“Ms. Bahkti,” he said, taking her hand. Her nails, like her lips, were a deep red, her dusky skin soft and smooth as polished ivory. His mind seemed to go blank. He really should say something more. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your necklace.” That sounded good, didn’t it?
“Oh, no. Mine stays right where it is!” She released his hand and patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. We’ve much to talk about.”
Close up, her eyes were wise and knowing, as if she had absorbed all the wonders of her race and its timeless culture.
The maître d’ did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.
“May I get M’sieur something to drink?” he said when Jack was settled.
Jack looked at Kolabati’s glass. “What’s that?”
“Kir.”
He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. “I’ll have one of those.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly! Bring him a beer. They have Bass Ale here.”
“I’m not much for ale. But I’ll take a Beck’s light if you’ve got it.” At least he’d be drinking imported beer. What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.
“Very good.” The maître d” finally went away.
“How’d you know I like beer?” The confidence with which she had said it made him uneasy.
“A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn’t like kir.” She studied him. “So… you’re the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude.”
“It was only a necklace.”
“A very important necklace.”
“Maybe, but it’s not as if I saved her life or anything.”
“Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on living. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We’re never without it.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.
The Beck’s arrived, delivered by the maitre d” himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.
“You realize, don’t you,” Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces of his beer, “that you have made two lifelong friends in the past twenty-four hours: my brother and myself.”
“What about your grandmother?”
Kolabati blinked. “Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother’s—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight.”
“Just what does your brother do at the U.N.?” It was small talk. Jack really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn’t want to appear too interested.
“I’m not sure. A minor post.” She must have noticed Jack’s puzzled frown. “Yes, I know—he doesn’t seem to be a man who’d be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn’t. Back home his name is known in every province.”
“Why?”
“He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too Westernized. He wants a return to the old ways. He’s been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”
“Sounds like the Moral Majority over here. What is he—the Jerry Falwell of India?”
Kolabati’s expression became grim. “Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some fear he may become the Ayatolla Khomeini of India. That’s why everyone was shocked early last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred here to the U.N.—again at his request. I’m sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I’ll bet he’s getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum…”
Jack felt Kolabati’s hand against his chest, pushing him back against the cushions.
“Get comfortable now,” she said, her dark eyes boring into him, “and tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything, especially how you came to be Repairman Jack.”
Jack took another swallow of beer and forced himself to pause. He had a sudden urge to tell her everything, to open up his whole past to her. It frightened him. He never opened up to anyone except Abe. Why Kolabati? Perhaps it was because she already knew something about him; perhaps because she was so effusive in her gratitude for achieving the “impossible” and returning her grandmother’s necklace. Telling all was out of the question, but pieces of the truth wouldn’t hurt. The question was: what to tell, what to edit?
“It just sort of happened.”
“There had to be a first time. Start there. Tell me about it.”
He settled into the cushions, adjusting his position until the lump of the holstered Mauser .380 sat comfortably in the small of his back, and began telling her about Mr. Canelli, his first fix-it customer.
4
Summer was drawing to a close. He was seventeen, still living in Johnson, New Jersey, a small, semi-rural town in Burlington County. His father was working as a C.P.A. then, and his mother was still alive. His brother was in the New Jersey State College of Medicine and his sister was in Rutgers pre-law.
On the corner down the street from his house lived Mr. Vito Canelli, a retired widower. From the time the ground thawed until the time it froze again, he worked in his yard. Especially on his lawn. He seeded and fertilized every couple of weeks, watered it daily. Mr. Canelli had the greenest lawn in the county. It was usually flawless. The only times it wasn’t was when someone cut the corner turning right off 541 onto Jack’s street. The first few times were probably accidents, but then some of the more vandalism-prone kids in the area started making a habit of it. Driving across “the old wop’s” lawn became a Friday and Saturday night ritual. Finally, old Mr. Canelli put up a three-foot white picket fence and that seemed to put an end to it. Or so he thought.
It was early. Jack was walking up to the highway towing the family Toro behind him. For the past few summers he had made his money doing gardening chores and cutting grass around town. He liked the work and liked even better the fact that he could adjust his hours almost any way he wished.
When he came into view of Mr. Canelli’s yard he stopped and gaped.
The picket fence was down—smashed and scattered all over the lawn in countless white splinters. The small flowering ornamental trees that blossomed in varied colors each spring-dwarf crabapples, dogwoods—had been broken off a foot above the ground. Yews and junipers were flattened and ground into the dirt. The plaster pink flamingos that everybody laughed about were shattered and crushed to powder. And the lawn… there weren’t just tire tracks across it, there were long, wide gouges up to six inches deep. Whoever had done it hadn’t been satisfied with simply driving across the lawn and flattening some grass; they had skidded and slewed their car or cars around until the entire yard had been ripped to pieces.
As Jack approached for a closer look, he saw a figure standing at the corner of the house looking out at the ruins. It was Mr. Canelli. His shoulders were slumped and quaking. Sunlight glistened off the tears on his cheeks. Jack knew little about Mr. Canelli. He was a quiet man who bothered no one. He had no wife, no children or grandchildren around. All he had was his yard: his hobby, his work of art, the focus of what was left of his life. Jack knew from his own small-time landscaping jobs around town how much sweat was invested in a yard like that. No man should have to see that kind of effort wantonly destroyed. No man that age should be reduced to standing in his own yard and crying.