That she was the most amazing woman he had ever met and that he knew he’d never meet anyone like her again?
Or should he start at the beginning, tell them how they had only met that first day in India?
That everything she had told them about their life together was a lie?
That there was no farmhouse, no plans for a family, no memories of Sriram dancing at their wedding, no wedding to have memories of at all?
Or should he just skip ahead, tell them how, when he stepped out of the shower an hour ago, she was gone, the lone airplane ticket from Freedom Tours—the one in his name, the one Danny slipped under their door that morning—was propped up on the pillow in the center of their bed?
“Rachel’s not going to be joining us,” Jason said as he climbed out of the chair. “She has some work to do here for the Fashion Institute. Some rare pieces she has to photograph, a lecture over at the university. She’s joining me in Delhi, then we’re off to Paris for a week or so.”
Manny’s smile grew and he set a fat hand on Jason’s back. “I was hoping you were going to tell us that you had something special planned for that woman.”
They stepped out into the humid Bangalore morning, Manny’s white Ambassador parked among the auto-rickshaws and air-conditioned cabs. Manny leaned against the fender, catching his breath before attempting to climb in behind the wheel.
“How about you, Manny?” Jason said. “You still off to Ooty to see Sriram’s mother?”
“Oh. That,” Manny said, ignoring Attar’s and Narvin’s curious looks. “You must forgive me for that, Jason. When you told me that Sriram wanted you to deliver a sari to his mother, I knew something was not right. Honestly, I did not know what it was, but I assumed it would be valuable.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately for us all, it was.”
“Actually,” Jason said, swinging open the passenger door to roll down the window, a blast of hot air blowing past him, “it was worthless.”
The three men looked at each other. “Worthless?” Attar said. “But what about the computer program you said was in the embroidery?”
“If Sriram somehow encoded one of Raj-Tech’s programs it could have been worth millions,” Narvin said.
“Ravi saw it as well,” Manny said. “And he died trying to get it back.”
Jason shook his head. “Sorry, guys. I realized something this morning when I was putting on my shirt. That sari was defective.”
Manny puffed up his cheeks, sighing a fat sigh. “That is silly, Jason. How can a sari be defective?”
“No button hole.”
Manny exchanged glances with Narvin and Attar before turning back to Jason.
“So that’s why I know this has to be wrong,” Jason said, pulling a small wad of red fabric from his pocket, the large, cloth-covered button resting in the center of his palm, remembering both the ripping sound that came just before Ravi fell to his death and the pile of his things Rachel had left on the nightstand that morning.
“It’s got the same fabric as the sari,” Jason said, holding the bit of cloth so the broad button stood up like a flower, turning it from side to side as he spoke. “But, if there’s no button hole, then someone went through a lot of trouble for nothing. Buying an over-sized, two-piece button, opening it up, attaching the fabric, closing it back shut with all that space inside—space big enough to fit, oh I don’t know, a postage stamp, a couple M&Ms, a microchip—sewing it on a red sari.” Jason shrugged. “Seems like a waste of time to me.”
They leaned over the roof of the car to get a better look, their eyes fixed on the button, Narvin grinning, Manny wiping sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, Attar wetting his lips before he spoke, his voice just a whisper. “What do you think is inside?”
Jason smiled. “Magic.”
***
He was tempted to cut ahead, but Jason waited as his fellow passengers threaded their way through the single open doorway, their passage slowed by armloads of luggage and shuffle-stepping widows in white saris.
Jason glanced up at the illuminated board that listed both arrivals and departures and hoped that things were running late. Overhead, metallic messages blared out of trashcan-sized speakers, the information unintelligible in Hindi, Tamil, Malayalam, Kannada, and English. Jason held up his ticket at the door, the guard too busy buffing the shine on his uniform belt buckle to notice.
Passing through the final gate, Jason scanned the crowd. To his left, those waiting to depart piled their luggage in stacks and counted up family members, a moment of panic as they patted down pockets, searching for the tickets they held in their hands. To his right, those waiting for the next batch of arrivals checked their watches against the arrival board, tapping watch faces and shaking heads, the pacing and the angry inquiries still an hour away.
In front of him, the Madras Express pulled into the station.
Her baggy jeans, the bullet holes lost in the folds, dipped down on her hips, her black tribal tattoo hard to spot against the rich brown of her tan. Her teeshirt hung loose, wrinkled where it was usually knotted, and she held her backpack low so that it brushed against the dusty concrete as she walked. Poking out of a once-white Blue Jays cap, an auburn ponytail swayed with each step.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping up behind her, smiling when he saw the look in her eyes as she turned. “Is this the train we take to the Taj Mahal?”
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