It All Began in Monte Carlo (28 page)

Later, stretched out in her own little private compartment, snuggled down in her soft blanket, with the scent of jasmine in the air bringing a promise of the exotic India at the end of her journey, Sunny could not wait to get there.

When she awoke they were skimming over the glittering lights of civilization at dusk, over miles of devastating blackened slums
piled against modern steel towers and crumbling Victorian Raj buildings, seemingly just thrown away by uncaring mankind.

Mumbai, city of contrasts, of eighteen million people, the richest to the poorest; of Bollywood and high-tech; of scavengers and beggars; expensive shops and fine cuisine; once a group of marshy islands landfilled to form the city on the bay.

Emerging from the plane, fatigued and apprehensive, clutching Maha's bag of jewels, Sunny stood in line at immigration where her passport was inspected and she was waved through.

At customs, Sunny was shown into a small office off to one side of the customs hall, where a man in a crumpled white linen suit invited her to sit on a rickety plastic chair, while he casually inspected Maha's documents. A fan turned slowly overhead, moving the dust around.

After a while he lifted his eyes and looked Sunny up and down. Her heart jumped; she felt guilty as hell of something. She only prayed it was not smuggling. The man said nothing, instead he extended a thin brown hand and pressed a number on the phone.

Oh my God! This was it. She should never have agreed to do this, never have done it, Mac would tell her how foolish she had been to trust anybody . . . all she had wanted was to prove herself, in some stupid fashion . . . and now what . . . ?

The man in the crumpled white linen suit spoke in an Indian language to someone else. He put down the phone and sat looking across his scruffy desk at Sunny, saying nothing. Sunny was sweating. She decided she had better meet his eyes and do her best to look innocent. Suddenly furious, she told herself fuck it, she
was
innocent. All she was doing was ferrying Maha's jewels back to India where they came from.

A breeze wafted through the tiny room as the door swung open and another man came and stood behind the one in the white suit, gazing stonily at Sunny.

“Your passport, please,” he said, in English.

“But I already came through immigration,” Sunny protested.

“Nevertheless, your passport.”

He held out his hand and Sunny took the passport from her pocket and gave it to him. She hated to see it go. She might never get it back . . . she would be stuck here in India forever . . .

The man looked at the passport then lifted his eyes and met hers. His were deep brown, the whites very white, his skin dark honey, his luxuriant hair silvered black.

“Thank you, Ms. Alvarez.” He handed back the passport.

She sat clutching it to her chest, wondering what next. Was she free to go?

The passport man nodded to the white suit and left the room. The draft of cooler air wafted through again as the door swung shut behind him.

The white suit looked at Sunny, then at the two bags on the floor next to her: the small hastily packed one that contained a few items of clothing and Maha's heavy zippered bag with the jewels.

“Thank you, Ms. Alvarez. Have a pleasant visit to Mumbai,” he said in suddenly perfect English.

He got to his feet, picked up Maha's bag and handed it to her. Unsmiling, he held open the door. Sunny thanked him and walked through it, certain he could feel the fear coming off her in great wafts, like the air-cooled draft into his hot little room.

On shaky legs, she strode as fast as she could through the green customs area and into the terminal.
Oh. My. God.
She would never do this again.
Never.
Not even if Maha promised her the biggest jewel in the crown of some decadent Mumbai Rhanee; not if she offered to have someone replicate the Taj Mahal in marble to commemorate her visit; not to prove herself to Mac, or to anybody—even her own self—that she was up to any chance life offered her.

Quite suddenly, Sunny was not sure about the new chances life offered.

The hell with this, she thought, the bag clutched in her sticky
palm as though it were cemented to her hand, sweat trickling down her back, as she emerged into the noise and the smells and the throng of people, thick as a forest, pushing, shoving, shouting in her ear, touting bicycle-rickshaws, taxis, time-shares, hotels, spicy snacks, sweets, tours, trips.

There was no man amongst the crowd, though, holding up a card with Sunny's name on it. Uncertain, she stood for a few minutes, scanning the scene, then she made her way outside.

The tropical night seemed to fold over her, heavy with the scent of flowers and gasoline fumes. Palm trees waved on the ink-blue skyline, brightly lit towers glittered in the distance, and somehow, over it all, was the scent of the sea. Not crisp and salty like the Pacific, but strong and sultry with a hit of the marshes on which the city was born.

Taxis and buses lined the sidewalk and people pressed past her, a tidal wave of humanity and all of them, it seemed, wanting to get out of the airport and to the city.

Sunny checked the sheet of paper with Maha's typed instructions. She was definitely to be met by Maha's assistant.

Panic hit her: she was a woman alone in India with a bag full of jewels. Something had gone wrong. Yet how could it? Maha had been so certain, so careful, every detail taken care of. Maha was a woman who crossed her
t
s and dotted her
i
s . . .

“Madama Alvarez?”

He was there after all, right beside here, a tall, dark, thin man with piercing black eyes and a red-and-yellow turban wrapped around his head. He wore a long white Nehru coat over narrow black cotton pants and leather sandals. Dazed though she was, Sunny had time to notice that his toenails were polished. And that he was, after all, holding the card with her name on it.

“At last.” She beamed up at him, relief shining in her eyes. “Yes, I'm Sunny Alvarez.”

“So sorry,
madama,
not to be there the very moment you arrived.”
His voice had a singsong lilt and he was very serious. “But the traffic is very bad tonight in Bombay . . . Mumbai as you call it nowadays.”

Sunny grinned. “For a moment there I thought I'd come to the wrong place.”

He did not crack a smile. “I shall take your bags, Madama Alvarez,” he said, reaching for Maha's bag.

“No!” At least she still had enough wits about her not to part with the damn bag after practically sleeping on top of it all the way on the plane, and now that it was stuck to her palm with sweat. “I'll carry this one.”

“It is as you choose it,” he said, in his quaint English. “Please to follow me to the car.”

Sunny was very pleased to follow him. She couldn't wait to get to the car, couldn't wait to sink into the seat and let Mumbai flow past the windows.

It was a black Mercedes 600; one of the most expensive models. The interior was cool cream leather and, in an old-fashioned touch, there were twin crystal vases clipped to the sides, each holding a spray of tiny white star-shaped gardenias whose fragrance permeated the air, sending a shiver of pleasure along Sunny's sweaty spine. This was a car for a woman in a silken sari, a bejeweled perfumed woman, an Indian beauty. A woman like Maha Mondragon.

A console fashioned from dark burled walnut held drinks and pretty glasses, etched with a silver pattern of leaves. Bottled water chilled in a small cooler.

Sunny smiled at her rescuer as she settled back against the cushioned upholstery. “I'm sorry, but I forgot your name,” she said.

“My name is Rahm Singh,
madama.
I am the Mondragon's chief assistant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Singh.” Sunny thought it was strange that he called his employer “the Mondragon,” but figured that it was probably the custom here, in India.

They were already weaving through the airport traffic, down a seemingly endless harshly lit road, past garbage heaps like small mountains and half-naked shockingly emaciated children scurrying like tiny rats, amongst them; past honey-colored Victorian mansions, leftovers from the Raj, aflutter with lines of multihued washing; past blank-faced government buildings and into the city, along the Marine Drive, where bicycle-rickshaws pulled couples on an evening's outing; past a beach with crashing waves and more children running on thin reedy legs in and out of the water; past the palm trees and lantern-lit stalls with vendors selling
papadums
and breads filled with spicy meats and vegetables and sticky sugarcane; past beggars without feet or hands, reputed to have been mutilated as children in order to earn more from the pity of their indifferent public; past splendid hotels aglow with warm light and cool air, and past mansionlike homes, fastened in with strong metal gates where the old-rich lived; and past towers of condominiums where the young new-rich lived; past offices still lit and active though now it grew late. It seemed, Sunny thought, that Mumbai, shocking and exciting, never slept.

The big car slowed as they approached a pair of tall iron gates through which Sunny could see a small guardhouse. A man in a long white cotton shirt and baggy pants, tight at the calves, emerged. Recognizing the car he opened the gates and waved them on.

Sunny rolled down her window the better to see the view of sparkling lights strung along the coast, exactly like Malibu and Santa Monica. The Queen's Necklace of Mumbai, viewed from the top of Malabar Hill. The unexpectedly cool air rushed in and the scents of India came at her, enveloped her. At that moment it seemed India offered itself to her and quite suddenly she fell in love with it.

Five shallow marble steps led to a single-story many-pillared white house. The long narrow pool in front was edged in papyrus grass, its dark cobalt waters afloat with pink blossoms. At the far end, as though guarding the house, was an immense gilded statue of a goddess.

Rahm Singh opened the car door and Sunny stepped out, still holding on to the bag. She stopped to look. “But who is she?” she asked, staring at the statue.

“That is Mahalakshmi. The goddess of wealth and prosperity.”

Mahalakshmi . . . Maha . . . goddess of wealth and prosperity . . . Of course, that must be where Maha had taken her name . . . from the goddess . . .

Smiling, holding on to the bag of jewels, Sunny walked up the steps. All fear left her. She was at Maha's house. She was home free.

 

 

Pru woke alone in the Sun King suite, with the three-pound Chihuahua on her chest. She opened her eyes and gazed directly into Tesoro's round bulbous ones. She wondered how a little dog could express so much sadness, evoking her pity simply because her beloved mistress had gone away for a few days. Plus she was sure Tesoro understood she was the most loved dog in the world, except maybe for Mac's Pirate, or at least that's what she had heard.

Tesoro's nose touched her warm cheek, icy as a fresh martini in the bar last night and Pru grabbed the soft sleek three-pound mutt and held her close. Of course Tesoro was no mutt, but, to Pru because she had never had one, all dogs were mutts. Why, she asked herself now, had she not had a dog? It would have gone a long way to comforting her when she got rid of the awful Lord Byron husband. And Tesoro adored her, she could tell because she never tried to bite her.

“Tell you what, sweet, softie, smoothie little baby,” she whispered in Tesoro's delicately lifted ear. “You and I are going to have fun today. We'll go for a walk. I'll buy you lunch. I know you like chopped chicken, and, if you promise not to tell Sunny, I'll even give you a lick of my ice cream.” She thought about the ice cream and quickly decided against it. “Not good for either of us, sweetheart,” she said, sighing.

Tesoro snuggled into her, snuffling her hair.
Oh my God! Her hair!
The blond short cap of hair that she had been assured just a couple of days ago had transformed her into a new woman. Pru had not been certain then and she was even less certain now.

With Tesoro tucked under her arm she faced the gilded mirror opposite the windows. Shards of honey-blond hair fell across her forehead. Unsure, she put up a hand to touch, ran her fingers through the crop of gold that had taken the place of the shoulder-length stringy brown. “Short” made her nervous but both Allie and Sunny had told her it was wonderful. “Now everything works,” Sunny had said. “Your skin color, the slight tan, the bronzer.”

“You're starting to look like a South of France woman,” Allie had said, pleased that her plan had worked out.

Still. Pru was left with the underlying insecurity that maybe it wasn't as fabulous as they said and that they were simply being encouraging to make her feel good.

Nervous, she put Tesoro down and went and took a shower. The little dog howled mournfully outside the glass door and she was forced to open it so at least it would not feel abandoned by everyone it knew. Pru thought it was certainly different, looking after someone other than only oneself; it made life more interesting somehow. And now she had a duty to take the dog for a walk, make sure she was safe, to help Sunny, who was on her important mission to Mumbai that was so secret no one but Pru and Allie knew about it. And Maha Mondragon, of course, who had planned the whole thing and gotten Sunny out of there with her bag of fabulous jewels without any delays for visas. Maha had everything under control, though Pru did still wonder why Maha could not have taken the jewels back to Mumbai herself. Too busy, Sunny had told her cheerfully, as she threw a few things into a case, ready to leave.

And then the same day Sunny left, Ron fell off his horse and broke his leg and Allie was on the next flight out of Nice. She'd said she would find out if he was okay, make sure he was comfortable and that the obstreperous Lab understood to calm down and not knock
him over and break the other leg. Then she would be back, probably around the same time as Sunny. And also maybe as Mac, whom Sunny was again so passionately in love with, it made prickles rise on Pru's neck, just thinking about how sexy they were.