Haunting Jasmine (25 page)
“You did get married again… .” I run my fingers along the intricate gold weave on the sari. The edges shimmer.
“
Acha.
Ganesh told me one last thing.
Here is my last gift to aid you on your journey. The strength of your will, and an author’s book, can bring a spirit to life for a day and a night. Only once. And you will pass this gift to the next woman in line.
Then he disappeared in a swirl of sparkling mist.”
Acha.
Ganesh told me one last thing.
Here is my last gift to aid you on your journey. The strength of your will, and an author’s book, can bring a spirit to life for a day and a night. Only once. And you will pass this gift to the next woman in line.
Then he disappeared in a swirl of sparkling mist.”
“That’s a wild story,” I say and let out a crazy laugh. My heart is racing, my hands clammy. The memoir. I carried it outside, and Connor was insistent about spending a day and a night with me. “Have you told others in the family?”
“Nobody speaks of my first marriage. It’s as if my husband did not exist. I try not to utter his name. Your uncle Sanjoy was good to me, but now I have rediscovered my true love in Subhas. I should have listened to my heart and married him a long time ago, but alas …”
“You loved Uncle Sanjoy, too, didn’t you?” I say. “Or was the marriage a lie?”
“Not a lie, but a quiet love, the kind of nurturing, easy love that I needed after my traumatic experience. After Sanjoy died, I remained a widow for a decade. But life goes on, nah? And now, I’m ready for the fierce fire of love with Subhas once again. It is possible, I believe, to have love that is nurturing but also fierce. Everything in its time.”
I reach out to hug Auntie. I love her scent of Pond’s cold cream, her deceptively fragile shoulders. “Thank you for telling me the story.”
“The spirits are beginning to fade for me,” she says, not looking at me. “I was hoping you might stay.”
“Me?” I step away from her, the room suddenly shrinking. “But you belong here. You always have.”
Her eyes begin to water. She looks away. “I understand, Bippy. The store is not doing as well as it once did. Perhaps Ganesh’s legacy has ended. Perhaps I will have to sell.”
My throat goes dry. “You can make the bookstore turn a profit. I’ve tried to help things along.”
Auntie is silent a moment. “I will stay for as long as I can, and we will see.”
Chapter 41
Back in Los Angeles, I stride into the Taylor Investments conference room, set my briefcase on the table, and pull out my proposal for the Hoffman account. The air smells of cologne and coffee beans. I’m surrounded by four men in pressed suits and a woman with collagen lips. White walls, gray conference table, straight lines, and sharp corners. On one wall is my boss’s signature abstract painting—a splash of blue and silver like spilled oil on a wet highway. Sunlight filters in through a full-wall window, but the dark glass tempers the effect. Fluorescent lights lend all the faces a greenish tint.
“Henry, are you still playing golf down at the club?” a balding man asks the man next to him, who looks vigorous and artificially tanned.
“I shot seventy-eight yesterday,” Tanned Man says. “Can’t wait to get back out on the course.”
Bald Man presses his forefinger to the table. “Best score for a four-round tournament—seventy-two holes played—was 254 by Tommy Armour III at the 2003 Texas Open.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Tanned Man says. The others are sipping coffee, shuffling papers, looking at me expectantly.
Scott Taylor clears his throat. “Gentlemen.” He glances at Collagen Woman. “Ladies. I believe we’re about to begin. Jasmine?”
I stand and clear my throat. “With the new Green Futures retirement funds option at Taylor, you can invest to help the environment. We seek competitive returns while we put your money to work for cleaner air… .” And on I go.
Outside the window, a scantily clad woman jogs by, and the male eyes shift. Bald Man taps his pen on the table. Tanned Man casts a quick, sheepish smile at Collagen Woman. She frowns at him. Her face has been lifted, her skin pulled back to keep her future at bay. She gives me an odd sense of sadness.
“… Our Balanced Fund seeks to promote responsible corporate behavior… .” I go on. I find a rhythm. I’m good at this.
Scott keeps a smile fixed on his face.
Collagen Woman raises her hand.
“Yes?” I say.
“This sounds wonderful.” She grimaces, and I realize she’s smiling. “How do you make sure the firms aren’t importing goods from China?”
“We do our best to monitor the companies in which we invest,” I say.
“I must say I’m impressed with your presentation.”
“Thank you.” I’m beaming, and so is Scott.
“Jasmine is brilliant,” he says. “She’s put in many hours of overtime.”
Warmth spreads through me. Collagen Woman nods with approval.
I finish my presentation, shake hands with everyone, and say my good-byes.
“Good job,” Scott says, patting my back. “Now we get back to work and play the waiting game.”
In my office, I’ve added a bookshelf full of a variety of novels and nonfiction, a bowl of fragrant potpourri, and plants. But the effect is diluted, piecemeal. I wish my windows opened. I try to focus on work.
An hour later, Scott shows up at the door, grinning. “We did it. They decided right away. We got the account.”
I nearly fall out of my chair. “We got it?”
He strides over to shake my hand. “Welcome to the big time. Excellent presentation. Vacation was good for you. This is unprecedented, a client making a decision so quickly.”
“Wow. Thanks.” My mind is spinning.
“We need to get you a bigger office.”
“Really?” I grin at him, surprised. “Thanks.”
“Let’s talk about strategy. We’ll have a company meeting in half an hour. Good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.” I did it. I’m good at my job. Maybe I made partner. I can’t wait to call everyone I know. Auntie, Tony … I wish I could call Connor.
On his way out, Scott glances at the books on the shelves. “I like to read on the plane. Thrillers. ’Course, with the new account, you may not have much time for reading.” He winks at me and walks out.
No time for reading with the new account. For some people, reading means the difference between happiness and grief, hope and despair, life and death.
I listen to the office—the whir of the copy machine outside my door, the soft hum of the air circulation and conditioning systems, the metallic ring of the telephone. Voices pass now and then, discussing clients and accounts. The sounds are comforting, familiar.
I got the account.
I try to peruse performance numbers, percentages, line graphs, and pie charts, but I’m distracted. I get up and stand at the window. A white California gull alights on the concrete bench in the manicured corporate garden, a small Eden beneath the palm trees and bougainvillea bushes.
“I got the account,” I tell the gull. He looks at me and then takes off. He has a bit of gray on his wings, like the gulls on Shelter Island. Maybe he’s looking for the way north.
I imagine the rushing sound of the surf on the island, the changeable sky. Here, a solid block of blue stretches away without end.
Tears come to my eyes. Stupid, silly, unwanted tears, for no good reason. I’m supposed to be thrilled. Now I’ll be able to save for retirement, maybe buy another condo.
I rummage through my giant handbag for a tissue to blow my nose. At the bottom, my fingers touch something fuzzy. I quickly withdraw my hand. No movement in my handbag. I reach in and pull out the rabbit ears from the children’s book room. Someone must’ve slipped them in here. The ears are wrapped around the old thin paperbound volume that Connor gave me.
Tamerlane and Other Poems
, by a Bostonian.
Tamerlane and Other Poems
, by a Bostonian.
Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm …
My eyes fill with tears.
At the bottom are the words
Calvin F. S. Thomas … Printer. 1827.
Was Connor trying to tell me something?
Calvin F. S. Thomas … Printer. 1827.
Was Connor trying to tell me something?
While I work, the poems drift through my head.
The spirits of the dead, who stood / In life before thee, are again / In death around thee….
The tone strikes me as familiar. I need a professional appraisal of the book.
The spirits of the dead, who stood / In life before thee, are again / In death around thee….
The tone strikes me as familiar. I need a professional appraisal of the book.
I check the Yellow Pages for antiquarian book dealers, and on my third call, I reach a husky-voiced man who seems to know old books. “What did you say it’s called?” he asks, his voice trembling with excitement.
I read the title aloud to him.
“And where did you say you found it?”
I tell him.
“Can you read what’s inside? The first page?”
I open the cover with great care. “ ‘Preface,’” I read. “ ‘The greater part of the Poems which compose this little volume, were written in the year 1821-2, when the author had not completed his fourteenth year—’ ”
“I’m going to call another expert. Can you bring the book to me right away? Be very careful with it.”
I hang up and glance at my watch. I’m going to miss the company meeting. I tuck the book into my purse and leave the office, turning off the light on my way out.
Chapter 42
I stride off the ferry on Shelter Island on Thursday afternoon. A brisk November wind pushes me down Harborside Road to the bookstore. I’m light on my feet as familiar landmarks rush past me. I’m bursting to tell Auntie what I’ve discovered.
At the bookstore, she’s already at the door in a red sari and Santa sweater, waiting to embrace me. “Bippy, come in quickly.” Her face is tight and drawn.
“What’s wrong?”
“Such trouble.” She pulls me inside, into the comforting smells of dust, mothballs, potpourri.
“What trouble? What’s happening?”
“We’ve got a problem. Ay, Ganesh.”
“What problem?”
Lucia, Virginia, Tony, and Mohan are sitting in the parlor. A hefty, blond policewoman in a blue uniform paces on the creaky floor. Everyone looks worried.
“We have police in Fairport?” I ask, flabbergasted. “What’s happening here?”
“Officer Flannigan,” the blond woman says, shaking my hand in a vise grip.
“Jasmine Mistry.” I let go and flex my fingers. “Is someone going to fill me in?”
“He just disappeared,” Mohan says, balling up a tissue in his fist.
“Who?” I say. “Who disappeared?” Did Sanchita come back and then run away again?
“Vishnu. We looked everywhere. He was just here.” Mohan blows his nose. Virginia pats his back. Lucia pours a cup of tea and hands it to him.
“When?” I say. “What happened?”
Officer Flannigan steps into the hall to answer a call.
“We came over for story time this morning,” Mohan says.
Auntie sits next to him. “Vishnu isn’t happy without you, Bippy. When I began to read aloud, he pouted. Then suddenly, he was gone.”
“Have you checked everywhere?” I should have explained to Vishnu, said good-bye to him. He has already lost his mother.
Auntie nods. “We looked in all the rooms. We’ve had everyone out searching the streets.”
Mohan clasps his white-knuckled fingers together. “He’s become more and more morose.”
“How long has he been gone?” I ask.
“Two hours,” Lucia says. “Nobody saw him leave the store. One minute, he was sitting in the children’s book room, the next minute, he was gone. He was reading Dr. Seuss.”
“Wait,” I say. “Dr. Seuss? In the children’s book room?”
Lucia nods. “
The Cat in the Hat
.”
The Cat in the Hat
.”
I was Vishnu’s age when I ran down the hall, that very book tucked under my arm. I pressed a special spot on the wall, and a door sprang open beneath the stairs. I climbed into the cubbyhole, sat on a pile of old boxes, and pulled the string to turn on the overhead light. I could read in peace, with a sense of wonder.
The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play….
The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play….
Dr. Seuss spoke to me then.
“Come with me.” I lead everyone down the hall and stop in front of the cubbyhole under the stairs. The invisible door blends into the woodwork.
“What are we doing here?” Mohan says. “You think Vishnu disappeared in the walls?”
I press the edge of the door, and it swings open. Lucia gasps and steps back. Mohan sucks in a breath, and Auntie laughs. “Ay, Ganesh,” she says.
“Vishnu?” I call into the darkness.
At first nothing happens, and then, slowly, Vishnu’s face appears, moving into the light of a stark lamp that hangs from the ceiling of the cubbyhole. For a moment, he is me, the way I was as a child.
“I knew I would find you here,” I say.
“You came back,” he says.
He steps out and tucks a book under his arm. A cobweb is stuck in his hair.
Mohan grabs his hand. “Don’t do that again. You had everyone scared.”
“Sorry, Dad. I needed a time-out.”
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