Iwait until afternoon to text Rama, hoping a day’s rest helped him.
Hey, how’s it going?
Resuming working on the painting of the skyline, I barely notice when an hour passes. When I check my phone and see no messages, I tell myself Rama might be sleeping, but after another hour goes by without a word from him, I call. He doesn’t pick up.
Rama, are you okay?
When the phone finally pings several minutes later, I toss the palette knife onto the newspaper I’ve spread out on the table and look at the screen. A text from Rama with onlysingle letter.
I
About to try calling him again, I pause when another text comes through.
I’m fine.
When he doesn’t say anything more, I text back.
Please call me when you get a chance.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings, and I hit the speaker button. The loud blare of a car horn fills the room, followed by someone shouting curse words in English.
“Rama?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…I, uh, I just got out of a taxi.”
Alarmed, I take the phone off speaker and stand. Far from his usual self-assured manner, Rama sounds rattled and confused.
“A taxi? Didn’t you stay home and rest today?”
“No, I went to work.”
“When I called you this morning to wish you a happy birthday, Pete said you weren’t feeling well.” Silence. “Rama? Are you still there?”
Another horn blares before he answers me. “I’m here. I had to find a place to sit down. I, uh, went to work today, but I’m on my way back to Pete’s.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine.
“Where are you exactly?”
“On my way to Pete’s. Didn’t I just tell you that?” He sounds genuinely puzzled.
“Yeah. The cab let you out and you found a place to sit. So, are you outside Pete’s building?”
The next pause is so long, I’m a ball of tension by the time he answers.
“I think I gave the driver the wrong address,” he says hesitantly before a loud burst of conversation mixed with the sounds of traffic blocks out his next words. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly panicked. “P?”
“I’m here. Call Pete and have him pick you up.” I begin to pace. He never calls me by just the honorific “P.” He sounds muddled and apprehensive, and he’s in the middle of a big city in a strange country. I want him safe.
“Pete’s at work. Maybe I should call another cab,” Rama says uncertainly.
“He told me this morning he took the day off. Call him. Do you know where you are? What street?”