You were imagining the journey already, yes? The train thundering through the countryside but since the music was playing – and it was the kind of music that bathed you in a wall of sound – you weren’t paying attention to the scenery. Sure, you were looking out, but they’d notice if they paid attention that your mind was flitting between what he’d said and how the words of every song were somehow related. Your heart was floating in the air, surfing on waves of joy. They call it love. But you didn’t care for labels. It’s just a nice, warm uplifting feeling, that you don’t even notice how the greyness outside had been translated from walls of rain that seem to keep just ahead of the speeding train into a field of sunshine. Every song magical, every beat just right. Every song was an anthem for your state of being.
On Saturday, you wouldn’t need to be anywhere else. In the train, ploughing through the brilliant landscape, no other light shining anywhere could match the glow in your heart. Everything would seem possible. Leaving home. Changing religion. Becoming vegetarian. Not having to face the monsters at school anymore. Dealing with the loss of a parent. All driven continuously by the next song on your playlist. And the song after that. You are through a door and everything suddenly opens up. Finding the perfect someone at such a young age. For better or for worse, he’d said. And he’ll be waiting. Saturday, at dawn, at the station.
Where would you go, together? To Europe? Was it possible to dream of escaping to Europe? There were ways. He knew people who could arrange everything. You knew some people who’d made it across. Made it into Spain, then Germany and beyond. They’d updated everyone via social media. She was called a refugee, but it was her life – as documented on Instagram – that all the girls you knew wanted.
He’d asked you to bring your passport, clothes and whatever money you could find. You’d told him that you didn’t have much, but he said, not to worry about it. But you felt bad. If he was willing to go over, to cross the Straits, and was willing to make the arrangements and take care of the costs, you wanted to contribute. The days of the week were spent trying to figure out what you could sell to obtain cash. Your savings account – which your late mother had set up for you – only had a couple of hundred Moroccan dollars and these you’d already secured. There was the antique vase, the piece of pottery that had belonged to your grandma and that only your mother had seen the value of. You snuck it out of the house on Friday afternoon – while your father was at work – and traded it for a handful of dollars at the local pawn shop. You never spoke much with your father since your mother had passed away and that Friday, you did nothing different. You were home for dinner on time and sat through it patiently. You both exchanged token pleasantries. He went out for drinks with his friends. That was that.
Saturday, at dawn, you were at the station with your bag of clothes, money and passport. For better or for worse.
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A subtle change came over Kamini’s face. She was still leaning against the sofa, looking frail but welcoming. However, a thin, invisible veil had descended as soon as Regalia finished.
Aarav’s mother had taken ill shortly after the wedding tragedy. She was resting in the sitting area of her bedroom the morning after, with a maid on standby, when Regalia walked in. Mr. Suraj led the way while wearing a suitably apologetic demeanor.
‘Madam, as requested, here is Inspector Regalia. As you are aware, he’s been on our premises almost the entire evening, with the rest of the police force.’
‘My apologies, Inspector. I’ve been in no condition to meet you earlier.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable, Madam. This is the most difficult of times for anyone in your position. Regretfully, I need to still speak with you about yesterday.’
As she sat on the plush sofa in a corner of her bedroom, overlooking open double-windows that gave a lovely view of the lush garden, lake and forest beyond, Aarav’s mother reminded Regalia of her late son. She was of medium height, like Aarav, yet there was the way she carried herself that hinted perhaps of an aristocratic background. But more than that, Regalia was thinking that he’d seen her features somewhere else.
‘I’ve just spoken with your daughter.’
‘I trust that she was helpful. She’s a good child. Whatever Anu told you, I would have no problems with it.’
Regalia didn’t think that there was any problem there. He proceeded to where he thought there might be, ‘How was your relationship with your daughter-in-law to be?’
The question indicated that small talk was over.
A subtle change came over Kamini’s face. She was still leaning against the sofa, looking frail but welcoming. However, a thin, invisible veil had descended as soon as Regalia finished his sentence. He’d noticed it but threw in another question, while casually taking in the paintings on the walls of the room.
‘Other than the typical mother & daughter-in-law friction, anything you may have to highlight?’
When he glanced at her again, Kamini was looking out the window.
‘As you may expect, Inspector, there was of course the usual differences in view between myself and Aarav’s bride. But I was glad that he had finally made up his mind to get married. That’s the thing a mother wants to see, especially when one is the only parent left and growing older every year. To be honest, his choice was better than any of his previous girlfriends.’
She rolled her eyes, no doubt thinking of some of the former candidates.
‘Did you hear of any threats? Was anyone unhappy with Aarav’s decision?’
She pouted, still looking out the window. It looked as if she was somewhere else. ‘None that I could think of personally. He did build up a decent list of ex-girlfriends, unfortunately. You know Inspector, these young people, we have no idea who’s been involved with whom and who may be carrying grudges.’
‘Enough to kill?’
‘Well, young people nowadays seem excessively emotional and sensitive. I suppose even trivial things could lead to dramatic responses.’
Regalia was watching Kamini. He understood why despite being still reasonably fit to tend to the household affairs, he’d heard that some of the staff had not wanted her to look after day to day operations. Despite being shaken by her son’s death, there was a steeliness to her. It wasn’t class. It was her coldness that had come through. Here she was talking about her son’s death and how ‘trivial things’ lead to dramatic responses.
Regalia realized that Mr. Suraj was standing by the door, within earshot. That was odd, since as major-domo, he should have been the first to step away while his mistress discussed the family’s affairs.
‘What would have happened if Aarav and Smyrna’ -Regalia noticed a slight flinch in the lady’s expression – ‘had married and lived? What impact would that have had on his father’s – your late husband’s – fortune?’
Kamini seemed surprised by the question. She noticed Suraj’s proximity and waved him off. He withdrew accordingly.
‘Nothing. There will be no impact. Why do you ask? The father died and left the bulk of the inheritance in my name. Upon my death, everything will be distributed according to my own will.’
‘I’m just wondering, trying to find possible motives.’
‘There is no motive there, Inspector. Look somewhere else.’
Regalia smiled in a measured manner. As always, he moved on to the next point after testing the waters.
‘A young man has died as well. I’m sure you’ve been informed.’
‘He was an old friend of Aarav’s. I think they went to school together in London. I’d only just met him this weekend. He’d come down for the wedding. Poor fellow. Samuel.’
‘Then we have Mrs. Pall.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s the woman who apprehended Samuel Dickinson, thinking he was involved with the shooting.’
‘Why did she do that?’
‘No idea at present. She’s a nun. You’ve never heard of her?’
‘No. I haven’t seen her either. Unfortunately, the guest list consisted of not just people known to Aarav’s late father and me. It involved a rash of people known to only Aarav or his girl. Several were friends of my daughter. God knows who else managed to inveigle an invitation. Perhaps the family help had some relatives come as well. Some of these people have been with us for decades, you know?’
‘Of course. Perfectly to be expected. I think I am done here, Madam. Thank you for bearing with me.’
Regalia got up and took in the view of the gardens outside. Kamini seemed pleased that the interview was over.
‘I wish you the best of luck, Inspector. I heard that evidences had been gathered by your people. I hope there you have enough information to make arrests. Also, if possible, please release Aarav’s body as soon as possible. I would like to proceed with the funeral.’
‘Certainly. We will release the bodies once our Coroners give us the go ahead. We’ll be getting the results of various tests later today. I believe that by then, we’ll be homeward bound with this case.’
Walking away, he paused at the door.
‘One last thing. Other than yourself and your daughter – Miss Anu – are there any other living relatives?’
‘No. There are no living siblings on either my late husband’s or my side.’
‘I meant, Madam, is there anyone else who may rightfully have a say in the disposition of the family fortune now that Aarav is no longer here?’
Kamini was not a woman given to impulsive reactions. She did not marry and manage the family fortune by being impulsive. All her adult life, she had trained herself to receive information, analyze it and only then, respond. That approach had served her well. Thus, Regalia’s question arrived at normal speed. It then took her mind awhile to register what he was asking for. Slightly longer to realize why. When it finally clicked, she turned her face to the window and spoke in a tone that indicated that the interview was done,
‘With Aarav gone, only my daughter and – while still alive – I are the sole benefactors of my late husband’s estate. There is no other relative. Good day, Inspector Regalia.’
Emma (not her real name) lifted the crinkly garbage bag with effort, and let it drop into the community bin, doing it fast and neat so that she wouldn’t have to breath in the foul stench of whatever else was in the dumpster. She closed it with a loud thud, took a few quick steps away and filled her lungs with the fresh dawn air.
She stood straight up, feeling good about herself, until she saw the slim runner-girl from the next block come down her apartment steps, toss her ponytail in Emma’s direction and take off on a run, her perfect figure clothed in her perfect sporting outfit, oozing self-awareness of the very fact. With a snort Emma turned towards her own building and began marching, having lost the nice feeling she had tasted momentarily after she’d dropped the lid on the dumpster. Continue reading “Emma’s Garbage”
