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The clerk in the lobby of the run-down karaoke joint didn’t look up when I strolled in. The place must have been built in the ’90s, when the popularity of karaoke was at its peak, and appeared as old and tired as the outdated machines they still used. A dim chandelier barely lit the dark foyer; the old carpet reeked of grease and must.
“I’m meeting some friends,” I said.
The clerk flicked his cigarette butt into an ashtray. “Tall Filipino guy?” he said, still not bothering to glance up. “Hot chick in a fluffy skirt?”
I nodded and wondered how he had guessed, then realized there probably weren’t more than two rooms rented out in the entire pathetic place.
“Upstairs,” the clerk said. “Suite two-oh-three.” He lit another cigarette, breathing deep, then coughed as he blew the smoke out, eyes glued to an old box television placed on the counter in front of him. The TV was the kind where you had to twist a knob to change the channel—it’d be an antique if it weren’t such crap. That’s what most meis were left with these days: crap.
Taking the creaky stairs two steps at a time, I found the dark brown door with faded 203 brass numbers tacked on and the muffled tones of a Jay Chou ballad coming from beyond it. Knocking once, I twisted the sticky knob and pushed the door open before I got a response. Four pairs of sharp eyes met mine; I was one of the last to show as usual.
Dr. Nataraj sat in the middle of a worn black sofa, its fake leather hiding decades’ worth of stains. Arun was to her left, his usual bright orange spiked hair pulled conservatively back in a ponytail. Lingyi sat on Dr. Nataraj’s right, wearing a bright green tee and full white miniskirt plastered with bright flowers—tulips. Victor was slumped in a red velvet armchair beside Lingyi, his long legs sprawled in front of him, lazy as a cat. And just as cool. “Nice of you to join us, Zhou,” he drawled.
Seeing that Dr. Nataraj had turned away and was speaking to Arun in soft tones, I flicked a rude gesture at Victor, and he widened his eyes in pretend shock, laughing under his breath.
Lingyi arched one eyebrow, lips pursing, a not-so-subtle reprimand for me to behave; I grinned charmingly and shut the door behind me. Iris stood behind it, and I jumped. “Gods, Iris!” I said.
“Hey, Zhou.” She was dressed in black, like always, and tucked the syringe she held casually between her fingertips back into some hidden pocket at her thigh. A quick stab in the arm with the sleep spell, and I would have dropped within seconds.
“Hey,” I said back. She was already slinking away from me, falling carelessly into the other armchair, throwing her legs over its arm, and settling in.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I could see again the resemblance between Dr. Nataraj and Arun—both had dark brown eyes with high cheekbones and strong chins. But Dr. Nataraj’s black wavy hair was threaded with gray.
She shifted over on the large sofa and smiled at me, patting the place beside her. “Only a few minutes, Zhou. We haven’t started yet.”
I slipped over to sit between her and Lingyi. Even Dr. Nataraj referred to me by my family name alone. I never shared my given name, and my friends never asked. After years on the streets on my own, it afforded me the anonymity I wanted. Zhou was a common enough surname.
Dr. Nataraj pushed a white plate toward me, stacked with perfectly triangular samosas, fried to a beautiful golden hue. “I made your favorite, Zhou. Take some.” She flashed her warm smile.
“Thanks, Auntie.” We all called Arun’s mom “auntie” because she insisted upon it. None of us had a mother figure in our lives to speak of, and she’d made sure to welcome us into her home and heart from the start. For over three years she’d played the role of listener and advice giver, and was simply there to give hugs when any of us needed it. The dinners she invited us to in her and Arun’s home were the only home-cooked meals we had. But it wasn’t the delicious saag paneer or aloo gobi she made that drew us the most, it was the feeling of comfort and belonging she offered each of us.
My stomach was already growling as I heaped three still-warm samosas onto a paper plate, wolfing two large bites down before saying, “Your samosas are the best.” They really were.
She angled her chin a fraction, her gold pendant earrings swaying, and replied in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve wrapped up a few for you to take home.”
I made the pretense of kissing her cheek, but stopped short as my mouth was full and that seemed rude. She laughed, shaking her head. Dr. Nataraj had a way of making you feel special, like she saw you, and that you mattered. We both knew she’d made takeaway packages for everyone there. Arun was so lucky.
The ancient karaoke set was playing its music on a large box television, just loud enough to drown out our conversation for anyone listening at the door. A young man and woman danced alone in a sunlit ballroom, gazing lovingly at each other as the lyrics scrolled across the bottom half of the screen. There were no windows, and the only light came from another cheap chandelier that hung over the seating area. Two plastic-covered menus were thrown haphazardly onto the low, black table in front of us beside the plate of samosas.
The room stank of stale cigarette smoke.
Dr. Nataraj didn’t begin until she met each of our eyes, knowing she had our full attention. She was a prominent professor in ecology at National Taiwan University. Not only was she well respected in the field as an educator, she was also a vocal activist, tirelessly trying to get the government to pass more restrictive pollution laws in Taiwan to help clean our filthy air and dirty waters.
“I’m sure that Arun has told you there’s been no progress. I have approached six officials who are part of the legislative yuan and have been stonewalled, met with silence, or had doors slammed in my face.” She spoke perfect Mandarin, tinged with the lilt of her native Hindi. It didn’t matter that she was dressed in jeans and a black sweater—her presence, her poise, commanded your attention. “I was even escorted out by security twice!” Dr. Nataraj let out a soft laugh. “Me, thrown out by burly guards because I’m such a threat.”
She sank into the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “It’s clear that someone very powerful doesn’t want the legislation to ever be presented. I appreciate all your help so far in being my eyes and ears. I didn’t want to break any laws, but I have a feeling whoever we are going up against has no such qualms.” She paused, then turned toward Lingyi and me. “I think my communication is being monitored.”
Iris straightened and Arun’s knee jittered with nervous tension.
“Written communication?” Victor asked.
“And voice,” Dr. Nataraj said. “Anything going through my phones or computers.”