“You’re married?” Aubrey wants to know. Her eyes dart to the empty space on Anand’s finger where a ring should be.
He smiles broadly. “Married since two months ago. Why not? I found a beautiful woman and I love her, and our families approve. There’s already a baby coming.” At this, his face darkens slightly. “Which is why money’s important now. But,” he continues, “life is too short for anger. With Charlie, I will let bygones be bygones. I knew coming into it, with him, there was risk. Some people you can read. You can look into their eyes and know they’re good, or you can tell right away that they’re bad. It’s the way they look over you when you talk, the way their mouth curls down in distaste at something you say or what you wear. They try to hide it, but it’s there in every gesture.
“And then others, like Charlie, you can’t read at all. Their eyes are blank. I knew it. I told him no when he first asked me for my services. But he was persistent, and he was willing to pay top dollar. So you see, it was my mistake.”
“When did Charlie start coming to you?” Aubrey asks. Her dark hair is messy from a day in the sun and the humidity; it forms a rumpled nest around her pale skin, highlighting the dark circles that rim her eyes.
“A while ago,” says Anand. “Maybe two years. He was recreational at first, purely into the enjoyment and used it to relax. A couple of grams here and there. When he started increasing the amount of his requests, I thought, A little for friends, he’s in high school, maybe there are parties. Then he asked for more and I got mad, thinking he’s dealing on the side, charging more than what I charge. We had a fight, and he swears it’s just for him. All of it. That he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be in Bombay and I’ve got the best hashish there is, so he’s stockpiling. Never mind how he’ll get it overseas—that’s not my problem. The kid was always good on his payments. Always. Until his biggest order comes, and what does he do? Says, ‘Give me a week, Anand. You know I’m good for it.’ Then he’s gone.” Anand shakes his head. “Little fucker.” The words sound silly coming with his south Indian accent, and I can’t help laughing. I know it’s a mistake the second I do. Anand’s head whips around and he stares at me, eyes narrowed. I hold out one palm to assure him I don’t mean anything.
“I’m sorry,” I insist. “It’s just . . . ‘leetle fuck-ah.’” It’s probably wildly inappropriate that I’m laughing, but I dissolve back into giggles anyway, and Aubrey joins me. Our eyes meet and we crack up, leaning over the table and gasping for air. When I catch my breath and have the courage to look up at Anand, I’m relieved to find that he’s smirking too.
“How did you meet him?” I ask once I’ve caught my breath. “Were you lurking around the schoolyard, hoping to score some new clients?” My tone is sarcastic. He doesn’t catch on.
Anand shakes his head. “I tell you, I’m a standup guy,” he insists. “I met him through his half brother. Dane.”
“Charlie doesn’t have a brother.”
“Not anymore,” Anand clarifies. Aubrey and I glance at each other in confusion.
“No,” Aubrey says slowly. “Charlie was an only child.” She looks at me again and I nod in confirmation, though suddenly I’m not so sure. But why would Charlie have kept something like that hidden?
“I assure you, he had a brother,” Anand says. “Kind of a black sheep. His dad’s son from a mistress. He lived with the family for a while.”
“It’s not possible.” My voice is hard, firm. “I’ve been to Charlie’s parents’ house a million times. There were only pictures of Charlie. No brother.”
“The brother was disowned,” Anand said. “He . . . chose his own path, from what I understand.”
“Meaning . . . ?” Aubrey demands, her face flushed.
“I never got the whole story,” Anand says vaguely, pushing away from the table. “Now, how about I fix us some chai? It’s late. I’ll need to sleep soon.”
“You said you’d tell us about Charlie,” I call out to his retreating back. He pauses.
“Yes,” he says without turning around. “I’m telling you all I know.”
Before Aubrey and I can exchange anything more than looks of mutual disbelief, Anand has returned with three tin cups of chai along with a pitcher holding more. Chai is one of my favorite things about India—I can never get enough of the sweet, milky tea; and I grab for mine as if it were an old, familiar lifeline.