Affirmation of the day: I love my body as it is today.
MANHATTAN, 11:00 P. M.
Fucking Ali. My hands are shaking. I can barely write this. I am so angry.
He has destroyed my chance of ever catching JHK. Now the real killer will
go underground again.
Okay, sure, Ali said he’d go up on the walkway and take pictures — but
he was safe up there. I was the one out in the open, in danger. Sure, I had
the gun, but how fast could I get it out? What if I froze?
If this was a tiger shoot, then I was the goat tied to a stake. Me.
I stood in the massive hall at Grand Central, feeling very small, very
exposed. Each person passing by carried a halo of cold air from outside.
The warmth of the station released odors from their coats: The whole place
smelled like wet wool, old sweat, stale armpits. Me, standing right by the
clock, trying to look relaxed but secretly studying each face for imminent
threat. Hundreds of New York faces: Pale and ugly from lack of sun. Men
with cracked lips. Women with smudged, clumsy makeup. Kids wiping
runny noses on the sleeves of their coats.
Fear sharpened my senses: the rustling of a newspaper from a man next
to me, clack - clack of high heels, echoing announcements for d eparting
trains. The sharp smell of ketchup, onions, mustard. Patterns of light and
shadow. Colors turned into feelings: dull, safe blue of a policeman’s
uniform; a woman’s red coat flaring like a threat.
Every time somebody came too close, the hairs on the back of my neck
stood up.
A strange sensation cr ept over me: JHK was nearby. Not logical, but I
could sense him. He was watching me, feeling powerful, knowing that he’d
summoned me all the way from Japan. He wanted me to see him. Might
only be for a second — but I’d know.
I checked my watch, sure that fifteen minutes had passed — but only six
had elapsed. Down there, waiting, waiting, waiting, I lived a lifetime.
Normally, waiting follows a pattern. At first, you are eager, watching for
signs of change — but then nothing happens, and you slump into a kind of
torpor, and time moves sluggishly. Only when you have exhausted all hope
does the much - awaited event take place. Tonight was not like that. JHK’s
presence was growing stronger. As time passed, I felt him observing,
assessing the danger, mapping it out, gaining confidence. Minutes ticked
away, and I swayed, wrung out, in my high heels. Twice, I reapplied my
bright red lipstick — exactly as he had specified. Just past the hour mark, I
was sure he would reveal himself to me. It was like ... a dark energy,
uncoiling, coming closer. I closed my eyes and prayed: Show yourself.
And it was working. It was building, that dark, evil energy.
I could feel JHK, nearby, working himself up. In a minute or two, he’d
brush past me, drop a flower at my feet, ask me for a light — any pretext to
say, I exist. Oh, how good that would feel — to see him as a flesh - and - blood
man, outside my nightmares.
And then — as long as Ali didn’t screw up — I’d have him.
I was beyond tiredness. It had begun to happen, whatever it was, when I
felt eyes on me. I looked up and there was a conservatively dressed man
hurrying toward me. I knew the walk, but I was so tired, in such a different
place, that I could not recognize it. The man walked head down, face hidden
by a soft navy blue woolen baseball cap — he strode toward me with easy
confidence, as if he owned Grand Central Station and owned me, too.
He finally looked up. I saw his face. Knew it from childhood. His face
has always been there, alongside Papa’s. When I was little and did not
understand how power worked, I thought that he was Papa’s brother. Later,
I came to understand that he was not biologically related and thought of him
as a bene volent uncle. I spent many hours in his tiny room at the back of
Sher Khan House, drinking tea and confiding in him — and he listened
patiently and never judged me.
Today Barey Mian seemed like a different person. He walked across the
wide expanse of Grand Central Station, the heels of his polished shoes
clicking against the marble. I clearly saw his hollow cheeks, the strangely
shaved upper lip and the squared - off beard, like an abolitionist minister
from the dark past. “There you are,” he said casually. “I’ve been trying to
find you. Did you get tired of skulking around Southampton?” He smiled,
pleased with himself. “This is a breach of your agreement, isn’t it? You
were not supposed to return from Japan. Yet here you are, resurrecting your
absurd stories. And I hear that you have retained that delusional fool, Epps,
to snoop around your father. Once again, you are trying to undermine the
good name of this family...”
He went on and on, Mian did, chastising me as though I were a child. All
his bene volence — had it all been an act? — had completely vanished, and I
saw him clearly for the first time: He was not my friend. His loyalty was
always, first and foremost, to Abbas Khan. He was Papa’s factotum, or
more precisely, Papa’s familiar. He carried the darkness so that Papa could
live in the light. One person split into two.
Mian continued to harangue me, waving a bony finger in front of my
face, but all I could think of was JHK: withdrawing, disappearing back into
the darkness. In his mind, I had in volved a third party. I had broken our
contract.
I told Mian that he didn’t understand what was at stake. I said that he
was putting not only my life but Maryam’s at risk. I begged him to leave,
but instead he laughed. He said, “Everything was going so well. You were
happy in Japan. Now you’re back to your old, twisted games — and this time
Abbas Sahib will not be so merciful. This time you will be locked up for
good. We’ll see to that.”
Mian turned on his heel and left. I watched him go, rebuttoning his coat,
settling his baseball cap carefully onto his head. It was all over — JHK was
gone, I could feel his absence. Once again — incredibly — my father had
intervened at the most crucial moment. I could scream. I could fall to the
ground and writhe, but it would do no good. And the question at the front of
my mind was: How did Mian know about Epps? Maryam had sworn not to
say anything, and this time, I believed she was loyal.
There was only one other person who could have betrayed me.
In the car back to the Apthorp, Ali she epishly confessed that he had
talked to Mian on the day that I returned from Japan. He even had the
gumption to defend himself: He said, “If you — and Maryam — had been
truthful with me, I would have k ept your secret. At the time, I thought that
Abbas was JHK — so I confronted Mian, told him about Epps.”
Ali. Fucking Ali. He has destroyed me.
Also, Ali does not believe me when I said that JHK was close by that
evening. He says that he was vigilant and did not see anyone strange. I’ve
told him that I want to go over the photographs with him tomorrow, every
single frame. Even if it takes all day. JHK was there. I know it. I felt it. I
will find him. And quick: Papa’s campaign against me has started already. I
got a text message that my bank accounts are frozen, my credit cards
canceled.
I’m running out of time.