Ghost Letters (13 page)

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.

To distract herself, Nargis switched on the TV, but there wasn't anything worth watching, just a couple of old sitcoms she'd seen before. Even the nature programs weren't interesting—the life cycle of tent worms. Switching channels, Nargis kept going back to the parcel, pinching it gently and weighing it in one hand.

Finally, she took her book bag upstairs and sat down to do her homework. The only assignment Nargis had was to write a book report on a novel she'd just read. Nargis sat down at her desk and started writing in her notebook. Her teacher had asked only for a rough draft of the book report. Nargis wrote as quickly as she could, knowing that later she would copy it over neatly. The more she wrote, the sloppier her handwriting became.

Most of the notebook page was full when she heard her mother's car pull into the driveway. As soon as Savita Khanna came through the kitchen door, Nargis stood in front of her, holding the parcel in both hands.

“Open it,” she demanded.

Her mother didn't seem to be in any hurry and laughed as Nargis followed her around with the package. After leaving her bags in the kitchen, then checking the messages on the answering machine and putting a kettle on for tea, Nargis's mother finally got a pair of scissors and cut the twine. The
parcel looked like a huge cocoon, and Nargis almost expected a giant butterfly or moth to burst through the wrapping and open its wings.

“Do you know what it is?” Nargis asked.

Her mother nodded, giving nothing away. She began to peel off the tape, slowly, deliberately. Nargis wanted to claw at the parcel and rip it open. It seemed as if her mother was torturing her on purpose by taking so long. Under the layers of paper and plastic was another bag. Eventually, when this was opened, Mrs. Khanna took out a folded bundle of purple fabric. Nargis sat down in disappointment.

“It's only a sari,” she said, making a face.

“What did you expect?” her mother asked.

“I don't know,” said Nargis. “Something exciting.”

“But look at the silk,” her mother said. “And the embroidery. It's beautiful, isn't it?”

Nargis shrugged. Her mother wore saris only on special occasions, if there was a wedding, or on festivals like Diwali when they got together with other Indian families.

As her mother turned the cloth over in her hands, the light caught the changing colors in the silk—an iridescent hue. Nargis shifted onto the sofa next to her mother and ran her fingers over the sari. The folds of silk flowed against each other as if the layers of fabric were fluid. Though Nargis wore only jeans and sweatshirts, there was something about the sari that intrigued her. She touched the gold embroidery along the hem, a delicate pattern of gilded threads that formed a paisley design. At one end of the sari was a wide border of embroidery.

“This is the pallav,” said her mother. “It goes over your shoulder.”

“How long is a sari?” Nargis asked as the fabric spilled over her knees and onto the carpet.

“Six yards,” her mother explained. “Most of it gets pleated at your waist.”

“When did you learn to tie a sari?” Nargis asked.

“I was about your age,” said Savita Khanna. “But I didn't wear one until much later.”

“It must be hard to tie,” said Nargis.

“Not really,” her mother said. “Here, I'll show you.”

Nargis stood up as her mother wrapped one end around her waist. She had to hitch it up so the fabric didn't drag on the ground. Quickly, with expert hands, Mrs. Khanna wound the purple silk around her daughter's faded jeans, then pleated it together between her fingers until it fell in a neat cascade. Tucking the sari in at the waist, she smoothed out the places where the sweatshirt had bunched up. Nargis felt as if she were being gift wrapped. Looking down, she could see the shimmering colors in the silk. After this, her mother took the loose end of the sari, with the embroidered pallav, and draped it over Nargis's shoulder. At first, Nargis was afraid to walk. Her mother laughed as she shuffled forward with baby steps to look at herself in the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. She was sure she was going to trip over the sari, though the sound of rustling silk made her feel as if she were gliding across the hardwood floor.

When she switched on the bathroom light and looked in
the mirror, Nargis hardly recognized herself. The yards of purple silk made her look more elegant than she had ever felt before, like a princess or a movie star.

“Don't admire yourself too much,” Mrs. Khanna teased.

After unwinding the sari with her mother's help, Nargis headed up to her room to finish her book report. Opening the door, she went across to her desk, then stopped …

The book report was gone! The page had been torn out of her notebook. When she glanced around, Nargis saw it crumpled up and lying in the wastebasket. Folding her arms to keep from shaking, she recognized a bad smell in the room, a combination of spoiled milk and lilac perfume.

Next morning Gil woke up earlier than usual, about six thirty. The first smudge of daylight shone through the windowpanes and the radiator was hissing and clicking. It had suddenly turned cold. When he looked out the window, he was surprised to see it was snowing. Flakes were coming down lightly and the lawn outside was dusted white. Thirsty, Gil went downstairs to the kitchen, crossing through the unlighted rooms of the Yankee Mahal. After filling a glass with water, he headed back to bed. On the way, he noticed a light in his grandfather's study and the door was open a crack. He wondered if Prescott was awake.

Tapping softly, Gil listened but there was no response. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and saw that the desk lamp was on beside the typewriter. Papers and books were everywhere, stacked on the floor, stuffed into shelves, propped against the windowsill. His grandfather wasn't in his chair.

Gil took a couple of steps into the room and saw a piece of paper next to the typewriter with a poem written on it. He hadn't read any of his grandfather's books. His parents had never encouraged him to do so. But the title of the poem caught his eye.

OLD DOG

Gil knew it had to be about Kipling, and when he picked the paper up, he scanned the typed lines. Some words were crossed out with blue ink, and there were phrases inserted in the margins.

All that's left for him in life is smell and taste,
his other senses dulled …
Eyes gone milky, ears deaf to my commands.
But odors still excite him. Make him young again.
The old dog inhales a whiff of fish guts,
the scent of raccoons around the garbage cans,
loves nothing more than to revel in a smell—
rotten blue jay's egg … skunk scat—
as if to mask his own canine fragrances.
It's the bloodhound in him more than setter,
an olfactory pedigree.
Luxuriating in the stench of decadence,
the bouquet of goose dung,
aroma of moldy cheddar.
Eau de toilet.

He's redolent with age
Proud of his pungent colognes.

(They say dogs read with their noses,
finding poetry in the soil.)

Gil recognized his grandfather's voice in the words, the rambling drawl of their conversations at the kitchen table. As he put the paper down, there was a sound behind him, the door creaking open. Gil spun around as a black nose and white muzzle poked through the shadows.

“Kip!” he said, exhaling with relief. “You scared me.”

The dog stumbled into the room and put his nose in Gil's hand, licking his fingers. With a last glimpse back at the desk, Gil turned and led the old dog to his room. Kip had some trouble climbing the stairs, his hind legs stiff with arthritis.

Later that morning, after his grandfather was awake and making breakfast, Gil took Kipling outside in the backyard and let him sniff around the house. The snow was still falling lightly, powdering the dry leaves with a coat of white. Kip still hadn't been fed, so he wasn't likely to run away, though he seemed friskier than usual and even chased a squirrel that tried to sneak past him from the garage to the hickory trees at the back. A little later, he found an old tennis ball and brought it to Gil, wagging his tail. Though he could hardly see, Kipling still liked to chase a ball. Gil threw it close by and the dog raced after the ball, snuffling about in the grass to see where it had gone.

All at once, Kipling stopped, as if he'd been brought up
short by an invisible leash. With his tail rigid and one forepaw raised, he stood there pointing at an empty flower bed, where Prescott had been planting crocus bulbs the day before. Gil felt the hairs on his arms begin to rise and he held back for a moment. Going forward cautiously, he looked about in the direction where Kipling was pointing. The tennis ball lay unretrieved and there was nothing else around, except for a trowel, which was covered with a sprinkling of snow. Gil's eyes traced every inch of ground until he caught his breath.

There in the white layer of snow upon the flower bed, he could see fresh footprints. But unlike the ridged pattern of his grandfather's gardening boots or the worn-down tread of his own sneakers, these footprints were completely smooth. The strange part was that the footprints hadn't been there a few seconds ago, and almost immediately they began to disappear. The marks were outlined with a faint dusting of ash.

The British encampment lay twelve miles south of Ajeebgarh. More than five thousand men were ready to attack, including the Duke of Dumbarton's own Third Foot, from whose ranks the three Tommies had deserted. The soldiers were ready for war—bayonets sharpened, rifles cleaned and oiled, their last letters home written and sealed. An ominous mood of resignation and fear lay over the troops, who knew they would soon be ordered into battle.

Major General Sir Mortimer Somerset-Downs, commander in chief, huddled with his senior officers in a tent lighted by hurricane lanterns. Lt. Col. W. T. Shepherdson, senior aidede-camp, was explaining that no communication had been received from Hermes, a secret agent sent to Ajeebgarh. He was supposed to have filed a report about the maharajah's trade negotiations with the Russians.

“I can't explain it, sir,” said Shepherdson. “Hermes was going to send me a coded message as soon as he got on the
Himalayan
Mail
. When the train came to a level crossing, Hermes was to slip the letter out the window of his compartment. I had two men stationed there to collect it, but the
Himalayan Mail
passed by twelve hours ago and there's no sign of Hermes' dispatch. I can't explain it, sir. He's one of our most reliable agents.”

Major General Sir Somerset-Downs, who had lost an ear in the Crimean War, wrinkled his bushy eyebrows and scowled.

“If there's no report from Hermes, then we'll have to attack at dawn,” he said. “We shall take Ajeebgarh by force. Prepare your men.”

The officers stood up and saluted, leaving the tent in strained silence. Lt. Col. Shepherdson waited until they were gone.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said. “But I still feel there's no reason to attack. Surely this matter of postage stamps can be negotiated. The Russian threat is hardly credible, and Ajeebgarh has no strategic value.”

“I need proof, man! Proof!” said the general, scratching his prosthetic ear, which was made of the finest malacca rubber, a pale salmon color that matched the general's complexion. “How do you know your agent hasn't been killed, his message intercepted? Can't trust these Russians, you know. Let them get a toehold in India, next thing you'll find the czar playing croquet in Calcutta. And we'll be drinking our tea out of samovars instead of teapots!”

“Yes, sir!” said Shepherdson, saluting.

As he stepped out of the tent, the ADC stared up at the canopy of stars, as if searching for an answer. The night sky
was full of constellations and galaxies but no coded information that Shepherdson could decipher.

He didn't know that Hermes was dead, killed by an anarchist. The letter, which could have prevented the war, was now in the killer's pocket. Disguised as a railway attendant, he had entered the secret agent's compartment, strangled Hermes with a silk handkerchief and pocketed the letter. The assassin was allied with a violent political cult intent on overthrowing all forms of government. Before anyone discovered Hermes' body, the anarchist had jumped down from the
Himalayan Mail
and vanished into the shadows at the next station. In his haste, he discarded his railway uniform but forgot to remove the letter from its pocket.

If only that message had reached Lt. Col. Shepherdson in time, the Postage Stamp War could have been averted. Instead the British attacked Ajeebgarh at dawn with cannons blazing, cavalry charging, and foot soldiers marching with bayonets fixed. Though the maharajah's troops put up a brave defense, they were badly outnumbered and suffered terrible casualties. While Major General Sir Mortimer Somerset-Downs received a medal from the queen, almost everyone else knew that the battle of Ajeebgarh was a brutal mistake—or, as historians put it, a failure of intelligence.

The coat, discarded by the assassin, was later found by a refugee escaping the battle of Ajeebgarh. Unknown to him, the letter was still in the pocket. The refugee then carried Hermes' dispatch all the way to Delhi, where it was stolen by a pickpocket who tossed it on the street. From there the letter passed
through a dozen hands and was finally delivered to army headquarters. Unfortunately, by this time Lt. Col. Shepherdson had been killed in the battle of Ajeebgarh. Through an error of judgment on the part of a military postal clerk, the letter was considered personal correspondence and forwarded to his next of kin—a niece from Liverpool, who had recently emigrated to Boston. However, by another twist of fate, her forwarding address was written incorrectly. For this reason, the secret agent's dispatch, which could have prevented a senseless war, lay in the dead-letter bin at the Boston Central Post Office for years. It was eventually retrieved by bony fingers that snapped it up like yellowed chopsticks and deposited it in the unknown postman's mailbag.