Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) (19 page)

Chapter 29

“That’s it,” I said. “The
MP Craft Emporium
on Anand’s map.”

Lane and I rushed to the front of the store. A man with young eyes and a wrinkled face stepped out of the shop to greet us, the sound of small bells ringing above the door as he stepped through it. He wore a white dress shirt and a long white lungi. A taqiyah cap covered the top of his head.

“May I interest the lady in some jewels?” he asked, extending his arm toward the shop.

“Perhaps in a moment,” I said. “I wanted to ask a question about this shop.”

“Anything for the lady,” he replied.

“How long has this shop been here?” I asked.

“My great-grandfather opened it to sell his sculptures with the inlaid jewels.”

“He was a sculptor?”

“Yes. Very famous sculptor in his day.” I glanced at Lane.

“We have many souvenirs,” the proprietor added. “Many items. You come see.”

I followed him into the
Marikayaer Paravar Craft Emporium
, Lane trailing behind me.

The shop was filled with intricately carved statues, some wood and some stone. A giant stone Shiva, the destroyer god, was the centerpiece of the high-ceilinged room. Shiva had a staff in one hand and a cobra around his neck.

More my style was the wood carving of Ganesha playing the tabla. Too bad it was over six feet tall and would never fit in my suitcase, let alone my apartment door. Ganesha was the remover of obstacles. I could have used some of his powers right about then.

“Smaller items are along this wall, miss,” the proprietor said, ushering me toward the items that would fit into a suitcase.

“This may sound like a strange question,” I said, “but do you know anything about a man named Anand Selvam Paravar, who had something to do with this shop a hundred years ago?”

“Anand Selvam
Paravar
?” the man repeated.

“Yes,” I said, “the same as one of the family names of the shop.”

“Yes, yes,” the man said, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I have not heard that name in many years.”

“You know of him?”

“When I was a boy, I was told he had the Heart of India.”

“The Heart of India?” I repeated.

“The statue my great-grandfather carved when he was involved in the Indian Nationalist movement. The elephant statue was carved in this studio by my great-grandfather, with the help of many other men. The Paravars provided their most precious pearl to be held in the trunk of the elephant. Our families worked together for many years.”

Lane swore under his breath. The man glanced between us.

“Of course,” Lane said. “
The pearl.
”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Didn’t you say you were a Paravar? You’re a terrible Indian, Jaya.”

And thus continued the story of my life, even with Sanjay 10,000 miles away.

“The Paravars operated pearl fisheries,” Lane continued. “They found pearls that became famous in Indian art. The most symbolic piece of the Heart of India was that pearl.”

“I know all about the Heart of India,” I said tersely. “Anand supported the Indian Nationalists who made the statue as a symbol of a unified Indian national pride. But it was lost when it was swept out to sea. That’s why I didn’t think of it.”

“That’s what the official story was,” Lane said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There were rumors it was stolen,” Lane said. “I should have thought of it. The Heart of India disappeared at exactly the right time. It’s a huge treasure—and one that your uncle was involved in. It makes sense that someone would kill over this.”

“Excuse me, miss,” the proprietor said. “You say you are a Paravar?” 

I nodded.

“I have not thought about it in so many years,” the man said, a wistful expression coming over his face. “I am Abdul.”

I introduced myself and shook Abdul’s hand. His skin was rough and wrinkled but his handshake was strong. I was again struck by the fact that I couldn’t remotely guess his age.

“Though I have not thought of it in many years,” he said again, “Now that you are here, asking about the Heart of India…  Wait here one moment.”

He hurried to the back of the shop, disappearing behind a curtain. I heard the sound of drawers opening and closing as Lane and I looked quizzically at each other. Abdul reappeared seconds later. He held an envelope that was worn with age.

“My great-grandfather, Faruk Marikayaer, received a letter from a member of your Paravar caste, a friend of his called Anand.”

I stared at Abdul.

“Anand was my great-granduncle,” I said.

Abdul smiled. “This letter is for you, then.” He handed me the wrinkled envelope. “My great-grandfather told his sons to save the letter. His friend Anand wrote to him that if he failed in his quest, his brother Vishwan might need his assistance with the Heart of India. Anand asked Faruk to help Vishwan in whatever way he could.”

“What happened?” I asked, my voice shaking. I had never heard any of this. Had my grandfather kept this from my mother?

“Vishwan never came to my great-grandfather,” Abdul said. “Faruk did not know where to find Vishwan. He was told Vishwan would find him. My grandfather kept the letter, and asked his sons to see to it that Anand and Vishwan’s family should have whatever help they needed when they did come.”

Abdul bowed. “I am your humble servant. The Heart of India—the pearl of freedom, purity, and Indian identity, under the protection of the elephant—disappeared in 1906. Is it your wish that we rescue the Heart of India from the magic that has made it disappear?”

“You mean it really was stolen?” I asked. “Not swept out to sea?”

“No, miss,” Abdul said. “It was not stolen. Nor was it taken by the sea. It disappeared.”

“How did something so big disappear?”

“
Insha’Allah
.” The proprietor raised his hands to the sky. “Magic.”

Chapter 30

San Francisco, 1905

“What is that thing?” Anand asked.

“I thought you’d seen one of these before,” Samuel said. “It’s a spirit cabinet.”

“The box from which you can pretend spirits appear?”

“Precisely.”

“It looks like a regular cabinet.”

“Good,” Samuel said. “That’s very good.”

“You spent months of wages on a cabinet,” Anand said. “That does not sound good to me.”

Samuel laughed.

“How does it work?” Anand asked.

“I’ll show you.”

Samuel asked Anand to bind his arms and legs with rope before leaving his bound body inside the cabinet. Anand was skeptical, but trusted Samuel knew what he was doing. Once he was satisfied Samuel was securely tied, Anand closed him into the empty cabinet.

Within the space of a minute, the sound of a ghostly fiddle could be heard.

“A trifling trick,” Anand said. The sound was eerie, but he would not admit that to Samuel. “You must have hidden a knife and the fiddle inside this special cabinet.”

The sound ceased. A moment later, the curtains fluttered. Anand whirled around. How had the window opened? The two men were alone. Anand pushed the curtains aside. He was alone. When he turned around, Samuel stood before him.

“As you can see,” Samuel said, “this is not a regular cabinet. It’s magic.”

Chapter 31

“Wait here,” Lane said to me as he ducked out of the front door of the store.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “You’re going to disappear again.”

“I won’t,” he said before turning away from me. “Abdul, could you come with me?”

I waited inside and opened the folded letter. I skimmed Anand’s short letter to his friend Faruk Marikayaer, which had been written in English.

I have the Heart of India. I have a plan, but I must not say more. If I encounter difficulties, I will give my brother Vishwan the information he needs to retrieve it from where it is kept. He may turn to you for assistance. Treat him as you would a brother.

A hand touched my elbow, startling me and nearly making me drop the letter. It was a man I hadn’t seen before. Though much younger, he had the same eyes and nose as Abdul. His son?

“Madame,” he said, tugging on my elbow. “Madame would like to see one more thing. Special for you. In the back of the store.”

Had Lane sent him to get me? I gave a hesitant nod.

“Thank you, madame,” the younger shopkeeper said. “Just this way, madame. Through this curtain.”

The moment I stepped through the door, strong arms grabbed me.

“Don’t scream, Jones,” a familiar voice said in my ear. “I’m trying to save you. Naveen is here.” Lane relaxed his grip on my arms as I stopped squirming.

“I’ve got us a motorcycle,” he continued. “Abdul is fulfilling his duty to help you. It’ll get us away from here—and back to Trivandrum before Naveen can get there. There isn’t time to catch a flight tonight. But I want to talk to the archivist again in person before Naveen can.”

I hesitated.

“We don’t have much time,” Lane said. “Do you trust Naveen?”

“No.”

“And he isn’t stupid. He’ll realize before too long that we’re out back. He’s too involved to get out now. He’s already killed once. Who knows what he’ll do?”

Before I had time to think about what Naveen might possibly do, the bells at the front of the store jangled.

Our young helper poked his head out from behind the curtain into the front section of the store. “One moment, sir!” he called out.

Lane grabbed my hand with a firm grip and pulled me toward the back door.

“Even if you’re right,” I said, “we can’t outrun him and make it to Trivandrum on some moped Abdul uses to get around Kochi.”

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Lane said, pushing open the back door.

In a small alley, a bright yellow motorcycle as large as a baby elephant sat on a small strip of concrete behind the shop. This was no outdated city bike. In spite of the dirt and mud in the alley, the bike had been polished so rigorously that any bugs that landed on it must have slipped right off. And there were a lot of bugs flying around that alley. One of them flew into my mouth that was hanging ajar.

I coughed. “This isn’t a moped.”

“This isn’t Abdul’s bike. You met his son inside just now. This is
his
bike. I paid him generously for it, so he was happy to do as his father wished.”

“A racing bike,” I said, feeling my stomach churn—whether with excitement or fear, I wasn’t sure.

“Indians do love their motorcycles.” Lane picked up the helmet from the bike’s storage basket and tossed it to me. It was as sleek as the bike.

Lane straddled the bike as I adjusted the helmet strap. Luckily Abdul’s son was a small man, so the helmet was only a couple sizes too big for me.

“
Acha
!” A muffled voice yelled from behind the door.

More raised voices sounded inside the shop. Lane looked up sharply at me. I slid onto the leather seat behind him.

“You know how to drive this type of bike?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around him.

“Only one way to find out.” He revved the engine. I held on tighter.

Abdul appeared in the back doorway. “
Assalamu alaikum,
my friends,” he said.

“
Walaikum assalam
,” Lane replied.

A cloud of dust filled the alley as we sped into the streets of Kochi.

Chapter 32

The hazy light of dusk filled my vision beyond the motorcycle helmet’s visor. I was glad for the fading light and the obscured view from my helmet. It meant I couldn’t clearly see just how close we came to every object we passed, be it building, automobile, pedestrian, or animal. The Kochi streets were narrow, but Lane barely slowed as he snaked the bike through holes in traffic no wider than the scrawny men pedaling their bicycles through the same spaces.

The heat of the day had covered most of the evidence of the monsoon, drying the roads except for the potholes, numerous and deep. I knew I should have stuck with black rather than wearing white.

But being covered in mud was the least of my problems. I hung on for dear life on the back of a high-octane motorcycle, holding onto a man I couldn’t figure out, running from another man who might be a murderer. Mud was the least of my problems.

As we emerged from the winding side streets and turned onto the road that ran along the waterfront, I caught a glimpse of the red sky of the sun setting on the horizon of the Arabian Sea. The sight was so beautiful that for a second, I forgot where I was. I was back in Goa as a small child, riding on the back of my father’s moped along the beach, breathing the scents of fresh rain and the sea mingled together, laughing as bicycles passed our sputtering contraption. My father used to laugh back then. 

The bike tilted at a precarious angle as we rounded a curve leading to the bridge that would take us out of Kochi. My memory vanished as I held on tighter to Lane.

Rush hour traffic was over, but the main road—two lanes rather than one—looked as full as ever. The difference was that when it wasn’t rush hour, the cars actually moved.

Traffic came to a standstill at one of the few intersections managed by a traffic light. The scent of the ocean was replaced by dust and manure. Underneath the signal, a counter indicated the seconds before the light would turn back to green. It didn’t seem to stop drivers from inching forward and circling around other vehicles to gain a better position on the road.

Lane pulled up next to a shiny red moped carrying a man in a dress shirt and slacks. Lane raised his voice above the din of the engines to ask if we were heading the right way to the highway heading south to Trivandrum. Lane spoke in English, and the man answered in kind.

“Straight,” the man said, bobbing his head back and forth in that Indian way that looks neither like a shake nor a nod, and pointing straight ahead.

The light turned green. I felt Lane’s muscles tense as he wove between the trucks, cars, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, and the occasional street vendor pushing his cart. He kept up our speed wherever he could reasonably manage it, and sometimes when he shouldn’t have. I understood the urgency. It wasn’t possible that Naveen could be following us, but he must have known where we were headed, because I had stupidly told him I knew he’d gotten to Joseph. He could hire his own transportation and meet us there. Our only hope of getting to Joseph’s office first was speed.

A swarm of shabby auto-rickshaws honked repeatedly from a few yards ahead of us, all trying to sneak into the narrow gap between two open-backed trucks full of laborers returning home. A herd of goats along the side of the road merged into traffic, much to the dismay of the boy leading them. Some of the braver drivers wove their mopeds and motorbikes between the scrawny animals.

Lane revved the engine before changing his mind and slamming on the brakes. Lane’s feet touched the ground as we came to a full stop, steadying us so we wouldn’t be run over by the drivers who wouldn’t be deterred. My chest pressed into his back at the unexpectedly harsh stop.

I couldn’t blame the drivers for their impatience and willingness to keep driving in spite of what was in front of them. A timid soul might spend the entire day on the road without ever reaching his destination. There was a time when I’d been used to it, but it took time to readjust.

When we finally emerged from the swell of traffic, the sun had finished its descent.  Traffic on the dark highway was dense, but moved freely. It was here that I could feel the power of the motorcycle doing what it was made to do. For the next hour, we made good time, only slowing when traffic merged into a single lane to go around the elephant strolling down the left lane with his master and a stack of hay on his back.

When the highway diverged, Lane pulled off the road at a late-night restaurant.

At first I thought we were going to eat—which I had mixed feelings about since I knew we were in a hurry but my stomach screamed at me in hunger—but I was quickly proven wrong. Without leaving his perch on the bike, Lane pulled up alongside two men smoking in the parking lot.

“Trivandrum?” he asked.

“Straight,” the men said, their heads bobbing in unison. The one with the bushier mustache pointed onward to the road from which we’d come.

Lane nodded and we headed back to the road.

The next time we stopped, Lane pulled off the road in front of an Indian Oil petrol station to put gas in the bike.

I leapt off the bike and shook out my hair. It felt like an entire dust cloud was forming between my hair and the helmet. I looked at my unruly mane in the bike’s side mirror as Lane filled up the tank.

“Why doesn’t Aishwarya Rai’s hair look like this when she gets off the back of a motorcycle in the movies?” I said.

“I kind of like it like that,” Lane said.

“You like the rat’s-nest look?”

“I like any look on you, Jones.”

I watched the ease of the movements of his lean body. The sides of his shirt were pressed with sweat from where I’d held onto him on the back of the motorbike. The night was hot. I breathed deeply in the humid air.