Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

“Ah,” Ammachi says from the doorway. “You’re home.” She takes up the seat beside him, facing him squarely, and stares. “Where were you today?”

This is not unlike the time when Melvin tried to make a kite of Ammachi’s shawl, an experiment that led to his very first brush with the tamarind branch. But now he is a grown man simply trying to philosophize in private, on his own front step.

“Working out some things,” he says.

“Rappai saw you among the teak trees. You never go there.”

An image springs to mind of his wife, clad in a sari, moving through the trees. The copper semicircle of her back, her palm thumping a trunk. This was before he took the train back to Bombay, alone, before the troubles began.

“Enda , Melvin,” Ammachi says gently. “I know you are planning something very stupid.”

“What would you have me do? Make trips to church? I’ll only pray for people who have no other chance left. Not my child.”

“You could make one trip. We will go tomorrow. One trip. It will help you.”

Melvin shakes his head. He does not want the kind of comfort that lasts so long as he is within church walls.

“Are you selling those trees?” Ammachi asks. “Is that your plan?”

“Some, not all.”

“I knew it! For what? Something illegal probably.”

“Sssh!”

“My son,” she says mournfully. “Trying to rescue someone in a well by jumping in after them.”

“What well?” Linno asks.

Ammachi and Melvin look over their shoulders at Linno, who is standing in the doorway, breathing hard. She wipes the sweat off her nose with her sleeve.

Unable to prevail upon Melvin, Ammachi turns her frustrations on Linno. “Do you have to work so late all the time? What is this Alice making you do? Not eating, not sleeping. You’re becoming just like this, like a pencil.” Ammachi demonstrates the width of a pencil between thumb and forefinger.

“She’s helping me,” Linno says, unperturbed. Her eyes are brighter than they’ve been in weeks, touched by a hopeful light. “We’ve made a plan.”

BEFORE SEEING KUKU, Linno had to remind herself that she was not the type of person to cling to her regrets. There are women who feed off the void of decisions unmade, the men they should have married, the children they meant to have, or if not a child, a chubby stone cherub. It had been several months since that first visit, and the only obvious change seemed to be the pink potted flowers flanking each step. Linno wondered if these arrived by Jincy’s suggestion.

Kuku received them in his study where he was seated at his desk, prepared for them. The desk was grand, fashioned from teak, and perfectly ordered: pencils in a cup at the upper left corner, pens in a cup at the upper right, a white rotary phone, and a small porcelain Virgin Mary who stood upon a pedestal that read MOTHER, PRAY FOR US. With her arms outstretched, the Virgin faced Kuku, as if he were the deity to whom she was relaying the world’s petitions. And Kuku was a happy god in his padded office chair, his hands holding the armrests, triumph all over his face.

“I think you should apply for the B-1,” he said. “Temporary visitor for business visa. With this visa, Consulate doesn’t have to know about Anju. They will ask business questions only.” Counting on his fingers, he outlined the intentions of the business visitor — to negotiate contracts, to consult with business associates, to participate in business seminars and conventions …

“Negotiate and consult with whom?” Alice asked.

Kuku pulled a magazine from his desk drawer and held it to his chest like a newly earned certificate. “Desi-Club” was written in sprawling letters across the front, over an Indian girl with fat silver headphones and a jewel in her navel. “Does this say ‘Desi-Club’?” he asked quickly. Alice said yes. “Okay, look on page twenty-three. Or twenty-four, I don’t remember. Jincy was the one who read it to me.”

As Linno seized the magazine and flipped the pages, Kuku added: “Jincy was very sorry, she wanted me to tell you, Linno. She can be a bit territorial with me.”

But Linno and Alice were scanning page 23, a full-page English article with photos of models seductively bored in their bridal wear like wanton wives-to-be, and another photo of two veiled belly dancers posing hip to hip.

DUNIYA EXPO: THE ULTIMATE

BRIDAL SHOW TAKES ON NEW YORK!

Remember the old days, when parents planned the entire wedding without consulting the children? Remember when young brides had to travel all the way back to India just to print their invitations and buy their wedding saris? With Duniya, Inc., those days are over! We bring South Asia to you!

Duniya Expo Bridal Show has been rocking New Jersey, D.C., and Maryland for the past Four Years and now we think it’s time to take a bite out of the Big Apple. On June 1, 2003, the Duniya Expo Bridal Show will take over Long Island, featuring hundreds of wedding, food, and fashion vendors across a huge 80,000-square-foot floor. The day will be full to the brim with events, including the trade show, wedding planning seminars, spiritual workshops, demos, and world-class performances by British pop sensation Bombay Bomb Squad! So mark your calendars for this family event. We bring the deals and you make the steals!!

“We are to go to this expo?” Alice asked.

“Why not?” Kuku said. “There’s a thousand-dollar fee, but it’s a good investment. I know an immigration lawyer who just got a B-i for two weavers to bring their merchandise direct to American department stores. One week, in and out.”

“How do we start?” Linno asked.

“Duniya is an American-based company. You will call them. You will find out what it takes to lead a seminar at this expo. Seminar makes you sound more important. Once you pay the fees, Duniya will give you an invoice and maybe a letter to prove to the Chennai consulate that you need a business visa.”

Linno tried to read the boisterous text and reply at the same time. Belly dancers, brides, Big Apple. She looked at Kuku. Quietly, she thanked him.

“It was a joint effort,” said Kuku. “I couldn’t have done it without my wife. Hah! Listen to me. Already calling her my wife.” His chuckle thinned to a contented sigh. Linno barely heard the remark as she was busy calculating the number of weeks between January and June. For the first time that month, she felt a light filling the dark eaves of her mind, and who would have guessed that the one to throw the switch would be Kuku?

ALICE HAS BEEN WAITING to build an invitation empire, and when finally given a chance, she chooses against remodeling the shop. Her new view holds that profitable investments lie elsewhere — on the Internet.

To navigate their way into this frontier, Alice enlists the help of her nephew Georgie, a computer science student at IIT, the jewel of the family, a quiet boy who always wanted to be a cartoonist but had neither the permission of his parents nor the sense of humor to pursue it. Over the phone, Alice explains to him what she wants — a website for EastWestInvites.com, a name she chose for its global appeal. Buying the host server and building the site requires a good deal of money, but Alice possesses an almost biblical faith that the money will return to them sevenfold.

On his first free weekend, Georgie takes the train from Chennai to show Alice and Linno what he has designed. The bashful nephew that Alice remembered is now a subdued adult, fragile as a soft fruit, a young man who has spent the last two years primarily conversing with and confiding in a computer. As if arriving for an interview, he wears a shirt and tie and carries a biscuit-thin computer in its own briefcase. His fingers clatter gently against the keys, and in minutes the phrase “East West Invites” appears against pale paisley wallpaper, while beneath this the words unravel: “Welcome to East West Invites, Exclusive Invitation Boutique.” In the center of the page is a crisp, sharp photo of Linno’s very first card, which fades into an opened version displaying the blue and rust red butterfly.