the worst time.
Dick was the only one who called in the mornings and he called only in an emergency. I hoped our order hadn’t changed at the last minute.
“Hello?” I mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste.
But there was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone. Did they just hang up? The dial tone kicked in. Why can't people check before dialing? I thought as I hurried back to the bathroom.
I had a long to-do list that morning, including a run to the specialty grocery store before heading to the bakery. My forty-fifth catering order for the Department of Diplomacy, Development and Foreign Affairs was due that morning, an order for two-hundred-and-fifty Cognac and Coffee Cupcakes.
The faceless man at the department—the one who’d explained the diplomatic caste system the other day—told me, with sufficient awe in his voice, the defense minister, herself, was to preside over this fund-raiser. The order was a big deal for my client and me.
Jose had reluctantly bought the smallest bottle of the highest-priced cognac I’d asked him to buy the week before. He was as cheap as Dick, but he had no choice. We had a contract to follow. It wasn’t exactly Rémy Martin Louis XIII Black Pearl, Limited Edition, of which I’d learned only a hundred cases existed in the world, but it was miles ahead of Dick's cheap rum. With two hours to get the order ready, I now had everything, except for one main ingredient. I’d run out of ground coffee beans.
My life had taken on a new urgency after meeting the Diplomatic Dragon Lady. The Department had asked us to sign a yearlong contract that was as long as it was detailed. It even specified the quality of flour and type of organic sugar I was allowed to use for baking, obviously an inclusion from the Dragon Lady herself.
Ironically, just as Mrs. Rao used to, the Dragon Lady sent me a menu with special instructions before every diplomatic event. Unlike Mrs. Rao, the Diplomatic Dragon Lady’s demands were beautifully crafted and handwritten on stiff paper with the department’s official insignia. It was a pleasant surprise to not be subjected to condescending barks or dismissive snorts for once.
I wondered for a long time why she’d picked me over the others, especially the self-assured baker of the gorgeous top model of a cake. That is, until one day, the faceless man on the phone at the department explained. The Lady, he said, had been tired of the same predictable menu items. She had wanted pizazz and zing, but with a Goldilocks quality—not so crazy it would unsettle their sophisticated guests, but not so understated that people wouldn’t notice. My cakes gave just the right unexpected twist to the department’s parties, a twist that got everyone talking afterward.
But there was something more which I suspected clinched the deal. She’d been looking for a caterer who wasn’t only good at the job, but also obedient enough to take detailed directions every week. The baker of the top-model cake was superb, the man on the phone told me, but everyone in town knew he was a drama queen.
I never spoke with the Diplomatic Dragon Lady again.
But after six months on the job, I got a hand-delivered letter on official paper, thanking me for my service to the department. It was the first time anyone had formally acknowledged my talents. When I showed it proudly to everyone at the bakery, Jose slapped me on the back with a “Good on ya,” and Dick grunted his approval. Katy promptly made a copy, enlarged it, framed it, and hung it up in front.
A few times when I was making a delivery, I caught sight of the Dragon Lady getting ushered out of her white limo by the chauffeur. Whenever she noticed me, which was rare, she’d give me a brief nod with a queen-like wave. She never smiled. I knew her by then—she wasn’t one to show petty emotions. Her focus was on getting the job done and getting it done right. Regardless, I’d wave back enthusiastically with my brightest smile, suppressing the itch to run over and say thank you, thank you, thank you!
The word was spreading. My small cakes were becoming popular, and one day, we got the ultimate compliment.
Katy took a call from the French embassy, with the caller saying the referral had come from the Diplomatic Dragon Lady herself. New world cupcakes for the old world of croissants, chocolate éclairs, and Chef Pierre’s headquarters. When Katy told me about the call, I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and did a happy dance around the kitchen while Jim eyed me with suspicion from the top of the door.
From there, we got three more contracts. Before I knew it, five embassies were offering us catering jobs. Jose was pleased. I was bringing in clients and cash. I was also doing most of the work, baking and making deliveries with Katy. Neither Jose nor Dick lifted a finger. Either way, the two men seemed busy with other things.
I was getting close to my goal. I’d passed my eighteenth birthday and had spent over three and a half years in Toronto by now.
Thanks to my arrangement with Jose, in eight months I had enough to buy an airline ticket. And in three more months, I’d also have enough to pay off Kristadasa, Franky, the marriage broker and anyone else who might lurk around, making it difficult to get Preeti out of her marriage. I was now working for insurance money. I didn't want to arrive in Goa unprepared and penniless, so I worked furiously every day, saving every dollar in a box under my bed.
Saving wasn’t easy though. Our rent had been hiked again, and if we were late by a day, we paid hefty interest charges, which Randy refused to reconsider. “You pay or you go,” he’d say whenever we pleaded our case. The apartment was getting expensive. I was thankful Katy kept paying her half though she spent more nights at Jose’s place these days.
When I suggested we give up the apartment altogether—that Katy officially move in with her new boyfriend and I move into the shop and sleep on Dick’s couch to save money—it fell on deaf ears. Neither Jose nor Dick nor Katy wanted to even discuss it.
I wondered about Katy. Though she was still starry-eyed about Jose, I got the distinct feeling something was not right. She kept saying she wanted to keep the apartment in case she needed to move back quickly.
“Why?” I’d asked. “Is everything okay?”
“You never know,” she’d said, with a shrug. “Just good to have my own place.” Then she’d changed topic. Katy was a private person, so I knew she’d tell me when the time was right.
Thirty seconds after I’d put the phone down, it rang again.
Again?
“Hewwo?” I answered, my toothbrush still in my mouth.
Whirr... buzzzz... Static.
I had little time for pranks that morning. This time, I’m calling the phone company to blacklist this number. I was about to hang up when a crackled voice came through.
“Is this Asha?”
My heart sank.
It was the same voice as the previous mysterious caller. The same Indian accent. I hadn’t dreamed it up, I was sure now. The voice was muffled as if the caller had a bad cold or something. With the headset stuck to my ear, I ran to the bathroom, pulled out my toothbrush, and spat into the sink.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Someone pay very good money for visa.”
“Who...who are you?”
“You cannot run away all the time.” There was something familiar about the way he spoke. “You’re a very bad girl, you know.”
“I said, who are you?” I demanded.
“Franky is disappointed, very disappointed with you.”
The bathroom felt suffocating. I stepped through the door, half expecting to find the intruder inside our apartment. It was early and Katy was still asleep; it being one of those rare nights she’d slept at our apartment.
I walked toward the kitchen with the phone glued to my ear, my legs wobbly. I leaned against the table and clutched the back of a chair to steady myself.
“Tell me who you are.” I tried to sound as authoritative as I could. “If you don’t, I’m going to call the police.”
To my surprise, I heard a chuckle. “If you want to go to prison, go ahead. Go, right ahead. Otherwise, we are waiting for you here.”
A chill went through my spine.
“Waiting for what? Where?”
“You must keep promises.”
“I never made any.”
The phone went dead before I could say anything else. The buzz and crackles ceased, leaving a monotonous dial tone.
“Morning.”
I jumped and whirled around. A sleepy Katy was stumbling into the kitchen in her pink pajamas, her hair askew.
“What’s the matter?” she said stopping to squint at me. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Nothing. It’s...er...just a prank call.” I put the phone down quickly and picked up the kettle with shaking hands. “Want some tea?”
“Sure, thanks,” Katy said, pulling out a chair to sit down. “Must have been a heck of a prank to make you shake like that.”
I stood still for a full minute, before turning around.
“Katy, there’s something I need to tell you.”