VECTOR

Ravi

CHAPTER 3

Ravi

Smoke filled the small kafe. Ravi wound through the small tables filled with men smoking everything from hookahs to cigarettes. The men had much in common—beards, traditional Pakistani robes, and headdresses. Their small coffee cups were constantly refilled by the young boys who served everyone and everything. The tables were littered with kabobs and Naan and other foods that the men tasted from time to time. Ravi knew that many had come to smoke something other than tobacco, and he could identify those men by their eyes. “Sleepy” was the only way to describe them. Of course, if the patron knew the owner, there might be something other than coffee in the cup.

Ravi found Zafar at their usual table, a small round one in the far back corner of the kafe. Ravi settled into his place even as Zafar filled two small cups from two different pitchers. Ravi knew one pitcher contained bitter, strong coffee. The other was filled with whiskey, bourbon to be specific. Zafar managed to import bottles straight from Kentucky in the United States. It was the best whiskey Ravi had ever tasted. Hidden from most of the other patrons, Ravi and Zafar could enjoy their whiskey and have plenty of time to smash the cups and pitcher should the religious police arrive. In Ravi's opinion, alcohol was stupidly forbidden, but he wasn't at all willing to test those with religious fervor. If they so much as read on some social media site that he used whiskey, a mob would form, a mob that wouldn't stop until it had meted out just punishment for his sins. Better to hide his vices in the kafe.

Zafar was kind enough to make small talk while Ravi quenched his thirst for whiskey. In his dealings, Zafar had learned that politeness often softened the hard blow. The messenger must always keep the receiver in mind. And he was more than glad when Ravi spoke.

“You have information for me?” Ravi asked.

“Indeed. My contact has managed to infiltrate the web behind the web. It was neither easy nor cheap. Luckily, his brother is in my debt.”

“And now you cannot collect? I told you that this is my burden. I will pay.”

“No, I will collect, but yes, you do owe for the information.”

“Then, I would have it.”

“And you will, but allow me to speak to methods first. She went to great lengths to hide what she does. There were many layers of subterfuge to break through. And even now, I cannot give you a complete record of her dealings. In the shadow world, little is without reservations.”

Ravi's face betrayed his anxiety. He did not like listening to the buildup. It was like listening to the chef describe the meal to come. The Chef's promise always exceeded his skill. Ravi was inevitably disappointed. There were times when he would have shot the Chef on the spot.

“So, you see, while I know what I am telling you is the truth, there are holes that need further investigation. But in plain language. She cheated.”

The words hit Ravi hard. While he had suspected this, while in his heart, he had known it, confirmation was a sour pill to swallow. It burned all the way down and lit a fire inside. He swigged whiskey, fighting the urge to break something. With Jasmine, it was always the urge to break something…even her.

“Paris?” Ravi asked.

“Yes, there.”

“Here?”

Zafar shook his head. “No, nothing here. Apparently, Paris and only Paris.”

“Who?”

“I do not know.”

Ravi frowned. “How can you say Paris and not know who?”

“She is intelligent, and I believe wary. She never mentions the name in her emails, only where and when.”

Ravi squeezed the cup in his hands. “What else?”

“Isn't that enough?”

“Do not spare me. You never leave the second bullet because it is deeper than the first.”

Zafar finished off his whiskey and refilled his cup. “She would leave you if she could.”

Ravi blinked. Again, he had suspected this. Again, knowledge did not allay the pain.

Zafar continued. “She will leave you the next time she travels. There is a conference next year in Seattle. If she goes, she will not come back.”

“You are sure of this?”

“She makes plan with an American woman who promises to help.”

Ravi knocked down his bourbon and poured more. It was not medicine, but it was better than coffee.

“Why is it always an American?” Ravi asked. “Haven't they caused enough trouble in the world?”

“They think they can save the world. They are fools.”

“Rich fools.”

A waiter appeared, and Zafar ordered kabobs. He knew that they would remain drinking for some time to come, and the whiskey would soon prove too much for him.

”This American, she knows the name of…him?” Ravi asked.

"Yes. She was in Paris, and she knew of this. It would not surprise me if she has been in touch with him.”

Ravi leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Anger coursed through him, a hot surge of hate that tinted his vision red. He had known such hate but once in his life. The memory mushroomed inside his head. He could still see her. Tahira was not the prettiest girl Ravi knew when he was sixteen, nor was she the smartest. But she was the funniest, and she also was the most rebellious. Her parents were always rebuking her and threatening to send her to the family village near the border with Afghanistan. The elders of that village would never put up with her attitude.

And Ravi liked her. He liked her in ways he could never like a boy. She was different. She made him laugh. She would sneak out at night to meet him, and at first they never even kissed. They would sneak out into the desert and stare at the sky and talk. Tahira knew something of life outside Pakistan. Her father had traveled to New York, and he returned with stories of buildings as tall as mountains and streets as wide as rivers. He said night never came. At dusk, the lights came on, and the night was a bright as the day. Most of all, he talked about food, an endless supply of the best food the world could produce. He had tried cuisine from a dozen different countries, and always, the next meal was better than the last. His trip stoked Tahira's imagination. She listened and knew she was going to leave Pakistan one day and travel around the world. She would find those tall buildings and wide streets, all that food. In the desert, she spoke of a life Ravi could little imagine.

Tahira never traveled.

Ravi had seen to that.

One night, out in the cold of the desert, under stars that saw but did not testify, he felt the urge to do more with Tahira, to explore more. He had never been with a girl; his knowledge was second hand, gleaned from the bragging of his classmates.

At first, she hadn’t minded the kissing. In fact, Ravi was certain she liked it. He even guessed that she liked what came next. He had never felt a woman’s breast, and the touch ignited a fire in his gut, an unaccustomed fire. He managed to get her half naked, her hand on his manhood. What had to come next was inevitable, wasn't it? Didn't she want it as much as he did? Didn't she burn for a coupling? It was at that moment that he told her he loved her and wanted her. He said it with all the fervor of his heart. He needed her.

And she laughed.

At another time, in another place, Ravi might have laughed with her. Had he not burned so deep or been so fervent, he might have rolled away and chuckled at the stars. But it was that place, and his young psyche could not handle her laughter. Whether intentional or accidental, it made no difference to Ravi. It was an insult that fanned the flames in his soul, flames that burned to a redness he didn't believe possible.

He slapped her first, not hard.

She touched her cheek and laughed again, thinking him playful perhaps.

The second slap snapped her head to one side. When she turned back, her lip was bleeding, the blood black in the scant light.

Only, Ravi saw red.

He punched her then, and she let out a small shriek. He punched her harder, and the shriek died. He punched her until she her eyes closed. For a moment, he hesitated, not knowing what to do next. But he did know. Human nature knew. Everything was tinged with red. He stripped her and r***d her, the best he could, although he knew he hadn't done it right. He didn't know what was the right way. He managed to climax, and that was that.

But it wasn't that.

He sat and stared at her, and he knew he was in trouble. She would be in trouble for what he had done, but so would he. Her father would demand all kinds of retribution—if he didn’t just kill to avenge his daughter. Nothing would ever be the same for Ravi. What nascent dreams he harbored would be shattered before they had ever been fully formed. He guessed he would be sent away, perhaps to that small village where the elders would beat him to teach him a lesson. That was something he could not abide.

The rock seemed to find his hand. The arm seemed to rise on its own accord. Her head split open more easily than he supposed possible. He didn't bother to check her breathing. He dragged her body to a wash he knew to be the home of some wild dogs. They would find her. He didn't stop to think about that. It was too…

Before he sneaked into his room that night, he burned his clothes. In the dark, he couldn't be sure they were not blood stained. In his room, he was almost certain that his younger brother, Zafar was awake. But since Zafar said nothing, Ravi did not check. The next morning, Ravi told his parents that he had never left the house. Zafar said he was asleep and saw nothing.

Ravi had lived with Tahira's death for years, and in his mind he always attributed her demise to that red tinge, that unfathomable anger that transformed him into a killer. Even during his harshest beatings of Jasmine, he had never seen the red. But it was in his eyes now. It was a demon now. For a moment, he considered picking up the pitcher and bashing Zafar's head. Hadn't Zafar brought him the bad news? Didn't Zafar deserve to share the pain? Ravi couldn't live with this alone, could he? His hand closed on the pitcher's handle.

“You can have revenge,” Zafar said.

Ravi stayed his hand a moment.

“According to our laws, you may kill her. It is so written.”

Ravi thought a moment. “Is there hope in her emails?”

“Much hope. She looks forward to a special time with her friend in America—and her friend in Paris.”

“Hope is a good thing, is it not?”

Zafar frowned. “Hope is the best of things. But, I do not understand.”

“If hope is the best of things, then despair must be the worst, no?”

“Despair drains the spirit. No one can live with despair.”

“Much pain can be endured if hope endures. Without hope…”

Zafar sipped whiskey. “What must I do?”

“You must give me this American woman. Where she lives, how I can find her. From her, I will get the name of the filth in Paris.”

“You must be careful.”

“They do not know me. They will not expect me. Death will come with a smile and perhaps a glass of bourbon, no?”

“Do not speak of that. There are ears everywhere.”

“When I return, I will feed her a glass of despair, an ocean of despair. I will drown her in it. Every morning when she wakes, she will curse the sun, curse the god that will not let her die. She thinks she knows pain. She knows nothing of it. But she will.”

Ravi smiled and released the pitcher. Instead, he sipped whiskey and wondered just how soon he could arrange for his trip.

Across the table, Zafar noted the smile. What had to be would be. That much, Zafar was certain of.