Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

S DOES EVERY SATURDAY MORNING, this one begins with a heap of warm croissants; coffee; baguettes; blueberry preserves and violet jam; wedges of Havarti, Gouda, and Brie; and a bowl of shiny, warmed olives. Mr. Solanki and Anju sit at the breakfast table, he behind his Wall Street Journal , she pretending to read an unfunny comic strip. Mr. Solanki chews noisily on a croissant, a smattering of flakes along his striped tie. It is as though nothing has changed from one morning to another, the previous day part of some fever dream. She hardly has the appetite for more than half a croissant, though she eats the whole out of courtesy. She might fast the whole weekend, internally grazing on a singular message:

She is loved.

Anju remembers nothing else from Fish’s poem. Grammatically and practically, the actual subject who loves the object — she being the object! — is not the most important detail. That there exists someone who can love her does much to convince her that she is capable of loving that someone back.

Her insides tremble with the weight of it.

It seems that Anju is not the only one with a revelation. Mrs. Solanki usually sleeps through Saturday breakfast, but this morning she hurtles down the winding staircase in her pajamas, her robes gusting out behind her like the cape of a satin-clad superhero. She stops at the edge of the table, pauses for effect and breath. Anju has never seen her without a minimal layer of cosmetics so her chapped lips and stunted lashes add to the sense of alarm.

“Rohit,” Mrs. Solanki says, “is coming for dinner.”

Mr. Solanki stops chewing but does not swallow. “When?”

“Tonight. He just called.”

“I thought he wasn’t returning from Maine until next week.”

“He is coming back early,” Mrs. Solanki says. “He said he has something to tell us.”

“That means he’s bringing the camera. He’s going to make a big show, I know it. Tell him to leave that thing at home.”

“I tried.”

“He should not suprise us on camera, it’s not fair.” Like a child refusing his vegetables, Mr. Solanki has both fists on the table. His scorn turns to vexation as he looks at his plate, as if trying to predict Rohit’s announcement from the constellation of crumbs. Anju shifts in her seat, wondering if she should leave.

Mrs. Solanki, suddenly noticing her, smiles brightly. “Rohit just happens to film things in his life. Sort of like home videos.” She scoops bread crumbs into her cupped palm. “It is his hobby, a very important hobby.”

From the moment Mrs. Solanki begins scooping bread crumbs, the household cleaning continues without pause. An hour later, two Colombian cleaning ladies arrive, armed with mops, pails, and yellow rubber gloves. They scrub, they spray, they polish, they shimmy a feathered stick along the contours of the sculptures and vases. Mrs. Solanki divides her time between watching them and speaking on the phone, ordering a vanilla bean cheesecake to be picked up later in the day.

The more Mrs. Solanki watches the Colombian ladies, the more she fidgets until she can stand back no longer, overcome with the need to join them on hands and knees.

“But this is not clean,” Mrs. Solanki says, reaching under the TV stand, triumphantly surfacing with a spidery wad of her own black hair. “No clean,” she enunciates, almost attempting a Spanish accent. The women continue to scrub at the exact same rate, back-forth, back-forth, as if chained to each other.

WITH THE APARTMENT under siege by mopping solvents, Anju is only too glad to escape.

Overnight, it seems, rows of pumpkins and butternut squash have appeared beneath the awning of the corner deli. Coolly, September is sliding into October, green leaves tipped in a yellow that portends the end of hot, lazy days.

What does this mean to Anju? That a new stylish coat is in order, especially if she is to visit Fish at his next show. Mrs. Solanki recommended a department store within walking distance, one that takes up half a block. Surely it will provide Anju with a better option than the lumpen gray thing she is currently wearing, given to her by Ammachi. “Jilu wore this when she came from Canada,” Ammachi said, pulling the bloated coat from a trunk that smelled of mildew and baby powder. Luckily for Anju, Jilu had forgotten to take it back. Turning the coat inside out, Ammachi showed Anju a number of secret inner pockets, an intricate cavern of storage systems, where one could keep various foodstuffs in case of apocalyptic disaster. “Hah!” Ammachi said triumphantly, upon unzipping a pocket and discovering an antiquated box of Sunkist raisins.

INSIDE THE DEPARTMENT STORE, Anju runs her hands over the racks of coats. She lifts one from its hanger, something long with mannish shoulders, impossibly heavy and teal blue. Wearing it is like carrying the spoils of a tiger hunt on one’s back, and even the lighter coats bear a padded prosthesis on each shoulder.

“Removable!” the clerk says, reaching into the lining and surfacing with two cutlets the color of uncooked chicken. The clerk is young and heavily rouged, with man shoulders of her own. At first, she was cautious with Anju, until Anju told her that she lived nearby, at the Monarch. Immediately, the clerk warmed to her and began cracking desperate jokes, making it clear that she works on commission.

She puts Anju’s cutlets on top of her own shoulders. “And if I can’t use ‘em here”—she puts the cutlets against her smallish chest—“I can always use ‘em here.”

The clerk throws her head back, laughs, like they are old friends.

Anju throws her head back, laughs, achieves a crick in her neck.

Five minutes later, Anju has retreated from the coat section, after hearing the price of the coat, which is half the price of her plane ticket from India.

She passes the makeup counters with their palettes of pinks and lavenders, past the jewel-colored bottles of perfume on shelves of glass. Well-dressed women offer spritzes from designer bottles, happily chirping the lacy names of scents like Beyond Heaven or Eau de Désir. Crossing through a patchouli and lilac fog, Anju pauses before the sunglasses rack, stopped by a familiar voice whose name she cannot place. “Anju Mol! Eh, Anju!” In the dark reflections of several lenses, several tiny Birds are moving toward her. She whirls around, her spirit lifting in spite of her guilt. In all this time, Anju has not called her. Is it possible that Bird volunteers here too?

Bird seems less excited to see Anju. Her mouth is pursed, her hands patting her head kerchief to make sure it is still in place. “Where have you been?” Bird demands in Malayalam.

“I was meaning to call,” Anju lies. For a brief, ridiculous moment, she imagines telling Bird about her newfound love. “I’ve been so busy with school….”

Bird groans at the inanity of this answer. “Every day I watch for you, but you never come. I told Mr. Tandon you were coming, but you never did. You think some immigration fairy will leave a green card under your pillow?”

Anju shakes her head.

Bird pulls a date book from her bag and flips to an open page. “How is next Monday?”

“But what is the cost?”

“No cost to meet!” Bird nearly cries her answer, so pained is she by this degree of procrastination. “I will tell him you are coming at four p.m. Come straight from school.”

After jotting down the date and time of the meeting, Bird claps the book shut and waits for Anju to record the same. Anju takes down the information on the back of a perfume sample, all the while wondering how much she should owe this meeting to chance. This city can likely keep friends apart for years, such is its density, its speed. But now, in the space of two weeks, Anju and Bird are again brought face-to-face.