The Sandalwood Tree (30 page)

The tension went out of his arms, and he said, “No more blame, I promise. It’s self-indulgent.” He pulled me in close and said, “It’s not that the past doesn’t matter, it’s that the future matters more, and the present matters most of all.”

I remembered the henna tattoo, still fresh on my body, and felt ashamed of my skin-deep attempt at reconciliation. We had been playing our parts clumsily, but now, finally, we had come to a moment of shared grace.

Martin said, “I promise you our story won’t end with that war. There’s enough misery in the world. I won’t perpetuate it anymore.”

I touched my forehead to his and whispered, “Martin.”

“Evie, you’re trembling.”

“I almost gave up. You don’t know how close I came to giving up.”

He winced. “I wish—”

“No.” I laid a finger over his lips. “Just this.” I searched his face. “But you’ll have to let it go every day. Every day, Martin.”

He smiled gently. “I know.”

The invisible barrier between us dissolved and I sagged against him. Billy whooped as a flashy parrot shot out of the hibiscus bush, and I thought, anyone can be happy when you’re young and in love under a full moon, but
this … this
was solid. We held each other, our broken selves, with no moonlight or music, only the punishing Indian sun, pesky monkeys chattering, Rashmi scolding Pal, and our little boy rolling in the dirt.

“There’s something I want to do.” Martin reached down and
fished under his chair, pulling out the clay pot I’d taken from the sandalwood tree. I remembered putting it away and asked, “What are you doing with that?”

Martin said, “I found it in the old stable when I parked the car; funny I never noticed it before.” He ran his hand over the cool, round surface. “It’s a Hindu funerary urn.”

“For ashes?”

“No. After a body has been cremated, the chief mourner walks away from the pyre and throws a clay urn over his shoulder. It shatters and he doesn’t look back; it’s the final letting go.”

Martin nudged me off his lap and went to the verandah steps with the urn. He faced me and threw the pot backward, over his shoulder, and we heard it break on the steps. My eyes stung, and I went to him, and he folded me into his arms.

Billy and Rashmi chased Pal around the sandalwood tree, while Martin and I sat on the verandah, and I told him my secrets. I started with the loose brick in the wall and finished with Charlie Singh’s star-studded bedroom. Martin asked to see Felicity and Adela’s papers, and we read them together, our heads bent over the old journals, now and then reading a sentence aloud. Martin said, “They lived for joy.”

I said, “Isn’t that beautiful?”

He nodded, and then we both smiled. I said, “I’m going to donate Felicity and Adela’s papers to the Historical Society, but I’ve been keeping my own journal since we came here and I’ve decided to leave it in the sandalwood tree. Do you think that’s corny?”

He smiled that open, hopeful smile I so loved and said, “Corny as hell. But I like it.”

Rashmi left, and Habib arrived, and the sky burst into flames as the water-wallah came up the road, calling, “Pani! Pani!” We put our child to bed together, his skin smelling of sandalwood soap and his breath of parsley, and we settled Pal on a quilt on the floor, knowing he would find his way onto the bed before morning. We
ate dinner together, and then we went back to the verandah. There was so much to say, like old friends catching up after a long absence.

We talked while the monkeys quieted, and the moon rose to backlight the blue monsoon clouds. The thump of tablas reached us from the godowns, a muezzin called the faithful to prayer, and still we talked. When it rained, we stopped to listen; Martin lit two Abdullahs, and we smoked while the eaves dripped and the rain settled to a steady drone. We grew sleepy, but we kept on talking.

The rain stopped and the swift Himalayan dawn flashed over the sandalwood tree and caught us by surprise. The sun ignited one icy peak after another, and the sky brightened. It was a new day, excellent and fair, and when Martin took my hand, I wondered why I might ever want more when moments like that, when they come, are all my heart can hold.

This book owes its existence to a multitude of good people around the world.

In India: I would like to thank Ramesh Kumar, who navigated some of the world’s most hair-raising roads while graciously answering all my questions and generally keeping me alive. In Delhi: thank you to DK of Mysteries of India, who made last-minute travel arrangements, even when my requests were unreasonable. In Dharamsala: thank you to Colonel Naresh Chand, who kindly granted a rare interview and shared memories of India under the British Raj and his experiences in the Indian army. In Varanasi: thank you to Narottam Kumar, who explained Hindu beliefs and funerary rites while sitting in a rocking boat on the Ganges. In Amritsar: thank you to Mandeep Singh, who ushered me through the Golden Temple and offered insights into Sikh customs. In Agra: thank you to Muddassar Khan for a delicious lunch and a fascinating conversation about arranged marriages. In Shimla: thank you to Manish Patwal, who generously volunteered family anecdotes. Also in Shimla: thank you to Apoorv Chanan for a personal guided tour of the colonial Peterhof Hotel.

In New York: thank you to Emily Bestler, whose brilliant editing once again created a much better book, and my meticulous production editor, Isolde Sauer. Also in New York: thank you to my peerless agent, Dorian Karchmar, who is always in my corner. In London: thank you to Sarah Turner for pointing me in the right direction, and to Kate Samano for a superb copyedit that went above and beyond the call of duty. In Santa Barbara: thank you to Ginny Crane for furnishing details of her life as an American memsahib in India in the 1960s.

In New Mexico: thank you to my daughter, Tess Light, for helping me through the final notes and enabling me to deliver this book from a hospital bed, and to my son, Michael Lavezzi, who made sure it got to New York on time.

I extend heartfelt thanks to fellow writers in San Diego, San Francisco, and Denver who patiently read and reread this manuscript and allowed me the benefit of their skill and wisdom. They are: Seré Halverson, Peggy Lang, Eleanor Bluestein, Chelo Ludden, Laurie Richards, Walter Carlin, Susanne Delzio, Al Christman, Judy Grear, James Jones, and Felice Valen.

I also owe a debt to the intrepid Victorian expats Fanny Parks, Honoria Lawrence, Sara Jeanette Duncan, Julia Curtis, and Mrs. Meer Hassan Ali, whose diaries and journals painted a vivid picture of an Englishwoman’s life in nineteenth-century India. Thank you to Margaret MacMillan, whose book
Women of the Raj
was a valuable resource. Thank you also to William Dalrymple, whose books
The Last Mughal
and
White Mughals
provided a rich historical context for my characters.

To my husband, Frank, thank you for allowing me to retreat into my own head for months at a time. And thank you, Dad, for making dinner when I was writing ten hours a day.