“No, I don’t,” said Gil.
“Well, sir. Since your grandfather is a poet, I would imagine you understand the power of language and metaphor …”
Gil shrugged.
“And you’re familiar with the literary theory of relative correlatives?”
“No …”
“It’s really nothing more than that …”—Aristo flicked his wrist—“along with a few secret ingredients in the calligrapher’s ink. You could say I’m the soul of the poem, the spirit of the words rising up off the page. Omar Khayyam’s lyrics are translated into English and therefore, ergo, I am an English genie. If the Rubaiyat’s quatrains had been written in the original Farsi, I would have been a Persian genie. We can be translated into any language you like—except Latin or Sanskrit, which have been recently discontinued.”
“The envelope was addressed to Cairo,” said Gil. “Was that where you were supposed to go?”
“Indeed. My original assignment was to serve an eminent Egyptologist, who was trying to uncover the secrets of Queen Hetshepsut’s tomb. I was sent to help him decipher the hieroglyphics, but he was caught smuggling mummies out of the country and had to leave abruptly, before my letter arrived.”
“What happened after that?” asked Nargis.
“Well, I kicked around Cairo for a while—nice city but difficult to enjoy if you’re trapped inside an envelope. Eventually, someone sent me off to a nonexistent postbox, here in Massachusetts. It was a false address the Egyptologist used, to keep the authorities off his trail.”
“And then?” said Nargis impatiently. Aristo looked at her in disdain, polishing his fingernails on his lapel.
“Well, that was it!” he said. “I was trapped inside a dead letter. Address Unknown. End of the road.”
“But how did you get delivered here?” Gil asked.
“Oh, that?” he said. “It’s a secret.”
“Come on!” said Nargis. “You can’t tell us this whole elaborate story, then keep the end to yourself. I don’t believe a word of what you’ve said.”
The genie looked at Gil as if expecting help, but Gil shook his head.
“All right …,” said the genie at last. “But this has got to be between us. Super-confidential. Top secret. For your ears only.”
“Go on,” said Nargis.
“I was delivered by hand …,” whispered the genie.
“Whose hand?” said Gil.
The genie shuddered.
“A rather revolting hand, if you ask me,” he replied, still under his breath. “A bony, shriveled hand without any skin or flesh. Just a skeletal hand on its own, with an absolutely nauseating smell.”
25
Penmanship
November 11. Veterans Day. Gil was surprised when his grandfather suggested they go to the parade in Carville.
“I thought you were a pacifist,” said Gil.
“Sure,” said Prescott. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t go and watch the parade. A lot of my friends are veterans, or were …”
At nine thirty that morning, Lenore came across to join them and they drove down and parked near the town hall. It was an overcast, blustery day, and the parade didn’t take more than half an hour. There were a couple of Humvees from the National Guard and a line of antique cars full of men in old uniforms with medals on their chests. Some of the veterans drove past on motorcycles and the crowd clapped and cheered. Three men in colonial uniforms played “Yankee Doodle” on drums and pipes. The Stars and Stripes was raised over the town green, and everyone sang the national anthem. Nargis and her parents had also come to watch the parade.
Afterward, she joined Gil as he walked across to the cemetery, along with Prescott and Lenore. At the gate of the cemetery was a memorial to all of the soldiers from Hornswoggle Bay who had died in the Civil War. Someone had put a red, white and blue wreath in front of it.
First they went to visit Lenore’s grandfather’s grave. He had fought in World War I and was wounded in Italy. His tomb lay on one of the upper terraces, and Lenore placed a bunch of flowers against the stone. There was already a miniature flag planted in the ground. After that they visited the graves of Prescott’s uncles, who had been soldiers in World War II and Korea. They were buried a short ways down the hill in a family plot. There was also a cousin of Prescott’s who had died in Vietnam. All three had flags next to their headstones. Seeing the name Finch carved in granite gave Gil a strange feeling, even though he hadn’t known any of these relatives. Looking across the cemetery, he could see hundreds of other flags fluttering in the breeze. It seemed as if almost every second grave marked the final resting place of a soldier or sailor.
“Come on,” said Lenore, after they’d finished paying their respects. “I’ll show you something.”
Picking their way between the graves, they followed Lenore across to a large chestnut tree. Here the stones were older, many of them thin slabs of slate with the lettering worn and weathered like the inscriptions in the basement of the Yankee Mahal. Near the roots of the chestnut lay a simple granite marker.
CAMELLIA STUBBS
SEPTEMBER 3, 1812—APRIL 20, 1912
For a minute or two nobody said anything. Lenore leaned down and brushed a couple of dead leaves off the stone.
“Isn’t she the woman who was supposed to marry Ezekiel Finch?” Gil asked.
Prescott nodded. “That’s her.”
“She lived to be nearly a hundred,” said Nargis softly.
“Camellia Stubbs was a schoolmistress,” said Lenore. “She never married. A spinster all her life. For years, almost everybody in this town was a student of hers. Camellia was well loved but very strict. She insisted that all of her students practice perfect penmanship. If anyone’s handwriting was messy, she would snatch the paper off their desks and crumple it up. Even now, they say her hand crawls out of her casket and goes from house to house, searching through papers and letters. When she doesn’t like the penmanship on a page, the fingers crumple up the sheet of paper and throw it in the wastebasket—just as the schoolmistress used to do with her students’ writing.”
• • •
After visiting the cemetery, they all drove back to the Yankee Mahal, where Lenore put water on for tea.
“There are dozens of ways to make tea,” she said, “but when I was living in England, years ago, I was taught the proper method … First you warm the pot like this …” She opened the lid of a white porcelain teapot and poured in a cupful of boiling water, swishing it around for a moment, then emptying it in the sink. Nargis and Gil watched as she took a packet of tea leaves and added four generous pinches.
“One for each of us, and one for the pot,” she said. Prescott was sitting at the kitchen table with Kipling at his feet.
“Am I not included?” he asked.
Lenore gave him an impatient smile. “No,” she said. “You can stick to your iced tea.”
The kettle on the stove was still boiling, sending out a plume of steam.
“Bubble bubble, toil and trouble, cauldron boil and …,” Prescott teased her. “There’s witchcraft in making tea.”
“The secret is really in the water,” Lenore continued, ignoring Prescott. “You have to make sure it’s fresh—no chlorine or minerals to spoil the taste.”
She poured the boiling water into the pot, put on the lid and covered it with a quilted tea cozy.
“Why don’t you use tea bags?” Gil asked.
Lenore gave him a disapproving look. “It’s not the same as loose tea,” she said. “Doesn’t have the same flavor.”
Gil picked up the packet and read the blue label, which had a picture of a tea picker on it.
FLOWERY ORANGE PEKOE
Superlative Whole Leaf Tea
UPPER FINCH ESTATE
Ajeebgarh
India
“Hey, is this from …?” He turned to look at his grandfather, who nodded.
“Yes it is,” said Prescott. “That tea is grown in the same gardens th
at Ezekiel Finch once owned.”
Gil ran his fingers through the dark, brittle leaves, then sniffed at the packet, which had a rich aroma.
“Ajeebgarh tea is a lot like Darjeeling, which grows forty miles to the east. Some people claim it’s the best tea in the world,” said Prescott.
“I’ve tried all kinds of tea, from Ceylon, China, Assam and Kenya,” Lenore added. “But Ajeebgarh tea has a special taste and color. You have to be patient and let the tea steep for a full five minutes. Timing is crucial. If you drink it too quickly, you don’t get the full zest. Let it sit too long and it grows bitter.”
Gil and Nargis helped take cups and saucers down from the cupboard. Lenore had brought a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, which lay on the counter.
“You can offer your grandfather one of these,” she said, winking at Gil. “And help yourselves too.”
Each of them ate a cookie while they waited for the tea. Prescott broke his in half and slipped part of it to the dog, who immediately got up to beg for more.
Lenore glanced at her watch, then removed the tea cozy and opened the pot, sniffing the fragrance with an appreciative nod.
“Now, most people strain their tea,” said Lenore. “But we’re going to let the leaves settle in your cup.”
After their cups had been filled, Lenore added a spoon of sugar to each and handed them around. Holding the cups and saucers, Gil and Nargis looked at each other self-consciously, as if they were expected to sip politely.
When they finished their tea, Lenore closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the aftertaste. Then she leaned over each cup, studying the dregs at the bottom. The shriveled black leaves had opened up in the boiling water and now lay unfurled. After the ritual of making and serving the tea, it felt as if something important was going to happen. Even Prescott had fallen silent, watching Lenore.
“What do you see?” Nargis asked.
“Something of the past,” said Lenore, her voice softer and deeper than before. “Something of the present. And something of the future.”
The three white cups sat before her like newly hatched eggs. Lenore turned to Gil with a curious expression.
“Do you remember what I told you the other day,” she asked, “when I read your palm?”
Gil nodded.
“It’s true,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I can see it in the leaves. Everything is written here just as it was on your hand and in the stars. What did I say?”
Gil looked across at his grandfather nervously. “You said I was going to be a messenger of peace.”
“And …?” Lenore urged him on.
“One day I’d save someone’s life.” Gil didn’t dare look at Nargis.
“What about love?” said Lenore.
Gil felt himself blushing. He shook his head.
“Come on,” Lenore prompted. “Didn’t I say, ‘You hold the key of love in your heart’?”
“I guess,” Gil admitted.
“It’s all true,” Lenore said. “Tea leaves never lie.”
Nargis wanted to laugh but controlled herself for Gil’s sake. After a moment she got up the courage to speak.
“What about the past?” she asked. “You said you could read the past and present in the tea leaves too.”
“Of course.” Lenore nodded. “But today it’s all one and the same. Whatever happens in the present or the future will affect the past.”
Gil stared down at Kipling, who was curled up at his feet. He knew that everyone else had their eyes on him, and he wondered how he could possibly do what Lenore had predicted—be a messenger of peace, save a life, or hold the key of love in his heart. It sounded like one of those cheesy messages in a birthday card. Even if he could … did he really want to do any of those things?
26
The Himalayan Mail
From the roof of his house, Sikander can see the railway tracks leading to Ajeebgarh Station. Once a week, every Thursday evening, he listens for the whistle of the Himalayan Mail that travels all the way across India, from Bombay. The train carries passengers and freight, but its most important cargo are the letters delivered from around the world. Whenever Sikander sees the silvery line of parallel tracks, running through the outskirts of the town and leading into the fields and forests beyond, he can almost hear the far-off rumble of the wheels and the breathless panting of the steam engine.
The Himalayan Mail usually arrives at dusk. First there is the whistle as it passes over a bridge across the Magor River, then puffs of smoke against the twilight sky. Finally, the engine comes into view, its headlamp burning as darkness settles. Sikander strains his eyes to see the carriages that follow, their segmented shapes crawling toward Ajeebgarh. As the train comes closer, he can see the glowing cinders blowing out of the locomotive’s smokestack, and the burning embers of coal falling onto the tracks. As the Himalayan Mail passes his house, Sikander watches the huge wheels pumping forward, as if straining to reach their destination. The clamor of steel and steam drowns out all other noises as the engine throbs and rattles, thunders and wheezes. Once again the whistle blows. Mixed with the black smoke are white plumes of steam. Sikander wonders what kind of ink he could make out of the soot from this engine. Overnight, the Himalayan Mail halts in Ajeebgarh, and leaves the next morning at dawn. Sikander gets up to watch it depart, every Friday morning, as the sky brightens. At six o’clock the whistle sounds more strident, as if the train were impatient to be on its way, carrying sacks of mail, as well as shipments of tea in the goods wagons and travelers in their first-, second-and third-class carriages. Sikander can see the driver leaning out of his cabin, and stokers shoveling coal into the fiery mouth of the engine. Occasionally, the train is late, but the Himalayan Mail always arrives and departs along the same straight line of rails, carrying its freight of words.
Though Sikander cannot see him, a passenger is seated alone in a first-class compartment. He wears a coat and scarf, and on the berth beside him lies a dented felt hat. This man glances out the window and sees the rooftops of Ajeebgarh silhouetted against the sunrise. He checks his watch, then pulls the shutter down and locks the door. From under his seat, where the porters stowed his luggage, the man takes out a typewriter case and places it on a folding table next to the window. Opening the case, he touches the keys softly, as if he were a pianist testing to see if his instrument is tuned.
The first-class passenger then takes a sheet of paper and rolls it into the typewriter, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. He begins to type with one finger, a single letter at a time. The steady clicking of the typewriter echoes the rattle of the wheels. At the end of each line, the passenger slides the lever and the roller moves across, like the train in which he travels, a journey of words shuttling back and forth upon the page.
When the conductor raps on the door to check his ticket, the passenger carefully closes the typewriter case before unfastening the latch. After his ticket has been canceled, he locks the door again. His face is pale, though his hair and moustache are as black as the sleek silk ribbon of the typewriter. Before removing the sheet of paper, he reads over what he has written:
ZGH LTEKTZ
O IQCT DTZ VOZI COSSQFGC. IT QLLXKTL DT
KXLLOQ IQL FG OFZTKTLZ OF QPTTWUQKI ZTQ.
FG FTTR ZG RTESQKT VQK.
KTUQKRL, ITKDTL
With a satisfied nod, the passenger folds the paper into a square, then slips it into an envelope. Hesitating for a moment, he peels the false moustache off his upper lip and tucks it between the folds of the letter, before sealing it up.
27
Parcel Post
At the corner of Forsythia Lane and Oswald Street, Nargis could see the winking red lights on the postman’s jeep. It was parked where it always was, between the DEAD END sign and the fire hydrant. The postman usually did his rounds at the same time Nargis got home from school. Turning into Forsythia Lane, she could see him stuffing letters into a neighbor’s mailbox. Pedaling as fast as she could,
Nargis skidded to a stop in her driveway just as Mr. Griswold arrived at the house.
“Hey there!” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Griswold,” said Nargis. “Any letters for me?”
“Let’s have a look,” said the postman, searching through his bag. First he took out a bundle of mail wrapped with a rubber band. Then he found a couple of flyers from the supermarket. After that he pulled out a package covered in brown paper and tied up with string.
“Nothing for you,” he said. “But here’s a parcel for your mother. Will you sign for it?”
Nargis took the pen he gave her and scrawled her name on the receipt. With her book bag from school and her hands full of mail, it was difficult to unlock the front door. When she got inside, Nargis dumped everything on the dining table. Her mother wouldn’t be home from work for another hour at least, and her father usually didn’t get back until after dark.
The parcel had been sent from India. Nargis could tell it was from her aunt in Delhi, her mother’s younger sister. Though it wasn’t very heavy, the package was as bulky as one of the cushions on the sofa. The brown paper had torn at a couple of places and Nargis could see plastic wrapping inside, but not enough to reveal the contents. The twine that held it together made her think something inside was going to pop open as soon as the knots were untied. She couldn’t imagine what the parcel contained. Maybe clothes? A sweater? (Her aunt was always knitting.) Something to eat? Nargis sniffed the package but it didn’t have much of a smell, only a dusty odor of paper and plastic.
More than a dozen stamps were stuck together in one corner of the parcel like an untidy mosaic. One of them had a picture of a red panda feeding on bamboo. Nargis knew that her aunt loved wildlife and always chose stamps with animals. There were two rhinos, six tigers and a couple of peacocks all glued together on the parcel and canceled in black ink. The patchwork of postage added up to more than two hundred rupees. Nargis studied the stamps as if they might be clues to what lay inside. She shook the package to see if it contained anything that made a sound. Nargis knew she had to wait until her mother got home. Shuffling through the rest of the mail, she found nothing but bills and credit card offers.
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