Tuesday morning arrived as we sat together watching the Calcutta sunrise throw a wan, gray light through the open curtains. Temple bells, trolley bells, vendors' cries, and random street sounds came to us with the first light. "She'll be all right," I would say at intervals. "I know she will, kid. She'll be all right."
Amrita said nothing.
At exactly 5:35 A.M. the telephone rang. It was the room phone. I lunged across the room at it.
"Hello?" I thought I could hear an extra hollowness to the line. It was as if I were talking into a cave in the earth.
"Hello? Hello? Mr. Luczak, hello?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Hello? This is Michael Leonard Chatterjee, Mr. Luczak."
"Yes?" Are you the go-between? Are you involved, you bastard?
"Mr. Luczak, the police came to my home during the night. They told me about the disappearance of your child."
"Yes?" If this was going to be just a sympathy call, I would hang up. But it was not a sympathy call.
"The police awoke me, Mr. Luczak. They awakened my family. They came to my home. They seem to think that I am somehow involved in this event. They interview me in the middle of the night, Mr. Luczak."
"Yeah? So?"
"I am calling to strongly protest this aspersion on my character and invasion of my privacy," said Chatterjee. His voice became higher and shriller as he began to shout. "You should not have given them my name, Mr. Luczak. I am a person of some stature in this community. I will not have such aspersions cast on my character, sir. You have no right."
"What?" It was all I could do to get the single syllable out.
"You have no right, sir. I warn you, any accusations you might make, any mention of my name, any involvement of the Writers' Union in your personal problems, Mr. Luczak, will result in legal action from my barrister. I am warning you, sir."
There was a hollow clunk as Chatterjee hung up. The line continued to hiss and crackle for several seconds, and then a second crash came as the policeman at the switchboard hung up. Amrita was standing next to me, but for a second I could not speak. I remained standing there, squeezing the receiver as if it were Chatterjee's neck, my rage reaching the point where blood vessels burst or tendons snap.
"What!" demanded Amrita, shaking my arm. I told her.
She nodded. Somehow the phone call vitalized her into action. First, using one of the extra lines, she called her aunt in New Delhi. Her aunt knew no one in Bengal, but she had friends who had friends in the Lok Sabha, one of the houses of government. Amrita simply told of the kidnapping and asked for help. I could not fathom what form that help could take, but the mere fact of Amrita's acting made me feel better.
Next she phoned her father's brother in Bombay. Her uncle also owned a construction company and was a man of some influence on the west coast of the subcontinent. Although he had been awakened from a sound sleep by a niece he had not heard from for a decade, he promised to get on the next plane to Calcutta. Amrita told him not to — not yet — but did ask him to contact any Bengali authorities who might help. He promised to do so and to keep in touch.
I sat listening to the elegant Hindi phrases and watched my wife as I would a stranger. When she later told me the substance of the calls, I felt the reassurance that a child knows when hearing adults confer with other adults over important matters.
Before Inspector Singh arrived at eight-thirty that morning, Amrita had called Calcutta's three main hospitals. No, no American children or lightskinned children fitting that description had been admitted overnight.
Then she called the morgue.
I could never have made that call. I could not have stood there as she did, back straight, voice steady, and inquired of some sleepy stranger as to whether the body of my child had been brought in during the dark Calcutta night.
The answer was no.
Only after she thanked him and hung up did I see the trembling begin in her legs and move up her body until her hands shook and she had to cover her face with them. I went to her then and took her in my arms. She did not release her tense control, not yet, but she bowed her head into the hollow of my neck and we rocked back and forth together, saying nothing, rocking together in the shared pain and ache of it.
Inspector Singh brought no news.
He sat and drank coffee with us around the small table in the room. Men in helmets came and went, delivering papers, receiving instructions.
Singh told us that security officials at the airport and train stations had been notified. Did we have a photograph of the child? I did. It was two months out of date. Victoria had much less hair then. Her face was less distinct. Beneath her dimpled legs I could see the orange blanket, a forgotten artifact of that distantly carefree Memorial Day picnic. I hated to give up the photograph.
Singh asked more questions, gave reassurances, and left us. A thin police sergeant poked his head in and reminded us in broken English that he would be next door. We nodded.
The day passed. Amrita had lunch brought up. Neither of us ate. Twice I took long showers, the door left open so that I could hear Amrita or the phone. My flesh still smelled of the previous night's foulness. I was so tired that I felt disconnected from my body. My thoughts circled around and around like a loop tape.
If I had not gone.
If I hadn't got in the car.
If I had returned sooner.
I turned off the water and slammed my fist into the tile.
By three P.M. Singh had returned with two other officers from the Metropolitan Force. One spoke no English. The other had somehow acquired a cockney accent. Their report was not helpful.
No one named M. T. Krishna was teaching at the University. Five instructors named Krishna had taught there during the past decade. Two had retired. Two were now in their mid- or late fifties. One was a woman.
There was no record of any Krishna affiliated with the United States Education Foundation in India. Indeed, there was no USEFI office in Calcutta. The nearest branch was in Madras. Phone calls had been placed, but no one in Madras had any information about a Krishna or Sanjay. No one had been sent to meet us at the Calcutta airport. USEFI had no idea I was in the country.
There had been many students named Sanjay at Calcutta University. None contacted so far fit the description that I had given the police. Officers were working on it, but it might be several weeks before all of the currently registered Sanjays were contacted. It was, after all, a midterm holiday.
It had been confirmed that a Jayaprakesh Muktanandaji had been a student there, but he had not registered during the previous term. A waiter at the University Coffee House, however, had seen Muktanandaji there only two days ago.
"That's after I met him there," I said.
So it seemed. Muktanandaji had shown his waiter friend a rail ticket he had purchased. He said that he was going home to his village of Anguda. The waiter had not seen the young man since. Singh had telephoned the Commissioner in Jamshedpur, who would telegraph the provincial constable in Durgalapur. The constable would go to Anguda to find Muktanandaji and bring him back to Durgalapur for questioning. They should be hearing from him by late Wednesday.
"Tomorrow!"
"Yes, Mr. Luczak. It is a remote village."
There were many Bahrati families in the Calcutta phone book. None contacted had a daughter in her twenties with the name of Kamakhya. The name, after all, was quite unusual.
"How is that?" I asked.
"I will explain later," said Singh.
There had been contacts made with informers in the goondas underground. No useful information had been forthcoming, but overtures continued. Also, the police would be questioning members of the Beggars' Union.
My stomach turned over at those words. "What about the Kapalikas?" I asked.
"'Ow's that?" asked the other inspector.
Singh said something in Bengali and turned back to me. "You must understand, Mr. Luczak, that the Kapalika Society remains — technically — a myth."
"Bullshit," I said. "It was no myth that someone was going to kill me last night. It's no myth that our little girl is missing."
"No," said Singh. "But we have no hard evidence yet that the thugees, goondas, or the so-called Kapalikas are involved. It is also complicated by the fact that various criminal elements often call upon a corrupt, Tantric form of mysticism, frequently invoking local deities — in this case, Kali — in order to impress their initiates or to frighten the common people."
"Uh-huh," I said.
Amrita crossed her arms and looked at the three men. "So you have no real news for us?" she asked.
Singh glanced at the other two. "No progress, no."
Amrita nodded and picked up the phone. "Yes, hello, this is room sixtwelve. Would you please put through a call for me to the American Embassy in New Delhi? Yes. It is very important. Thank you."
The three men blinked. I saw them to the door while Amrita waited by the phone. In the hall, the other two officials moved away while I detained Singh for a moment. "Why is Kamakhya Bahrati's name so unusual?"
Singh stroked his mustache. "Kamakhya is . . . not a common name in Bengal."
"Why is that?"
"It is a religious name. An aspect of . . . of Parvati."
"Of Kali, you mean."
"Yes."
"So why isn't it common, Inspector? There are enough Ramas and Krishnas around."
"Yes," said Singh and flicked lint from his cuff. The steel bracelet on his wrist caught the light. "Yes, but the name Kamakhya, or its variant, Kamaksi, is associated with a particularly unattractive aspect of Kali once worshiped in the great temple at Assam. Some of their ceremonies were very unwholesome. The cult was outlawed some years ago. The temple is abandoned."
I nodded. I did not react to the news. I went back to the room and calmly waited for Amrita's call to be completed. And all the while the mad laughter built inside me and the screams of rage rattled their cage to be freed.
Around five P.M. on that endless day I went down to the lobby. A sense of claustrophobia had grown in me until I found it hard to breathe. But the lobby was no better. I bought a cigar in the gift shop; but the clerk kept glancing at me, and the sympathetic stare of the assistant manager approached resentment. I imagined that a Muslim couple in the lobby were whispering about me, and it was not my imagination when several waiters stepped out of the Garden Café to point and crane my way.
I hastily retreated to the sixth floor, jogging up the stairs to release energy. The English custom of calling the second floor the first gave me an extra flight of exercise. I was panting and sweating freely when I emerged into the hallway of our floor. Amrita was hurrying toward me.
"Something?" I asked.
"I just remembered something important," she said in a rush of breath.
"What's that?"
"Abe Bronstein! Krishna mentioned Abe Bronstein to us when we were leaving the airport that first night. Krishna must have some association with USEFI or somebody."
Amrita went to talk to the police sergeant in 614 while I had a call put through to the States. Even with the policeman expediting things at the switchboard, it was thirty minutes before they got an overseas line. Something in me came close to pulling apart when I heard the familiar growl from New York. "Bobby, good morning! Where the hell are you calling from? It sounds like you're calling from the moon on a cheap CB."
"Abe, listen. Listen, please." As quickly as I could, I told him about Victoria's disappearance.
"Aww, shit," moaned Abe. "Shit, shit, shit." Even through ten thousand miles of bad connection I could hear the deep pain in his voice.
"Listen, Abe, can you hear me? One of the suspects in this thing is a guy named Krishna . . . M. T. Krishna . . . but we think his real name is Sanjay something. He met us at the airport last Thursday. Can you hear me? Good. This Krishna said that he worked for USEFI . . . that's the American Education Foundation . . . yeah . . . and that he picked us up as a favor for his boss. Neither Amrita nor I can remember what he said his boss's name was. But he also mentioned your name, Abe. He specifically mentioned your name. Hello?"
"Shah," said Abe through the hollow echoes.
"What?"
"Shah. A. B. Shah. I cabled him right after you left for London and asked him to give you a hand if you needed it."
"Shah," I repeated, writing quickly. "Great. Where can we get hold of him, Abe? Is he in the Calcutta directory?"
"No, Bobby, he's not in Calcutta. Shah's an editor of the Times of India, but he also works as a cultural advisor for USEFI in New Delhi. I knew him several years ago when he taught at Columbia. I never heard of this Krishna son of a bitch."
"Thanks, Abe, you've been a lot of help."
"Damn, Bobby, I'm so sorry. How's Amrita holding up?"
"Beautifully. She's a rock, Abe."
"Ahhh. It'll be all right, Bobby. You gotta believe that. They'll get Victoria back for you. She'll be okay."
"Yeah."
"Let me know when things work out. I'll be at my mother's. You've got the number, right? Let me know if I can help. Aww, damn. It'll be all right, Bobby."
"Good-bye, Abe. Thanks."
Amrita had not only informed Singh, but was on the phone to the third of Calcutta's three large newspapers. She snapped out instructions in peremptory Hindi.
"We should have done this earlier," she said when she got off the phone. "Now they won't appear until tomorrow's editions." Amrita had taken out a half-page ad in each of the papers. Runners would pick up copies of the photograph we had loaned the police. There would be a $10,000 reward for any helpful information regarding the case; $50,000 for the safe return of Victoria or any information leading to her safe return, no questions asked.
"Jesus," I said stupidly, "where will we get fifty thousand dollars?"
Amrita looked out the window at the evening chaos on the street. "I would have offered twice as much," she said. "But that would have been almost a million rupees. This amount is more believable somehow, more exciting to the greedy."
I shook my head. I hadn't seemed able to think of anything. I quickly called Singh and gave him the information about Shah. He promised to follow up on it immediately.
I dozed for an hour or so. I hadn't meant to. One minute I was sitting in the chair near the window, watching the last of the gray evening light fade, and the next minute my head snapped up and it was night outside with heavy rain banging at the glass. One of the police lines was ringing. Amrita came in from the hall, but I beat her to it.
"Mr. Luczak?" It was Inspector Singh. "I was able to get through to Mr. A. B. Shah at his home in New Delhi."
"And?"
"Indeed it was he who received your Mr. Bronstein's cable. Mr. Shah has great respect for your friend and immediately dispatched a Foundation subordinate of his, a young man named R. L. Dhavan, to travel here to offer his services to you as a guide and interpreter."
"Dispatched? From Delhi to Calcutta, you mean?"
"Exactly."
"So where is he?"
"That is what Mr. Shah was beginning to wonder. That is what we wondered. We took a very careful description of the gentleman's appearance and clothing when last seen."
"And?"
"And, Mr. Luczak, it seems that Mr. R. L. Dhavan has been with us all along. His body was found stuffed in a trunk at Howrah Station last Thursday afternoon."
There was a power failure shortly after ten P.M. The monsoon storm outside had entered some realm of ferocity beyond my experience. Lightning slashed the night every few seconds and did a better job of illuminating the room than did the two candles a porter had brought. The streets were flooded within minutes of the initial deluge, and the frightening downpour grew worse by the hour. No lights were visible up Chowringhee. I wondered how the squatting millions in their burlap huts and the hutless street people survived nights like this.