For the past few days, I’ve jumped at every creak of the floorboards, whipped around when I’ve felt a breath on my shoulder, rushed into a room if I’ve heard a voice. But Connor is gone.
“I didn’t know it was possible,” Tony goes on. “I mean, was he fully functional?”
“Of course he was.”
“So exactly what could he do?”
“I’ll leave that up to your imagination. That’s all I’m going to tell you, no matter how many times you ask.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re cruel.”
“He could do anything a living person could do.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping for a whiff of Connor, a hint of his return. But his scent lives only in memory. His fragrance is gone forever. The shop smells like books, dust, paper, wood.
“You’re positively radiant, girl. And your hair, it’s shiny. And look at this place. Your aunt will be proud of you.”
The store is bustling with customers. Maybe they like the new lights or the spacious, homey atmosphere. I’ve rearranged the furniture to open up the rooms. Outside, a late autumn sun is shining. I forgot how much I once loved the mottled sunlight, the sound of rustling alder leaves.
“Jasmine, there you are.” Lucia Peleran bustles into the store, dressed for takeoff in a white outfit that reminds me of an astronaut. “I’ve got a special plan, for my future. Could we try again? It seemed as though you almost had something for me before, a cookbook.”
“Do you smell that?” I say, turning in circles. A phantom orchard of fruit trees grows up around me, an instant plethora of leaves, sunlight, a harvest of Valencias, tangerines, Seville oranges.
Lucia is staring at me, her mouth slightly open. “What? Dust? This store has always been dusty.”
“Not dust,” I say. “Citrus. Smells sweet and fresh.”
“I don’t smell anything.” She sniffs the air, an expression of longing in her eyes.
“Listen to Jasmine,” Tony says. “She knows of what she speaks.”
I choose The Way to Cook by Julia Child. “We just got a copy in,” I tell Lucia.
She holds the book close to her chest and dances around in circles. “This is it, this is it. Jasmine, you figured it out!”
“Not me,” I say, smiling at Julia Child’s invisible spirit.
After Lucia leaves, I make a phone call—one I should have made several days ago. Half an hour later, Professor Avery shows up in the store, his hair a gray wilderness. He touches all the books in the Travel section. “So you say you’ve found what I need?”
Magic in the Mango Orchards glows, as it was always meant to do, and Rudyard Kipling whispers in my ear. T.S. Eliot misquoted me. I never said that one must smell a place to know it.
“I hope you enjoy India,” I say, handing the book to the professor.
He flips through, his eyes lighting up. “This is the perfect book. The smell! Don’t you catch the odors of India?”
“Yes,” I say, and I do.
Professor Avery clutches the book in his wrinkled white fingers, as if every hope were concentrated in those pages. “Thank you, thank you!” He can’t pay fast enough; he leaves too much money on the counter as he rushes out of the store. Tony chases after him with change.
I pull out Connor’s memoir, which is sandwiched between two new books, and carry it back to the tea room. I’m not sure I want anyone else to own this volume. I can keep a small memento of him. The author photo on the back cover looks faded, distant. But I sense Connor watching me from another world.
There’s a woman standing in the tea room—a regal, stunning woman in a blue dress. The same woman I saw in the parlor during my first night in the house, during the storm. I recognize her now.
“The descriptions of you, they’re wrong,” I say. “At least, the ones I’ve read. That sketch, the last surviving drawing of you. It doesn’t do you justice.”
She glides across the room, her outline fading, then coming back into sharp focus. “Whimsical and affected, not at all pretty.” Her voice is the same one I heard in the laundry room. Musical, dipped in an English accent.
“But you’re not whimsical,” I say.
“The words of my aunt Phila. She was exceedingly critical, but then what can one expect? And you. You called me plain—”
“You’re very pretty. Prettier than your picture.”
“Tall and slight, but not drooping? I’ve also been described in such a way.”
“Not drooping at all. Nor plain. Any man would fall in love with you—”
“Every man but Tom—”
“Tom Lefroy? Did he ever come back to you?”
She shakes her head sadly. “Tom and I—it was not our choice to part ways.” She glides to the window, turns her back to me. Her loneliness blows through me.
“I’m sorry. I understand loss. We hold on to nothing. Everything we love. Everything that appears permanent. In the end, it’s lost.”
She turns to me, her eyes brimming with a century of tears. Her outline becomes a yellowed daguerreotype, Jane Austen long gone—an impression only half remembered. “Lost, then found. We love, and we lose, but we can love again.” She steps backward, into shadow, until only her face appears like a moon in a dark sky.
“Jasmine. There you are.” Tony pops his head inside. “There’s a boy here to see you. He said he read the first Narnia book you gave him, and he needs another one.”
“Yes, I know that boy. I’m coming.” I turn toward Jane, but she’s gone, leaving only a soft breeze wafting in through a half-open window.
Chapter 39
On my last day in the store, I’m packed and ready to go. Auntie will return this afternoon. She’ll find her precious bookstore still standing, better than it was before. I try to focus on filling orders, organizing the paperwork in her office, straightening bookshelves.
Just before lunch, Virginia Langemack pops her head in the door. I’ve avoided customers all morning. I’m afraid I’ll cry if I say good-bye to anyone. “I hear you’re leaving,” she says.
I nod, my heart heavy. “I’ll miss you all, I really will.”
“You can’t leave,” Tony says behind her.
“Oh, Tony, please don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m sad to leave. I have to catch the boat first thing tomorrow. I hope you’ll stay in touch.”
“Your aunt would want you to stay,” Virginia says.
“I wish I could.” I’ll soon return to the rhythm of my normal life, and all this—the books, the spirits, the windswept island, and Connor—will seem like a dream.
Virginia hugs me. “What’s waiting for you in California?”
“My future.”
“You’ve still got the rest of the day here,” a familiar voice says behind me. I turn to find a beautiful vision standing in the hall. Wrapped in a verdant silk sari, she brings hints of tropical forest, waterfalls, lilies in bloom. Golden bangles glint on her wrists; she is wearing numerous gem-studded necklaces. Beneath the wrinkles of her tanned face, she glows with newfound joy. Her hair—lush and long—cascades past her shoulders. An aura of sandalwood and faint floral scents surrounds her, and I’m transported to Bengal, to the trains rattling north past mustard fields and into the foothills of Darjeeling, where fragrant tea bushes cling to terraced gardens.
“Auntie Ruma?” I say softly, catching my breath.
She holds out her hands, her fingers heavy with jewels. “Bippy, how lovely you look. My bookstore has healed you.”
“And India has healed your heart.” My eyes are wet with tears. How can she look so vibrant after what must have been a difficult surgery? I take her warm hands in mine.
“I’m sorry I had to leave you for so long.”
A man strides up behind her. Barely Auntie’s height, stalwart and handsome, he smiles the dashing, cultured smile of royalty. A handlebar mustache grows thick beneath an aquiline nose. In a tailored black suit, paisley tie, and golden cuff links, he exudes confidence and the scent of fr
esh aftershave. He’s rolling a large suitcase.
“Subhas Ganguli, at your service.” He speaks with a rich, smooth Bengali accent. He thrusts out his free hand and shakes mine firmly. “I’ve heard so much about Ruma’s lovely niece.”
“Subhas Ganguli?” I say stupidly, staring at him, then at his suitcase, then back again.
Auntie glows.
Tony has come up, followed by a couple of curious customers. “Ruma, you look positively fabulous,” he says. “You don’t look ill at all. And who is this?” He grins at Subhas Ganguli.
“Tony, my friend,” Auntie says, patting his cheeks, “I was never ill. I had only to fix my ailing heart.”
Subhas rests an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close to him. “Your heart is safe with me.”
I look from her to Subhas and back again. “That’s what you meant about fixing your heart?”
Auntie gazes into his eyes, and invisible love hearts fly between them. “It was quite a feat to secure his visa for America. But we succeeded. The wedding itself was far easier.”
“Wedding?” I exclaim. My aunt is full of surprises.
Auntie smiles coyly. “You didn’t believe anyone could fall in love with your wrinkled old auntie?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I smile warmly at Subhas. “I’m happy for you. You both must be tired from the journey. I’ll make some tea, and you have to tell me everything.”
Just then, Ma and Dad burst in the door. Ma’s in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Dad’s in jeans and a tweed jacket, his hair neatly combed.
“Ruma!” Ma says, rushing to hug her. She stares at Subhas, who politely moves out of the way. “I received your message. You’re married. When? Why didn’t you tell us?”
Auntie grins. “We knew each other a long time ago, when we were children. Don’t you remember, Mita?”
Ma narrows her gaze at Subhas, then her eyes widen, and a look of recognition dawns across her face. “Subhas Ganguli, from the flat across the courtyard? Little pudgy Subhas Ganguli?”
“Mita!” He hugs Ma. “You haven’t changed.” Then he shakes Dad’s hand.
Ma turns to Auntie Ruma. “Why didn’t you say anything? How did all this come about? Jasmine, did you know about this?”
“I had no idea.” I’m not lying, strictly speaking, since I misunderstood what Auntie Ruma meant about fixing her heart.
Auntie Ruma pats Subhas’s cheek. “We wanted a small, private wedding in Darjeeling. Someday we shall plan the big family affair.”
“But how—when—did the two of you find each other again?”
Auntie Ruma winks. “Magic.”
Ma raises an eyebrow. “Magic?”
Auntie laughs. “This was not sudden. I loved Subhas even when we were small, playing silly games in the garden. But his family wasn’t good enough—our parents thought he had no prospects, or have you forgotten? I followed their wishes, and, well . . . I left Subhas behind for many years.”
Ma smiles warmly at Subhas. “We’re happy she found you again.”
“We’re thrilled for you.” I hug Auntie tightly, and her joy seeps into me—images of silk and jewels and her dashing Subhas with wavy hair and a handlebar mustache. I picture her smiling in a red wedding sari, resplendent in gold bangles, arm in arm with her handsome new husband.
Dad steers Subhas toward the front door. “You must come to the house for a drink, and supper. My younger daughter, Gita, is coming as well. She would love to meet you.”
Subhas nods. “I would be delighted.”
Auntie waves her bejeweled arm at Ma. “You go with them. Bippy and I will join you later. We have important things to discuss.”
Chapter 40
“Come, Bippy, help me unpack.” Auntie drags her luggage up to the attic apartment. Her sari gently swishes on the servants’ staircase. The suitcase wheels bump against each step with muffled thuds.
Puffing, I haul the rest of her baggage up after her. “Why didn’t you tell me about Subhas?”
“I needed a secret, for once.”
“You’re sneaky. And why didn’t you tell me about the bookstore spirits?”
“I was not at all sure they would visit you. You had forgotten your childhood, you see—”
“Well, they did. The spirits visited me. But you could have explained—”
“If I’d told you, you would not have come.”
She’s right, of course. “But you owed me the truth.”
“Have you not enjoyed your stay?”
“The days have been . . . interesting.” And fun. And wild. And crazy. And heartbreaking.
“You must tell me all.” Inside the apartment, she glances around and frowns. “I’d forgotten how tiny my home is.”
“I’ve grown to love this place.” I cross the living room and set her luggage down in the bedroom. “I’m going to miss the view.”
“And what of your doctor? This Connor fellow?”
My heart falls. I tell her about Connor. I’m still talking as Auntie hoists her suitcase onto the bed and begins to unpack. When I finish spilling my heart, I’m out of breath, tears on my cheeks. “I fell in love with him. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Not at all. The heart does what it will.” Auntie unpacks saris, kurtas, woolen shawls. Sandalwood soap. She unfolds a red silk sari, the gold border shining in the light. “Isn’t this beautiful? My old wedding sari, from long ago. For Gita.”
“It’s so beautiful.” Memories seep into my bones. Sweet cha, dust, the scents of cardamom and turmeric....
“The spirits suggested I give her the sari. What a good idea.”
“Do other relatives see the spirits? In India?”
“Only you and I.” Auntie unfolds another sari, this one the grayish blue color of the Northwest’s ocean at dusk. “Ganesh granted me the ability to perceive the spirits.”
I hold the red sari to my cheek. The silk is so smooth, soft. “So now you’re going to tell me the story?”
“Ganesh saved my life. I was once married, before I came to America. Before I met Uncle Sanjoy.”
“You’ve been married twice, before Subhas? Ma never mentioned it—”
“Of course she would not.” Auntie hangs the dark sari next to a white one in the closet—night and day. “I lived with my first husband for only two months, but he was awful.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Her lips tremble, even after all this time. “You know the Mahabharata?”
“The epic—a thousand pages?”
“Acha. The Lord Ganesh dropped the book on my husband’s head.”
“He what?”
“Right on his head. He fell to the floor. Then Ganesh appeared to me in a halo of unearthly light. His rotund belly quivered; his trunk swished from side to side. When he spoke, his voice whispered like the wind in my ear. He said, Your husband shall hurt you no more.”
“Oh, Auntie.”
“Happened a long time ago, but I remember as if it were yesterday. I remember leaning against the bookcase in our flat. Outside, a bus was honking. My husband was lying on his back, with his arms and legs splayed, his lips already blue.”
“The book killed him?”
“Ganesh said to me, He died of a heart attack. This is what the doctors determined, in the end. I picked up the book, heavy it was, and returned it to the shelf. I’d already read nearly the entire volume, as I’d been confined to the flat.”
“Your husband wouldn’t let you leave?” I’m aghast.
“Books were the only luxury he allowed me. And now, Ganesh said to me, I wrote ninety thousand verses of the Mahabharata with my own broken tusk. And yet people have forgotten, as they’ve forgotten so many writers after me. I told him I would never forget. How could I ever repay him? He’d set me free.” Her eyes brim with tears.
“Go on,” I say softly.
“And so, Ganesh said to me, You will fulfill your dream of owning a bookstore, but you will be given the ability to see the spirits of dead
authors. Your duty will be to keep them alive through their written words, so their books are never forgotten. I said I would do this with joy. He said, I grant you this special gift of literary perception, which will pass down through the strong, brave women in your family. Daughter, niece, or grandchild—only the most deserving.”
“Auntie, this is a fantastic story.” And unbelievable. A Hindu god appeared to her and charged her with keeping the spirits of authors alive? They’re drawn to this bookstore because of Ganesh?
Auntie wipes a tear from her cheek. “I told him I did not plan to have a daughter. After what I endured at the hands of my husband, I could not imagine ever marrying again. But Ganesh only chuckled. He said, You will heal, and perhaps you will find new love. Life is unpredictable. This is what he told me.”
“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.”
“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.”
Haunting Jasmine Page 17