Solomon's story

At ten that morning, Aditya arrived at Solomon's home.

Solomon was no longer the man he had been. When Aditya entered, he almost failed to recognize him.

He lay on an old bamboo bed, covered with a thin quilt. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones pressing against his skin, as though someone had sucked all the flesh out from underneath.

His eyes were open, his pupils gray-black, like charcoal that had burned for a long time.

"You finally came," Solomon said, his voice weak and breathless, as though drifting in from far away, as faint as a breeze.

Aditya pulled up a chair and sat beside his bed.

"I brought the money," Aditya said.

Solomon shook his head. "I don't want it anymore. Keep it. The textile mill needs it."

Aditya said nothing. He set the cloth bundle on the table and did not bring it up again.

Solomon stared at the ceiling, as though searching for something. After a long time, he spoke. "Let me tell you a story."

Aditya nodded.

Many years ago, there was a young man who lived by the Mediterranean Sea. He had a wife, and his wife was carrying a child.

Unfortunately, war came. Chaos broke out. Everything descended into chaos. Everyone ran, running for their lives.

The young man ran too, taking his wife with him, running all the way across the border into a neighboring country. That country only allowed refugees to pass through, not to stay.

But his wife could run no farther. The child in her womb was too young. If she kept running, she would lose it.

With no other choice, he knelt and begged people, taking out all his money. Fortunately, those American dollars worked, and his wife managed to stay in the neighboring country.

He kept running, all the way to India. Later, he discovered he could no longer go back. It was not that he did not want to. He could not.

He started doing business in India. He was quick-witted and made some money in Mumbai.

Money could make even ghosts turn the millstone. He spent a great, great deal of money and learned that his wife and daughter were both alive and well.

Later, he got in touch with his wife and daughter. He sent them money, every month. He wrote letters. He sent money.

His wife sent him photographs of their daughter. The girl grew older and older, in photographs, on sheets of letter paper.

In a letter, the girl asked, "Why doesn't Daddy come?"

He could only remain silent, and the girl's mother could only say, "Daddy is busy."

His wife had developed health problems after her pregnancy and could not endure long journeys, let alone travel thousands of miles with a child and fly to India.

More than twenty years passed like that. His wife's health grew worse and worse, and his daughter gradually grew up. Not long ago, his wife died, and his daughter disappeared too. He could no longer reach her.

Solomon stopped, as though something had lodged in his throat.

Aditya did not interrupt. He knew whose story this was now.

Solomon slowly turned to look at Aditya. There were no tears in his eyes, only a faint glimmer of hope.

"That girl is in Israel. Aditya, go there for me. Don't let her know I'm dying. Just say her mother left something with me, and I want to give it to her. Bring her back. Once I'm dead, she won't have to stay. Bring her back, and I'll transfer my company in Mumbai to you."

Aditya sat there without answering right away.

Sunlight filtered through the window lattice and fell on Solomon's hand, which was so thin that only a skeleton remained.

Aditya thought for a long time before speaking. "All right, I'll go. You don't need to give me the company. Consider it repayment for the favor you did me by lending me money."

The corners of Solomon's mouth twitched, forming an ugly smile.

"I wasn't wrong about you. You're more straightforward than I thought," he said.

"I'm not going for you," Aditya said. "I'm going for a soul trapped in a foreign land."

Solomon looked at him for a while, then nodded. "Whatever the case, thank you!"

Solomon pointed to the leather bag on the table beside him. "Mary's information is in there, along with the address where she and her mother used to live."

Aditya rose and picked up the leather bag. He reached the doorway, then stopped and glanced back at Solomon.

Solomon had already closed his eyes, as though asleep.

Aditya stood there for a few seconds, then went out.

The alley still smelled of cow dung mixed with earth.

He suddenly felt that Solomon's five hundred thousand had come with a price tag the moment he lent it out.

Aditya had no regrets. He was grateful to the old man and sympathized with what he had suffered.

He would go, go to Israel and bring the old man's daughter back. This was Solomon's final request before he departed.

Aditya reached the mouth of the alley, pulled open the car door, and tossed the leather bag onto the passenger seat.

Aditya walked halfway around the vehicle and sat in the driver's seat, but did not start the engine right away. He looked at the dingy gray wall ahead. A clump of grass grew on top, swaying gently as the wind blew past.

He cursed, "This really is fucking India."

Then he turned the key. The jeep gave a low growl and drove out of the alley.

By the time he reached the Mishra Family's ancestral home, his mother, Sushila, and Dipali had already prepared dinner.

Aditya washed his hands and went into the main room to sit down. Sushila brought out hot flatbread and mashed potatoes.

Dipali stood to one side. She was especially quiet today, like a completely different person from the night before.

What had happened last night seemed to have left her feeling a little awkward. She looked dazed and said nothing.

"Dipali, sit down and eat too," Aditya ordered.

Dipali murmured assent and sat down quietly to one side. For some reason, her face was covered in a blush.

After dinner, Aditya went to the shrine room to light the lamps. His grandfather, Patil, stood with his back to him, passing an old string of prayer beads through his fingers.

"Grandfather, I'm going on a long trip tomorrow," Aditya said.

Patil did not turn around. "Where?"

"First to Mumbai, then to Israel."

Patil's fingers paused on the prayer beads. Puzzled, he asked, "Israel? That place that's always fighting the Arabs on the radio?"

"It's not all fighting. It's peaceful now," Aditya said.

"Do you know your way around a place like that?"

"It's all arranged. I'll fly there from Mumbai."

Patil was silent for a while, then said, "Your father was like that back then too, heading off to New Delhi at a young age. You're even bolder than your father, leaving India altogether. Take more money with you. When you're away from home, pay what needs to be paid. Don't let people look down on you."

"I know," Aditya said.

"Don't take off your sacred thread. Whatever other people believe in, you're a member of the Mishra Family. Go."

Aditya murmured assent and withdrew.

He returned to his room, pushed the door mostly closed, and lit the small oil lamp. Then he sat by the bed and opened the leather bag.

On top were five paper-wrapped bundles tied with hemp cord. He opened one corner and recognized a stack of US dollars.

They were very new, the designs on the notes perfectly clear, without a single crease. Five bundles, ten thousand in each, fifty thousand US dollars in all.

Aditya's eyelid twitched.

Fifty thousand US dollars would only have bought a bag in Lujiazui in his previous life.

But this was Varanasi in 1992. This money could build a building, could buy another half a factory in Kanpur.

Solomon was not asking him to run an errand. He had thrust both his life and his money into Aditya's hands.

Beneath the money lay several photographs.

The first was black and white. A young woman stood by the sea, her hair blowing in the wind. On the back was written, "Sara, 1968."

The second showed a little girl holding a Labrador retriever, grinning broadly. On the back was written, "Mary, age five."

The third was a photograph of Sara with a man. The man was far younger than Solomon was now. On the back was written, "Tel Aviv, 1971."

Aditya turned it over again and studied it for a long time. Solomon wore a suit in the photograph, his tie slightly crooked, as though he did not quite know how to tie it.

Farther down was an old silver bracelet, already tarnished and blackened.

Beside it lay a slender copper pendant, the sort a little girl would wear, its edges all worn smooth. Aditya held the pendant up to the lamp. There were still a few engraved marks on it, but he could not make out what the writing was.