She gives me a suspicious look. “Do you have diuretics?”
“Diuretics,” I say, blinking. I don’t usually need them. “I don’t think my aunt carries them. Maybe try the pharmacy?”
“No, diuretics. It’s more a science than a religion.”
“Dianetics,” Tony says.
She breaks out in a big smile. “That’s it exactly.”
I blink. “But you said—”
Tony steers the woman toward a shelf. “Sometimes people don’t know exactly what they mean. You have to interpret.”
The owl-eyed woman nods enthusiastically. She leaves with two books about Dianetics. How was I to know?
Near closing time, a stooped, wild-haired man slips into the parlor and begins straightening books in an obsessive-compulsive way. When he sees me, his bushy brows twitch. “Who are you?” His eyes flit from side to side.
“I’m Jasmine. I’ll be here for a few weeks.” I look around, but Tony is nowhere in sight.
The man pulls a wrinkled white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his forehead. “Harold Avery. Professor to you.” He tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket. Then his fingers are moving, touching the books, straightening them again. “I’m going to, let me see... India. Which travel guide is best, in your experience?”
I want to tell him I haven’t been to India in years, but I’m already heading toward the Travel section. A golden book glows in a shaft of slanted afternoon sunlight. Written across the spine in red letters are the words Magic in the Mango Orchards. The scent of mangoes rises into my nose. Must be the man’s unusual cologne.
I choose the newest Fodor’s guide to India.
The professor frowns. “Boring.”
“Fodor’s is reliable,” I say.
“I don’t want reliable. I want different.” Fodor’s ends up on the shelf. His fingers run along the tops of the books again, like tiny pattering cockroaches.
I keep handing him travel books, one after another, but nothing is good enough.
“Jasmine—is any book jumping out at you?” Tony is standing in the doorway. “Or glowing? Or sticking out? The right books always stick out for Ruma.”
Professor Avery nods, as if this is a common occurrence in most bookstores.
“Not exactly.” I almost laugh at the absurdity. “What do you mean, ‘sticking out’?”
A deep voice speaks nearby. “The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.”
“Who said that?” I say, glancing around. “Tony?”
“Said what?” Tony says.
Professor Avery keeps touching the books.
I look at him suspiciously. “Something about understanding a foreign country by its smell. Like the scent of mango or something—”
“Wasn’t me,” the professor says.
“Rudyard Kipling,” Tony says, staring at me.
T.S. Eliot misquoted me, the same deep voice says. Kipling? Can’t be. Tony and the professor are grinning at me, as if they know something I don’t know. I edge away from the mysterious voice, toward the door, ready for a quick escape.
Chapter 16
After the professor leaves empty-handed, Tony pats my shoulder. “You’re hearing the dead speak. Congratulations.”
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I say, “but it won’t work with me.” Outside, a fir branch scrapes the window, its high-pitched screech like a distant voice.
“Kipling spoke to you. Don’t deny it.” Tony snatches a book from the shelf and waves it, a vintage hardcover copy of The Jungle Book, in front of my face.
I pull back. “What are you doing? Get that thing out of my face.”
“Does this conjure any other images? Maybe Kipling’s broom mustache, bushy brows, receding hairline? Pointy ears?”
I push the book away. “I have no idea what Kipling was like in person.”
“But he did speak to you.” Tony follows me as I leave the room. Sunlight dances in colors on the hallway wall, filtered through the stained-glass window. He’s still brandishing the book. “Woo-woo, Jasmine, the ghosts are talking.”
“No, you are talking. Do you play these tricks on Auntie Ruma? Must drive her crazy.” I grab my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, out of habit. No signal, as usual. But then a face pops onto the screen. Broom mustache, bushy brows, receding hairline, pointy ears. A mischievous grin. Kipling.
Impossible. My hands tremble, and I nearly drop the phone. Then the face disappears; the display goes blank. The cell phone vibrates in my hand, and the casing seems to darken until it becomes a mere shadow against the backdrop of my skin. The image must have been a trick of the sunlight, which has followed me in here, settling on a stack of books. The titles glow. Across the Threshold, Accepting the Call, The Truth as I See It.
I feel suddenly claustrophobic. “I... need some air. I’m taking a break for a few minutes.”
“Jasmine, wait—”
“I’ll be back.” I throw on my coat and run out into the cool, crisp afternoon. A robin lands in the glistening grass and pecks at an invisible worm. The autumn air brushes my face. The remaining poplar leaves, the ones that refuse to fall, rustle gently against one another.
High in the sky, Canadian geese pass overhead, honking their way to somewhere new. I hurry along the brick sidewalk, sloughing off the oppressive disorder of the bookstore. Kipling’s image formed the way dreams form, a mere simulacrum of what is real. The island itself, blustery and rocky, wet and mossy, inhospitable and unyielding, is what’s real.
Five blocks up, two blocks over, my cell phone registers a faint display in symmetrical green bars. Relief. I’m once again connected to the ordinary world, to what I can predict and understand. I check my voice-mail box, then call back three clients who want updates on their retirement accounts. I’m happy to hear them speak, and yet, I’m already distant from their harried, distracted voices.
My boss, Scott Taylor, left me a message. We’re moving up your presentation to the day after you get back. The client is anxious to get moving on this. I’ll be in Seattle next week. I’ll come out to see you. We’ll discuss strategy. Where the hell are these islands, anyway? Okay, I’m looking at the map. Jeez, you’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ll have to take a boat.
Next a garbled message comes through from Robert in a haze of static. Condo... talk... call... left messages.... I hit the Delete button with glee and retrace my steps to the bookstore. The wind has subsided. Seagulls call from the shore, where low tide coughs up secrets and the dank smell of kelp. My shoe slips on a patch of moss, and I nearly fall on the sidewalk. Did Captain Vancouver slide on moss when he first set foot on these islands? The moss is everywhere, insidious, growing from cracks, on walls, in thin layers on rooftops. The moss always felt like part of me when I was a child—like a spongy gateway to alternate worlds.
Now it’s a health hazard.
In the foyer of the bookstore, Tony zips up his raincoat, which he turns up at the collar like Sam Spade. “I thought you got eaten by a werewolf. Or maybe a sea monster rose up and snatched you away.”
“Stranger things have happened,” I say, shivering.
“Yeah, like, book groups meet here. Their members actually buy books. I wish I could stay for tonight’s meeting, but I’m late for the ferry. Pride and Prejudice awaits you, my dear.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead. “Why does my aunt waste time with book groups? Can’t they meet on their own? I need to look into ordering new titles and clean up some more, and I should sift through the bills on her desk—”
“I caught up with that. See you tomorrow.”
“Can’t you stay?” A headache ripples at the back of my neck.
“Your mom brought your luggage. You’re all set. You’ll do fine.” He slicks back his hair with the flats of his hands. And he is gone. Auntie was right. People are always disappearing around here.
Chapter 17
The first person to arrive for the book group is
Lucia Peleran, in pastel pants, an oversized sweater that resembles a hot air balloon about to launch, and white running shoes anchoring her to earth.
She takes my hands in her bony claws. “How are you holding up? I know life doesn’t seem worthwhile now, but there’s hope.” She seems to have forgotten the cookbook fiasco.
“I’m doing well, thanks.” I extract my hands from her grip. I could pretend I’m going to slit my throat, or fling a rope over the rafters and create a makeshift noose, to see the look on her face.
She lowers her voice, blasts me with her peppermint breath. “I did exactly what you did, sleeping on one side of the bed even though there was a whole king-sized bed to stretch out in. Hard to break the marriage habit, isn’t it? I used to curl up in the smallest space, because my ex-husband took up so much room. Men always do. But after a few months, I realized, what the heck? I can sleep diagonally if I want to. I can throw my books on the covers, I can eat dinner and drop crumbs, and I can jump on the mattress.”
Auntie told this stranger that I sleep on one side of the bed? “Enjoy the jumping. I prefer a good night’s sleep,” I say. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’ll head on back and put the kettle on.” She strides right past me, giving me a sharp look.
I follow her into the tea room, my shoulders tense. “I can make the tea.”
“No need. Virginia takes hers stronger than usual, to boost her spirits. I know how to make it. Five Earl Grey bags. She’s coming tonight, you know. Her boutique isn’t doing so well in this economy, but I told her, stop carrying those nine-hundred-dollar silk blouses and you’ll do a whole lot better.”
“Nine hundred dollars?”
“To serve the high-end clientele from the city.” Lucia bustles around in the tea room, putting on the kettle, extracting cups and a tray. Her clothes fade and suddenly she’s wearing an apron, her hair curled and sweaty, as she turns to place a tray of muffins on a countertop. Bright oven mitts appear on her hands, like bright red boxing gloves. I blink, and the image dissipates. She’s back in her tight pants and balloon sweatshirt, holding only a teacup.
She frowns at me. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m okay, it’s just—Do you like baking?”
“Baking? What, baking? Baking what? As if I have time for hobbies.”
“You were looking for a cookbook. Maybe about pastries and desserts?”
Her eyes widen, and she nearly drops the teacup. “How did you know?”
Try The Way to Cook, a high-pitched voice says. One of my best efforts.
“Excuse me?” I spin around. Tony’s not in here. He can’t be the one throwing his voice. “One of whose best efforts?”
“What?” Lucia says. “Is that a book?”
“I’m not sure.” My mind is muddled. Baking—furious flour and spacious sugar—is her alchemy of healing, for Lucia’s pain hides in a deeper place than mine, in a dark well inside her. Why are these images coming to me?
But outwardly, she seems so vibrant, so... together. She dispenses lighthearted advice about how I will survive, but somehow I know that she will not survive without baking, without the spirit of Julia Child.
“Let me know if you remember, hon.” Lucia sinks into the couch with a mug of tea in hand, crosses one leg over the other, and swings her foot.
A tall woman glides in a moment later, resplendent in a flowing blue and white pantsuit, like the frothy wake behind a speeding boat. She introduces herself as Virginia Langemack, grabs her cup of tea, arranges herself in an armchair across from Lucia, screws up her nose, and looks around the room. She takes in the Tiffany lamps and the rickety bookshelves on which Auntie has placed used books, magazines, and old board games. Several other women arrive in a range of outfits, shapes, and sizes. The room is abuzz with lively conversation.
“Jasmine, give us your bookseller’s literary wisdom,” Lucia says after she has shushed everyone.
“I have no special knowledge,” I say, shaking my head.
“Oh?” Virginia places her cup and saucer on the table in front of her and stirs in a dollop of cream. A heavy silver bracelet glints on her wrist. “Then why on earth would your aunt bother to bring you here?”
I freeze. Lucia clucks her tongue. “Oh, Ginnie, you know this situation is temporary. Ruma’s coming back.”
“But why her? This Jasmine?”
“Why not?” Lucia says.
A key turns inside me, a subtle unlocking. “I can help my aunt get this shop in order.”
“Fine, let’s see what you can do.” Virginia glares at me.
Lucia pulls out her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. “This book was originally called First Impressions. I looked it up.”
Virginia slurps her tea. “That’s a stupid name for a book.” A mysterious breeze ruffles her hair, leaving a couple of strands sticking straight up, as if electrified.
Lucia forges on. “More important, it’s about how first impressions can deceive you.”
The breeze subsides.
Another woman says, “I’ve heard that authors think of many titles for their books before they settle on a final one.”
Virginia keeps slurping. “Both titles are silly.” Her silver bracelet slips off her wrist and falls on the hardwood. “The clasp broke!” She reaches down, fumbles around on the floor. “Where the heck did it go?”
“I’ll help you.” I get on my hands and knees. The bracelet fell impossibly far from where she is sitting. “Here it is.”
“Thank you.” When she sits straight again, several new strands of hair are sticking out. I stifle a smile.
Lucia pulls a pocket notebook from her purse, licks her thumb, and flips to the first page. “Was Jane Austen a realist? Charlotte Brontë said her work was like a ‘carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson said that her depiction of life was ‘pinched and narrow.’”
A creaking sound comes from the hallway. We all glance in that direction.
“Mark Twain thought libraries shouldn’t carry her books,” Lucia goes on. “But I say don’t pay any attention to jealous authors. She wrote a masterpiece. I love this book every time I read it—because it makes me believe we can overcome any obstacle.”
Every time she reads it?
Virginia tucks her broken bracelet into her purse. “I’m not fond of so much dialogue without any description.” Her arm bumps into her cup, tipping it over and spilling tea on the table.
I jump to my feet, grab napkins, and dab at the liquid. “I’ll get towels. Carry on.”
Lucia laughs. “The house is angry with you, Ginnie.”
Everyone turns to me. My heart skips a beat, but I smile.
“So, Jasmine,” Virginia says, glaring at me, “you have to give us the key question.”
“The key question?” I blink.
“You did read the book, didn’t you?” Virginia stares at me.
“Your aunt poses an important question about the book, but if you didn’t read it—”
“Of course I read it.” A long time ago. I hold up the soggy towels. “I’ll go and put these in the wash.”
I run to the laundry room, take a few deep breaths. What question, what question? I read this book so long ago.
Their voices drift down the hall.
“Consider Mr. Wickham,” a woman says behind me. Her voice is musical, touched by a soft English accent.
I spin around. Did one of the women follow me? Nobody’s here.
Complex odors spread through the air—dried horse manure, wood smoke, roses, and sweat. As if someone has entered the room, someone who makes fires, tends a farm—someone who bathes maybe once a week and wears cologne to mask her body odor.
“What do you mean about Mr. Wickham?” I say. Mr. Wickham, the smooth-talking young soldier who tricks Elizabeth Bennet into believing the worst about stoic Mr. Darcy. But Mr. Wickham turns out to be a scoundrel. I knew my own Mr. Wickham, someone I trusted. Someone I wanted to tr
ust.
“You know the story better than you think.”
My mind spins. The smells grow in intensity, and fabric swishes—a dress rustling nearby. “I haven’t read the book in years,” I whisper to the empty room.
“You must learn to trust your instincts.”
“Why?... Virginia, is that you?” I’m talking to myself in my aunt’s laundry room. The perfumed detergent must be poisoning my mind. But what of the horse manure odor? Smoke?
There’s a soft sigh. “Virginia is insufferable.”
“Stop this,” I say. I press my hands to my temples.
The strange smells disappear, and only a faint lemon scent remains. There’s an absence in the room, as if someone has left.
I take deep breaths, my head spinning.
I shuffle back to the parlor, holding out my hand to brace myself against the wall as I go. When I step inside, everyone stares at me.
“You look pale,” Lucia says. “Will you sit down?”
The women all murmur. “You’re not feeling well?” “Is everything okay?”
“I have my question. About the book,” I say. My voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking. “Consider Mr. Wickham’s function in the novel.”
“Go on,” Lucia says, staring at me.
“Think in terms of the geometry of desire. What is the source of Elizabeth’s attraction to Mr. Wickham?” Where am I getting this?
“She believes he’s good,” a small, round woman says. “He’s everything she wants—handsome, accessible. He’s not proud. She can talk to him.”
That was my ex-husband, Robert. He had me fooled, too. “What role does he play in her attraction to Mr. Darcy? What is the significance of his love affairs?”
There’s a silence, then Lucia says, “He represents her preconceived notions—what appears on the surface versus what’s underneath. So it really is about first impressions.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“How did you come up with this question?” Virginia asks, her gaze prickly.
“I have no idea. I didn’t even read the book, at least, not recently.” The knot tightens in the back of my neck. All eyes are on me. The house creaks; the floorboards groan as they settle. The walls breathe dust. Virginia is shaking her head, skeptical. What does she think, that I ran off to read the CliffsNotes on Pride and Prejudice?
Haunting Jasmine Page 8
