A Novel Death (29 page)

But I didn't move. The book had caused the deaths of two people. The larger truth was that it could never be mine. The only time it had belonged to me was when I was five years old and imagined vanquishing tigers too.

I reached into my woven bag and pulled out the small, whitejacketed book. Holding it gently in my palm, it weighed no more than a soul.

Then, pushing up from the chair, I went into the kitchenette for a glass of water, a child's small paintbrush, and a handful of paper towels. Back at my library table I opened the book to the front and began to work carefully. First I removed the To JRK inscription using tiny drops of water and an absorbent towel. It came up better than I would have expected. Once, when a droplet rolled across the word pounce, nothing happened. Bruce Adair knew his time frames.

The painting itself was more difficult. Even though the paper was glazed, bits of color seemed to have gotten inside and refused to come out. I knew that I could not get the paper too wet or it would swell and buckle, so it took nearly an hour of patient work. Finally I sat back in my chair to let it dry.

My parents had never gotten to India. When I was small they believed it was only a matter of time before God sent them there as missionaries. To practice, we ate a lot of curries, made scrapbooks from National Geographic, and remembered Asian souls in our prayers. Then Partitioning hardened and proselytizing foreigners were not welcome. My parents scissored India out of their dreams and sent their savings to an orphanage in Calcutta.

And finally it was too late. At the end, when they had enough money to visit India and no more church responsibilities, they were cheated out of India one more time. My father developed the brain tumor that quickly stole his life. My mother made no more travel plans.

Despite my name, I had never been to India either. I had talked about it, been anxious to go, but Colin was not interested. He insisted there were archaeological places he needed to go first; I had not stood up for what I wanted. But that was then. I had a few thousand dollars that my parents had left me, money I had held on to in case I failed completely at bookselling. What better way to use it than to travel to the country they had only dreamed about?

As Colin had pointed out, I had no safety net. But somehow I would survive.

I had a better reason to go to India. Although I could not return Amil to his family, I could bring them their beloved book and try and help them make sense of his death. And I would bring them something else, a young woman who had loved their son and had created a child who Amil had assured them was their grandson. I knew better, of course. But Shara could tell them what she liked.

Looking down at the book, I saw that the page had dried. The JRK had vanished. There was slight wrinkling to the other page, and just the faintest shadow of a golden-skinned boy bowing out of the world.