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Why was it that the people you trusted most always betrayed you? Rakesh leaned against the edge of the twenty-seater conference room table and tapped his fingers on its wooden surface while waiting for more Japanese board members of Tashukomo Electronics to take their seats. He strode to the pull-down screen in the Grand Hyatt’s Platinum Meeting Room, turned, and looked at the men.
Identical mops of black hair capped their heads, except for one bald, overweight man. Five, he counted. Not good. Ten should be here.
“Gentlemen,” Rakesh addressed them, but mentally scoffed at the word. They looked anything but gentle. “Thank you for flying all the way from Osaka to meet here in Hong Kong.”
The Japanese had a meeting scheduled tomorrow afternoon with directors of Hutchison Whampoa, Hong Kong’s leading investor in real estate, retail sales, and telecommunications. Hutchison was also the dragon Tashukomo Electronics had been trying to partner with for the last three years. Unsuccessfully. Rakesh had learned of their meeting and seized the opportunity to take Indo-Japanese trade relations to a new level.
“Should we wait for the others?” Rakesh pointed to the empty chairs.
“That won’t be necessary.” The bald man rose to his feet. “Others cannot come. I am Daichi Tanaka, CEO.” He stretched the ‘o’ sound, bowed from the waist, and righted himself. “We are pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. Thank you.” Rakesh narrowed his attention on the man’s navy-blue suit. Louis Vuitton. He nodded and smiled. You could tell a Vuitton a mile away from the signature cut. He reciprocated with a bow. Japanese customs were all the rage back home, thanks to an influx of multinational corporate tie-ups. Rakesh had never bowed to anyone in his life, except Papa.
“We can begin when you are ready,” Vuitton suit said. “But first we would like to introduce ourselves.”
Rakesh felt his shoulders relax. The six-hour flight, delayed because of Typhoon Susan, hadn’t left him enough time to check into his room and freshen up before this meeting. However, the temp Chinese employee had efficiently managed all the meeting’s trivialities, including setting up the room, prior to his arrival. The Japanese mattered most. If the deal went through, he wouldn’t have to worry about the bank’s threatened takeover, and Yash wouldn’t have to struggle in the future.
As board members introduced themselves, a pinprick of pain pinched his chest and rippled around his abdomen. Rakesh took a step back and held his breath. He’d never experienced anything like this before. Jitters? Butterflies? Impossible. He straightened his posture, pulled the edges of his jacket closed, glided the heel of a palm over a brown basket-weave silk tie, and buttoned the jacket.
No mistakes. Not now. He took a deep breath. Not when thirty-thousand employees and their families depended on him to seal this deal. He gestured to the temp Chinese assistant to close the door, dim the lights, and wait for further instruction.
Rakesh tapped several laptop keys and began his presentation about the new era in India’s growth. He ran slide shows and videos that had taken top executives of Dhanraj & Son a month to put together. He focused on today’s tech-savvy, money-loaded, globalized generation, eager to buy the latest car, designer brands, clothes, and electronic gizmos. He shared a map of India that pinpointed the locations of hundreds of new malls built across the country in the last two years and described fortunes waiting to be reaped. More bar graphs, pie charts, and statistics followed.
He finished with a focus on how Dhanraj & Son, importers and warehousers of major home appliances and luxury clothing brands, was positioned to help Tashukomo profit from India’s booming economy.
The men’s eyes widened, and Rakesh sensed their growing interest. “It’s a shame your colleagues couldn’t be here.” He gestured to the empty seats. “I would have had the pleasure of meeting them in person.”
“We didn’t think it necessary for everyone to attend just yet.” The Vuitton suit sat back. “But tell me, Mr. Dhanraj, how can you guarantee that you will fulfill all your tall promises? I don’t see anyone else from your company.” He looked around the room as if in search of someone. “Only you.”
I alone am enough to take on all of you. Rakesh feigned checking his cell phone before returning his attention to Vuitton suit. “You’ll meet them shortly on video conference. Isn’t technology wonderful? Anyway, I just sealed a five-million-dollar deal with Hutchison Whampoa.”
Vuitton suit raised his eyebrows.
“I understand your interest in Whampoa and I can pull a few strings for you. So perhaps it’s in your best interest to work with us.” He pressed a few laptop buttons. The image on the screen fuzzed and then sharpened to a livestream feed of Indian men and women dressed in dark business suits, seated around a rectangular conference table.
“I’d like to introduce you to the executive board members of Dhanraj & Son. Live from Raigun, India. I hope they can address all your questions and concerns.”
Two hours later, Rakesh shook hands with the board members of Tashukomo Electronics as they filed out of the room. Papa would have been proud. No, not proud. Surprised at how stellar the meeting had gone. Too bad Papa had died of a heart attack.
Rakesh experienced another pinprick. Is this how Papa felt when the attack came on?
Vuitton suit broke away from the group and approached Rakesh. “Well, I must say, Mr. Dhanraj, I am very impressed. I think all our doubts have been cleared. I will discuss this with our colleagues in Osaka and contact you after two weeks.”
Rakesh smiled. There was nothing more to discuss. He’d won them over.
***
Rakesh scowled past a shoulder in a navy blazer to another two men in the Grand Hyatt’s reception queue and gritted his teeth. If not for the delayed landing, he’d have checked in hours ago. Not standing in line. Back home in India, employees jumped hoops to do his bidding. But on foreign shores, the value of the rupee lagged behind all the major currencies, and VIP treatment barely existed on a shoestring budget. Exhausted, Rakesh wanted to force the three men out of his way, get his key card, and go up to his room.
Groups of noisy Japanese tourists littered the lobby in clusters, each one led by a tour guide armed with a clipboard and a black cap. Beyond the hotel’s glass wall, which offered a view of the entrance, a bus pulled up and one of the groups raced to board the vehicle. Rakesh turned away, not accustomed to such unrefined behavior. Ridiculous!
A cramp tightened around his chest for a split second, causing Rakesh to grit his teeth. Molar pushed against molar and his jaw ached. He fished in his breast pocket, pulled out a thick brown cigar and rolled it between his fingers. It felt good. He lit the tip, in violation of “No Smoking” signs. The aroma of roasted tobacco filled his nostrils and spiraled down his lungs. Every tight-wired chord in his body sagged with relief.
A cough caused Rakesh to turn around. He fixed his attention on the man standing behind him, on the man’s Adam’s apple bobbing futilely beneath the brown flesh. Rakesh looked up at the blond-and-brown highlights tinting the man’s wavy black hair, the coarse features, and the light stubble. A wave of excitement rushed through him.
“Excuse me,” the receptionist called out. “Next?”
His gaze drifted past the wrinkled hem of the man’s blue Nike T-shirt, which fluttered about his waist, past the frayed hem of the brown Bermuda shorts, down the thick, black hairs curling on his legs. The tattered threads running the perimeter of the man’s moccasins held his attention. Nice.
The man cleared his throat again, his expression blank, and then he pointed to the receptionist’s desk.
Rakesh turned around, picked up his black-leather Versace briefcase and strode forward, leaving a cloud of smoke behind.
“Good evening. Welcome to the Grand Hyatt,” the receptionist’s high-pitched nasal, Cantonese accent jarred his hearing while the odor of fish thickened on the air.
Rakesh chewed on the cigar held in the right corner of his mouth and blew away the salty sea odor with a fog of tobacco. Her face wrinkled in irritation. L. Leung in gold letters sparkled against a strip of black plastic pinned to her maroon blazer pocket.
“Your name, sir?”
“Rakesh Dhanraj.” The cigar vibrated with each consonant. He inhaled a mouthful of warm air and blew it to the right.
She coughed and then paused to look at him. “No smoking, sir. Is not allowed.”
“What a shame.”
She waved the air like his wife often did, scattering the smoke. “Hotel policy.”
In India, he defied just about every policy in an unbalanced economy where wealth determined more than net worth and having too much money extended all privileges. “Here.” He shoved a hundred Hong Kong dollar note across the counter. “It’s on me.”
“Payment accepted at check-out.” She slid the red note back across the counter. “No smoking in public places. Government policy.”
Rakesh’s blood heated. He drummed his fingernails on the marble counter. Leung gave him the glare, the kind of glare his wife frequently did.
“Please sir, put it out. This hotel is smoke free.”
Not if I light your ass on fire. Rakesh gritted his teeth harder. He turned to his left and right, then shrugged. “No ashtray. Government policy. Is not allowed.” He drilled the burning end of the Robusto on the sparkling granite countertop and watched her lips freeze in an O. Surrounding people stopped to watch.
Leung immediately looked down, her shocked expression disappearing behind a curtain of falling black hair.
“Room four-three-three-four.” She slid a plastic card at him and lowered her hands to the keyboard. “Enjoy your stay with us.”
“How can I?” Rakesh asked. “This hotel is smoke free.” He was about to head straight for the corridor of elevators when he paused, turned to look at the receptionist one more time, and added as an afterthought, “Please send my suitcase up in two hours. Do not disturb until then.”
Rakesh stepped into an empty elevator and a group of Asian tourists rushed in. They pressed him against the wall and out of reach of the control panel. Rakesh clamped his jaw, feeling an ache. Back home, his stare would have been enough to cordon off the elevator for himself because people knew who he was. Here, he was left to balance himself in the throes of the crowd. The odor of stale fish and sweat overwhelmed his lungs. Rakesh pressed his back to the wall, tightening his grip on the briefcase’s leather handle. Just as the doors started to glide shut, the front curve of a moccasin shoe plugged the closing door. Oh fuck! “Take the next one.”
“I’m sorry,” the man in the blue Nike T-shirt replied, the sound of crisp r’s thickening his Indian accent. He stood two inches taller than Rakesh’s six feet two. “I’m in a rush.” He squeezed in and the doors closed, sealing in the fragrance of the man’s Gillette aftershave.
One of the tourists, a frail-looking man, turned to Rakesh. “Ah...which floor?”
“Forty-three, please. Penthouse suite.” The elevator made its way up.
“Ah, you speak good English. Like an American.” The Japanese man, apparently the leader of the group, who wore a red baseball cap to signify his position as translator, touched the number crowning the metallic panel to his immediate right. Luminous red rings haloed the numbers forty-three and twenty-six.
“Urrr...which floor?” The Japanese tourist in the red cap turned button pusher asked the other Indian man.
“Same.” He balled his fingers, each as thick as Rakesh’s Robusto, into fists and crossed his arms, each double the size of Rakesh’s biceps, as he stared at the blinking panel above the elevator’s door.
Rakesh’s nerves tingled from head to toe, and warmth spread across his body. The zipper of his trousers strained against a swelling.
The button pusher turned to Rakesh. “Where you study?”
“Harvard.” After securing his US MBA, he’d returned to India to manage his father’s business empire. An empire he’d been promised upon his return.
“You here on business?”
“Yes.”
The button pusher nodded to the others in his group and a chorus of “Hai” followed.
“We also here for travel. And business.”
Rakesh smiled and acknowledged the remark. Sometimes anonymity had a way of working to his advantage.
“I here to meet new company.” The group’s spokesman interlocked his fingers into one fist. “Partnership. Become strong.” He smiled, revealing four golden molars. “Unite. One. Hai!”
“I, too.” Rakesh placed his leather briefcase on the floor and straightened. He had wanted to unite with his father and run the family business as equals, as promised. It never happened. “Here on business. Come to meet new company.”
Rakesh made a fist, rammed it against his open left palm, and curled all five fingers of his left hand around the closed knuckles' edges. “Become stronger. Unite.” Takeover. “Hai.” The elevator paused on the twenty-sixth floor, jolted as if the doors were supposed to open, and then rushed up against the force of gravity.
The tourists frowned and mumbled.
When the elevator stopped and the doors glided open on the forty-third floor, Rakesh picked up his briefcase and stepped forward. He elbowed the button pusher aside, leaned his arm across the metallic panel as if to regain balance after a stumble, and dragged his arm down, pushing all forty-two buttons. The Indian man hopped out and Rakesh turned back to face his audience. “Sayonara.” Manners were important. “Last floor, guys. You won’t miss your stop this time. Promise. Only way is down.” Then Rakesh stepped out and turned around to watch the tourists’ appalled expressions before the elevator door closed.
Rakesh headed right and dug into his jacket pocket for the plastic card. He slipped it into a thin slit below the doorknob. The door buzzed and a light flashed green. Rakesh pushed open the door to his suite.
Golden knobs, hand-pleated upholstery, roses in a crystal vase, and chandeliers greeted him. A welcome basket of fruit rested on a glass coffee table. Perfect. Rakesh put his briefcase down and took a deep breath. The scent of tea roses cleared his lungs of the fish smell that had nearly suffocated him during the elevator ride.
Then came a knock.
He spun around and yanked open the door.
The Nike T-shirt man entered the room. Rakesh slammed the door shut and locked it. The fragrance of lemony Gillette filled his nostrils.
Every molecule in Rakesh’s body throbbed with excitement. Electricity tingled his skin. His heart beat harder, quicker. He ran his fingers along the soft Bermuda shorts. The flesh beneath the fabric yielded under the pressure of his fingers, igniting a thrill that rushed through his veins. Fucking sweet. Heat threatened to consume him. Rakesh stroked the hairs running the length of Kartik’s arms. Each hair curled and pricked him with needle-like static. “I missed you.”
“Same here, man.”
Both men began to undress. Kartik yanked his shirt buttons open and Rakesh inhaled long, deep breaths as the zipper mounting his growing bulge tightened. Every inch of exposed skin shivered under the silent breeze of air conditioning. His body yearned toward Kartik’s hungry pull.
When they were done, Rakesh sat up. Their clothing lay in a mismatched heap on the floor, mirroring the tangle of their dark and pale limbs on the bed. Rakesh freed himself from the man’s giant arm and lit a Robusto.
He regarded Kartik. Hard to believe they’d only known each other for five months. They’d met at a business convention in Raigun and been together since. He chewed on the tip of the cigar and exhaled. These moments felt good. So good. Moments that evaporated like the smoke from the cigar, all too quickly. Moments to be hushed behind hotel doors, away from public view, because their love was a sin. He looked at Kartik. How would Papa react if he could see him now? Surprised? Shocked? No. Rakesh blew a halo of smoke. Mortified.
Four days, three nights. He tapped his cigar against the edge of a Swarovski ashtray. That summed up the time they had together before he had to return home to his wife. A pain-in-the-ass wife.
Sheetal.