Birendra situated a cup in front of the woman and another in front of Mr. Channar. Again he admired the sparkle of the ceramic pot as he placed three cubes of sugar on each saucer along with a teaspoon. He looked up at the woman, who continued to watch him, and smiled.
“Fifteen children,” exclaimed Mr. Channar, and the sudden announcement made them both turn to him. He was speaking especially loudly today, already opening the first file on his desk. “All ages, from zero to four.” Birendra had been so busy that morning checking off his list that he hadn’t thought what a foreign visitor would mean for one of the children, who would be taken farther away than any since he’d arrived. “We actually have a number of couples in India registered, and there is a waiting list, but we are very happy to make exceptions for our clients who have traveled so far, Mrs. Madeline.”
As he poured her tea through the strainer, Birendra looked at the American woman, whose gaze shifted repeatedly between the cup and Mr. Channar. She was the first American guest he’d met and the first woman to come alone. He wondered if her husband was working in America. It seemed so far away, and he could see this in her face, which was different from any he’d ever seen up close before. She had tiny brown spots scattered around her nose and cheeks, but the rest of her skin was so light. Her eyelashes were long and painted black, but her eyes were bright and blue under a fringe of reddish-brown hair the color of a tamarind. Her lips shined like they were made of glass. She caught him looking at her now and he blushed, but she smiled at him, then winked. He almost laughed aloud, but he restrained himself and retreated to his designated spot by the door.
“Now, a little about our philosophy,” Mr. Channar said, and laid out each of the documents from the first dossier onto his desk. “As you probably know, in this country there are more orphans than we can deal with. Poverty forces children of all ages from their homes, and just as many newborn girls are cast aside. We cannot help all of them. It is the job of men like me to protect the children I am able to help. I do this by remaining a relatively small operation. But I must also judge the men and women who come here looking to adopt a child. I must determine if they will provide good homes. We achieve this by catering to a certain level of clientele, many of whom come to us from wealthy families in Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta; men and women who struggle to conceive. Some are Indians coming from England, where they have relocated. Occasionally, they are, like you, from other parts of the world. Over time, we have built a reputation for quality and discretion, and I believe this is why you’ve been recommended to us.”
Birendra had never heard Mr. Channar speak English at such length. The woman nodded silently, and Mr. Channar placed the first document before her, suggesting she might be interested in the baby boy who’d come to them just that week.
“He is seven months old.”
The woman interjected.
“I was thinking older,” she said.
Birendra noticed the look of surprise on Mr. Channar’s face. His refrain, that everyone wanted a baby, always made Birendra sad for Pasha, Sanish, and Sunita. Didn’t they deserve homes as well? Mr. Channar pulled three files from the bottom of his stack and pushed the others aside. Birendra couldn’t help but smile, even though he knew this meant that one more mattress would be rolled up and set aside in their little green room.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Channar. “We have one older boy. Let me see.” He opened the files side by side. “Sanish is four years old, our oldest. A quiet and shy boy. Very good. Perhaps you’d like to meet him.”
“And they’re all in good health?”
“Oh, yes. All our children see the doctor for a full checkup. Look here.” He handed her another file and pointed toward the bottom. “There, you see? Completely healthy and approved for adoption.”
“I see,” she said. “And what about a girl?”
“Yes, of course. Let me see here.” Mr. Channar opened the second folder. “Pasha is also four years old. You’ll see she is a charming girl, very playful. And Sunita is just three, a sweet and intelligent little girl who comes to us from neighboring Karnataka.”
He raised a hand, which was Birendra’s cue to take the guests into the nursery.
“Are they sisters? Would I be separating them? I can’t take two children.”
“No, these two are not sisters. Each is alone here.”
Birendra could see the woman’s face again now. She was carefully studying the information she’d been given. She seemed very concerned, serious. Birendra thought that was a good sign; it meant she cared. Then she handed the file back to Mr. Channar and sat back in her chair.
“You’ve given me so much to think about, Mr. Channar. I wanted to come and meet you today to better know my options. I will, of course, need some time to consider what I’ve learned.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Mr. Channar. “Shall I take you in to meet the children, then?”
“Not today, Mr. Channar. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to meet them today. I hope you understand.” Birendra could see that Mr. Channar did not understand. “May I come again tomorrow?”
“Of course, yes, tomorrow is also fine, Mrs. Madeline.”
Then the American woman stood and reached out her hand. Mr. Channar knocked over a stack of papers behind his desk when he stood. Birendra didn’t know if he should go to them or not, but Mr. Channar acted as though nothing had happened.
“Birendra will see you out, Mrs. Madeline. Thank you so much for coming.”
He walked alongside the American woman in silence down the hall to the front door. It wasn’t at all how things usually went, and Mr. Channar’s behavior had shown he felt the same. Birendra opened the door for the woman but wasn’t sure what to say. None of his rehearsed phrases from earlier that morning felt appropriate. There was a taxi waiting for her. Before she got in, she turned and thanked him, as though she suddenly remembered he was there. He told her she was welcome, then watched as the car pulled away, wondering if the American woman really would be back tomorrow, ready to choose one of his friends.
XII
Madeline could breathe again, out of the taxi and returned to the comfort and mostly thoughtful design of her little seaside resort. After working herself up for days, and after the stress of actually visiting the orphanage, she would not have liked returning to the cold and sterile environment of the Ayurveda clinic where she’d originally planned to stay, the one Dr. Wright had suggested. In the end, she had been right to recognize and respect her needs and boundaries, to ask her assistant to seek out something pampering, something relatively luxurious. She’d earned it, after all. Despite the debacle in Barcelona, maybe she was getting a little wiser with age. It was this transformation, one indicating greater personal awareness, maybe even acceptance, that put a smile on Madeline’s face as she sank into a chaise longue beside the tiled pool at the courtyard’s center.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her nutritionist’s recommendation. Dr. Wright had called the clinic a place of transformation, which sounded perfect when they first spoke of it, when Madeline was desperate to be anywhere but where she was, far away from her home in Los Angeles and her romantic calamity in Barcelona. A stay at the clinic would have far exceeded the requirements for the lifestyle Dr. Wright was always pushing on Madeline: whole foods, yoga three times a week, daily meditation, infrequent alcohol, all of which seemed impossible to sustain in Los Angeles. But this time, Madeline had focused on the part of Dr. Wright’s pitch that recommended “tropical southern India.” And here she sat, seaside, in India, despite forsaking all Dr. Wright’s intended rigor. The orphanage had been her own idea. And now that she’d seen for herself that it was not the horror show of poverty and neglect she’d feared in the days leading up to her visit, she felt she could begin to sort through her feelings and make a decision.
Her eyes lazily wandered over the space, not even seeing anything she’d change if given the opportunity. Her lids grew heavy as she observed the peaceful, open plan of the co
urtyard, the clean lines and symmetry created by the purposeful placement of potted sago palms. In the covered areas, she appreciated the artful absence of inessential furniture, too, which allowed the intricate detail so prevalent in Indian design to embellish each piece of furniture and art, to stand in brilliant, if rustic, contrast to the innocuous taupe backdrop of the walls. And at the resort’s center, beside her, the electric blue water of the pool seemed to glow in the sunlight within its tile-framed edge. She thought of her current project, the house in Los Feliz she was running out of excuses not to get back to, its pool and the elaborate tile work she might imagine for it. Every inch inside the pool, not merely the perimeter, would be tiled and smooth to the skin’s touch. She saw it clearly in her mind’s eye under the dry heat of a Los Angeles sun. Beside the pool, a veranda, its latticework disappearing beneath the creeping vines of wisteria, purple and heavy, framing a covered area for outdoor eating. Beneath the surface of the pool’s water, she began to see more elaborate tiling, something abstract. Perhaps an om symbol. Her client, a yoga enthusiast, like Madeline’s nutritionist, would eat it up, impressed with how far Madeline had gone for her—first to Barcelona for the tiles, then all the way to India for inspiration.
She opened her eyes. Beyond the courtyard’s edge was the beach; beyond that, the sea. Antonio was probably splashing around with his children and wife at some other seaside resort, by some other sea, far away. She’d had to learn it all from the secretary, no less, completing the cliché and causing Madeline to flee from the humiliation. She had a perverse urge to get up from her chair and walk out onto the beach, to test the water and see how it felt with Antonio in mind. Whether it offered explanations as to why he’d lied to her about being married or why Madeline had never bothered to consider the truth. But she didn’t move. She didn’t actually care.
Mostly she felt relief. Even with so little hindsight, she knew it had been one of her most absurd plans. To time a last fling with Antonio so it coincided with her ovulation. She’d taken her vitamins, charted her temperature, and consulted fertility specialists. She’d known, even then, it was a ridiculous long shot, but she convinced herself it would work anyway. And why Antonio? He was no leading man. She’d fallen for his work first, big and bold furniture in black walnut, which obliterated the postmodern trinkets that seemed to dominate the market. She had used Antonio’s pieces top to bottom when outfitting Hollywood’s most infamously ruthless divorce-law firm. She liked to imagine it would inspire absolute confidence or fear, depending on which side of the table one sat on. The man behind the furniture was admittedly less imposing, but she’d liked his accent and the fact that he liked her. And perhaps the fact that he lived so far away most of all. It was that winning combination that later qualified him for the job for which neither of them had known she was hiring, not at first.
“A Spaniard?” her mother had exclaimed, either nonplussed or animated by gin or both, when Madeline first told her. “I hope you’re not taking him seriously, Madeline. He’s probably married with eight children.” Madeline had called her mother under the guise of needing a phone number, but there was a part of her that had wanted her mother to be happy for her, to acknowledge that she was not only successful in her work but also capable of finding someone, having it all, even if that wasn’t exactly the case. It was as if everything would always be a competition between them, one that Madeline was destined to lose. Thirty-nine and still desperate for her mother’s approval.
She closed her eyes and let Antonio’s image fill her mindscape. His crooked smile, those dark eyes in which she felt beautiful, even sexy sometimes. She’d really believed he was the key to her next great adventure, that he would open the door to motherhood, even if she passed through it without him. She wanted to believe it because it would mean she didn’t have to buy random sperm or resort to adoption. She’d never felt desperate about her single status or the “ticking clock” behind her growing desire for a family. She preferred to believe it was possible to be a successful woman in a man’s world, to not have to choose between a loving family and a satisfying career. Antonio clearly hadn’t had to choose! How many children did he already have? What did it matter? She looked down to see her ankles, still swollen from the long flights. The massage she’d booked would help. As would, she hoped, being this far away, farther than she’d ever ventured from home. She’d just close her eyes until it was time for her massage.
Intermittent beams of light flickered across her face, rousing Madeline to consciousness. She had drifted off without even realizing it. The sunlight passed through the narrow gaps of a vibrant green palm leaf that hovered a bit more than a foot above her face. She yawned and stretched and felt the heat of the sun on her forearms. The leaf, offering her face and torso shade, was held by a young boy. She thought she might still be dreaming. Wasn’t he the boy from the orphanage? Then the shadow on his face lightened, and she saw he was not the same at all. She remembered him from the day before. Younger and smaller than the boy at the orphanage.
She fished in her coin purse for a one-hundred-rupee note and handed it to him. The boy smiled a flash of white as he accepted the money, then ran off, letting the leaf fall from his grip when he hit the sandy beach just beyond the resort’s edge. Madeline noticed that another guest had arrived or returned to the courtyard while she was dozing. The woman was seated at a table nearby, staring pensively out to sea. Elegant, if leathery brown, she looked like an older Sophia Loren. She had propped her feet on a second chair and appeared as comfortable as she would if she were in her own backyard. Now she accepted a coffee from the waiter and caught Madeline’s gaze as she took her first sip. She nodded with a smile in greeting. Madeline said hello and introduced herself. The woman said her name was Simonetta. They were just close enough to speak to each other from their respective seats without awkwardness. Madeline asked if Simonetta was there alone as well. She wasn’t. Her husband had gone fishing. The words, in her thick accent, bounced and rolled from her lips with an Italian flair that sounded wonderful to Madeline.
“I think it’s an Indian girl he hopes to catch,” said Simonetta.
Madeline wasn’t sure if her allusion to adultery was a serious issue or the woman’s sense of humor. In either case, she’d wait a little longer to find out.
“This is my first time in India,” Madeline said. “Have you come before?”
“Your first time in India? And you found your way here?”
“Well, I flew into Delhi, but then came straight here.”
“Ha fatto bene. Kerala is the most beautiful part of India. It’s not so common for people to visit here first.” She sipped her coffee, searching her memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an American here, and we come most years.”
Madeline felt a sense of pride hearing this. As if she could tell this worldly, effusive Italian woman anything—everything—without fear of judgment.
“I came here to adopt,” she said, testing the words in her mouth.
“Ha!” The outburst was friendly, as if Madeline had told a joke. “You Americans are so creative.”
She tried to read the woman’s expression behind her oversize sunglasses and decided there was no condescension.
“That scarf is gorgeous, by the way,” Madeline said, nodding toward the sumptuous silk fabric. “You wouldn’t let a girl in on your source, would you? I’m in love with the patterns here.”
“Darling, I know every good place to shop in India,” Simonetta said warmly. “If you have time, you can join me today.”
With the invitation still floating before a delighted Madeline, Simonetta’s attention returned to the sea. Suddenly Madeline saw in Simonetta the woman she might like to become someday—a little eccentric, yes, but confident and wise. Alone and not alone. She wondered if Simonetta was a mother. Perhaps Madeline would make a friend in India, one who had nothing to do with work or LA connections. How long had it been since that happened?
Two hours later, refreshed after a ma
ssage and a long shower, Madeline met Simonetta near the entrance to their hotel. Simonetta pronounced that she never took taxis in India. They would have a car service for the afternoon. Their driver opened the door for them, and Madeline felt like she was on a date. With an easy smile, she resolved to follow Simonetta’s lead, to embrace her love of life, her easy acceptance of whatever was to come.
And Simonetta moved unfazed through the crowds and bustle of the streets in town. Madeline had expected to be taken somewhere posh, but the car dropped them off on a street full of storefronts that looked identical to a dozen places they’d passed getting there. She beelined through a passageway that led to another level of shops, and Madeline tried to keep up, but she was easily distracted by all the hanging fabrics in the windows and the people noticing them. Finally Simonetta stopped before the largest boutique, with a long wall of windows that framed numerous mannequins wrapped in exquisite silks of a quality and variety she’d not seen elsewhere. When they walked through the doors, a man seated in a far corner jumped up and rushed over, obviously thrilled to see Simonetta.
“My friend from Los Angeles wants to buy some saree, Signor Premji. Naturally, I brought her to you.”
“It will be our pleasure, madam.” Then, turning to Madeline, he asked if she had a particular style of saree in mind. When she stared at him blankly, he politely assisted her. “A special occasion, perhaps?”
“Not exactly. At least not yet. I guess I just think they’re beautiful,” she said, feeling embarrassed and childish.
“Poornima, show madam some items from our designer collection.”
Madeline was ushered behind a pair of plush plum curtains by a beautiful young woman. She admired the gold and copper threadwork of the elaborate embroidery, then the peacock print of the saree the woman was wearing. She had to stop herself from touching it. A second woman joined them, carrying a small, vibrant stack of silk that gave Madeline a thrill. The women were waiting for her. They wanted to help Madeline undress. She didn’t usually think of herself as a modest person. There was something about her disdain for certain parts of her otherwise slim body that eradicated modesty, as if an obstinate display of belly bulge or the spread and sway of inner thigh to another human were her way of punishing the undisciplined flesh. But these women were delicate in their handling of Madeline. If theirs had been the hands of a man, Madeline would have demanded something less intimate. As it was, she merely surrendered to them. They worked swiftly, and Madeline let them guide her arms and legs and waited for the contact of silk against skin. First she stepped her naked feet into a kind of low-rise corset, holding her breath and belly in as the women pulled the elastic tube into place. The flash of fuchsia on top was unfolded once, then again to reveal a waterfall of teal. It kept changing as the women opened it further. One woman brought an end to Madeline’s waist and tucked it into the front of the corset, while the other woman, like a magician, unraveled the fabric in her hands and let it fall to the floor. It must have been twelve feet long, and it finished with a black strip and then a shock of white, a stripe at the end, which was pleated and slung over Madeline’s shoulder to rest like the sash of a beauty queen. Four hands worked together to wrap Madeline in the fuchsia section, creating a floor-length skirt, which was then tucked and pinned into place, forming a V shape just below her navel. Then the fuchsia section was pleated and secured with another tuck and pin at the front. Two hands perfected the pleats from floor to waist, while two more gently pulled everything into place at the top. And finally the length of black fabric was allowed to drape down one shoulder and arm, creating the illusion of a stunning hourglass figure Madeline had never before seen in her own reflection. When they opened the curtain, Mr. Premji was there waiting. Simonetta, too, flipping through a catalog. Mr. Premji turned Madeline to face him, then made two adjustments so slight she could not feel his force, though she felt its effect as he stepped away. Her image rebounded in triplicate from the ornate mirrors that sectioned off the dressing area like a screen.
Bindi Page 8