Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

He folded a bit faster, hoping to finish before a fight began.

“I said that Kumarakom is not as small as I thought, and I have friends here and there. And I’ll never find a ponman in New York.” Gracie leaned in and searched his face. “I said I choose this life.”

At last, he sat on the edge of the bed, a stack of shirts between them.

“Have you packed?” he asked in a tired voice.

“No,” she said.

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

The next day, as Gracie suggested, he boarded the train to Bombay alone. He would work two more weeks to earn his last paycheck, pay the remainder of the monthly rent, and then pack up everything valuable for home. In total, they owned very little, enough for a man to handle by himself.

On the platform, they stood: Melvin, Linno, and Anju in Gracie’s arms. Linno wore a red headband that kept sliding down her forehead, and Anju’s eyes were in constant wonder of her surroundings. These were his children, from whom he had never parted. He kissed their cheeks. He found that it hurt to step away from them.

“Eat before it gets cold,” Gracie said, jutting her chin at the tiffin in his hand. Inside were a few idli and a sambar that Ammachi made almost unbearably spicy, a final combat against Melvin’s sickness that would, instead, afflict him with diarrhea a few hours after eating.

People began to board the train. Melvin did not know how to say the words so near to his heart, so unfamiliar to his tongue. Instead he said everything else, each sentence wrapped in the warmth of her silences.

“Don’t forget to lock the door.”

Good-bye .

“That lower lock too.”

I’m sorry I stopped talking to you .

“Of course the dog is there, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

I will miss you .

“I will call when I get there.”

Soon it will be better .

“Go on, then,” Gracie said with a smile. “At this rate, you’ll be sitting in the luggage rack.”

Once aboard, he could not get a good view of the window, squished as he was next to a man of considerable girth. He did not have to see Gracie to know her face, her posture, one arm holding Anju, the other hand in Linno’s. Perhaps within that upright frame, behind her bright, wifely optimism, all her hopes had frayed to regrets. He would never ask or know. It was the last time he would see her.

WEEK AFTER the first email from Sonia Solanki, Linno learns that Mrs. Solanki did not receive the “green light” for her proposal.

Mrs. Solanki calls Linno at the office. “That idiot Priddy thinks I should stick to the special interest bits, all things related to cooking, even though obviously I can only conduct so many segments on seitan vindaloo!”

“This means we will not apply for visa?” Linno asks.

“I’m so sorry. You see, Jeff’s main concern is this: If we don’t have Anju, then where is the story? Without a reunion, there’s no ending and the audience would feel … unfulfilled. Unsatisfied.”

Unsatisfaction and unfulfillment — but this is exactly Linno’s problem, just as it has always been. Were she satisfied and fulfilled, she would be someone else. But perhaps this is Mr. Priddy’s point: audiences want to hear from Someone Else, a person whose story can be smoothly digested from beginning to end.

“Linno? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, do you think Anju reads Me & You magazine?”

“Sorry? What is it?”

“It’s a magazine with more readers than my show has viewers. They usually publish fluffy things about famous people, who is carrying what purse and so on. But I play tennis with the features editor, and she’s been looking for more special interest stories, pieces about ordinary people who are sort of … extraordinary in their own way. Anyway, I have been trying to think creatively about this, and I think I can pull some strings.”

UNTIL RECENT TIMES, the most famous member of the Vallara family — though ancestral — was P. C. Mappilla, whose portrait still features prominently in the sitting room. Since then, heroes have grown few, and Linno knows even less of family heroines. If anyone, Linno thought that Anju might earn a spot on the wall next to Mappilla someday.

So when Mrs. Solanki says that Me & You magazine wants to feature Linno as a special interest story, her first thought is that Mrs. Solanki has her confused with Anju. Mrs. Solanki explains how the piece will feature two other people as well — one of them missing a foot and the other missing an arm. The piece will be called “Miracle Workers.”

Linno’s response: “They couldn’t find anyone missing a head?” She and Alice are pasting yellow rhinestones to floral envelopes. “I’m going to tell Mrs. Solanki to find another miracle.”

“Why didn’t you tell her on the phone, an hour ago?”

“She kept talking and talking, that woman! She said, ‘This will be great for your business, get your name out, publicize your website …’”

“Maybe somehow reach Anju.”

Linno sighed. “She mentioned that.”

“Well, then?” Alice gently blows on her studded envelope. “Am I using too much glue?”

“Yes. What is wrong with those Duniya people? Why do you think they aren’t returning my calls?”

“Because they probably get too many calls. Mrs. Solanki is right. This magazine might get their attention, and it will help with the visa application. Didn’t she say your picture is going to be bigger than all the others, maybe take up the whole first page? You can’t say no.”

“But I can refuse to answer personal questions.”

Alice throws up her hands, nearly toppling her plastic bag of rhinestones. “The magazine is called Me & You . If they wanted to know about the invitation business, it would be called Invitation Business . They want to know about you, and what’s wrong with that when you’ve done so well?” Alice picks up another envelope to embellish. “You always think someone is pointing a finger at you. But this is not about your accident. It is about what you did after your accident.”

Listlessly, Linno sifts a handful of stones through her fingers. She wonders if they will expect her to wear short sleeves. To be proud of her deformity. That kind of thing happens in America all the time it seems, that defiant hubris, that fist-in-the-air mentality. Or stump-in-the-air, as the case may be.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER, Jade, is a sweaty white woman with a man’s haircut. She wears no jewelry other than the camera hanging around her neck and an ever-present smile, enthralled by the newness of her surroundings. “The colors in this country are fabulous,” Jade says. “I’ve taken three rolls of film just on my way to your shop! You people are really unafraid of bright red.”

“An auspicious color,” Alice says.

Jade nods solemnly. “Love it.”

While Jade sets up her lights, Alice insists that Linno use the lipstick that Alice brought with her, a shade of red auspicious enough for a prostitute. Linno blots most of it onto a handkerchief. Meanwhile, by the window, Jade has arranged such an elegant shrine of custom-made cards that Linno feels like some sort of imperfect offering. She has never seen her cards this way, open all at once — her first butterflies, the pagoda, the Manhattan skyline, the triptych of elephant heads, the triple-tiered birthday cake, a bouquet, a leaping star, a peacock and a sunrise and a lotus all in bloom. Linno sits on a stool in the center of her pantheon, wrists crossed in her lap.

“Just try to get comfy,” Jade says. When this does not ease Linno’s stiffness, she adds, “Think pleasant thoughts.”