“I didn’t care one way or another. I have two sons and two daughters, so the family as a whole didn’t need Laxman’s sons. Frankly, I’ve had enough of babies and unsettled nights, and I knew that if they had children, the burden would end up on Rani’s back, and mine.
“But my wife is more traditional, and thought it was unfortunate that the girl didn’t catch.
“Understand, Inspector, that there was nothing wrong with my brother physically. His brain may not be too hot, but once he understood what the equipment between his legs was for, he went at it with an enthusiasm that other men would envy. I had to speak with him about the need to keep a closed door between them and others, especially the children.”
Boyle’s face gave away nothing, but Kate wondered why the apparently urbane Mehta felt the need to flaunt his brother’s skills in such detail, verging on crudeness. Perhaps they were meant to think that he shared his brother’s prowess? She had the urge to match his crudeness and ask whether Laxman and Pramilla had gone around fucking like rabbits, just to see how he reacted, but before she could say anything, Boyle mildly noted, “A man can be virile but sterile, Mr. Mehta. Although I’m sure you know that.”
“Of course,” he admitted, though not looking pleased. “I merely tell you because you need to understand what the girl was to Laxman. He was very fond of her, but she also changed. When she first came she was all sweetness and docility, giving her husband and his family the proper respect, but later, and especially recently, she became more difficult. She was learning English, and was very arrogant about it. She showed it off in front of Laxman and Rani—she would correct her husband and sister-in-law when they made a mistake, as if to point out how clever she was. She made inappropriate friendships with women in the neighborhood—”
“How were they inappropriate?”
“The women… they were not Hindu, to begin with, not even Indian, and one of them was divorced. Not the sort of friendships a proper young girl, a girl with family responsibilities, ought to cultivate. There was, for one thing, no supervision when men were present, which upset my brother greatly when he found out. I realize this is a part of the American custom, but it is unacceptable to a good Indian family.”
“She was becoming American?” Boyle suggested.
“She was becoming irresponsible, neglecting her husband and her household duties to Rani. The outdoor kitchen was a way of encouraging her to be an independent woman, a wife and future mother, while at the same time strengthening her ties to her own past and her people.”
It all sounded pretty sordid to Kate, a very small step from slavery, but again she tried to push her own feelings down. Still, she could not suppress them completely, and they added an edge to her own question.
“You said it was your brother’s idea to give Pramilla a traditional Indian kitchen. Are you telling me now that he was behind this fairly subtle… manipulation, shall we say, of his wife?”
Mehta shifted in his chair to look at her. “Of course not, not directly. But retarded though he might be, he is not insensitive. I think what he actually said, following a tiff between the two women, was, ”She misses the smell of dung fire.“ I talked with Rani, and between the three of us we came up with the kitchen compromise. It wasn’t permanent, you understand. I could see that everyone would be much happier if Laxman and his wife had their own establishment. It is the Indian way to have all the family living together, but it is not always the best. No, when the girl had been mature enough to take care of a house and her husband, they would have moved out. In fact, I had my eye on a place down the street that was about to come on the market. It would have been ideal, close enough that we could keep an eye on them, but far enough away that they could stand on their own. Without the girl, though…”
Kate suddenly found the man’s resolute avoidance of the name “Pramilla” unbearably irritating, on top of all his other ideas and assumptions. She pushed herself away from the window and said, “I think we should talk to Laxman now, if you don’t mind.” She said it in her cop voice, those tones of bored authority that made gangbangers drift reluctantly away and drunks subside, and it worked on the Chief Executive Officer of Mehta Enterprises. He removed himself from the barrier of his desk and led the two detectives back through the house, this time passing through the dining room, down another hallway, and up some stairs to a door. He knocked and opened it without waiting for an answer.
The suite of rooms Kate entered was a self-contained apartment whose occupant had far stronger ties to the Indian subcontinent than did the people downstairs. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and curry, and the walls were hung with garish prints: Krishna and his big-breasted milkmaids, the elephant-headed Ganesha, and Hanuman, the monkey god (which reminded Kate of Mina’s antics on the school stage the week before). Gold thread shot through the heavy drapes and the sofa upholstery. The living room was blessed with at least six shiny brass lamps, and every horizontal surface—tables, shelves, the top of a huge television set, a pair of brightly colored ceramic stools from China, and the corners of the floor itself—was laden with objects, most of them shiny, and a few of them expensive, a couple of them beautiful, all of them looking newly acquired. One corner had a delicate triangular table set up with a sinuous statue of a maternal-looking figure, with the ash of incense and some wilted marigolds at its base. Pramilla’s household shrine, most likely.
All in all, the apartment looked as if the contents of a large knick-knack shop had been moved here in their entirety.
As they entered, Peter Mehta had glanced through an open doorway into what resembled a staff lunchroom, with a small table, two chairs, a half-sized refrigerator, and the basic necessities for producing hot drinks and warming leftovers. Finding it unoccupied, he led them into the knickknack shop of a living room before going to another door, which he opened, making a brief noise of impatience or irritation before stepping inside. Kate followed, and caught her first sight of Laxman Mehta.
Her first impression was of a small boy waiting in his bedroom for his parent to fetch him for some dutiful event such as a dinner at Grandma’s. He sat fully dressed but for his shoes, perched at the end of a neatly made bed with his hands between his knees, looking at nothing. His brother bent over him and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.
“Laxman,” he said. “Mani, come on, don’t sit here all day. You’ve missed both tea and dinner, and Rani even made
The boy on the bed, whom Kate knew to be nearly her own age, roused himself and nodded. When he stood up it was with the slow deliberation of an old man, and Kate recognized the symptoms instantly: Laxman Mehta ached with grief.
His brother seemed oblivious, merely chattering his encouragement in a way that made Kate think that if she were not there, he would be considerably more brusque. Peter Mehta clearly found his brother a burden.
But a gorgeous burden, Kate saw. Even face-to-face, Laxman looked closer to twenty than thirty, his skin clear and unlined, the only sign of his recent tragedy the stance of his back and shoulders and a certain sunken distraction around his eyes. Although the distraction might be chronic, she reminded herself. Both Peter and Roz’s informant had indicated that he was retarded.
As a decorative object, though, this male was extraordinarily beautiful. His long black eyelashes over those dark limpid eyes would make a poet croon, the creamy hairless skin on his face cried out to be touched, and unlike his stocky brother, Laxman was blessed with a slim, almost adolescent body that promised innocence and strength. If even a lesbian like herself felt the stir of his beauty, she could only assume that there were places in town where this man’s presence would cause a riot. Half the men in the Castro would fling themselves at his feet while the other half were turning their backs in despair. He, however, would notice none of it—which was part of his attraction. He was quite oblivious of his own beauty. His family must have kept him under close wraps, and breathed a sigh of relief when he was safely married off.
Physically, at any rate, the farmer’s daughter could have found herself with a less acceptable husband.
Kate stepped aside to allow the three men to return to the living room, but also so that she could take a closer look at the bedroom. The single bed was narrow, the walls stark and almost without decoration. It was austere compared with the collections in the main room, but there was a door beside the bed, and she took two quick steps over to it, and opened it into something out of a maharajah’s harem. She had thought the living room was ornate, but this was a jewel box, packed to bursting with a thousand gaudy baubles, carved figures of lithe tigers and entwined couples, armfuls of silk flowers thrust into maroon and cobalt vases, two gilt-framed mirrors on the flocked wallpaper, a lace canopy over the bed and a heavily embroidered cover on it. The two silk lamp shades on either side of the bed had what appeared to be genuine pearls dangling from the lower rims. One of the lamps was on, but so low that the streetlight outside cast shadows through the delicate filigree of the magnificent carved
