A Vision of Fire

“With Hindi, Urdu, Uighur, Shina, and occasionally a tribal language.” He grinned for the first time. “My brain’s kind of spinning.”

“How’s his brain?” Caitlin asked.

“Pretty good,” he replied. “It takes a lot to rattle that man.”

Clearly if he was fine, the ambassador wasn’t the reason she was here. Caitlin waited for Ben to resume.

Ben’s voice got even softer and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Everything has been proceeding slowly and cautiously—until today. Ambassador Pawar got a phone call about his daughter and left, canceling the rest of the session. It took about a second for the Pakistani delegates to get annoyed, and we don’t know how long they’re going to stay accommodating. A half hour later the deputy ambassador of India—who was also pretty concerned—pulled me aside and asked me to come to the ambassador’s condo and get him. Which is right here.” He nodded up at the skyscraper above their heads.

“The man was shot at,” Caitlin said. “Can’t they give him a couple hours off?”

“It’s not about him, Cai. It’s about using events as platforms. The ambassador was already late and his absence gives everyone time, and an excuse, to get back on a partisan soapbox.”

“I understand,” Caitlin said. “But the ambassador isn’t why I’m here.”

“No,” Ben said solemnly.

What would pull a diplomat out of a crisis session but a crisis at home? Caitlin felt a twinge as she remembered her own father’s careful, loving attention. “The daughter?” She had heard about the shooting on the news.

Ben nodded, stared down the street, then back at the doorman.

“What’s happening with her?” Caitlin asked.

“It’s…” Ben’s mouth tightened, then he exhaled. “It’s disturbing. Cai, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Taking her by the elbow, he walked her into the building. The concierge at the desk did not bother calling up, obviously familiar with Ben.

“They brought her in through the service elevator,” Ben said.

There were security cameras in the lobby and one in the corner of the elevator. Loose lips sink ships, Caitlin thought as they rode up to the penthouse. Ben had not spoken another word. She could not imagine what was so dire that it could not be spoken about… and had unsettled him so much that he still had not released her elbow.

The elevator door opened on a corridor that was eerily silent. There was a vacuum cleaner running in an apartment but the hallway’s thick carpet muted the sound.

But it’s more than the silence, she realized as they headed toward an apartment at the far end. There was the kind of stillness one felt at sunset in the wild, when all decent things went into their huts, tents, or burrows, and predators woke to feed. It was a strange and surprising sensation here.

On their first knock an anxious-looking woman in a red-orange sari opened the door.

“Thank you, Benjamin,” she said, but was looking at Caitlin, studying her with experienced eyes.

“Dr. O’Hara, this is Hansa Pawar, wife of the ambassador.”

“Hello,” Caitlin said as a young beagle tried to slip through the door into the hall.

“Jack London!” Mrs. Pawar snapped, and the beagle slunk back inside. The dog was low to the ground and subdued as he turned to sniffing Caitlin’s ankles. His attentions were brief, perfunctory.

Caitlin ran her hand down the dog’s back as she reached down to take her shoes off; she had spent enough time in Mumbai to know that removing shoes was the cultural norm.

Mrs. Pawar stopped her. “Don’t worry about that. Please just come with me.”

Caitlin felt another chill as the woman hurried them through a spacious room. It was filled with light from a wall of windows facing the UN building and the East River. There was a pleasant hint of jasmine tea in the air. The apartment was overflowing with artifacts—Caitlin recognized not just Hindi sculptures and Muslim painted texts, but a Sikh helmet, a Christian cross, a Georgia O’Keeffe landscape.

Ben noticed Caitlin’s wandering eyes. “Ganak calls interculturalism ‘the peace of many choices,’” he murmured to her. “He’s trying to embody it and teach it.”

Caitlin didn’t have much more time to look around before they were ushered into a bedroom, the second off a long corridor.

Though the drapes were drawn, enough sunlight filtered through for Caitlin to see that each wall was painted a different jewel color, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, and cherry opal. On a desk in the corner, an electronic photo frame flashed groups of friends laughing, smiling, hugging—in sad contrast to the girl who was unconscious in her father’s arms across the room. Urged by Mrs. Pawar’s outstretched hand, Caitlin moved slowly past her to the girl’s four-poster bed. The beagle followed and sat on the floor beside her. Ben stayed by the door.

The man looked up. “I am Ganak Pawar.”

“I’m Caitlin O’Hara,” she said gently.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice cracking. “This—this is our daughter, Maanik.”