What he flinches at is Sunny’s yearning to annihilate himself.
Still, he tries to keep it light.
“I was beyond enemy line in Lebanon one time,” he shouts over the rush of water. “Only me. Not official. I get sent because I look Arab. You know that? In truth I had no choice. This between you and me. I do something very wrong. Now they say, go to jail or go to Lebanon. You decide. I choose Lebanon. I almost die. Twice!” He slaps Sunny round the face. “But you know what? Even Lebanon better than scrubbing Sunny Wadia’s asshole.”
Nothing. Sunny doesn’t stir.
Eli turns off the jets, looks down on this ungodly form.
“Sleeping like baby. Is flumazenil time.”
* * *
—
Flumazenil has become an essential component of life since Sunny’s kidnapping.
Flumazenil: a competitive benzodiazepine receptor antagonist inhibiting activity at the benzodiazepine receptor site on the GABA/benzodiazepine receptor complex.
AKA: righting Sunny’s Xanax OD.
Onset of action 1–2 minutes; 80 percent response within 3.
Eli pulls Sunny out onto the bathroom floor, fetches a vial and syringe and rubber tourniquet from the medication fridge.
How many times has he done this in the seven or so months since Sunny’s release?
Five? Eight? He’s lost count.
He preps the syringe, binds the tourniquet to find the vein.
Sticks it in.
The bedroom phone begins to ring.
Eli releases the solution into Sunny’s bloodstream. Immediately unties the tourniquet.
The bathroom extension starts to ring too.
“I think it’s for you,” Eli says.
And Sunny begins to growl like a dog.
“OK. I answer. I say you’re taking big shit, yes?” He draws himself up tall, lifts the receiver with a great false smile. “Hello,” he booms. “Eli speaking.” He listens awhile. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
Sunny opens his eyes. Takes a great breath. Sits his naked body up.
Rubs his face.
“I want a Diet Coke,” he says.
“Yes, sir, one second, he just walked in now.” He covers the receiver and hisses. “Is Papa. He wants to speak to you.”
Sunny sighs, hangs his head, takes the phone.
“Yes. I’ll be right down.”
2.
Sunny stands before Bunty Wadia, more or less alert.
With the eyes and face and hangover expected of a wedding day.
There are masseuses and beauticians to fix such cosmetic things.
But what can be done about his soul?
Since Sunny’s rescue, he and Bunty have barely talked.
Bunty has taken a lenient, compassionate line.
Has given Sunny space and time.
Has vowed to hunt Rastogi down.
He sat in on Sunny’s debriefing, his treatment for dehydration, bruised ribs, a broken wrist, infected wounds.
A tracking device had been placed in the bag of notes.
It had been found, minus the money, next to Manoj’s bike.
They had an artist come in and sketch the face Sunny saw.
But what about the faces he sees when he closes his eyes?
Manoj, bleeding out.
Lost words gurgling pink blood bubbles in his mouth.
And the other face.
The one whose name he does not speak out loud.
Sunny told Bunty, the cops, everyone who’d listen, that it was all about the land.
The story checked out.
Manoj’s brother Sonu was inside.
Rastogi’s uncle was found.
Sukanya Sarkar, too, with her awful secret, was quickly tracked down.
But despite all this, despite the cops, the informants, the insiders, the undercovers, the snitches, Rastogi disappeared. Just a few sightings, a few traces.
Why?
How could he so easily evade?
Maybe one vital part of the story was left out.
The bit that starts with Ajit Singh and ends with . . .
“I know,” Bunty says, “it’s been hard for you, since the incident with this . . .”
Sunny shudders at the absence of the name.
“But we’ll find him,” Bunty continues, “we’ll bring him in.”
“I want him dead,” Sunny says.
Bunty holds Sunny’s gaze.
“That’s a matter of time.”
I want him dead.
It’s an earworm, an unending refrain.
It spreads through his brain in the darkness, and there are so many more things that go unsaid.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about,” Bunty says. “I want to talk about the future. You’ve long been a man, but today with this union, you’ll become my heir.”
Of course, Sunny suspects. He suspects Bunty knows more than he lets on.