Dan Simmons - Song of Kali

I shook my head then and looked around me. It was almost dawn. The air had been swept almost clean by the rain, and there was the painfully perfect smell of fresh blossoms and moist earth.

I clearly remember the rickshaw ride back to the hotel. Sounds and colors were so clear that they assaulted my senses. My mind was also clear. If anything had happened while I was gone . . . if Amrita had needed me . . .

It was just dawn, but Amrita met me in the hall. She was wringing her hands with joy, and there were tears in her eyes for the first time since it had all begun.

"Bobby, oh Bobby," she said. "Inspector Singh just called. He's coming to get us. He'll be here in a minute. They're taking us to the airport. They've found her, Bobby. They've found her."

We sped along the almost empty VIP Highway. Rich streams of horizontal light threw everything into bold relief, and the shadow of our car kept pace in the moist fields.

"You're sure she's all right?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," said Singh without turning around in the front seat. "We only received the call twenty-five minutes ago."

"You're sure it's Victoria?" asked Amrita. We were both leaning forward and resting our arms on the back of the front seat. Amrita's hands would unconsciously fold and refold the Kleenex she was holding.

"The security guard believes so," said Singh. "That is why he detained the couple going through with the baby. They do not know that they are being detained. The chief security officer told them that there was a slight irregularity in their travel visa. They believe they are waiting for an official to arrive to stamp their visas."

"Why not just arrest them?" I asked.

"For what crime?" asked Singh. "Until the child is positively identified, they are guilty of nothing except attempting to fly to London."

"Who spotted Victoria?" asked Amrita.

"The security guard I mentioned," said Singh and yawned. "He saw your advertisement in the newspaper." There was a faint hint of disapproval in Singh's deep voice.

I took Amrita's hand, and we watched the now familiar countryside roll by. Both of us were mentally trying to make the little car go faster. When a herdsman blocked the wet pavement with his sheep for a long moment, we both shouted at our driver to honk, to drive through. Then we were shifting up through gears, passing a rumbling cart piled high with cane, and alone in our left lane again. Gaudy trucks sped by to our right, headed into town, white-shirted men waving brown arms at us.

I forced myself to sit back and take several deep breaths. The richness of the sunrise would have been wondrous at any other time. Even the empty, scarred high-rises and lean-tos in the muddy fields seemed cleansed by the sun's benediction. Women carrying tall bronze pots threw ten-foot shadows in the verdant ditches.

"You're sure she's all right?" I asked again.

"We are almost there," said Singh.

We swept up the curved drive past black and yellow taxis with their rooftops diamonded by raindrops, their drivers sprawled sleeping across front seats. Our own car had not quite stopped when we flung open the doors.

"Which way?"

Singh came around the car pointing. We moved quickly into the terminal. Caught up in our impatient rush, Singh jogged around the sprawled and sheeted forms sleeping on the filthy tiled floor. "Here," he said, opening a scuffed door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY in English as well as Bengali. An Untouchable woman squatted in the corridor, sweeping dirt and paper into a small dustpan. Fifteen steps took us to a large room broken up by partitions and counters. I could hear teletypes and typewriters clacking.

I saw them immediately, the Indian couple, huddled in a far corner; the young woman holding the baby to her chest. They were strangers, little more than children themselves. The man was short and shifty-eyed. Every few seconds he would raise his right hand to brush at his unsuccessful attempt at a mustache. The girl was even younger than the man and plain to the point of homeliness. The scarf she wore did not hide stringy hair nor the smudged crimson dot which marked the center of her forehead.

But as we stopped twenty feet from them, Amrita and I had eyes only for the heavily wrapped bundle the woman was rapidly rocking. The child's face was not visible. We could see only a pale hint of cheek.

We walked closer. A great ache began in my diaphragm and rose to my chest. I ignored it. Inspector Singh motioned to the uniformed security guard who had snapped to attention. The guard brusquely said something to the young man, who immediately rose from the bench and walked nervously to the counter. As he stood, the girl shifted to let him pass and we caught a glimpse of the baby's face in the thick folds of the shawl.

It was Victoria. Sleeping, pale almost to the point her skin glowed, but beyond any doubt it was Victoria.

Amrita let out a cry then, and everyone moved at once. The young man must have tried to bolt, because the security guard and another man from behind the counter rapidly pinned his arms back. The girl slid across the bench into the corner and clutched the baby to her breast while she began rocking quickly and babbling something that sounded like a nursery rhyme. Amrita, the Inspector, and I advanced quickly together as if to cut off any escape route the girl might consider, but she only turned her face to the green wall and began wailing more loudly.

Singh tried to restrain Amrita then, but she took three quick steps forward, pulled the woman's head back sharply by her hair, and removed Victoria from her grasp with a sweep of her left arm.

Everyone was shouting. For some reason I took several steps back as Amrita lifted our daughter high and began unwrapping her from the filthy purple shawl.

Amrita's first cry cut through the rest of the noise and reduced the room to silence. I continued backing up until I struck a counter. As Amrita's screams started, I turned away in slow motion and lowered my face and clenched fists to the cool countertop.

"Awww," I said. It was a soft noise and it came up out of my earliest childhood. "Awww," I said. "Aww, no, please." I pressed my cheek tight against the countertop and struck my fists again my ears, but I could plainly hear when Amrita's cries turned to sobs.

I still have the report somewhere — the copy of the one Singh sent to Delhi. Like everything else in India, the paper is cheap and inferior. The type is so faint as to be almost transparent, a dull child's idea of a secret message. It doesn't matter. I do not need to see the report to recall its exact wording.

22.7.77 C.M.P.D./D.D.A.S.S. 2671067

SECURITY GUARD JAGMOAN (YASHPAL,

D.D.A. SEC. SERV. 1113) PROCESSED THE

COUPLE IDENTIFIED BY PAPERS AS CHOW-

DURY, SUGATA AND DEVI, TRAVELING WITH

INFANT TO LONDON, U.K., FOR PLEASURE,

AT 04:28/21.7.77. SECURITY GUARD JAG-

MOAN DETAINED THE COUPLE AT CUSTOMS

SECTION B-11 BECAUSE OF POSSIBLE RE-

COGNITION OF SAID INFANT AS MISSING

AMERICAN LUCZAK INFANT, REPORTED

KIDNAPPED ON 18.7.77 [RE: C.M.P.D. CASE

NO. 117, dt, 18.7.77(S.R. SO/) SINGH.]

INSPECTOR YASHWAN SINGH (C.M.PD. 26774) AND

LUCZAKS (ROBERT C. AND AMRITA D.)

ARRIVED TO CONFIRM INFANT'S IDENTITY AT

05:41/21.7.77. INFANT WAS POSITIVELY

IDENTIFIED AS VICTORIA CAROLYN LUCZAK b.

22.1.77. UPON FURTHER INSPECTION BY

CHILD'S MOTHER, IT WAS DISCOVERED

THAT INFANT VICTORIA C. LUCZAK HAD

BEEN DECEASED FOR SEVERAL HOURS.

COUPLE IDENTIFIED AS SUGATA AND DEVI

CHOWDURY SUBSEQUENTLY WERE PLACED

UNDER ARREST AND TRANSPORTED TO

C.M.P.D.H.Q. CHOWRINGHEE: SUSPICION OF

CONSPIRACY TO KIDNAP, CONSPIRACY TO

MURDER, AND ATTEMPTING TO TRANSPORT

STOLEN GOODS ACROSS INTERNATIONAL