The Vibrant Years(88)

“Cullie,” he said. And it made her furious that he got to say her name, one she hadn’t lied about.

Binji cleared her throat, and they both jumped.

“You wanted to meet me. I’m here,” Binji said.

Purpose had appeared to course through Binji when she’d marched up here. Now she seemed to be reevaluating the very meaning of life.

Rishi Seth dragged his gaze from Cullie and pulled the door wide open. “Please,” he said, “won’t you come inside?”

Cullie didn’t want to. Inside that room she’d felt too light, too fun and flirty. She didn’t want to go back in there feeling this heavy with betrayal and mistrust.

“Or we can go down to the coffee shop,” he said, eyes on Cullie.

But what he wanted to talk to Binji about was in here. She should have insisted on looking at those stacks of folders and notebooks. She shouldn’t have trusted him. “Let’s go inside.”

They followed him in. The tiny dining table they’d used as a desk was strewn with journals and binders.

An old photo album with a faded brocade cover sat on one of the couches and caught Binji’s eye. She picked it up and dropped into the couch. Then, hands shaking, she opened it.

Even for a person as dramatically expressive as Binji, the storm that raged on her face as she looked at the pictures was a lot. And it got worse and worse. Finally, she closed her eyes and shut the album.

When she opened her eyes, she looked at Rishi Seth so steadily it was like she hadn’t just practically vomited with emotion over the album. “These look like the stills from a period film. Is this your new project?”

This was obviously the last reaction he’d been expecting.

Cullie shrugged when he looked at her. Don’t look at me; I have no idea what’s going on. Then she realized what she was doing and glared at him.

“It’s a film my grandfather made back in 1974,” he said in the gentlest voice. “It was destroyed in a fire. A fire he himself set and then put out with his bare hands, because he couldn’t finish the job.”

When no one spoke, he sat down next to Binji, who had gone ashen again. “He was obsessed with retrieving lost and damaged films. My earliest memories are of him talking about it, and I became obsessed with it too. For years we found celluloid reels and married prints with no dupes and stored them in a climate-controlled facility. We restored stock with minor nicks and damage. I went to Switzerland for five years when I was eighteen to study cinema and preservation. Then I met Bijou, a grand master who was an expert in fire rescue, and trained under him. I didn’t know then that this was the film Dada had been doing everything for.”

Cullie had never seen Binji hold herself this still. Nothing moved in or around her, and yet it was like watching an implosion. Cullie had been fascinated with demolition videos in high school. Rishi’s word’s fell on Binji like the precision explosions that made the giant concrete-and-steel towers collapse inward.

When Binji didn’t ask the question, Cullie did, speaking to him for the first time. “How do you know this was the film he’d done all that for?”

He turned to her, eyes grateful and somber, filled with memories and grief. “He had a stroke ten years ago. Soon after that I met Bijou. It seemed to give Dada a second wind. He fought hard on his rehab, pushed himself to recover with renewed force. Within a year, you couldn’t even tell that half his body had been paralyzed. He had another stroke two years ago. We’d been able to restore the first of the destroyed scenes by then. This stroke was a bad one. The doctors said it was impossible for him to survive this one. But he hung in there until all four of the destroyed scenes were restored. The morning after he watched the full cut in his home theater, I found him in his bed. He’d passed in his sleep.”

Binji’s hands trembled in her lap. Her lips trembled, but her eyes were tinder dry. The very air around her felt tinder dry.

Cullie sat down next to her and took her hand.

For the longest time no one spoke. Then Rishi disappeared into a room and came back with what looked like a hat box from an old movie, except it was square.

“I was the last one he spoke to.” His voice was gruff with pain. “He told me where to find his journal and all the stills and notebooks from the making of Poornima. The last thing I remember him saying was, ‘Promise me that no one will see this before Bhanu sees it. Whatever you do with it. Make sure she gets to decide what happens.’”

“I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with Binji?” Cullie asked, not because she didn’t know the answer.

Binji stood, and swayed lightly on her feet. “Everything.”

Rishi held out the box. “That’s why I had to meet you in person. So I could give you the journals and the film.”

Binji stared at the silk-covered box but didn’t touch it. “I can’t.”

“Please. It was Dada’s last wish. One he dedicated the last decades of his life to. It was worship to him.”

“Don’t pressure her.” Cullie put her arm around Binji.

“Sorry.”

The look Binji gave Rishi was filled with so many feelings, a painful lump formed in Cullie’s throat.

“What do you want from me?” Binji asked.

He opened the box and extracted a leather-bound diary. “This is his journal. I think you’ll want to read it.” He held it out. “There’s an envelope in there with your name on it. It’s unopened.”