Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  “And your husband?” I ask. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a brain surgeon,” she says, watching Uncle Benoy walk away with Durga.

  My eyebrows rise. What else would he be? “Is he here today? Or is he working? On call? Surgeons work long hours, don’t they?”

  “Oh, he’s here. Family is so important to him.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Family was important to Robert, too. He would have started several families with several women, if given half a chance. Lauren won’t last long. She’s only the latest in Robert’s series of fascinations.

  “And you? You’re married?” Sanchita asks, then licks her lips. “No, you’re separated. Divorced.” Someone in her family must have mentioned my plight. Did you hear about poor Jasmine?

  “Nearly a year ago,” I say, keeping a careful smile on my face.

  “That’s right. He was Indian, or American?”

  Was, as if he’s now dead. “American.” I expect her to say, Well, that figures.

  “How did you meet him?” she asks.

  “Mutual friend, faculty party. He’s a professor of anthropology.”

  She nods. “Wasn’t that your major, too?”

  “At first, but I switched to something more practical.”

  “And Gita? She’s getting married next spring? To an Indian?”

  “So I hear,” I say.

  A tall, dashing man strides up to us in an open-necked silk shirt and slacks. He could have stepped out of a Bollywood movie, the hero of an epic tale. He is comfortable, in command of his space. If I had married a man like him, would my life be different?

  “Darling,” he says to Sanchita in a smooth voice, touched by a slight Bengali accent. His eyes fill with adoration for her. “Your mother would like help in the kitchen.”

  “Tell her I’m coming,” Sanchita says.

  He turns to me and smiles. Perfect white teeth. “I’m Sanchita’s husband, Mohan, and you are...?”

  “Jasmine. Nobody’s wife.” I’m not a mother, and I’m a sorry excuse for a bookseller. I can manage stock portfolios like nobody’s business, but I’m almost out of a job.

  Sanchita and Mohan look at me blankly.

  “Never mind,” I say. “A lame joke.”

  “Sanchita!” Auntie Charu calls.

  “Ma, I’m coming!” Sanchita shouts back. Her voice regresses to childhood as she and Mohan rush off.

  We all stay on the patio for supper, and the evening blurs into animated conversations about politics and religion, travel and physics, astronomy and literature. I start to enjoy the banter, the company of family friends, and the food—spicy salmon, basmati rice, savory dal, and sweet desserts.

  For a time, the weight of expectations falls away. The wine helps, dulling my pain, soothing the sharpness of sad memories. My mind grows fuzzy, and later, back at my parents’ house, I have no trouble sleeping, for the first time in nearly a year.

  But in the morning, when I return to the bookstore, Tony is bustling around, cursing under his breath. “You didn’t stay over, did you? I came in early. I had a bad feeling. Now look what we have to deal with.”

  I look around, my mouth dropping open. “What the hell happened here?”

  Chapter 13

  The parlor is a mess—books pulled off shelves, furniture moved. Gertrude’s picture books are on the floor, the display replaced by a series of classics by Beatrix Potter, E. B. White, Lewis Carroll, and other dead authors.

  I head for the door, my heart pounding. “I’ll call the police.”

  “No, don’t.” Tony rushes up and blocks my way. “Nothing was stolen. I checked the till.”

  “But the place has been vandalized.”

  “Not vandalized. Rearranged.” He picks up a copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.

  “What do you mean, ‘rearranged’?”

  “Happens sometimes. Everything’s here; it’s just not where it’s supposed to be.”

  “How do you know? Have you accounted for all the books?”

  “Pretty much. This is the only room affected.”

  “My aunt needs an alarm system....”

  “We don’t need an alarm system here. This is not L.A.” Tony pushes an armchair away from the wall.

  “Obviously you do need one. Someone has broken in!”

  “Nobody broke in.”

  A ripple of ice travels through my body. “Are you saying that someone was already inside?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Then where is he now? Why would anyone do this?”

  “Maybe someone doesn’t want us focusing on Gertrude.”

  I shelve The Wind in the Willows. “Right. These dead authors would rather we focus on their books instead?”

  “Maybe. Ask them.”

  I laugh. “Come on, Tony. Did you do this?”

  His glare could cut through stone. “Why would I make a mess, only to have to clean it up? How does that make any sense? What would be my motivation?”

  I pick up a giant volume from the floor, an old hardcover copy of Alice in Wonderland. “To punish me for not staying overnight? I don’t know. To scare me? Maybe you want me to live here twenty-four/seven, so you can take some time off.”

  “Believe me, I’m not going to abandon Ruma’s store now.” He snatches the book from my hand. “I told you to stay. You could’ve prevented all this. It had nothing to do with me.”

  “You can’t actually believe the house is cranky. You believe in my aunt’s whims?”

  “I wouldn’t call them whims.” He purses his lips. “And your aunt is no dummy.”

  “Do you really believe...?”

  “What I believe doesn’t matter.” He glances at his watch. “We have to get this room tidy. We need to set the coffee and tea brewing. Gertrude will arrive soon. I’m not looking forward to dealing with this mess every day while you’re here.”

  “Every day? This is going to happen every day?”

  “Maybe worse. We’ll have to rearrange all the furniture. Biographies and memoirs could end up in Mystery. Mystery in Romance. Romance in Reference—”

  “So this has happened before?”

  He frowns, hesitating, then says, “Your aunt told me she used to go away now and then, but every time she left, something would be out of place when she returned. One small thing. An antique pen moved from the parlor to the office. Tea leaves scattered on the countertop. It got worse over time. Last year she took a weekend trip to Portland, for a trade show, and the store was a mess when she got back. Took her two days to clean up. She hardly ever goes away now. This trip to India is huge for her.”

  As if in protest, a dusty paperback slips off the shelf, followed by a cascade of falling books.

  “She could have warned me,” I say.

  “Would you still have come?” He puts the book away and straightens the shelves.

  “I probably wouldn’t have believed her.”

  “There you go.”

  “Why don’t you stay over, Tony, and keep the store company?”

  “It can’t be just anyone,” he says.

  This is ridiculous. On the wall, a faded photograph of Lewis Carroll hangs askew. I straighten the picture, labeled Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, Lewis Carroll’s real name. In a dark jacket, high-collared white shirt, and bow tie, he’s sitting in profile, revealing his left side, right hand raised to his cheek. Long-faced, sad. “Did you do this?” I ask him.

  Mr. Dodgson turns toward me. I step back, losing my breath. No, he’s still looking to the side, his pensive gaze cast downward.

  “You okay?” Tony says.

  I’m suffering from mild hallucinations. Maybe I had too much wine last night. “I need coffee,” I say quickly. “I need to clear my mind.”

  A whole shelf of hardcovers tips over like a series of dominoes.

  “The house is annoyed,” Tony says, shaking his head.

  I hold up my hands. “You win. I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s what I have to do.”


  Silence descends. I make for the door. The prospect of a night here makes my chest constrict. These vast rooms won’t keep me company. Nobody will sleep beside me. Robert will slip into bed next to Lauren, pull her into his arms. And I will be lost in an ancient, crumbling Victorian mansion in the middle of nowhere.

  As I approach the door, a matte poster of William Shakespeare brightens in a shaft of sunlight—a reproduction of a realistic color portrait. His forehead shines, a silver earring glinting in his left ear. His lips turn up at the corners. O that infected moisture of his eye, / O that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d.

  “I’m impressed. You know your Shakespeare.” I turn to Tony, but he’s on the other side of the room, facing away from me, whistling a soft, tuneless melody.

  Chapter 14

  Outside, a small group of parents and toddlers gathers on the sidewalk. They’re bundled up, chatting and hopping around in the cold, their breath rising into puffs of steam. So this is the extent of our book-signing crowd for Gertrude Gertler.

  “We don’t have enough books,” Tony says. “I may need to go to Seattle—”

  “There are maybe seven people outside. Not exactly a crowd.”

  “I need to call the courier. Best-case scenario, the books are still on their way.”

  “My aunt should have advertised the event, put up flyers, sent announcements to the schools—”

  “She’s been preoccupied.”

  I feel stricken at this reminder of my aunt’s illness. “She still needs a business to come back to.”

  “She’s done okay up until now.” Tony pivots and heads for the office. I follow, close on his heels.

  “She can’t be doing okay. We need a monthly calendar, flyers, a plan of action. That will be your job, to make up flyers. My aunt put me in charge, and I’m giving you the task of advertising her events.”

  “Whatever you say,” Tony says, flinging open the office door. “You’re the boss. You know everything about this store, obviously. You’re so... perceptive.”

  “Is that irony? Are you mocking me? I couldn’t know the parlor would be messed up, for whatever reason.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You waltz in here and think you can fix this place. But first you need to open your eyes, see what’s right in front of you.”

  I look around, at the piles of dusty books, the dim corners, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. I had already wiped down those windowsills, but they are dusty again. “I see what’s in front of me, and it’s not a pretty sight.”

  Tony shakes his head, as if I am incorrigible. “We need to focus on Gertrude. I’m calling the courier.” He disappears into the office, slamming the door in my face.

  There’s a tentative knock on the front door, the one facing the waterfront, away from the customers. I open the door to find a diminutive woman, bundled in layers of knitted winter clothing, standing huddled on the porch, her pink nose planted like a cherry in the middle of a round face.

  “We’re not open yet,” I say. “Can you wait around the corner with the others?”

  She pushes past me into the house and unwinds the knitted scarf from around her neck. “What took you so long?” she says in a raspy voice. “I almost caught my death of cold out there.” She folds the scarf into a neat square and places it on a table.

  “If you could wait outside—”

  “Don’t you know who I am?” She pulls off the knitted cap, and a sparse collection of downy silver hairs stands straight upward in a glorious blaze of static electricity. She folds the cap and puts it on the table next to her scarf.

  “You’re... Gertrude Gertler?” My cheeks heat up. “I didn’t recognize you in your winter clothes.” And whoever took her author photos performed wondrous feats of visual magic.

  “I don’t know how anyone could not recognize me.” She pulls off her mittens and folds and places them on the table, too. “Where is my tea?”

  “We’ve had a bit of trouble here this morning, so we’ve fallen behind.”

  “What kind of trouble?” She rubs the palms of her tiny hands together. “You don’t have tea? I always have tea when I come here.”

  I usher her into the tea room and set the kettle on the stove. “Can I get you a glass of water, apple juice, orange juice?”

  “I always have tea.” She’s still rubbing her hands together. “I don’t drink juice. Didn’t Ruma tell you?”

  “Of course, tea.” She’s a diva.

  “Let me see where I’ll be signing.”

  “In the parlor. But the room is still a mess.” I lead her down the hall. When she steps into the parlor, she trembles like a volcano about to erupt.

  “Where. Are. My. Books?” she says.

  Tony rushes in to fix the displays. “We have six for now. We’ll have more later.”

  “You. Have. Six?” She throws up her hands and lets out a wail. “Only six? Did you see all those people out there?”

  All what people? A few of them seem to have wandered off. I count four adults and two toddlers on the sidewalk.

  “We’ll work it out,” Tony says. “The courier was delayed in Portland.”

  “Oregon! He’ll take hours to get here.” She strides to the signing table, picks up the packet of blue Post-it Notes. “What are these?”

  “They’re for you,” Tony says. “We’ll do the usual—write down the names so you can sign the books and spell everything correctly.”

  “But they’re blue.” Her voice trembles on a high wire.

  Tony glances over her head at me. I shrug and shake my head. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “We don’t have pink Post-it Notes today.”

  She throws the blue pack on the table. “I made it perfectly clear. I spelled it out. I require pink Post-it Notes. I can’t see the writing on blue. And where is my blue Sharpie pen?”

  “We’ll find one for you.” Tony motions to me to look for a pen.

  I turn and head back to the office. The kettle is whistling, and someone is knocking on the door. I run to turn off the stove, pour a pot of English breakfast tea, and rush back to the office. I rummage through Auntie’s supplies, but I can’t find a single blue Sharpie marker. They’re all black. What is wrong with this Gertrude woman?

  I take her a cup of tea and a black pen. “I hope this will work.”

  She shakes her head and tosses the pen on the table. She ignores the cup of tea. “My requirements are minimal. Pink notes, blue pen, a neat and tidy room, and my books. And a cup of tea when I walk in the door. I came a long way for this event.” She’s heading back to the tea room, where she gathers her scarf and hat and mittens off the table. She’s making for the door.

  Tony tugs my sleeve. “Got any ideas for fixing this one? We need an idea right now. She came in looking for investment books once.... Give her some free advice?”

  “You want me to grovel at the feet of a snotty author just so she’ll stay to sign a couple of her books?”

  “Why not? The kids love her.” Tony’s staring out the window at the small crowd on the sidewalk. I follow his gaze. Gertrude is bundled up again, hurrying away to her car. Maybe I should go after her. She glances back over her shoulder and frowns in our direction. No, let her go.

  Chapter 15

  An hour later, fifty-seven copies of Fuzzy-Paw Pajamas are piled on the parlor table.

  “We have to get Gertrude back in,” Tony says.

  “Can’t we send back the books?”

  “But the kids love her. Did you see their faces when you told them Gertrude had canceled? They were devastated.”

  I feel a twinge beneath my ribs. “There are worse things in life than missing a book signing. They’ll get over it.”

  “You’re such a Scrooge. You’re nothing like your aunt.”

  I clench my jaw and focus on cleaning up the room. How does my aunt fit so many books into one small space? “Nobody said I was like her.”

  “Weren’t you ever a kid?”

  “Nope.” I shelve a copy of Inner
Peace for Busy People. How did this book end up on the floor?

  “Gertrude makes the kids laugh. Do you ever laugh?”

  I swallow a dry lump in my throat. “Laughter is overrated.”

  “Don’t you ever have fun?”

  “Actually, I’m going on a date Friday night. If you call that fun.” I had nearly forgotten. Had Connor even been real? What will he expect from me? I’ll be alone with him here.

  Tony’s eyebrows rise, his whole forehead lifting beneath his slicked-back bangs. “You?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. His name is Connor Hunt. He’s a doctor, just visiting. I don’t even know how to reach him, so I can’t cancel.”

  “A doctor! Why would you want to cancel?”

  “Because I don’t date. But I agreed to it this time... Never mind. It was almost like a voice told me to go out with him and I stupidly listened.”

  Tony drops a book on his foot and winces. “You what? You heard a voice?”

  “Not really. Maybe it was the wind.”

  Tony picks up the book. “Come here and sit down.” He directs me to an armchair next to a pivoting lamp. Then he shines the light in my face.

  I shield my eyes. “Turn that thing the other way.”

  “I’m checking for your third eye.”

  “I am not my aunt. She believes in that kind of garbage. I do not.”

  But Tony’s eyes are wide, and he’s shaking his head. “Girl, you have it. You have the third eye. You probably did hear voices. Your aunt hears them, too.”

  I push him away and get up. “Your voice is the only one I’m hearing, and if you saw anything on my forehead, it was probably a zit.”

  “Excuse me?” A young owl-eyed woman pops her head in the door. Her features are round and fixed, as if she must also turn her head the way an owl does, all at once, without moving the eyes. “Does anyone work in this place?”

  “She does,” Tony says, pointing at me. “She has the third eye.”

  “Tony.” I give him a warning look, then smile at the woman. “How can I help you?” I follow her into the hall.