Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass by Emily Kimelman Page A

girl.”

ARRIVING
IN AHMEDABAD
    O ur
flight landed into the dawn of a hazy day. Pollution gave the morning mist a
sheen. This was no soft, billowing moisture left by a
cool night; it was the dregs, the smoke of an industrial dragon.
    Anita
directed our driver through streets crowded with confusion. Rickshaws, cows,
dogs, cars, wooden carts pulled by stick-thin men all pushed forward. Horns
chorused. We pulled up in front of a modern building that rose into the thick
sky, appearing to have no top. Anita dismissed the driver and then hailed two
rickshaws. “Just in case, I don’t want Kalpesh finding out where we’re
really staying,” she said, helping me into one of
the three-wheeled, black and yellow vehicles. Blue
hopped up next to me while Dan and Anita climbed into another one.
    The
driver gripped his handle bars and, twisting the throttle, directed the little
bee-like vehicle buzzing into traffic. A string of limes and hot peppers swung
from the rearview mirror, a silent, spicy prayer to keep us safe. The toot of
our horn laid down the soundtrack as we maneuvered through the brightening
morning.
    The city
that protected Shah revealed itself in glimpses. There was nothing in its
visage that spoke to the evil that did not lurk here but rather shined. His
name graced plaques on buildings halfway built, bamboo scaffolding shrouding
the construction sites. Funny to think a man responsible for the destruction of
so many lives could also be the builder of so many buildings.
    The
streets became narrower and the structures shorter and older. Anita and Dan’s
rickshaw stopped at the mouth of a slim lane across from a temple with steep
steps that led to open doors. I watched as a woman climbed those stairs, holding
her young son’s hand. Anita paid her driver and then came over and paid mine.
We waited for them to turn and leave before Anita led us away from the temple
into a maze of narrow alleys lined with thick, crumbling walls. Food littered
the streets, which were pot-holed and stank of a
thousand years of civilization. A cow with long ears and a grey and white coat
stood in the middle of the lane, munching on some of the abandoned food. He
flicked one of his giant ears at the flies that buzzed around him. Blue moved
closer to me. “It’s OK,” I told him as we passed the cow, who didn’t
take any notice of us.
    Glancing
around and finding no one in sight except
for the slowly chewing cow, Anita inserted a key into a big wooden door covered
in chipped blue paint. With a satisfying click the lock opened and Anita pushed
into a darkened room. “Hurry,” she said. Dan, Blue and I followed her
inside.
    She
closed the big door, leaving us in pitch darkness. She flipped a switch and a
string of bulbs illuminated the room we stood in. It had a ten-foot
high ceiling and walls painted a dark blue. There was no furniture and dust
covered the tile floor. “I bought this place a couple of years ago with my
brother,” Anita said.
    “Does
he live in the city?” I asked.
    Anita
nodded. “But we hardly talk, we never really did.”
    “But
you bought a place together?” Dan asked.
    Anita
smiled.
“He
thought it was a good idea, but didn’t have enough
money. I helped out. But we bought it as a company so my name’s not on
it.”
    “Good,”
I said.
    “Yes,
I’ve been staying here while researching this story.” A look crossed her
face. Perhaps she was realizing this was no longer just a story. Now it was a
choose-your-own
adventure. “This way,” Anita said as she moved toward an open door to
our right. We followed her into a kitchen. She plugged in a string of
construction bulbs that looped across the room, illuminating an old wooden
table with four chairs, built-in cabinets and a new
refrigerator that clicked over, almost as if in protest to being disturbed.
    “Are
your parents in town, too?” Dan asked.
    “They
do live here but they’re out of the city visiting my sister in the States.
That’s actually their