“Shift? Shift where?”
Asif nodded absently and stared at the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were cloudy. “That’s what I asked. They said we should move out until things cool down.” Then, at last, the tears came to his eyes. “Not one of them said they’d come to our aid, Zenobia. Not one.”
“Asif, they all have their families to think of. These are hard times.”
His anger had finally found its target. “Don’t. Don’t take their side. These people, these bloody people. How many times have they come to our parties? They have eaten our food, drunk my liquor. And this is who they are? In our time of need?”
They talked late into the evening. They considered moving in with a distant cousin, but when they called, the petrified woman said that Muslims were being beaten on the streets in her neighborhood. In other homes, the phone rang and rang, and they surmised that the occupants had fled.
Finally, at 11:00 p.m., Zenobia said, “Beatrice Auntie.”
Beatrice Gonzales was an elderly Anglo-Indian woman who lived in the building across the street. She had been the librarian at the children’s school, was already ancient when Sameer had started there, and had retired the year Zeenat entered third grade. Every week, Zenobia dropped off a couple of meals for the elderly spinster, who was getting more and more infirm.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Zenobia called. Beatrice’s voice was drowsy when she answered, but as soon as she understood the reason for the call, she was wide-awake. “Come over,” she said immediately. “Bring the children and come over now. Asif, too, obviously.”
“Pack some clothes for a few days,” Asif told his wife. “Until this blows over.” He pulled on his goatee. “I don’t want any of our neighbors to know where we’re going. I will call Jafar bhai and tell him to bring his taxi around in a half hour. We should tell our neighbors we’re leaving town.”
“You want a taxi to go across the street?”
“That’s the whole point. We will have Jafar go out to the main road. Then we can drive around her building and go in from the back entrance. Understand?” He stopped, struck by another thought. “Call your friend Pushpa and tell her we’re bringing all your jewelry to her for safekeeping.”
“Is that a good idea? I can go to the bank tomorrow and put it in the security box.”
“Zenobia, it’s better if we don’t leave Miss Gonzales’s house for a few days. Pushpa has that big safe, remember? You only told me when Gaurav bought it for her. She can keep our belongings in there.”
Pushpa nodded gravely as she accepted the heavy cloth bag of gold necklaces and diamond bracelets. “Be safe!” she cried as she hugged Zenobia. “Phone me, and I will tell you when it’s safe to come home.”
“Where to, Asif sahib?” Jafar said when they were in the cab. “Churchgate or Victoria Terminus?”
“Drive,” Asif said. He pulled out a hundred-rupee note. “This is for your trouble, bhai. Just take us around to the next street and then pull up to the back entrance of Royal Apartments. We had to make a show of leaving, you see?”
Jafar, a fellow Muslim, understood immediately. “Excellent idea, seth.”
He helped them rush into the building and carried their suitcases up the two floors to Beatrice’s apartment.
The old lady opened the door at the first knock. After his wife and kids had entered, Asif faced Jafar. “You know you can’t . . .”
“Sahib, you gave me the down payment to purchase my first taxi. My family eats because of your largesse. I am forever in your debt. You don’t have to . . .”
Asif smiled, a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Unusual to find a man who remembers his debts, in this city of ours,” he said.
Sadness suffused Jafar’s face. “These are hard times for us, sahib,” he said. “But they will end.”
“Inshallah.”
“Inshallah. Stay safe, sahib. And remember, if you need anything, I am your servant.”
“You take care, Jafar bhai. You and your family, also.”
The first four days in Beatrice’s apartment went smoothly. Zenobia cooked all their meals, and Beatrice declared she was already gaining weight. Asif read the newspaper and listened incessantly to the news on TV. Sameer played his Walkman and read his Tintin comics, while Zeenat was immersed in her Nancy Drew novels and Mad magazines. Despite their haste, Zenobia had remembered to pack everything the children needed. In the evenings, Asif and Sameer played game after game of Scrabble on Beatrice’s old board.