I forced myself to sit back and take several deep breaths. The richness of the sunrise would have been wondrous at any other time. Even the empty, scarred high-rises and lean-tos in the muddy fields seemed cleansed by the sun's benediction. Women carrying tall bronze pots threw ten-foot shadows in the verdant ditches.

"You're sure she's all right?" I asked again.

"We are almost there," said Singh.

We swept up the curved drive past black and yellow taxis with their rooftops diamonded by raindrops, their drivers sprawled sleeping across front seats. Our own car had not quite stopped when we flung open the doors.

"Which way?"

Singh came around the car pointing. We moved quickly into the terminal. Caught up in our impatient rush, Singh jogged around the sprawled and sheeted forms sleeping on the filthy tiled floor. "Here," he said, opening a scuffed door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY in English as well as Bengali. An Untouchable woman squatted in the corridor, sweeping dirt and paper into a small dustpan. Fifteen steps took us to a large room broken up by partitions and counters. I could hear teletypes and typewriters clacking.

I saw them immediately, the Indian couple, huddled in a far corner; the young woman holding the baby to her chest. They were strangers, little more than children themselves. The man was short and shifty-eyed. Every few seconds he would raise his right hand to brush at his unsuccessful attempt at a mustache. The girl was even younger than the man and plain to the point of homeliness. The scarf she wore did not hide stringy hair nor the smudged crimson dot which marked the center of her forehead.

But as we stopped twenty feet from them, Amrita and I had eyes only for the heavily wrapped bundle the woman was rapidly rocking. The child's face was not visible. We could see only a pale hint of cheek.

We walked closer. A great ache began in my diaphragm and rose to my chest. I ignored it. Inspector Singh motioned to the uniformed security guard who had snapped to attention. The guard brusquely said something to the young man, who immediately rose from the bench and walked nervously to the counter. As he stood, the girl shifted to let him pass and we caught a glimpse of the baby's face in the thick folds of the shawl.

It was Victoria. Sleeping, pale almost to the point her skin glowed, but beyond any doubt it was Victoria.

Amrita let out a cry then, and everyone moved at once. The young man must have tried to bolt, because the security guard and another man from behind the counter rapidly pinned his arms back. The girl slid across the bench into the corner and clutched the baby to her breast while she began rocking quickly and babbling something that sounded like a nursery rhyme. Amrita, the Inspector, and I advanced quickly together as if to cut off any escape route the girl might consider, but she only turned her face to the green wall and began wailing more loudly.

Singh tried to restrain Amrita then, but she took three quick steps forward, pulled the woman's head back sharply by her hair, and removed Victoria from her grasp with a sweep of her left arm.

Everyone was shouting. For some reason I took several steps back as Amrita lifted our daughter high and began unwrapping her from the filthy purple shawl.

Amrita's first cry cut through the rest of the noise and reduced the room to silence. I continued backing up until I struck a counter. As Amrita's screams started, I turned away in slow motion and lowered my face and clenched fists to the cool countertop.

"Awww," I said. It was a soft noise and it came up out of my earliest childhood. "Awww," I said. "Aww, no, please." I pressed my cheek tight against the countertop and struck my fists again my ears, but I could plainly hear when Amrita's cries turned to sobs.

I still have the report somewhere — the copy of the one Singh sent to Delhi. Like everything else in India, the paper is cheap and inferior. The type is so faint as to be almost transparent, a dull child's idea of a secret message. It doesn't matter. I do not need to see the report to recall its exact wording.

22.7.77 C.M.P.D./D.D.A.S.S. 2671067

SECURITY GUARD JAGMOAN (YASHPAL,

D.D.A. SEC. SERV. 1113) PROCESSED THE

COUPLE IDENTIFIED BY PAPERS AS CHOW-

DURY, SUGATA AND DEVI, TRAVELING WITH

INFANT TO LONDON, U.K., FOR PLEASURE,

AT 04:28/21.7.77. SECURITY GUARD JAG-

MOAN DETAINED THE COUPLE AT CUSTOMS

SECTION B-11 BECAUSE OF POSSIBLE RE-

COGNITION OF SAID INFANT AS MISSING

AMERICAN LUCZAK INFANT, REPORTED

KIDNAPPED ON 18.7.77 [RE: C.M.P.D. CASE

NO. 117, dt, 18.7.77(S.R. SO/) SINGH.]

INSPECTOR YASHWAN SINGH (C.M.PD. 26774) AND

LUCZAKS (ROBERT C. AND AMRITA D.)

ARRIVED TO CONFIRM INFANT'S IDENTITY AT

05:41/21.7.77. INFANT WAS POSITIVELY

IDENTIFIED AS VICTORIA CAROLYN LUCZAK b.

22.1.77. UPON FURTHER INSPECTION BY

CHILD'S MOTHER, IT WAS DISCOVERED

THAT INFANT VICTORIA C. LUCZAK HAD

BEEN DECEASED FOR SEVERAL HOURS.

COUPLE IDENTIFIED AS SUGATA AND DEVI

CHOWDURY SUBSEQUENTLY WERE PLACED

UNDER ARREST AND TRANSPORTED TO

C.M.P.D.H.Q. CHOWRINGHEE: SUSPICION OF

CONSPIRACY TO KIDNAP, CONSPIRACY TO

MURDER, AND ATTEMPTING TO TRANSPORT

STOLEN GOODS ACROSS INTERNATIONAL

BOUNDARIES. AUTOPSY REPORT [RE: LUCZAK —

C.M.P.D./M.E. 2671067/21.7.77] CONFIRMED

THAT THE LUCZAK INFANT HAD BEEN

DECEASED FOR A PERIOD OF NO MORE

THAN FIVE (5) HOURS AND NO LESS

THAN TWO (2) HOURS AND THAT SAID INFANT'S

BODY HAD BEEN USED AS A DEPOSITORY

TO TRANSPORT STOLEN MERCHANDISE: LIST

AND VALUE ESTIMATES APPENDED:

   RUBIES (6)          RS. 1,115,000

   SAPPHIRE (4)      RS. 762,000

   OPALS (4)              RS. 136,000

   AMETHYST (2)       RS. 742,000

   TOURMALINE (5)    RS. 380,000

FURTHER DETAILS CONTACT SINGH (YASH-

WAN C.M.P.D. 26774). END REPORT.

Chapter Fifteen

Calcutta would not let us go. For two more days the city held us in its fetid grasp.

Amrita and I would not leave Victoria alone with them. Even during the police autopsy and the undertaker's preparations, we waited in nearby rooms.

Singh told us that we would have to remain in Calcutta for several weeks, at least until the hearings were completed. I told him we would not. Each of us gave a deposition to a bored-looking stenographic clerk.

The man from the American Embassy in New Delhi arrived. He was an officious little rabbit of a man named Don Warden. His idea of dealing with the unhelpful Indian bureaucrats was to apologize to them and explain to us how complicated we had made things by insisting on taking our child's body home so quickly.

On Saturday we rode to the airport for the final time. Warden, Amrita, and I were crowded into the backseat of a rented old Chevrolet. It was raining very hard, and the inside of the closed vehicle was hot and very humid. I did not notice. I had eyes only for the small white hospital van we were following. It did not use its emergency lights in the heavy traffic. There was no rush.

At the airport there was a final delay. An airport official came out with Warden. Both were shaking their heads.

"What's the matter?" I said.

The Indian official brushed at his soiled white shirt and snapped out several Hindustani phrases in an irritated tone.

"What?" I said.

Amrita translated. She was so exhausted that she did not raise her head and her voice was almost inaudible. "He says that the coffin we paid for cannot be loaded on the aircraft," she said wearily. "The metal airline coffin is here, but the necessary papers for the transfer of . . . of the body . . . were not signed by the proper authorities. He says that we can go to the city hall on Monday to get the necessary papers."