Shalimar The Clown_ A Novel Part 8

At the airport, however, he finally achieved courage and told her he loved her. She gritted her teeth. What was she supposed to do with his declaration, she asked him, it was too heavy, took up too much room, it was baggage she couldn't carry with her on the flight. He refused to be slapped down. "You can't escape me," he said. "I'll soon come for you. You can't hide from me." This was a false note. The image of an earlier, similarly bl.u.s.tering suitor, the American underwear model, popped into her head. You'll never get me out of your mind, You'll never get me out of your mind, he'd said. he'd said. You'll think of my name in bed, in the bathtub. You might as well marry me. It's inevitable. Face the facts. You'll think of my name in bed, in the bathtub. You might as well marry me. It's inevitable. Face the facts. But standing at the barrier at Srinagar airport she had no idea what the American's name had been, could barely remember his face, though his underwear had been memorable. Her self-possession strengthened its grip on her. She shook her head. This man, too, she would manage to forget. Love was a deception and a snare. The facts were that her life was elsewhere and that she wanted to return to it. "Look after that beautiful garden," she told the handicrafts entrepreneur, touched his cheek briefly with a vague, distracted hand and flew ten thousand miles away from the unstable dangers of his useless love. But standing at the barrier at Srinagar airport she had no idea what the American's name had been, could barely remember his face, though his underwear had been memorable. Her self-possession strengthened its grip on her. She shook her head. This man, too, she would manage to forget. Love was a deception and a snare. The facts were that her life was elsewhere and that she wanted to return to it. "Look after that beautiful garden," she told the handicrafts entrepreneur, touched his cheek briefly with a vague, distracted hand and flew ten thousand miles away from the unstable dangers of his useless love.

Three days after she returned to Los Angeles the prime suspect in the murder of Amba.s.sador Maximilian Ophuls was taken alive in the vicinity of Runyon Canyon. He had been living in the high wilderness areas up there, living like a beast, and was suffering from the effects of prolonged exposure, hunger and thirst. Acting on information received we ran him to ground he was one sorry sonofab.i.t.c.h came pretty quiet seemed happy to give himself up, Acting on information received we ran him to ground he was one sorry sonofab.i.t.c.h came pretty quiet seemed happy to give himself up, Lieutenant Tony Geneva said on TV, into the thicket of thrusting microphones. The suspect had come down from the heights and broken cover to scavenge for food in a trash can in the dog park at the canyon's foot, and had been somewhat ignominiously captured while holding a red McDonald's carton and fis.h.i.+ng for the few cold discarded fries it still contained. When Olga Simeonovna heard the news she took credit for the arrest. "Great is the power of the potato," she crowed to anyone who would listen. "Whoo! Looks like I don't lose my touch." The man in custody had been positively identified as Noman Sher Noman, a known a.s.sociate of more than one terrorist group, also known as "Shalimar the clown." Lieutenant Tony Geneva said on TV, into the thicket of thrusting microphones. The suspect had come down from the heights and broken cover to scavenge for food in a trash can in the dog park at the canyon's foot, and had been somewhat ignominiously captured while holding a red McDonald's carton and fis.h.i.+ng for the few cold discarded fries it still contained. When Olga Simeonovna heard the news she took credit for the arrest. "Great is the power of the potato," she crowed to anyone who would listen. "Whoo! Looks like I don't lose my touch." The man in custody had been positively identified as Noman Sher Noman, a known a.s.sociate of more than one terrorist group, also known as "Shalimar the clown."

When she heard the news Kashmira Ophuls found herself wrestling with a strange sense of disappointment. There was a thing inside her that had wanted to hunt him down itself. His voice, his chaotic voice, was absent from her head. Perhaps he was too weakened to be heard. Kashmir lingered in her, however, and his arrest in America, his disappearance beneath the alien cadences of American speech, created a turbulence in her that she did not at first identify as culture shock. She no longer saw this as an American story. It was a Kashmiri story. It was hers.

The news of the arrest of Shalimar the clown made the front page and gave the riot-battered Los Angeles Police Department some much-needed positive ink at a time of exceptional unpopularity. Police Chief Daryl Gates had left office, after initially refusing to do so. Lieutenant Michael Moulin, whose terrified and outnumbered officers had been withdrawn from the corner of Florence and Normandie when the troubles began, leaving the area in the hands of the rioters, also left the force. The damage to the city was estimated at over one billion dollars. The damage to the careers of Mayor Bradley and District Attorney Reiner was irreparable. At such a time the solid police work of Lieutenant Geneva and Sergeant Hilliker turned them into media heroes, good cops to set against the notorious Rodney King quartet, Sergeant Koon and Officers Powell, Briseno and Wind. Rodney King himself appeared on TV, calling for reconciliation. "Can we all get along?" he pleaded. Lieutenant Geneva and Sergeant Hilliker were interviewed on one of the last late-night shows hosted that May by Johnny Carson, and were asked by the host if the LAPD could ever regain the public's trust. "We sure can," Tony Geneva said, and Elvis Hilliker, smacking his right fist into his left palm, added, "And there's a bad guy in jail tonight who proves just exactly why."

Then for a moment there were Elvis and Tony T-s.h.i.+rts for sale on Melrose and at Venice Beach. One of the television networks announced plans for a movie about the manhunt, with the parts of Tony and Elvis to be played by Joe Mantegna and Dennis Franz. With astonis.h.i.+ng speed Shalimar the clown had become a bit player in the story of the policing of Los Angeles, and Kashmira Ophuls, who was always Kashmira now, who was making everyone she knew use the name, Kashmira whose mother and father he had foully killed, grew steadily angrier. She had knelt by her mother's grave in s.h.i.+rmal and something got into her there, something that mattered, but now the meaning of the great events of her life was being leached away, all the talk was of police corruption and rotten apples and good honest officers called Hilliker and Geneva. The world did not stop but cruelly continued. Max no longer signified in it, and nor did Boonyi Kaul. Tony and Elvis were the heroes of the hour and Shalimar the clown was their property, their villain. He was, you could say, their happy ending, their last big bust, the one that gave meaning to their lives, that took meaning from her life and handed it to them. Alone in her apartment bedroom Kashmira beat her fists against a wall. It felt, how did it feel, it felt obscene. I want to write to him, she thought. I want him to know I'm out here waiting. I want him to know he belongs to me.

I am going to tell you about my father, she wrote. You should know more about the man you killed, with whom you established so intimate a relations.h.i.+p, becoming the bringer of his death. He didn't have long to live but you couldn't wait, you were in a hurry for his blood. It was a grand life you took and you should know its grandeur. I am going to teach you what he taught me about entering the house of power, and what he was like when I was a small girl, how he put his lips against my neck and made bird noises, and I am going to tell you about his foolish obsession with the imaginary lizard people who, or so he thought, once lived below L.A. I am going to take you with him on a plane flight across France and into the Resistance which will be interesting for you I believe. I am sure you think of your violent deeds as having been done in the cause of some sort of liberation so you will be interested to know that he was a warrior too. I want you to know the songs he sang-je te plumerai le cou!-and the food he liked best, the sauerkraut with Riesling and the honeyed lamb of his Alsatian youth, and I want you to know how he saved his daughter's life and that his daughter loved him. I am going to write and write and write to you and my letters will be your conscience and they will torture you and make your life a living h.e.l.l until if things go as they should it is brought to an end. Even if you do not read them, even if they are never given to you or, if they are, even if you rip the envelopes to shreds, they are still spears that will transfix your heart. My letters are curses they will shrivel your soul. My letters are threats they should frighten you and I will not stop writing them until you are dead and maybe after you die I will go on writing them to your spirit as it burns and they will torment you more agonizingly than the inferno. You will never see Kashmir again but Kashmira is here and now you will inhabit me, I will write a world around you and it will be a prison more dreadful than your prison, a cell more confined than yourself. The hards.h.i.+ps I send you will make the hards.h.i.+ps of your imprisonment seem like joys. My letters are poisoned arrows. Do you know the song of Habba Khatoon in which she sings about being pierced? Oh marksman my bosom is open to the darts you throw at me, she sang. These darts are piercing me, why are you cross with me. Now you are my target and I am your marksman however my arrows are not dipped in love but hatred. My letters are arrows of hate and they will strike you down.

I am your black Scheherazade, she wrote. I will write to you without missing a day without missing a night not to save my life but to take yours to wind around you the poisonous snakes of my words until their fangs stab your neck. Or I am Prince Shahryar and you are my helpless virgin bride. I will write to you and my voice will haunt your dreams. Every night I tell the story of your death. Can you hear me? Listen to my voice. Every day I will write to you. Every night for however many nights it takes I will whisper in your ear until the story's done. You can't get into my head anymore. I'm in yours instead.

Shalimar the clown spent a year and a half in the Los Angeles County Men's Central Jail on Bauchet Street waiting for his trial to begin. He was segregated from other prisoners and housed in the jail's 7000 section where the high-profile inmates were kept. He wore ankle chains and was given his meals in his cell and permitted three one-hour exercise periods per week. In the early weeks of his confinement he was in a highly disturbed condition, often screaming out at night, complaining about a female demon who was occupying his head, jabbing hot shafts into his brain. He was placed on suicide watch and given a high dosage of the tranquilizer Xanax. He was asked if he would like to receive visits from a priest of the Islamic faith and he said that he would. A young imam from the USC mosque on Figueroa Street was provided and reported after his first visit that the prisoner had genuinely repented of his crime, stating that owing to his poor command of the English language he had misunderstood certain statements regarding the Kashmir issue made by Maximilian Ophuls on a television talk show and had been quite erroneously driven to a.s.sa.s.sinate a man he had mistakenly thought of as an enemy of Muslims. The killing was therefore the result of an unfortunate linguistic lapse and he was consequently consumed with remorse. On the young imam's second visit, however, the prisoner was in a heightened state of agitation in spite of the Xanax and seemed at times to be addressing an absent person, apparently female, in English which, while not by any means perfect, was nevertheless good enough to undermine his earlier a.s.sertions. When the young imam pointed this out the prisoner became menacing and had to be restrained. After that the imam declined to return and the prisoner refused to see another priest even though a qualified member of the Latino Muslim a.s.sociation of Los Angeles, Francisco Mohammed, was occasionally at the Men's Central Jail to counsel other inmates and had indicated that he would be available if required.

The new district attorney, Gil Garcetti, who had replaced Ira Reiner after the riots, argued when Shalimar the clown's case came up before the Los Angeles County grand jury that the accused's statements to the Figueroa Street imam confirmed that he was a devious individual, a professional killer with many work-names and alter egos, whose protestations of remorse and repentance were not to be taken at face value. Shalimar the clown was duly indicted by the grand jury for the murder of Amba.s.sador Maximilian Ophuls and returned to Bauchet Street to await trial. It was accepted by the grand jury that the special circ.u.mstances attached to the case made him eligible for the death penalty. If found guilty he would therefore be liable to execution by lethal injection unless he opted for the gas chamber, which was still being offered as an alternative method if the subject so preferred.

Shalimar the clown had initially refused legal representation but later accepted a court-appointed defense team led by the attorney William T. Tillerman, well known for his fondness for defending the indefensible, a brilliant courtroom performer, slow and weighty, reminiscent of Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution, Witness for the Prosecution, who first rose to prominence as a junior member of the team defending Richard Ramirez, whom the tabloid press renamed the Nightstalker, several years before. There were persistent rumors that Tillerman had been the "hidden hand" shaping the defense strategy in the notorious Menendez brothers trial, even though he was not a named attorney in the case. (Erik and Lyle Menendez were, like Shalimar the clown, inmates of cell block 7000, where, later in Shalimar the clown's captivity, the former football star Orenthal James Simpson would also spend some time.) When letters addressed to Shalimar the clown and written by Max Ophuls's orphaned daughter started arriving in large numbers at 441 Bauchet Street, it was Tillerman who saw the connection between these letters and his client's alleged nocturnal persecution by the so-called female demon, and so devised what became widely known as the "sorcerer's defense." who first rose to prominence as a junior member of the team defending Richard Ramirez, whom the tabloid press renamed the Nightstalker, several years before. There were persistent rumors that Tillerman had been the "hidden hand" shaping the defense strategy in the notorious Menendez brothers trial, even though he was not a named attorney in the case. (Erik and Lyle Menendez were, like Shalimar the clown, inmates of cell block 7000, where, later in Shalimar the clown's captivity, the former football star Orenthal James Simpson would also spend some time.) When letters addressed to Shalimar the clown and written by Max Ophuls's orphaned daughter started arriving in large numbers at 441 Bauchet Street, it was Tillerman who saw the connection between these letters and his client's alleged nocturnal persecution by the so-called female demon, and so devised what became widely known as the "sorcerer's defense."

When the letter avalanche began Shalimar the clown was asked first by prison officials and afterward by his attorney if he wished to see them, was warned of their tone of exceptional anger and hostility, and was firmly instructed by William Tillerman not to reply no matter how strongly he wished to do so. He insisted on being given the envelopes. "They are from my stepdaughter," he told Tillerman, who noted that his client's English was heavily accented but competent, "and it is my duty to read what she wishes to say. As for answering her, it is not necessary. There is no answer she wishes to hear." The system worked slowly, and the letters were usually two or three weeks old by the time he received them, but that didn't matter, because the moment he read the first one Shalimar the clown identified their author as the female bhoot bhoot who had been pursuing him through his terrifying nightmares. He understood at once what Boonyi's child was telling him: that she had set herself up as his nemesis, and whatever the judgment of a Californian court might be she would be his real judge; she, and not twelve Americans in a jury box, would be his only jury; and she, not a prison executioner, would somehow carry out whatever sentence she imposed. It wasn't important to know the how or when or where. He braced himself for her nocturnal a.s.saults, screaming through the sedation, but enduring. He carefully read her daily indictments, read them over and over, memorizing them, giving them their due. He accepted her challenge. who had been pursuing him through his terrifying nightmares. He understood at once what Boonyi's child was telling him: that she had set herself up as his nemesis, and whatever the judgment of a Californian court might be she would be his real judge; she, and not twelve Americans in a jury box, would be his only jury; and she, not a prison executioner, would somehow carry out whatever sentence she imposed. It wasn't important to know the how or when or where. He braced himself for her nocturnal a.s.saults, screaming through the sedation, but enduring. He carefully read her daily indictments, read them over and over, memorizing them, giving them their due. He accepted her challenge.

After the bombing of the World Trade Center in New York-eight years later this would be remembered as the first bombing-he sat across a table from his lawyer in a stinking meeting room and expressed his fears for his safety. Even in his maximum-security, solitary-confinement wing, it was a dangerous time in prison for a Muslim man accused by the state of being a professional terrorist. Shalimar the clown dressed up for his meeting with Tillerman, as finely as prison allowed, wearing his "bonneroos," prison-issue blue jeans and a prison-issue denim overcoat. There was a sign on the wall of the room saying HOLDING HANDS ONLY HOLDING HANDS ONLY and another saying 1 and another saying 1 KISS KISS 1 1 HUG AT THE START HUG AT THE START 1 1 HUG HUG 1 1 KISS AT THE FINISH. KISS AT THE FINISH. These messages did not apply to him. He avoided Tillerman's eyes and spoke in a low voice in halting but serviceable English. Men died all the time in the MCJ. The sheriff blamed budget cuts but so what, that didn't make anyone feel any safer. A convicted killer somehow managed to walk the halls at night and murder another inmate who had testified against him at his trial even though their cells had been on different floors. The other prisoners in their cells, six thousand of them, acted on gang instructions and turned their backs and saw nothing. News of such things reached Shalimar the clown even in cell block 7000. A Korean gang member was stabbed thirty times and stuffed into a laundry trolley and n.o.body found him for sixteen hours, until the laundry began to stink. A wife-beater had been kicked to death. Two hundred men had taken part in a race riot started by an argument about using a pay phone. In the argument one inmate was stabbed a dozen times. And now after the attack in Manhattan maybe a guard would leave a door to 7000 unlocked one night and some G.o.dzilla called Sugarpie Honeybunch or Goldilocks Ali or Big Chief Bull Moose or Virginia Slim or the Cisco Kid, some OVG-Old Valley Gangster-would wreak an American revenge. Tillerman shrugged. "Okay. I'll take it up." Then he leaned across the table and changed the subject. "Tell me about the girl." Initially reluctant to reply, Shalimar the clown yielded slowly to his lawyer's coaxing, and began to talk. These messages did not apply to him. He avoided Tillerman's eyes and spoke in a low voice in halting but serviceable English. Men died all the time in the MCJ. The sheriff blamed budget cuts but so what, that didn't make anyone feel any safer. A convicted killer somehow managed to walk the halls at night and murder another inmate who had testified against him at his trial even though their cells had been on different floors. The other prisoners in their cells, six thousand of them, acted on gang instructions and turned their backs and saw nothing. News of such things reached Shalimar the clown even in cell block 7000. A Korean gang member was stabbed thirty times and stuffed into a laundry trolley and n.o.body found him for sixteen hours, until the laundry began to stink. A wife-beater had been kicked to death. Two hundred men had taken part in a race riot started by an argument about using a pay phone. In the argument one inmate was stabbed a dozen times. And now after the attack in Manhattan maybe a guard would leave a door to 7000 unlocked one night and some G.o.dzilla called Sugarpie Honeybunch or Goldilocks Ali or Big Chief Bull Moose or Virginia Slim or the Cisco Kid, some OVG-Old Valley Gangster-would wreak an American revenge. Tillerman shrugged. "Okay. I'll take it up." Then he leaned across the table and changed the subject. "Tell me about the girl." Initially reluctant to reply, Shalimar the clown yielded slowly to his lawyer's coaxing, and began to talk.

The case of the People People v. v. Noman Sher Noman Noman Sher Noman came to trial six months later at the Los Angeles County Superior Court at the San Fernando Valley Government Center in Van Nuys, before Judge Stanley Weissberg, who had been on the bench in the Simi Valley Rodney King trial, when the four LAPD officers were acquitted, precipitating the riots. He was a mild, professorial man in his middle fifties and seemed unshaken by the Simi Valley experience. Because of the heightened atmosphere created by the events in Lower Manhattan the security at the courthouse was unprecedented. Shalimar the clown arrived and left each day, shackled and chained, in a white armored van surrounded by a police operation reminiscent of a presidential motorcade. Roadblocks, motorcycle outriders, police snipers on the rooftops, an eleven-vehicle procession. "We don't want a Jack Ruby situation here," the city's new chief of police, Willie Williams, told the press. What would he compare the operation to in terms of its scale, a reporter asked him. He replied with a straight face, "It's what we'd do for Arafat." came to trial six months later at the Los Angeles County Superior Court at the San Fernando Valley Government Center in Van Nuys, before Judge Stanley Weissberg, who had been on the bench in the Simi Valley Rodney King trial, when the four LAPD officers were acquitted, precipitating the riots. He was a mild, professorial man in his middle fifties and seemed unshaken by the Simi Valley experience. Because of the heightened atmosphere created by the events in Lower Manhattan the security at the courthouse was unprecedented. Shalimar the clown arrived and left each day, shackled and chained, in a white armored van surrounded by a police operation reminiscent of a presidential motorcade. Roadblocks, motorcycle outriders, police snipers on the rooftops, an eleven-vehicle procession. "We don't want a Jack Ruby situation here," the city's new chief of police, Willie Williams, told the press. What would he compare the operation to in terms of its scale, a reporter asked him. He replied with a straight face, "It's what we'd do for Arafat."

The court had initially summoned five hundred people for jury duty. To ensure a fair trial all five hundred had been asked to complete a hundred-page questionnaire, and on the basis of these questionnaires and the usual courtroom challenges twelve jurors and six alternates had been empaneled. Four men and eight women would try the case of Shalimar the clown. Their average age was thirty-nine. Tillerman had wanted a young jury with a female bias. He considered himself a student of human nature, and was certainly a barroom philosopher of the usual, disenchanted variety. It was his view that the young, believing themselves immortal, had less respect for human life and so were less likely to be vengeful toward a killer. And after all-this was the reasoning behind loading the jury with women-Shalimar the clown was a highly attractive man, and had a tragic tale of heartbreak and betrayal to recount. The crime of pa.s.sion was not a legal category in California, in spite of which such extenuating circ.u.mstances could only help the defense.

The thirtysomething prosecutors, Janet Mientkiewicz and Larry Tanizaki, looked like baby-faced innocents next to the much older, more corpulent, worldly-wise Tillerman, but they were hardened lawyers who were determined to get their man. Tanizaki had privately expressed some doubts about the death penalty, knowing that many jurors didn't like imposing it, but Mientkiewicz bolstered his resolve. "If this isn't a hanging offense, nothing is," she said on the steps of the courtroom on the day of the pretrial hearing. Tanizaki and Mientkiewicz's greatest concern was that the defense might try to deny the crime. Strangely, even though the murder of Maximilian Ophuls had taken place on a bright, sunny L.A. day, there were no eyewitnesses. It was as if the whole street had turned its back on the event, just as the inmates of the MCJ had done on the night of the revenge killing. The prosecution had the fingerprinted knife, the bloodstained clothes, the motive, the opportunity and the evidence of Mr. Khadaffy Andang, who was cooperating fully with the state. They did not have a witness to the crime. However, William Tillerman informed them at the pretrial hearing that his client would not deny responsibility for the death of Amba.s.sador Ophuls; but he added that if the charge were not reduced from murder in the first degree, then a not-guilty plea would have to be entered. "My client is a severely disturbed man," he averred. What was he suffering from, Judge Weissberg wanted to know. "The effects," Tillerman solemnly replied, "of witchcraft."

A woman, my mother, died for the crime of leaving you, Kashmira wrote. A man, my father, died for taking her in. You murdered two human beings because of your egotism your amazing egotism that valued your honor more highly than their lives. You bathed your honor in their blood but you did not wash it clean it's b.l.o.o.d.y now. You wanted to wipe them out but you failed, you killed n.o.body. Here I stand. I am my mother and my father I am Maximilian Ophuls and Boonyi Kaul. You achieved nothing. They are not dead not gone not forgotten. They live on in me.

Can you feel me inside you mister a.s.sa.s.sin mister joker? At night when you close your eyes do you see me there? At night who is it that stops you sleeping and if you do sleep who stabs at you until you awake? Are you screaming mister killer? Are you screaming mister clown? Don't call me your stepdaughter I'm not your stepdaughter I am my father's daughter and my mother's child and if I'm inside you then so are they. My mother whom you butchered torments you now and my slaughtered father too. I am Maximilian Ophuls and Boonyi Kaul and you are nothing, less than nothing. I crush you beneath my heel.

Early in 1993 she tried briefly to go back to work, her friends had urged her to restart her life, and for a time she had traveled up and down US-101, south to San Diego where the route began in Presidio Park and north as far as the Sonoma Mission, past the concrete bells hanging from their hook-shaped posts that marked the route of the old trail taken by Fray Junipero Serra in the 1770s, looking for the stories she wanted to tell in her projected doc.u.mentary Camino Real. Camino Real. But her heart hadn't been in it and she abandoned the project after a few weeks. The underwear model got in touch and asked her to go out to dinner, which, under pressure from her girlfriends, she agreed to do, but even though he brought her flowers and wore a blazer and tie and took her to Spago and told her she was prettier than any of the movie actresses and tried not to talk about himself, she didn't make it to the end of the meal, she made her apologies-"I'm not fit for human company right now"-and fled. But her heart hadn't been in it and she abandoned the project after a few weeks. The underwear model got in touch and asked her to go out to dinner, which, under pressure from her girlfriends, she agreed to do, but even though he brought her flowers and wore a blazer and tie and took her to Spago and told her she was prettier than any of the movie actresses and tried not to talk about himself, she didn't make it to the end of the meal, she made her apologies-"I'm not fit for human company right now"-and fled.

She decided that the time had come to move out of her apartment, and returned to the big house on Mulholland Drive to live with her father's ghost. Olga Simeonovna, whose daughters had returned, moving into one of the building's many vacant apartments, gave Kashmira a loud, honkingly tearful farewell and promised she would "make it up there into the lap of luxury" whenever she could. In the lap of luxury Kashmira lived an increasingly reclusive life. The domestic staff was familiar with its duties and the household ran itself, there was food on the table three times a day and clean sheets on the beds twice a week. The heavily armed security specialists from the Jerome risk-consulting company went about their business silently and reported daily to the firm's operations executive vice-president. The day s.h.i.+ft concentrated on the front and rear gates in the perimeter wall and the larger night-s.h.i.+ft detachment patrolled the grounds with the aid of night-vision goggles and roving searchlights that made the house look like a movie theater on the night of a red-carpet premiere. It was not required of Kashmira to give them orders. They, on the other hand, instructed her: in the use of the armored panic room-actually the immensely long and mostly empty walk-in closet, built to accommodate a movie star's wardrobe, in which she kept her few, inadequately glamorous, clothes-and in the importance, should there be a "breach," of not trying to take on the intruder herself. "Don't be a heroine, ma'am," the Jerome guy said. "Lock yourself in here and leave it to us to do what it takes." There had recently been a scandal at Jerome. One of their top men had seduced two extremely wealthy women, both Jerome clients, one in London, one in New York. He gave both of them the same private love-name, "Rabbit," as in "Jessica," to minimize the risk of a pillow-talk slipup. But in the end he was caught out, and the discovery of his affair with the two Jessica Rabbits had led to lawsuits that badly damaged the firm's reputation as well as its profitability, and led to the introduction of draconian new rules of engagement that forbade the specialists from speaking to their "princ.i.p.als" at all except on professional business, and then always in the company of a third party. Kashmira had no problem with this. Detachment was what she wanted. On one occasion, when she asked a Jerome operative for a pair of night-vision goggles, "just for fun," he gave them to her surrept.i.tiously, guiltily, like a boy meeting a girl for a secret a.s.signation. "This'll just be between us, ma'am," he told her. "I'm not even supposed to look in your general direction unless I have to take down a bad guy standing behind you."

Sometimes in the middle of the night she awoke to the sound of a man's voice singing a woman's song and it took her a few moments to realize that she was listening to a memory. In an enchanted garden a man who loved her sang a melodious lol. lol. Habba Khatoon's original name was Zoon, which meant the moon. She lived four hundred years ago in a village called Chandrahar amid saffron fields and chinar trees. One day Yusuf Shah Chak the future ruler of Kashmir heard Zoon singing as he pa.s.sed by and fell in love and when they married she changed her name. In 1579 the emperor Akbar ordered Yusuf Shah to come to Delhi and when Yusuf got there he was arrested and jailed. Habba Khatoon's original name was Zoon, which meant the moon. She lived four hundred years ago in a village called Chandrahar amid saffron fields and chinar trees. One day Yusuf Shah Chak the future ruler of Kashmir heard Zoon singing as he pa.s.sed by and fell in love and when they married she changed her name. In 1579 the emperor Akbar ordered Yusuf Shah to come to Delhi and when Yusuf got there he was arrested and jailed. Come and enter my door, my jewel, Come and enter my door, my jewel, Habba Khatoon sang, alone in Kashmir, Habba Khatoon sang, alone in Kashmir, why have you forsaken the path to my house? My youth is in bloom, why have you forsaken the path to my house? My youth is in bloom, she sang, she sang, this is your garden, come and enjoy it. The shock of your desertion has come as a blow to me, O cruel one, I continue to nurse the pain. this is your garden, come and enjoy it. The shock of your desertion has come as a blow to me, O cruel one, I continue to nurse the pain. Yuvraj, she thought. Forgive me. I'm in a kind of prison too. Yuvraj, she thought. Forgive me. I'm in a kind of prison too.

She swam in the pool, exercised in the private gym, worked out at home with a new personal trainer even though she knew it would hurt her friend the egg donor who had trained her for years, and played tennis on her own court, three times a week, with a visiting pro. When she did leave the premises it was to fight or shoot. Her body grew leaner and harder by the month, its spare tautness a testament to her relentless regimen, her rich woman's monasticism, and to the growing strength of her self-denying will. After a day's archery or boxing or martial arts, or a trip out of town to Saltzman's shooting range, she came home and retired wordlessly to her private wing, where she wrote her letters and thought her thoughts and kept herself to herself while the attack dogs on their leashes sniffed the air for trouble and the searchlights searched and the men in night-vision goggles roamed the property. She no longer lived in America. She lived in a combat zone.

The server carrying the subpoena summoning her to appear in the trial of her father's murderer as a hostile witness for the defense was intercepted at the gate to the property and then escorted to her quarters by Frank, the same Jerome operative who had given her the night-vision goggles. "This came, ma'am." It had to be some sort of practical joke, she thought, but it wasn't, her letters were coming home to roost, they were important exhibits in William Tillerman's case, and he wanted to question her about them. Tillerman had come up with a therapist named E. Prentiss Shaw who had developed a diagnostic tool for use with suspected brainwas.h.i.+ng victims. The tool was a checklist that amounted to a form of psychological profiling. It was well known that Hamas chiefs in the Mideast used psychological profiling when selecting candidates for martyrdom. This was the age we lived in, Tillerman argued in court, an age in which our invisible foes understood that not everyone could be a suicide bomber, not everyone could be an a.s.sa.s.sin. Psychology was all-important. Character was destiny. Certain personality types were more suggestible than others, could be shaped by external forces and aimed like weapons by their masters against whatever targets were deemed worthy of attack. The Shaw profiling tool identified Shalimar the clown as a malleable personality of this type. Shalimar the clown screamed at night in his cell because he believed himself bewitched, Tillerman said. The defense presented as evidence over five hundred letters written by Ms. India a.k.a. Kashmira Ophuls to the accused, letters which clearly stated her intent to invade his thoughts and torment him while asleep. One of the known a.s.sociates of Ms. Ophuls, a woman of Soviet origins, actually was a self-described witch and member of the Wicca organization, as the testimony of a former fellow-resident of the apartment building on Kings Road, Mr. Khadaffy Andang, would confirm. "Is it the contention of the defense, Mr. Tillerman," Judge Weissberg interrupted, lowering his spectacles, "that sorcery exists?"

William Tillerman lowered his spectacles right back at the judge. "Sir, it is not," he replied. "But it is of no importance what you or I may believe here in this courtroom. What is important is that my client believes it. I beg the court's indulgence for what may seem like grandstanding, but this speaks to my client's extreme vulnerability to external manipulation. The defense will call witnesses from the intelligence community who will report on my client's presence over many years at various locations known to us as schools of terrorism, brainwas.h.i.+ng centers, and it is our contention that in the matter of Amba.s.sador Maximilian Ophuls my client ceased to be in command of his actions. His free will was subverted by mind-control techniques, verbal, mechanical and chemical, which gravely undermined his personality and turned him into a missile, aimed at a single human heart, which just happened to be the heart of this country's most distinguished counterterrorism amba.s.sador. A Manchurian Candidate, if you will, a death zombie, programmed to kill. The defense will argue that the a.s.sa.s.sination may have been triggered by an unknown "sorcerer" or "puppet master" who has not been apprehended. After thorough conditioning the trigger moment would not even require the puppet and the puppet master to meet. The command could be given on the telephone, the conditioned response could be activated by the use of a commonplace word such as, oh, I don't know, banana, banana, or or solitaire. solitaire. I am not sure, sir, if Your Honor and the members of the jury are familiar with the thirty-year-old movie to which I allude. If not, a video screening could easily be arranged." I am not sure, sir, if Your Honor and the members of the jury are familiar with the thirty-year-old movie to which I allude. If not, a video screening could easily be arranged."

"Far be it from this court, Mr. Tillerman," Judge Weissberg said sternly, "to accuse you of trying to make a grandstand play. And yes: I saw the movie, and I have no doubt that the jury gets your point. However, this is murder one, Mr. Tillerman. We will not be going to the pictures in my courtroom."

In the days that followed Tillerman's opening remarks the entire country was captured by his "sorcerer's" or "Manchurian" defense of Shalimar the clown. The cla.s.sic movie was screened on network television, and plans for a remake were announced. The Twin Towers bombers, the suicidists of Palestine, and now the terrifying possibility that mind-controlled human automata were walking amongst us, ready to commit murder whenever a voice on the phone said banana banana or or solitaire . . . solitaire . . . it all made the new, senseless kind of sense, Tillerman could see it in the jury's eyes, and all the way through the prosecution's case he found a.s.sistance for his own. Yes, the accused was a terrorist, the prosecution said. Yes, he had been in some remote, scary places where bad people gathered to plot dark deeds. Under a number of work-names he had been involved for many years in the perpetration of such acts. On this occasion, however, the prosecution argued, the probability was that he had been flying solo, because of the seduction by the victim of the accused's beloved wife. When Janet Mientkiewicz proposed this, the vengeful husband theory, she actually saw the jury's eyes glazing over, and understood that the plainness of the truth was suffering by comparison with Tillerman's paranoid scenario, which was so perfectly attuned to the mood of the moment that the jury wanted it to be true, wanted it while not wanting it, believing that the world was now as Tillerman said it was while wis.h.i.+ng it were not. "We may be screwed here," she confided to Tanizaki one night. He shook his head. "Trust in the law and do your job," he told her. "This isn't it all made the new, senseless kind of sense, Tillerman could see it in the jury's eyes, and all the way through the prosecution's case he found a.s.sistance for his own. Yes, the accused was a terrorist, the prosecution said. Yes, he had been in some remote, scary places where bad people gathered to plot dark deeds. Under a number of work-names he had been involved for many years in the perpetration of such acts. On this occasion, however, the prosecution argued, the probability was that he had been flying solo, because of the seduction by the victim of the accused's beloved wife. When Janet Mientkiewicz proposed this, the vengeful husband theory, she actually saw the jury's eyes glazing over, and understood that the plainness of the truth was suffering by comparison with Tillerman's paranoid scenario, which was so perfectly attuned to the mood of the moment that the jury wanted it to be true, wanted it while not wanting it, believing that the world was now as Tillerman said it was while wis.h.i.+ng it were not. "We may be screwed here," she confided to Tanizaki one night. He shook his head. "Trust in the law and do your job," he told her. "This isn't Perry Mason. Perry Mason. We're not on TV." "Oh yes we are," she said, "but thanks for stiffening my spine." We're not on TV." "Oh yes we are," she said, "but thanks for stiffening my spine."

It's dog eat dog up there in the Himalayas, ladies and gentlemen, the Indian army against the Pakistan-sponsored fanatics, we sent men out to discover the truth and the truth is what they brought home. You want to know this man, my client? The defense will show that his village was destroyed by the Indian army. Razed to the ground, every structure destroyed. The dead body of his brother was thrown at his mother's feet with the hands severed. Then his mother was raped and killed and his father was also slain. And then they killed his wife, his beloved wife, the greatest dancer in the village, the greatest beauty in all Kashmir. You don't need psych profiling to get the point of this, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this kind of thing would derange the best of us, and the best of them is what he was, a star performer in a troupe of traveling players, a comedian of the high wire, an artist, famous in his way, Shalimar the clown. Then one day his whole world was shattered and his mind with it. This is exactly the kind of person the terrorist puppet masters seek out, this is the kind of mind that responds to their sorcery. The subject's picture of the world has been broken and a new one is painted for him, brushstroke by brushstroke. Like the man says in the movie you aren't going to see in Judge Weissberg's courtroom, they don't just get brainwashed, they get dry-cleaned. dry-cleaned. This is a man against whose whole community a blood crime was committed that he could not avenge, a blood crime that drove him out of his mind. When a man is out of his mind other forces can enter that mind and shape it. They took that avenging spirit and pointed it in the direction they required, not at India, but here. At America. At their real enemy. At us. This is a man against whose whole community a blood crime was committed that he could not avenge, a blood crime that drove him out of his mind. When a man is out of his mind other forces can enter that mind and shape it. They took that avenging spirit and pointed it in the direction they required, not at India, but here. At America. At their real enemy. At us.

The Manchurian bubble burst, as Larry Tanizaki had promised Janet Mientkiewicz it would, the day Kashmira Ophuls took the stand for the defense. A hostile witness was always a gamble, and Tillerman's decision to field the Ophuls girl was, in Tanizaki's opinion, a weak choice, a choice that showed what a house of cards his case was. Under cross-examination by Janet Mientkiewicz, Kashmira revealed what Shalimar the clown had not told his attorney, what Tillerman's researchers had been unable to discover, what the usurpers of Pachigam did not know and the Yambarzals in s.h.i.+rmal would not tell. In a single, brief statement, made with an executioner's calm, she unmade the defense's case. "That wasn't how my mother died," she said. "My mother died because that man, who also killed my father, cut off her beautiful head."

She turned to face Shalimar the clown and he understood perfectly what she did not need words to say. Now I have killed you, Now I have killed you, she told him. she told him. Now my arrow is in your heart and I am satisfied. When the time comes to execute you I will come and watch you die. Now my arrow is in your heart and I am satisfied. When the time comes to execute you I will come and watch you die.

On the day after sentence was pa.s.sed on him Shalimar the clown was moved by road to the California state prison at San Quentin where the men's death-row facility was located. Once again extreme security precautions were taken; he did not travel in the regular jail bus, and the eleven-vehicle motorcade with motorbikes buzzing beside it and helicopters tracking it from the sky looked, as it moved north past the silent concrete bells of the Camino Real, like a monarch's journey into exile, like Napoleon in rags on his way to St. Helena. He remained impa.s.sive throughout the twelve-hour journey. His features had acquired something of the grey, pasty color and texture of prison life and his hair was whiter and had thinned a little. He did not speak to the guards sitting beside and across from him in the white armored van except once, to ask for a drink of water. He had the air of a man who had accepted his fate, and retained his calm demeanor while he was processed through the death-row reception center, photographed, fingerprinted, given blankets and prison blues, and then led wearing waist chains to the adjustment center or A/C to await cla.s.sification. Here his possessions were taken from him except for a pencil and a sheet of writing paper and a comb and a bar of soap. He was handed a toothbrush with all but an inch of the handle cut off and some tooth powder. Then he was locked in a cage and stripped naked and the guards looked, as it was their habit to look, under his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and inside his bodily orifices, crack a smile, one of them told him, and he didn't understand until the guard grabbed him by the back of the neck and bent him over so they could inspect his rear. He was handcuffed and checked with a metal detector and taken to his cell. The guard yelled the cell number and the door opened with a great hiss because compressed air was used to open and close it. Then a tray slot was opened and he put his hands through it and his handcuffs were removed. All this he suffered without protest. From the beginning the guards were struck by his quality of stillness, He was on some kind of meditation trip, He was on some kind of meditation trip, they said, and later, after he made his impossible escape, his captors were almost respectful, they said, and later, after he made his impossible escape, his captors were almost respectful, It's like s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps, It's like s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps, one of them argued, one of them argued, if you don't see them you don't believe in them, but me and my colleagues here, we saw what we saw. if you don't see them you don't believe in them, but me and my colleagues here, we saw what we saw.

Most of the men under sentence of death were sent to the East Block or the "North Seg"-the original death row, where the gas chamber was located-but those who were cla.s.sified Grade B Condemned-the gang members, the men who had been involved in stabbings while in prison, the ones other inmates wanted to see dead in a hurry-had to stay in the A/C, where there were almost a hundred solitary confinement cells, on three floors. The cla.s.sification committee decided that Shalimar the clown was a Grade-B prisoner because of the potentially large numbers of enemies he might find in the prison population. There were about thirty-five men in the North Seg and over three hundred in the East Block and violence and rape were commonplace and anything could be a weapon, a pencil stub could put out a man's eye. The men were let out for yard in groups of sixty or seventy and this was a dangerous time. If a fight broke out a guard might start shooting down into the yard and the risk of being hit by a bullet bouncing off the concrete walls was not small. The accommodation in the A/C was unpleasant even by the standards of death row but for a long time Shalimar the clown opted not to partic.i.p.ate in yard. He remained in his cell, doing push-ups or strange, slow-motion, dancelike exercises for hour after hour or, for further hours at a time, simply sitting cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed and his hands lying open on his knees, with the palms upturned.

His room was ten feet long and four feet wide and contained a bed made of a plate of steel and a stainless-steel sink and toilet. Twice a month the prison issued him writing paper, toilet paper, a pencil and some soap. He was not allowed to have a cup. He was given a container of milk for breakfast each day and if he wanted coffee he had to hold this container out through the tray slot and the guard would pour hot coffee into it. When the guard's aim was poor Shalimar the clown's hands were scalded, but he never cried out. The A/C was filled with the noises of a hundred condemned human beings and their smells as well. The men shouted and raged and made obscene remarks but they were also full of philosophy and religion and there were some who sang, The days are coming when things will get better, First we must overcome the stormy weather, The days are coming when things will get better, First we must overcome the stormy weather, and some who spoke fast and rhythmically in a kind of jailhouse rap, and some who spoke fast and rhythmically in a kind of jailhouse rap, I pace back and forth in a straight line, Thinking of nothing, trying to burn Time, The darkness cloaks the brightest of days, The chill in the bones is here to stay, I pace back and forth in a straight line, Thinking of nothing, trying to burn Time, The darkness cloaks the brightest of days, The chill in the bones is here to stay, and many who called out to G.o.d, and many who called out to G.o.d, Although I still sit in my cell, my new home, for hours and days upon end, I know in my heart that I'm never alone, 'cause Jesus is now my best friend. Although I still sit in my cell, my new home, for hours and days upon end, I know in my heart that I'm never alone, 'cause Jesus is now my best friend. The life of Shalimar the clown had dwindled to this, but he never ranted, nor did he sing, nor did he speak fast and rhythmically, nor did he call upon G.o.d. He took what was given to him and waited, when William T. Tillerman abandoned him and walked away he heard all around the voices of death row's most hated inmates telling him, man, took me four years to find an attorney to get my appeal lodged, that ain't nothin', motherf.u.c.ker, took me five and a half, there were men who had waited nine years or ten, waited for justice they said, because many of them still protested their innocence, many of them had studied up and knew the statistics, the percentage of exonerations on death row was high, far, far higher than in the rest of the prison community, so G.o.d would help, if you trusted in G.o.d he would send down his love and save you, but in the meanwhile you just had to wait, you just had to hope your number didn't come up when some election-happy governor wanted a condemned man to fry. The life of Shalimar the clown had dwindled to this, but he never ranted, nor did he sing, nor did he speak fast and rhythmically, nor did he call upon G.o.d. He took what was given to him and waited, when William T. Tillerman abandoned him and walked away he heard all around the voices of death row's most hated inmates telling him, man, took me four years to find an attorney to get my appeal lodged, that ain't nothin', motherf.u.c.ker, took me five and a half, there were men who had waited nine years or ten, waited for justice they said, because many of them still protested their innocence, many of them had studied up and knew the statistics, the percentage of exonerations on death row was high, far, far higher than in the rest of the prison community, so G.o.d would help, if you trusted in G.o.d he would send down his love and save you, but in the meanwhile you just had to wait, you just had to hope your number didn't come up when some election-happy governor wanted a condemned man to fry.

On the wall of his prison cell a previous inmate had chalked a chemical equation: 2NaCn + H2SO4 = 2HCN + Na2SO4. 2NaCn + H2SO4 = 2HCN + Na2SO4. This, Shalimar the clown realized, was the true sentence of his death. "You don't need to worry about no ten years, pretty boy," one of the guards taunted him. "Brutha, in yo' case we hear ev'thing gonna be This, Shalimar the clown realized, was the true sentence of his death. "You don't need to worry about no ten years, pretty boy," one of the guards taunted him. "Brutha, in yo' case we hear ev'thing gonna be expedite. expedite."

This turned out not to be true. The months lengthened into years. Five years pa.s.sed, more than five years, two thousand slow, stinking days. The fabric of the prison was crumbling and so were its inmates. A rainstorm brought down chunks of the perimeter wall, injuring guards and prisoners. The men on death row grew older, fell sick, got stabbed, got kicked to death, got shot. There were many ways to die here that were not covered by the equation on Shalimar the clown's cell wall. After the third year he chose to come out of his cell and allow himself to be strip-searched and go outside wearing only his underwear and partic.i.p.ate in yard and let what had to be come to pa.s.s. On the first day there were clumps of men staring at him, challenging him. He did not try to stare anybody down. He leaned against a wall and looked up at the giant green chimney stack sticking out of the gas-chamber roof. After the gas chamber was used the poison gas, the hydrogen cyanide, HCN, would be released into the atmosphere through this pipe. He turned his eyes away.

Men were playing cards at the two card tables. Other men were going one on one under a basketball hoop. He went to the chin-up bar and when he had completed one hundred chin-ups the basketball players stopped playing. When he had completed two hundred the poker school broke up. When he had completed three hundred he had everyone's attention. He dropped to the floor and went back to lean against the wall. People noticed he wasn't sweating. One of the most important Bloods came up to him. He was a big three-hundred-pounder and he was holding a sharpened plastic blade that had fooled the metal detector. The gang lord leaned toward Shalimar the clown and said, "No strongman stunt gonna save yo' terroris' a.s.s now." Shalimar the clown's movements seemed unhurried but as a result of them the Blood King was in a painful armlock and Shalimar the clown had the plastic blade at his throat and before the guards could shoot he had pushed the Blood King away and tossed the blade into the yard toilet. After that he was left alone for a year. Then six men jumped him in a coordinated attack and he was badly beaten and fractured two ribs but he broke three men's legs and blinded a fourth. The guards held their fire. Wallace, the officer who had taunted him four years earlier, told him, "Only reason we didn't gun you down was, we waitin' to see you choke in that ol' gas cooker over there."

He had found a lawyer, a man named Isidore "Zizzy" Brown who was handling the cases of several of the poorest A/C inmates, and was one of the hundreds of death-row attorneys resident in the San Quentin area. There were meetings from time to time in the visitors' cage. At these meetings Shalimar the clown did not appear to be especially interested in the appeals process. One of the other inmates warned him during yard that his lawyer had a bad reputation. Apparently he had acquired his nickname by falling asleep several times in court. On one such occasion the judge had remarked, "The Const.i.tution says everyone's ent.i.tled to the attorney of their choice. The Const.i.tution doesn't say the lawyer has to be awake." Shalimar shrugged. "It doesn't really matter," he said. Five years pa.s.sed and finally Brown told him an appeal date had been set. "Let it pa.s.s," said Shalimar the clown. "You don't want to appeal?" the attorney asked. Shalimar the clown turned away from him. "It's enough now," he said. That night when he closed his eyes he realized he couldn't see Pachigam clearly anymore, his memories of the valley of Kashmir had grown imprecise, broken beneath the weight of life in the A/C. He could no longer clearly see his family's faces. He saw only Kashmira; all the rest was blood.

A man was executed at San Quentin that year. His name was Floyd Grammar and he was a diagnosed schizophrenic who talked to his food and believed that the beans on his plate talked back to him. He was on death row for the double murder of a business executive and his secretary in Corte Madera; after shooting them dead he had gone home and taken off all his clothes except for his socks and then stood out in the street until the police came. n.o.body ever knew why he did it. He didn't know himself. Martians might have been involved. On the night before his lethal injection he believed that he had been granted an amnesty and so refused to fill out the last-meal request form. The guards gave him cookies and sandwiches and took him away. One hour later Shalimar the clown stood naked at his cell door while the guard named Wallace searched him before letting him go out to the yard. Wallace was in a good mood, a comical mood. Interest in the execution had been high. A media center had been set up on the prison grounds and one hundred accredited persons had been given pa.s.ses. "We on national TV, man," Wallace said, holding Shalimar the clown's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in his gloved hand. "But we just rehearsin'. The main attraction is when we do you. Today we just terminated some dummy. Call it a dummy run." Something broke inside Shalimar the clown at that moment, and naked as he was with his b.a.l.l.s in the other man's hand he brought up his knee as fast as he could and hammered downward with both hands joined together and he pounded at Wallace for a spell until two other guards shot at him with wooden bullets and knocked him out. The guards gathered round him and kicked his unconscious body for several minutes, breaking his ribs all over again and damaging his back and injuring his groin so severely that he was unable to walk for a week and smas.h.i.+ng his nose in two places and that was the end of his pretty-boy looks.

When he made it out to the yard again the Blood King beckoned him over. "You okay?" he asked. Shalimar the clown was limping slightly and his right shoulder hung lower than his left. "Yes," he replied. The Blood King offered him a cigarette. "You got some devil in you, terroris'," he said. "You need somethin', you ask me."

A sixth year went by.

Once the trial of Shalimar the clown had ended, Kashmira Ophuls became herself again. She telephoned her friends and apologized to them for her behavior, she threw a party on Mulholland Drive to prove she wasn't crazy anymore, she called up her old film crew and said, "Let's go to work." In the course of the next six years she completed Camino Real, Camino Real, took it to the major festivals, found a good home for it on television, and followed it with took it to the major festivals, found a good home for it on television, and followed it with Art and Adventure, Art and Adventure, a dramatized re-creation of her grandparents' lost, prewar Strasbourg and its eventual destruction. At home, she revised the security agreement with the Jerome company, scaling down the level of protection to more conventional antiburglary levels. She also fell in love. Yuvraj Singh had followed her to America as he had promised he would, showing up on her doorstep looking a little ludicrous, carrying a bunch of flowers in a papier-mache vase, a portrait of her face carved out of walnut, a selection of embroidered shawls and a yellow-and-gold chain-st.i.tch rug, a dramatized re-creation of her grandparents' lost, prewar Strasbourg and its eventual destruction. At home, she revised the security agreement with the Jerome company, scaling down the level of protection to more conventional antiburglary levels. She also fell in love. Yuvraj Singh had followed her to America as he had promised he would, showing up on her doorstep looking a little ludicrous, carrying a bunch of flowers in a papier-mache vase, a portrait of her face carved out of walnut, a selection of embroidered shawls and a yellow-and-gold chain-st.i.tch rug, You look like a walking flea market, You look like a walking flea market, she said into her video entry-phone, then buzzed him in, and in her new, post-trial mood of euphoria lowered her defenses and allowed herself to be happy and eased off on her weapons work and ring time and martial arts. she said into her video entry-phone, then buzzed him in, and in her new, post-trial mood of euphoria lowered her defenses and allowed herself to be happy and eased off on her weapons work and ring time and martial arts.

The relations.h.i.+p had its difficulties. She returned to Kashmir, to his enchanted garden, to be with him when she could, but he mostly needed to be there in the winter because the work of the craftsmen and craftswomen was winter work, the slow embroidery, the carving, and in that Himalayan winter the cold gnawed at her face and made her miss the Californian warmth about which she had always complained. Also there was the political situation; which did not improve, which deteriorated. War was often close, and he advised her to stay away. He was finding a growing market for his goods in the United States but still needed to be away for extended periods of time, and the fact that his absences seemed fine by her, that she matter-of-factly got on with her work and was happy to see him whenever he showed up, this was upsetting to him, he wanted her to mind his absences more, he wanted her to be more afraid for him, and especially to pine, because when they were apart he couldn't sleep, he said, the loneliness was overpowering, he thought about her every minute of every day, it was driving him crazy, no woman had ever made him feel this way. "That's because in this relations.h.i.+p I'm the guy," she told him sweetly, "and you, my dear, are the girl." This remark did not improve matters. However, in spite of the problems of an intercontinental love affair, and in spite of the fact that she seemed to dodge the subject of marriage whenever he tried to raise it, in spite of her gently pus.h.i.+ng aside the box with the ring inside that he put on the table when he took her out for dinner on her thirtieth birthday, they were for the most part content with each other, so that when the letter from Shalimar the clown arrived it seemed anachronistic, like a punch thrown long after the final bell.

Everything I am your mother makes me, the letter began. the letter began. Every blow I suffer your father deals. Every blow I suffer your father deals. There followed more along these lines, and then it ended with the sentence that Shalimar the clown had carried within him all his life. There followed more along these lines, and then it ended with the sentence that Shalimar the clown had carried within him all his life. Your father deserves to die, and your mother is a wh.o.r.e. Your father deserves to die, and your mother is a wh.o.r.e. She showed the letter to Yuvraj. "Too bad he hasn't improved his English in San Quentin," he said, trying to dismiss the ugly words, to rob them of their power. "He puts the past into the present tense." She showed the letter to Yuvraj. "Too bad he hasn't improved his English in San Quentin," he said, trying to dismiss the ugly words, to rob them of their power. "He puts the past into the present tense."

Night in the A/C was a little quieter than the day. There was a certain amount of screaming but after the one a.m. inspection it quieted down. Three in the morning was almost peaceful. Shalimar the clown lay on his steel cot and tried to conjure up the sound of the running of the Muskadoon, tried to taste the gushtaba and roghan josh and firni of Pandit Pyarelal Kaul, tried to remember his father. I wish I was still held in the palm of your hand. I wish I was still held in the palm of your hand. Abdullah had promised he would return from t