Enough. She’d had enough. She flipped the stack of pages over, shook her head, gripped her beer.
“See,” he said. “I told you Sunny Wadia was a joker.”
5.
On Valentine’s Day of all days, an unknown number called her phone.
She recognized Sunny’s voice right away.
“Neda,” he said.
It sounded so distant, so pained.
She waited for him to speak, but he only breathed heavily on the line. Not the heaviness of threat, but of oblivion, self-destruction. She was at home in the kitchen making chai. She took the call out in the front yard. The parakeets were flitting, there was a chill in the air. It caught you hard if you stood in the shadows; she moved to the sun.
“What?”
“I need help.”
She shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes. “I can’t help you.”
“I can’t do it anymore.”
He sounded desperate.
“You can’t do what?”
“You know what.”
She blinked and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I thought you were going to fix this?”
“I can’t.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Where are you?”
“Goa.”
“Why?”
“I can’t do it anymore. I need help.”
“OK. Calm down.”
“Fly down.”
“Sunny . . .”
“Fly down today. I need to see you. I need to speak to you. Face-to-face.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you on the phone. Just come. Just come and I swear I’ll never ask you anything again.”
“Sunny.”
“What?”
“Honestly? This sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“Book a ticket. Send the details to this phone. Ajay will meet you at the airport. Please, just come. Come now and I’ll never bother you again.”
* * *
—
She cursed herself. She waited an hour. Then she called her travel agent and had him book a ticket for the evening. She went to work but there was nothing pressing for her to do, her stories had been filed, and since she’d handed in her notice there were no new stories to pick up. The ticket was sent over to her office that afternoon. She messaged the details to the number from which Sunny had called. She didn’t even go home to change or pack. She left her car parked at work and took a taxi to the airport. She called her house on the way; her mother answered.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m in Bombay for a few days. There’s a story I need to chase up. And I’m seeing Hari. I’ll be home Sunday.”
* * *
—
The flight down was only a quarter full. There were a dozen or so businessmen, a couple of travel-worn backpackers cheating on India by taking the plane. She curled up right away on three seats, put her winter coat over her, and tried to sleep. She didn’t want to think. She had recently achieved some success by not thinking about anything at all. She was terrified of seeing him. As the plane began its descent she half hoped Ajay wouldn’t be there. It was possible. There was a chance. And then? She’d take a taxi to Vagator, stay at Jackie’s Day Night, eat crab curry at Starlight, go home. That would be the end of the line.
* * *
—
She arrived early in the night, the earth held the warmth of the day, tempered by the breeze that blew off the Arabian Sea. She peeled off her coat, hung it over one arm, left the tourists waiting by the luggage carousel, and stepped out to the arrivals strip with the hotel touts and the taxi drivers stirring to life. They advanced en masse at the sight of her, starting up their pitch. Taxi, madam. Hotel, madam. Come, madam, this way. She stood before them and opened her bag and took out her cigarette pack, removed a cigarette slowly, lit it and inhaled deeply, and blew smoke up into the night, where it danced with the moths and mosquitoes in the floodlights.
“Madam.”
That familiar voice.
That face.
He led her away from the crowd to a parked car. A red Maruti like her own. Local plates. He said she should ride up front with him, so the police wouldn’t think it was an illegal taxi. One had to follow the tricks here.
* * *
—
They drove beside a large river, past miles of palm trees and small whitewashed chapels glowing with night-lights, past stray dogs barking in the headlights, turning to vanish in the groves. A few bars were open on the roadside, tiny concrete drinking dens with old wooden doors and weak bulbs inside. She wound the window down and let the sweet air fill her hair and her lungs. A sedative. They didn’t speak. She watched his hands on the wheel, the knuckles that were scarred. After some time they joined a busy road, passed a police checkpoint. The traffic picked up and the way was dusty and potholed and slow. When they were stuck behind a truck, she felt compelled to talk.