Ghost Letters (10 page)

Getting to his feet, Lawrence can feel the prickling itch of circulation returning to his arms and legs. He reaches for the latch on the door and begins to draw it open. The rusted metal makes a grating sound, and Lawrence glances anxiously at the sleeping soldiers. One of them rolls over, making a grunting noise. Easing the latch free, he begins to push on the door. The hinges creak, but at that moment a rat comes scurrying into the room. It runs between Lawrence's feet and across the floor, scampering over the Tommies' legs.

Lawrence hears a loud curse as he rushes outdoors, no longer trying to escape quietly. Leaping from the veranda of the dak bungalow, he begins to run down the main path. Behind him, he can hear the soldiers shouting at one another and the crunch of pounding boots. In the moonlight, the forest is a confusion of shadows, and Lawrence has no idea which direction he should run.

The Tommies blunder after him as he jumps off the path and throws himself down the side of the hill, racing through
the jungle and tripping over vines. The moon is mostly hidden now, except for scattered patches of light. Dense foliage encloses Lawrence in a maze of darkness. Through the treacherous night, the predators chase their prey, until at last, a musket shot rings out and all is silent …

Gil wasn't sure what he expected to find, but when he set aside the scimitar and unfolded the single sheet of paper, he discovered nothing more than two stanzas of poetry. From the weight of the envelope and the wax seal, he'd been imagining something much more exciting. Disappointed, Gil read the lines under his breath:

“Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night / Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight …”
Okay,
he thought.
enough! Why do poets have to use such flowery language?
But he kept on reading until he came to the second stanza: “The moving Finger writes; and having writ, / Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit / Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, / Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it …”

Boom!

Suddenly, there was a muted explosion, as if the paper Gil was holding had caught fire—a kind of spontaneous combustion. In that same moment, the ink on the page began to
evaporate, the words disintegrating into a sooty cloud. Gil let go of the paper and jumped back against the wall of the study. As he watched, wide-eyed, the gray puff of smoke began to form itself into a shape, a human figure from the waist up. It was almost as if the particles of ink dust were pixels on a video screen, flickering as they rearranged themselves into a recognizable form. The words from the page had turned into a man, or at least the upper half of a man. He had no legs or feet, though he stood a few inches taller than Gil.

The clothes he wore were black and white: a formal dinner jacket with satin lapels, a starched white shirt and a striped cravat. He looked exactly like an English butler, with a thin moustache that formed two hyphens across his upper lip. His hair was slicked back from his forehead in a stylish wave.

“At your service, m'lord …”

“Are you talking to me?” Gil was barely able to speak.

“Naturally,” said the butler with a stiff little bow. “Who else would there be?”

“I don't know,” Gil stammered, “b-but who are you?”

“Aristophanes Smith, at your service. You're welcome to call me Aristo, if you wish, sir,” said the butler. “I'm your personal djinn … or genie, as they say over here in the West. You've just let me out of my envelope.”

The figure dusted off his lapels and bowed again. “But I thought …,” Gil started to say, then stopped.

After an awkward pause, Aristo coughed politely. “Yes, m'lord. You were saying?”

“Aren't genies supposed to wear turbans? And have big
muscles …?” Gil hesitated again, not sure if the figure would be offended.

“Well, sir. I am an English djinn. We have all sorts.” The butler flexed his arms defensively. “And though I may be out of shape—having spent the last century inside an envelope—I'm sure I can lift most anything you desire.”

“But I thought you came out of lamps, not envelopes …” This conversation was making Gil very uncomfortable.

“Another common misconception,” said Aristo. “Some of us still may be found in lamps or bottles. However, letters are much more efficient and easier to dispatch.”

“But I'm not sure I need a genie …,” said Gil.

“Well, you never know, m'lord,” said Aristo with a thoughtful frown. “There's always something that needs to be done—opening locked doors, fetching groceries, making beds, doing homework, delivering messages.”

“Do I get three wishes?” Gil asked cautiously. “I'm afraid it's only two,” said the genie. “Budget constraints. Unfortunately, we've had to cut back on our services.”

“Okay, I'll think about it,” said Gil, edging across the room toward the door.

Immediately, the genie opened it for him and said, “After you, sir.”

“Um … listen,” said Gil. “You don't need to follow me around. Maybe you could just go back into your envelope and wait until I call you.”

“At your command, sir!” The genie nodded.

“Wait! That isn't one of my wishes, is it?” Gil asked quickly.

Aristo shook his head. “Only the really big ones count. You know, asking for a million dollars. Or demanding that I cut off a sultan's head.”

Gil nodded. “Okay …”

“Right you are!” said Aristo. “I'll be here when I'm required. All you need to do is read the poem again.”

Instantly, he seemed to fade away into a sprinkling of ink dust that fell back onto the sheet of paper at Gil's feet, rearranging itself into words. When he picked the poem up, Gil could see that the verses had been restored. He carefully folded the page and slid it into the envelope, which he tucked inside one of the pigeonholes in the rolltop desk. Pulling down the lid, he locked it with the brass key. After that, Gil sat down quickly to catch his breath. This time, he definitely wasn't going to tell his grandfather what he'd seen, at least not until he was absolutely sure there was a genie in the envelope.

Lawrence can smell the burnt odor of gunpowder from the musket ball that tore through the collar of his shirt, missing him by a fraction of an inch. He scrambles down the forested hillside, between huge boulders covered with moss, through narrow ravines full of rustling ferns. It is still dark but the Tommies have given up pursuit. Lawrence figures if he descends to the foot of the hill, he can find his way to Ajeebgarh by following the Magor River upstream. Tired, scraped and bruised from his escape through the jungle, he stops by a stream to drink, gulping the cool water and splashing his face. Now that dawn is approaching, he can hear all kinds of sounds in the jungle—the whistling and warbling of birds, the whooping of monkeys, even the sawing growl of a panther. But Lawrence is no longer afraid, for the thumping of the Tommies' boots has been left behind.

Heading down the stream, which he assumes will eventually flow into the river, Lawrence comes to a clearing in the
valley. The ridges seem to lean backward to reveal a brightening sky. The moon has set and most of the stars have disappeared, but just above the treetops, Lawrence can see a tiny pinprick of light, its edges blurred, but shining with a persistence that seems to defy the dawn.

“Mercury,” Lawrence whispers to himself. Last year, his mother taught him the names of the planets as they sat on the lawns of the planter's bungalow, gazing up at the night sky. “Mercury, the messenger,” his mother had explained. The memory of her voice, describing the stars and constellations, makes him feel suddenly helpless and alone. As his eyes fill with tears, the planet seems to melt away.

Shaking off his emotions, Lawrence continues along the streambed, moving as quickly as he can in the half-light. By the time he is out of the mountains, the sun is already high overhead and the air is hot and humid. Swarms of mosquitoes and gnats hum about his ears, and Lawrence wishes it was dark and cool again. He begins to wonder if the stream will actually lead him to the river. It seems to go on and on. Now that he is on the plains, his sense of direction becomes confused. For three days, all he has eaten are a couple of moldy biscuits. Hunger and exhaustion make him delirious. He thinks he sees a mango tree full of ripe fruit, but when he tries to climb it, the branches are covered with thorns. The round white rocks in the streambed look like melons, but when Lawrence reaches down to pick one up, imagining the sweet juice dribbling down his chin, the stone is burning hot from the sun and as heavy as an iron cannonball.

Stumbling now, barely able to walk, he sees what looks like the mast of a sailing ship, with some kind of rigging. Lawrence raises one hand, as if he were a castaway on a desert island, and begins to run toward the ship with its tall, straight mast. He trips, then gets to his feet again, finally throwing himself against the wooden post. In his muddled mind, he realizes this isn't a ship, but something much better—a telegraph pole. Wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, he can see the copper wires leading straight through the jungle to Ajeebgarh. Fifty yards ahead is another pole, and another one after that.

Crawling to the stream, he takes a drink of water, though it makes his empty stomach turn. Looking up to see the telegraph pole again, his vision is blurred and he blinks his eyes. In front of him is a wavering line, like a swaying mirage. Is it a hand, waving at him? A rope dangling in the air? He blinks again. This time when he opens his eyes, Lawrence sees a king cobra. The snake's hood is unfurled, and it is prepared to strike.

That afternoon, Gil walked over to Nargis's house as soon as she got home from school. When he told her about the genie, she didn't seem convinced, but he offered to prove it to her. Together they headed back to the Yankee Mahal. When they went upstairs to the study, Prescott was sitting at the rolltop desk, leaning over a thick album, with a magnifying glass in one hand.

“Grandpa, what are you doing here?” asked Gil.

Prescott gave him a sheepish smile. “Nothing much,” he said. “Just a hobby of mine.”

“It's a stamp collection,” said Nargis.

Prescott nodded as Gil made sure the letter he had opened earlier was still in its pigeonhole.

“Can we have a look?” Nargis asked.

“Sure, if you really want to,” said Prescott. “Most people find stamp collecting boring, but I've been a philatelist since I was eight years old.”

As Gil and Nargis leaned over to look at the album, they saw a dozen two-cent stamps displayed on the page, all of them with George Washington's face. Each one looked exactly the same.

“I just got this stamp today,” said Prescott, pointing to one at the bottom, “from a dealer in Virginia. I've been negotiating with him for a couple of weeks and he finally lowered the price.”

“How much did it cost?” asked Gil.

His grandfather winced with embarrassment. “A hundred and twenty dollars,” he said.

“What? Are you kidding?” said Gil with a laugh. “That's a two-cent stamp.”

“It must be pretty rare,” said Nargis.

Prescott nodded. “It's from 1848. I've been trying to find one of these for years, to complete my collection. You see, each one is different.” Taking the magnifying glass, he ran it over the stamps, pointing out the slight variations in printing and color. One of the stamps had George Washington facing in the opposite direction.

“That's the rarest one of all,” said Prescott, “because it's reversed.”

“How much is it worth?” said Gil.

“A thousand dollars at least.”

“Whoa!” Nargis whispered.

Prescott turned the page and showed them a set of stamps with Alexander Hamilton's face on them. Another page had nothing but Benjamin Franklin. Even though they were worth a lot of money, Gil couldn't understand why anyone would get excited by stamps with pictures of dead patriots and presidents.

“Let me show you the first collection I ever made,” said Prescott, unlocking one of the lower drawers of the desk. He took out a smaller, scuffed album with a leather cover and thick black pages. The album contained more than two hundred stamps from America and other countries like Mexico, France and England.

“When I started, I collected everything I could find and stuck them in this album in random order. Later, I started to get more specialized. Now I collect mostly nineteenth-century American stamps.”

Gil flipped through the pages of Prescott's first album, which had descriptions and dates written in white ink on the black pages. The handwriting was childish but neat.

“Every stamp is a story,” his grandfather said. “You see that one with the yellow butterfly? It's from Vietnam, or Indochine, as it used to be called under the French. When I was still in seventh grade, back in 1953, my father got a letter from a man in Saigon. I soaked the stamp off the envelope and added it to my collection. Whenever I see that butterfly, I think of that day, and how naive I was. I'd never heard of Vietnam before. A few years later, it was a place we'd never forget. A lot of my friends were fighting over there, and I was in jail as a conscientious objector.”

“What's that?” asked Gil.

“A pacifist,” said Prescott. “I refused to be drafted and join the army.”

This was something else Gil had never known about his grandfather. For a moment, he forgot about the stamps.

“How long were you in jail?” he asked, intrigued.

“Six months,” Prescott replied. “After that I did Alternative Service, teaching at a school for the blind in Alabama. It was the most important experience of my life, teaching Shakespeare in Braille.”

“What's in the other albums?” Nargis asked.

“Mostly American stamps. These are from an earlier period.” Gil could see that the dates were printed on the outside of each album. 1870–1879. 1880–1889. Unlocking a second drawer, Prescott took out an album embossed with ornate gold patterns.