the wind punished. He turned the heavy soil, smelled the fresh earth, tuned in to nature's rhythm and became still, like a poet with the beginning of a couplet. The owner, a farmer lady, had a sweet freckled face peeking out from under a head scarf. Her hands were large and sturdy. Shortly after planting the last bulb, he left Holland. He wasn't making enough money. He promised to the farmer lady he'd be back for the next planting season. In his dreams, he revisited the field where silky blossoms in red, yellow, and purple flirted with the spring breeze.

His fingers drifted across Mitra's hand in a cool touch as he continued. “The first time I met you, I noticed your hands—rough, dry, working hands. Immediately, I thought of that farmer lady. I remembered standing in that field, earth on my boots.

“That evening, you talked about your small business and your plants. I could see how lovely and unspoiled you were. These days, everything is rotten inside and covered up to look good. Just being around you these last few weeks, Mit, has made a huge difference in my disposition.” He gazed brightly at her. “You said your tulips had died. Perhaps we'll plant new bulbs together this fall?”

Digging in the rich earth and basking in the company of greenery might soothe Ulrich's grief about his past and his family troubles. Wistfully, she nodded and pictured their planting session. This was how it'd go: trowel in hand, he'd move about her yard, his face and mood brightened by the natural light, dark impulses tempered by the touch of the gentle soil underfoot. She'd open a box of bulbs. But the scene vanished.

“Why did you decide to emigrate to the U.S?” she asked.

“To go back to my studies. To get a silly degree. But being in a classroom makes me want to jump out the window.”

“It's okay not to go to college.”

“It's
not
okay! Working in construction is not high status work. It makes me angry to think that's only the job I can get.”

She saw the despair, the self-pity that surfaced on the wrinkles of his forehead. “Uli, Uli …”

“I want to beat my head against my apartment's chintzy wall. And, no matter how hard it gets, you can't admit you're suffering. We Germans bury so much inside.”

“You've left that life behind. This is America. Here you can get help. Here you can have a fresh start.”

“Every morning, I wake up in Germany. I want to hear the language, see and smell German things. God knows, I miss real German bread.
Schwarzbrot
. And I'd never have believed this, but I miss
ordnung
, everyone knowing their place and what to expect from others.”

He sank back onto the couch, like someone exhausted after a brawl. “Sorry, didn't mean to unload so much on you. I'm not—what do you call it—as belligerent as I used to be, as Klaus used to be.”

She didn't hear the rain any more. The Ulrich she cared about was so different from Klaus, his
doppelganger
. That man was a completer stranger to her.

“Do your parents know about your new life?” she asked. “Have you tried to reconcile?”

His eyes darkened with hatred. “No. They're pathetic old people, drunk most nights, waiting for a slow death. I'd just as soon they were gone from this planet.”

His fingers drifted across her hand in a leisurely touch. She snatched her hand away.

Voice strained, possibly from confessing so much, he asked, “Would you like to go out for dinner? I'm famished.”

Her hunger had dwindled, leaving her with deep weariness. “I'd like to take a rain check. There's only three days before my trip—lots to do.”

“You're really taking that trip?” His fingers caressed her cheek. “You're insane and adorable.”

He didn't get her reasons at all. She sighed in disappointment. “Why, yes, I am taking the trip for Kareena. To make sure she's not in any danger.”

His body stiffened. “Do you want to know the fucking truth? That time when I met your friend at Soirée, she flirted with me. She would have gone to bed with me.”

Why had he lied to her about that before? Or was this current version a lie? Where in his mind did lighter shades of truth start blundering into an opaque distortion? “Really? Just flirted? That's all you did?”

“Lots of women find me attractive.”

She sat quietly, uneasily for a second. She needed to see if he could tell the truth about anything. “Have you ever been arrested by the police? Have you ever been in jail?”

“What's that got to do with anything? You ask strange questions.” He paused, as though to make light of her queries. “No, I haven't. Don't mention the police to me.” A thick silence swallowed them until he stared at her lips and said, “Are you sure you don't want to go out to dinner?”

She shook her head. She was so sure that it tormented her. Making a move to rise, she said, “I better start packing.”

“You're going to leave me and go to India?”

“I'll be back as soon as I can.”

He straightened, thumped his feet on the carpet, and started toward the door. “You don't love me.”

He sounded childish, selfish, suffering from separation anxiety, like Klaus. “Uli, Uli.”

He rushed through the door, slamming it after him. She ran after him, but to no avail. Standing on the porch, she watched the streetlight reflect yellow on his blue pullover. He hopped into his Saab. The car roared, accelerated away from the curb, and disappeared into the bleakness of the night.

Muted sounds drifted from the neighboring houses: a baby howling; another car speeding, a dog whining. She felt her heart dividing at the thought of Ulrich's rage, his time in jail for reasons unknown.

After shutting the door, she reflected on his insinuation about Kareena's flirtation. How far had it really gone, if at all?

Then there was the fact that he was Klaus.
His emotions ran every which way
, as he'd once said.
He couldn't control them.
She shivered again. No one seemed to be who she believed they were.

THIRTY-TWO

AFTER SPENDING MOSTLY
a sleepless night replaying Ulrich's visit, Mitra felt a pang of fear as she rolled out of bed. A warm familiar face had become an illusion. A lover had morphed into a stranger with aggressive tendencies. Ulrich didn't at all understand the reasons for her trip. And he'd confirmed that neither he nor Kareena were the people Mitra thought they were.

Outside, the day emerged from its dark shroud. Mitra worked on her travel shopping list for a few minutes. What gifts should she buy for Mother? She picked up the phone and punched Mother's number. How much she wanted to hear her soothing voice.

“Ma, I am coming home on Monday.”

“You're coming home?” Mother exclaimed, a spark of joy in her voice. “Oh, my precious. I can't wait to see you.”

“Apparently, Kareena is in Kolkata. I'll look for her.”

“My, that's a surprise. I hope the weather doesn't slow your search. No one has seen such a scorching spring. The gods are not kind to us. I drink fifteen glasses of water a day and still I'm thirsty. It's impossible to get around in Kolkata in the best of times, and now we have days like a furnace in hell.”

“After the cool spring we've had here, I'd appreciate hot weather,” Mitra said. “I'm going shopping shortly. What can I bring you besides novels?”

“Nothing, nothing. I have all I'll ever need. You just get yourself over here safely.”

Mitra kept pressing until Mother said, “A box of truffles—I want to give them to the children in my building. Nowadays, they go for chocolate more than sandesh and rosgulla.” She paused. “My neighbor's ten-year-old boy snaps fabulous photos with his camera. I have never looked through a camera lens.”

“I'll bring you a digital point-and-shoot camera.”

Mother laughed, her laugh edged with a wistful note. “I'll ask Naresh to pick you up.”

“Naresh?”

“You'll enjoy meeting him, my neighbor who lives on the top floor of my building. He's like a son to me. Isn't Naresh a nice name? Naresh is young, unmarried, and looks a little like Jawaharlal Nehru, half Kashmiri and half Bengali. He has no vice other than eating out too often.”

Mother was already trying to fix her up with a prospective husband, and Mitra would try to get her to back off for now. “There's no need for Naresh to meet me at the airport. I have an early arrival—I'll just take a taxi.” She paused. “I have a boyfriend here, Ma.”

Mother's tone became alight with interest. “A new boyfriend? Is he Indian? Is he coming with you? Are you two serious?”

The details of last night were still too fresh in Mitra's mind. Her voice faltered, as she said, “No, he isn't coming with me. He's German. We're just dating.”

“You don't hear the
shehni
?” Wedding music.

“Neither wedding bells nor
shehni
tunes—I've been preoccupied lately.”

“Well, I'll call Preet and let her know you're coming. She's pregnant again, with her second child.” This was Mother's way of pointing out what Preet, a high school friend, had achieved and she hadn't. Once again, Mother had erased her daughter's accomplishments from the chalkboard of life with a sweep of her hand.

“Preet—yes, I'd very much like to see her.”

“It's about time you got reacquainted with your birthplace and your old friend.” Mother sniffled.

Mitra got the impression Mother wasn't feeling well. Still, when they bid goodbye to each other, Mother sounded more cheerful than in their recent conversations. A rush of excitement ran through Mitra, as she got busy updating her shopping list. The list overflowed with trifles that Mother, a charitable soul, might want to give to her neighbors: fountain pens, games and puzzles, photo frames, and candles. What about Preet, a high school friend Mitra hadn't seen in ages? She, a young mother focused on the needs of her son and unmindful of her own, might appreciate a few luxuries—
perfumed soap, stationery, and a home facial kit. And Mitra mustn't forget picture books for her son.

Remembering Detective Yoshihama's suggestion, Mitra added a digital voice recorder to her list. It excited her to think she'd hear Kareena's voice again.

A question seized her mind: without an address or phone number, how would she find Kareena in Kolkata?

There was one person who might be able to supply her with that information, a person she must visit, even if she still suspected him of wrongdoing.

THIRTY-THREE

UNDER FAST-FADING DAYLIGHT,
Mitra parked her Honda in front of Adi's house. Dropping in unaccompanied on him wasn't without its perils and she dreaded the prospect. However, she'd have to take this risk to solve several puzzles before she flew to Kolkata two days from now.