Tulip Season Read Free

house?”
    “It's called ‘trauma bonding.’ You develop what in DV counseling is known as a ‘comfortable and sustained blind spot’ for the one you love. You continue to stay in an abusive situation. You see yourself in him.”
    Might these definitions apply to Kareena as well? “Did you see bruises on her?” Mitra asked.
    “Oh, yes, even though she hid her forehead with bangs.”
    Mitra hesitated, wondering if she should broach a delicate subject. “There's something I've been meaning to ask you. For some time. I just couldn't be sure.” She paused. “You don't have similar problems at home, by any chance, do you?”
    Kareena gazed off into the distance. A sense of wariness seeped into her voice. “What are you getting at?”
    “Well, I happened to notice bruises on your arm at your last party. Who did that?”
    Kareena's face turned mauve. “I don't want to talk about it.”
    “I can never forget what I saw.” Mitra leaned toward her friend protectively. “I'm so worried, Kareena.”
    Her voice edged with embarrassment, Kareena said, “I said I didn't want to talk about it.”
    “Sorry. Forget it—I don't know what I was thinking.”
    “I accept your apology,” Kareena said, a touch of resignation in her voice.
    Mitra filed the matter away for a future conversation. Sooner or later, she'd nail down the truth behind those bruises. She took a sip from her wine, while Kareena drained hers with hurried gulps, not taking the time to appreciate the flavors fully. Mitra digressed from this aching topic to a pleasanter one—the upcoming tulip festival in Skagit Valley and the legend of the tulip.
    “Every bulb holds a promise of something new to come?” Kareena exclaimed. “The Dutch actually believed that? I absolutely must go with you to that festival. You'll get the tickets?”
    Mitra nodded. To lighten the mood further, she pointed out a cartoon clip from a magazine peeking out from under the glass cover of their table. A tiny boy craned his neck up and said to his glowering father, “Do I dare ask you what day of the week this is before you've had your double tall skinny?”
    That had gotten a spontaneous laugh out of Kareena. Mitra had made a mental note to compliment the manager of Toute La Soirée, who appreciated humor and changed the jokes frequently.
    Relaying the Soirée rendezvous to Veen, listening to the traffic rushing down the nearby 50th Street, Mitra wondered: had she beenright to let Kareena off the hook so easily? She could still so easily visualize the nasty-looking bluish discoloration on Kareena's arm.

THREE
    VEEN LISTENED TO MITRA'S RECOUNTING of that afternoon and at the end mumbled, “I keep going back to that stranger I saw Kareena with at Soirée. They seemed pretty tight. As I remember, he carried a jute shoulder bag. Remember jhola —how it used to be a fashion item?”
    “Oh, yes.” In India, jholas , or shoulder bags, were fashionable among male intellectuals—or rather pseudo-intellectuals. Mitra's scrawny next-door neighbor in Kolkata, who fancied himself a man of letters but was actually a film buff, toted books and papers in his jhola . He could often be seen running for the bus with the hefty jute bag dangling from one shoulder and bumping against his hip. Tagore novels? Chekov's story collection? Shelley's poems? The only thing Mitra ever saw him fishing out of the bag was a white box of colorful sweets from Jolojog when he thought no one was looking.
    “I wonder if the man had recently arrived from India.” Mitra took a moment to think. “So who is he and why was Kareena meeting with him?”
    “Beats me.”
    “Aren't you surprised the police haven't contacted us yet?” Mitra asked.
    “They have no reason to. There's no sign of foul play.” Veen consulted her watch. “Shoot, I have to head into a meeting.”
    “I'll call the police as soon as I get home,” Mitra said.
    “Buzz me later, will you? We'll help each other through this.”
    Mitra hated