“It wasn’t like that!” I say.
“Let’s ask her, shall we?” He walks to the door and calls her name. She appears with Baby on her shoulder and a cloth diaper.
“Where is Asha when I need her?” Sheela sounds irritated. She stops midstride when she sees me. Ravi places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to stand in front of me.
“Now, priya, did this man not ogle your naked body the night of the collapse?”
Her mouth forms an O and her eyes widen in surprise. “No, not like that. He helped me with my bath. But—not in that way. I... I was drunk—and tired.” She turns to Ravi. “I didn’t say he tried anything, did I?” She pivots to face Samir, waiting behind his desk. “Papaji, I wouldn’t. I love Ravi! I’ve never—”
Samir holds up his hand, nodding his head. “Enough, bheti. Theek hai. Go. Go take care of Baby.”
Stricken, Sheela throws a bewildered look at me, shaking her head. You must believe me, Abbas! I never said that! Ravi escorts her out of the library and returns with a grin on his face. I know that look. When you think you’re about to win the match.
But the game isn’t over yet.
Without a word, I pull the last item from my pants pocket. One of the unmarked gold bars I borrowed from Moti-Lal. I set it on the desk next to the other items.
Samir inches forward in his seat, staring at the bar. The light from his banker’s lamp shines directly on the gold, making it glow. I lift the gold and place it neatly in the recessed area of the brick. It fits.
For a moment no one speaks.
Ravi comes forward. “Party tricks, Abbas? Papaji, he’ll say anything—”
Samir silences him with a warning look.
To me, he says, “What’s your point?”
“I think these bricks are used to smuggle gold into Jaipur. The bullion is removed and the bricks are mixed with all the other class one bricks Singh-Sharma uses in construction.” I point to the brick on Samir’s desk. “These can’t be traced to Chandigarh Ironworks, your supplier, because they don’t have a manufacturer’s stamp on them. They do, however, have an indentation deep enough to hold a gold bullion.”
I turn my gaze on Ravi, who is looking at me with a bemused expression. But I notice the sheen of sweat on his brow. “What could be easier than mixing up the two kinds of bricks during construction and covering them with mortar cement or plaster? I believe the money Sharma-Singh saves by using cheaper, substandard materials is financing the purchase of contraband gold. Which is then sold on the black market, where there’s a demand for it.”
Samir smiles warily and leans back in his chair. “Abbas, you could have picked up these pieces of brick and cement from anywhere. How do I know they’re from the Royal Jewel Cinema?”
He’s got a point. I shrug. “Because I saw you looking at these, too, the night of the collapse. And I have no reason to lie to you.”
Ravi makes a face. “Yes, you do. If Agarwal loses his job, so do you.”
“I don’t need this job, Ravi. I never needed it. I only came because—”
I stop, look at Samir. I was about to say I’m here because of Lakshmi, and I’ve brought this to Samir’s attention because I owe him that much; he paid for my education. There are so many secrets in our world, aren’t there? Ones we keep, ones we reveal, but only at the right moments. I know now that I should not have said yes to Jaipur, yes to Auntie-Boss. I’ve been happy in Shimla. The air is cooler, the breezes cleaner. I can think in the mountains. And Nimmi is there. How could I have left her there when she begged me not to? When I was just getting to know Chullu and Rekha?
“Because why?” Ravi challenges me.
I say nothing.
Ravi turns to his father. “Papaji, who is this boy to you?”
The room is so quiet that I can hear the second hand of the English clock on the mantel advancing. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Ravi is watching his father, who is ignoring him.
Samir picks up the mechanical pencil. He screws and unscrews it so the lead moves in and out of its casing. “You said a part of this puzzle was missing, Abbas. So what part is that?”
I glance at father, then at the son.
“What I don’t know is whether you knew anything about this, Samir Sahib, or if it is a one-man operation. You don’t need a mirror to see the wound on your palm.”
I remembered this saying as one of Samir’s favorites.
It’s obvious who is moving all the parts, isn’t it? I’m looking openly at Ravi. He stands just a few inches from his father’s desk, tall, upright, with his broad chest. He’s flexing his powerful hands.
Samir looks at him, too. His voice is calm; it’s hard for me to know what he’s thinking.
“Ravi, do you have anything to contribute?” Samir says to his son.
“Only that it’s a good story, as stories go. A bit like Scheherazade, our Abbas. Keep spinning the tale every which way so he can keep the king awake. Look, it’s embarrassing to have to admit that I inadvertently accepted a bad shipment of bricks, but that’s all it was. And I—we—our company, Singh-Sharma—is paying the price for the reconstruction. It’s costing us plenty, I can tell you that.”
Ravi takes step toward me. “But why am I having to justify anything to you anyway? Who are you, Abbas? Why do you feel you can just come here anytime you please and make accusations?”
He turns to his father. “Papaji, you and I have talked about his obsession with Sheela. It’s insulting! We should bar him from entering our house ever again.”
“I thought we were all playing Parcheesi after dinner.” It’s Parvati. How long has she been standing at the threshold to the room? Her eyes take in the scene. Me, standing in front of Samir’s desk, frowning at Ravi. The gold bar glowing inside the brick cavity. Her son clenching his jaw, looking as if he’d like to slit my throat. Samir, his mouth in a grim line, sliding the lead up and down his mechanical pencil.
It’s never a good idea to underestimate Parvati. She’s as sharp as the patal Nimmi carries for cutting her flowers and stems. She enters the room.
When she is standing next to Samir, she looks down at the desk, sees the gold, scans the telegram. Samir looks up at her and some sort of understanding passes between them. The clock on the mantel trills: it’s nine thirty.
Finally, she turns to me. Her smile is more of a grimace. “I’ve finally figured out why you look so familiar, Abbas Malik. You’re the runt who used to run after Lakshmi, carrying her supplies like the good little servant you are.”
She scans my clothes, my shoes, my watch. I meet her gaze. “And look at the Pukkah Sahib now. Did Lakshmi buy you those things? Is she still your minder? Looking after her minions?” If I respected her more, her words might have the power to hurt.