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

building we went to originally. Hopefully Kalpesh will
think we are staying there.” Anita pointed toward a darkened stairwell in
the corner of the kitchen. “The bedrooms are upstairs,” she said.
“There is plenty of room.”
    Handing
Dan a flashlight she started up the darkened stairs, lighting our way with her
own torch. The white beam of light caught the dust that floated in the still
air. The steps were narrow and steep, curving up into the floor above.
    We came
out into a small bedroom. A single bed, neatly made, was pushed up against one
of the walls. A wooden desk piled with paperwork faced a large window, its curtains
drawn. Anita went and pulled back the drapes. Sun poured into the room
revealing cracks as thin and elegant as a spider’s web, that lined the floor
and walls.
    I
watched as Anita dropped her bag onto the bed and then walked back over to her
desk. I could picture her sitting there pouring over notes, pacing back and
forth trying to puzzle it all out; almost
like a prisoner or a monk. Either way,
someone paying penance in the hope of freedom. I recognized her obsession and
worried again about her telling this story. 
    Looking
up from her desk Anita pointed to another set of steps. “You guys are up
there. And the bathroom is through there,” she said,
pointing to a door to our right. Dan climbed the steps first. We came out into
a room with windows all the way around. Its walls were painted black, but the
sun had bleached them into more of a slate grey.
    A double
bed with clean white sheets on it sat in the middle of the floor which was
painted ochre, also bleached by the sun. Dan dropped onto the bed and immediately
pulled out his laptop. I walked over to one of the windows and pushed aside the
white curtains. Rooftops spread before me. We were in the center of the old
city. A rim of taller buildings surrounded the enclave of three-
and four-story
homes. Most of the roofs seemed in disrepair, many were corrugated steel, but a
few sported fresh new tiles.
    Anita
came up behind me and looked out the window. “Shah’s place is that way,”
she said,
gesturing with her chin. “The parapets provide some shade,” she said,
pointing to a low wall that separated two rooftops. “The ladies will sit
on mattresses while the men fly the kites.”
    “Women
never fly them?” I asked, imagining women in
bright colors laying in the shade while men and boys flew kites.
    “Some
do. I did,” Anita said.
    I
glanced at her and she was smiling, looking out over the rooftops. “Were
you any good?” I asked.
    She
laughed and turned back into the room. “Yeah, I was pretty damn
good.”
    “Sydney,”
Dan said,
and we both turned to him. He was looking down at his computer screen. “I
got an email back from a woman at one of the NGO’s I contacted. She wants to
meet.”
    “OK,”
I said. “Where?”
    “At
her offices.” He started typing. “I’ll tell her we can come today,
right?” Dan glanced up at me and I nodded.

FEAR IN FAITH
    T he Better Indian Children’s Fund
offices were in a dusty building in a shabby neighborhood without sidewalks or
traffic signals. At the entrance, broken
tile was piled up next to bare cement steps in what looked like an abandoned
plan to refurbish the facade.
    After
exhaustive research Dan had come to the conclusion that they were our best bet.
Founded by Chloe Denison, an American who’d originally
landed in India with the Peace Corps,
the organization cared for street kids, educating them, and offering a safe
haven. From what Dan could find they were clean, broke but clean.
    Chloe
Denison, a slight woman with white-blonde
hair and eyelashes that were almost clear, looked over the rim of her large
glasses at us. She was in her early thirties, fine
lines radiated from her pale blue eyes and dark circles showed how little she
slept. Her tongue, pink and wet, curled out of her mouth, running across her
lips in a nervous gesture.
    Dan and
I sat across from Chloe, a