MADS
My head is pounding,my face hurts, and my entire left side aches as though I’ve been lying on it for a month straight. What the fuck is…oh. It all comes back to me in a flood. The market. The marigolds. The men surrounding me.
My heart starts to pound out of my chest, but I’m trying to calm the gasping breaths burning my lungs. I need to stay quiet and try to figure out where I am. Am I alone?
I don’t sense anyone in the room with me, but people are nearby. Outside, yes, and also below me. I’m not on the first floor. The bed underneath me is lumpy, painfully so. There’s a window to the side of the bed, hidden behind ornately carved wooden shutters that leave a pattern of light on the bedspread. A familiar smell enters my nose, but it makes no sense.
I haven’t smelled the curry market in years, but I’d recognize it anywhere. The same with the cedar trees that dot the property. I don’t know how, and I don’t know what day it is, but I’m in my family’s compound in the foothills outside of Kullu. This is the bell tower we were never allowed to explore.
Is my father part of this? He and I never saw eye to eye on politics, and after Vienna, it’s clear he has no emotional ties to me, but I’m struggling to accept that he could do this to his own son.
It stings a bit if I’m honest.
As I gain my bearings, my eyes adjust to the room’s low light, and I discover a small dresser with a brightly painted pitcher of water next to a matching bowl and a neatly folded towel.
Wanting to splash some water on my face, I sit up and wince, lightheaded. It dawns on me that I must have been heavily drugged to get me all the way to India.
Waiting for my head to clear, my eyes further adjust to the dark, and I find a glass of water on the small table next to my bed. My hands shake as I lift the glass to my parched lips. A few sips reveal exactly how hungry and thirsty I am. Tipping the glass again, I drink the rest of it, wondering how long I’ve been drugged.
It feels like days, and the prospect terrifies me.
Trembling and aching, I place my feet on the rug by the bed and lean forward, supporting my forearms on my thighs, trying to catch a breath.
Anthony has no idea where to look for me.
My throat twinges as tears fill my eyes.
Stop it, Mads. Think it through.
Anthony knows about both the Russian and Indian connections. He would want to look in both places. Absent any other data, the first place he would go would be my father’s house.
Except…my father has many houses. And his official residence is listed in Shimla.
Trying to hold on to the faintest bit of hope, I hinge forward and slowly stand. I stretch and rub my hand down my face, then bite off a pained curse. My nose, crusted in blood, is swollen and almost certainly broken.
I check in with the rest of my body, and though everything aches, nothing else feels broken or otherwise injured. Walking carefully, I stand in front of the small dresser and peer into the old pitted mirror.
Yikes. Dried blood trails from my nose down both cheeks as though I was laid out flat and bleeding. I laugh—which hurts—because I look a little like an old-school maharajah with an ornate mustache. The dried blood cracks along my skin from the act of smiling, and it feels awful.
I grab the pitcher and recognize it as one of the matched sets my mother always put out for the guests of her many elaborate traditional meals. I remember complaining about washing up in a stupid bowl when we could wash up in the sink, but she said it was a family tradition that made her happy.
Its presence in this room gives me a tiny shot of hope.
I pour the water into the bowl and cup my hands, splashing my face three times like I was taught as a kid. Looking into the mirror, I give myself a few more splashes, gingerly scrubbing off the dried blood.
Taking a deep breath, I grasp the bridge of my nose and make a small adjustment. The tiny snap makes me want to throw up, but a quick check in the mirror verifies that I’ve more or less set it properly.
As I wait for the dizziness to pass, I listen for people, hearing no one in my immediate vicinity. Satisfied that I might be alone for the time being, I peel my clothes off, wrinkling my nose at their stink, and hang them by the window. Hopefully, the fresh air helps un-stink them, at least a little.
Feeling a little guilty, I pour the bloody water into the nearby plant, then pee into it as well, since there is nowhere else for me to go.
I pour more water from the pitcher into the bowl and scoop it onto my hair and body, scrubbing under my armpits, groin, and ass. I then rinse myself, taking the towel to dry myself off and clean the floor.
I check the top drawer of the dresser on which everything is set and find the oil I grew up with. I use it on my elbows and feet and hands, running a little bit of it through my hair until I smell human again.
I shake out my clothes, and there's not much to be done for the stench, but it is better.
The door creaks open as I'm tugging my T-shirt over my head. I grab the pitcher, not sure what I'm going to do with it.