5

With trembling fingers, Kolabati pulled the jack clip from the back of the phone. Another minute or two from now and Jack’s call would have ruined everything. She wanted no interruptions when she confronted Kusum. It was taking all her courage, but she intended to face her brother and wring the truth from him. She would need time to position him for her assault… time and concentration. He was a master dissembler and she would have to be as circumspect and as devious as he if she was going to trap him into the truth.

She had even chosen her attire for maximum effect. Although she played neither well nor often, she found tennis clothes comfortable. She was dressed in a white sleeveless shirt and shorts set by Boast. And she wore her necklace, of course, exposed through the fully open collar of her shirt. Much of her skin was exposed: another weapon against Kusum.

At the sound of the elevator door opening down the hall, the tension that had been gathering within her since she had seen him step from the taxi on the street below balled itself into a tight, hard knot in the pit of her stomach.

Oh, Kusum. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t you let it go?

As the key turned in the lock, she forced herself into an icy calm.

He opened the door, saw her, and smiled.

“Bati!” He came over as if to put his arm around her shoulders, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he ran a finger along her cheek. Kolabati willed herself not to shrink from his touch. He spoke in Bengali. “You’re looking better everyday.”

“Where were you all night, Kusum?”

He stiffened. “I was out. Praying. I have learned to pray again. Why do you ask?”

“I was worried. After what happened—”

“Do not fear for me on that account,” he said with a tight smile. “Pity instead the one who tries to steal my necklace.”

“Still I worry.”

“Do not.” He was becoming visibly annoyed now. “As I told you when you first arrived, I have a place I go to read my Gita in peace. I see no reason to change my routines simply because you are here.”

“I wouldn’t expect such a thing. I have my life to lead, you have yours.” She brushed past him and moved toward the door. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Like that?” His eyes were racing up and down her minimally clad body. “With your legs completely exposed and your blouse unbuttoned?”

“This is America.”

“But you are not an American! You are a woman of India! A Brahmin! I forbid it!”

Good—he was getting angry.

“You can’t forbid, Kusum,” she said with a smile. “You no longer tell me what to wear, what to eat, how to think. I am free of you. I’ll make my own decisions today, just as I did last night.”

“Last night? What did you do last night?”

“I had dinner with Jack.” She watched him closely for his reaction. He seemed confused for an instant, and that wasn’t what she expected.

“Jack who?” Then his eyes widened. “You don’t mean—?”

“Yes. Repairman Jack. I owe him something, don’t you think?”

“An American—!”

“Worried about my karma? Well, dear brother, my karma is already polluted, as is yours—especially yours—for reasons we both know too well.” She averted her thoughts from that. “And besides,” she said, tugging on her necklace, “what does karma mean to one who wears this?”

“A karma can be cleansed,” Kusum said in a subdued tone. “I am trying to cleanse mine.”

The sincerity of his words struck her and she grieved for him. Yes, he did want to remake his life; she could see that. But by what means was he going about it? Kusum had never shied away from extremes.

It suddenly occurred to Kolabati that this might be the moment to catch him off guard, but it passed. Besides, better to have him angry. She needed to know where he would be tonight. She did not intend to let him out of her sight.

“What are your plans for tonight, brother? More prayer?”

“Of course. But not until late. I must attend a reception hosted by the U.K. Mission at eight.”

“That sounds interesting. Would they mind if I came along?”

Kusum brightened. “You would come with me? That would be wonderful. I’m sure they would be glad to have you.”

“Good.” A perfect opportunity to keep an eye on him. Now… to anger him. “But I’ll have to find something to wear.”

“You will be expected to dress like a proper Indian woman.”

“In a sari?” She laughed in his face. “You must be joking!”

“I insist! Or I will not be seen with you!”

“Fine. Then I’ll bring my own escort: Jack.”

Kusum’s face darkened with rage. “I forbid it!”

Kolabati moved closer to him. Now was the moment. She watched his eyes carefully.

“What will you do to stop it? Send a rakosh after him as you did last night?”

“A rakosh? After Jack?” Kusum’s eyes, his face, the way the cords of his neck tightened—they all registered shock and bafflement. He was the consummate liar when he wished to be, but Kolabati knew she had caught him off guard, and everything in his reaction screamed the fact that he didn’t know. He didn’t know!

“There was one outside his apartment window last night!”

“Impossible!” His face still wore a bewildered expression. “I’m the only one who…”

“Who what?”

“Who has an egg.”

Kolabati reeled. “You have it withyou?”

“Of course. Where could it be safer?”

“In Bengal!”

Kusum shook his head. He appeared to be regaining some of his composure. “No. I feel better when I know exactly where it is at all times.”

“You had it with you when you were with the London Embassy, too?”

“Of course.”

“What if it had been stolen?”

He smiled. “Who would even know what it was?”

With an effort, Kolabati mastered her confusion. “I want to see it. Right now.”

“Certainly.”

He led her into his bedroom and pulled a small wooden crate from a corner of the closet. He lifted the lid, pushed the excelsior aside, and there it was. Kolabati recognized the egg. She knew every blue mottle on its gray surface, knew the texture of its cool, slippery surface like her own skin. She brushed her fingertips over the shell. Yes, this was it: a female rakosh egg.

Feeling weak, Kolabati backed up and sat on the bed.

“Kusum, do you know what this means? Someone has a nest of rakoshi here in New York! “

“Nonsense! This is the very last rakosh egg. It could be hatched, but without a male to fertilize the female, there could be no nest.”

“Kusum, I know there was a rakosh there!”

“Did you see it? Was it male or female?”

“I didn’t actually see it—”

“Then how can you say there are rakoshi in New York?”

“The odor!” Kolabati felt her own anger rise. “Don’t you think I know the odor?”

Kusum’s face had resolved itself into its usual mask. “You should. But perhaps you have forgotten, just as you have forgotten so many other things about our heritage.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“The subject is closed, as far as I’m concerned.”

Kolabati rose and faced her brother. “Swear to me, Kusum. Swear that you had nothing to do with that rakoshi last night.”

“On the grave of our mother and father,” he said, looking her squarely in the eyes, “I swear that I did not send a rakosh after our friend Jack. There are people in this world I wish ill, but he is not one of them.”

Kolabati had to believe him. His tone was sincere, and there was no more solemn oath for Kusum than the one he had just spoken.

And there, intact on its bed of excelsior, was the egg. As Kusum knelt to pack it away, he said:

“Besides, if a rakosh were truly after Jack, his life wouldn’t be worth a paisa. I assume he is alive and well?”

“Yes, he’s well. I protected him.”

Kusum’s head snapped toward her. Hurt and anger raced across his features. He understood exactly what she meant.

“Please leave me,” he said in a low voice as he faced away and lowered his head. “You disgust me.”

Kolabati spun and left the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Would she never be free of this man? She was sick of Kusum! Sick of his self-righteousness, his inflexibility, his monomania. No matter how good she felt—and she felt good about Jack—he could always manage to make her feel dirty. They both had plenty to feel guilty about, but Kusum had become obsessed with atoning for past transgressions and cleansing his karma. Not just his own karma, but hers as well. She had thought leaving India—to Europe first, then to America—would sever their relationship. But no. After years of no contact, he had arrived on these same shores.

She had to face it: She would never escape him. For they were bound by more than blood—the necklaces they wore linked them with a bond that went beyond time, beyond reason, even beyond karma.

But there had to be a way out for her, a way to free herself from Kusum’s endless attempts to dominate her.

Kolabati went to the window and looked out across the green expanse of Central Park. Jack was over there on the other side of the Park. Perhaps he was the answer. Perhaps he could free her.

She reached for the phone.