Page 74 of Six Days in Bombay

“No.”

He disappeared inside the room. When he came back to the window, he had a piece of paper in his hand. He blew on it before letting it float down to the ground in front of me.

“That’s the address. I’ll finish up here. Meet me at four o’clock there.”

He disappeared inside the room again.

I picked up the paper. On it was scrawled, in black paint that was still wet,No. 81 Via de’ Tornabuoni.

***

I had just enough time before meeting Paolo to go to the British Embassy, which, according to Baedeker’s, was only a few blocks away. My pulse quickened; perhaps there would be a letter from Amit. I’d told him the British Embassy was the place he could reach me. Or perhaps there would be a message from Dr. Stoddard. I had not answered his last letter because I wasn’t sure how to respond. His revelation—how he had deserted his fiancée—had changed something between us, at least in my mind. I had found him wanting, as I had found my father. Yes, there was the other half of him I loved, the half who had looked after me on the Viceroy, shown me unimaginable kindness. He’d taken such delight in teaching me gin rummy. Introduced me to port and caviar. Taught me to trust my instincts when it came to card games. He’d brought out a daring in me I hadn’t known I possessed. And he’d connected Amit to me in Paris. How could I find half of someone agreeable and spurn the other half?

But…didn’t I feel the same way about my mother sometimes? Loved the half of her who made menimbu paniwhen I was sick? And secretly despised the part of her so blinded by love that she had made my existence shameful? I didn’t want to love andhate in equal measure. I didn’t want to be consumed by these ugly thoughts.

I didn’t realize I’d been standing at the door to the British Embassy with my fists at my sides, my gaze fixed on the cobblestones below.

A woman was talking to me. I looked up. She was holding the door open, asking if I was coming in as well. I followed her inside.

A letter from Edward Stoddard was waiting for me. I read it as I walked back down the stairs.

Dear Miss Falstaff,

This envelope contains two letters. One from my father, who speaks of you often and always in affectionate terms. And this one, from me.

I hope you don’t think me too forward to write to you directly for I feel as if I know you as well as Father does. He has told me about your mother in India and your father in England. Please don’t be cross with him for that. I practically forced it out of him after I pestered him for details about you. (And now I hope you’re not cross with me.)

When you return to Bombay, I hope you will do us the honor of gracing us with your company. As it happens, I have recently been posted to the British Embassy in Bombay and will be leaving within a fortnight. Father will accompany me. A blessing, since I have wanted to look after him. He has always been such a loving force in my life. After my mother died, despite his long hoursat the hospital, he redoubled his efforts to spend time with me. We fished weekends with the Koli seafolk along the Bombay coast. We spent hours designing and building fighter kites to be entered into festivals. He arranged for the daughter of his closest friend to put a rakhi on my wrist because I didn’t have sisters to wish me health and happiness. Nothing will give me more pleasure than showing him the kindness he has always shown me.

If at any point you require assistance, know that I am here to help. My offer (our offer?) of hosting you in Bombay at our humble abode will stand until you tell us otherwise.

Your friend,

Edward Stoddard

I walked out of the building and across the road to the stone wall beyond which the Arno flowed gently. I looked at the gray water below. My reflection was in shadow, but I knew my cheeks were flushed. First Amit and now Edward? What would my mother say about this turn of events? She, who wanted the best for me but felt Mohan was the best on offer.I wish you were along on this ride, Mum. It’s been full of lovely surprises!

I looked inside the envelope and extracted the other letter.

My dear girl,

By the time you read this, you’ll be in Florence. Promise me you’ll take a gander at the Uffizi, especially the secret passageway leading all the way to the Pitti Palace. So many stories, so many assignationsthat corridor could tell! I’ve always thought it would be lovely to have secret corridors in hospitals where we could take refuge from needy patients or mourn a favorite patient who had just passed. Tell me you don’t favor the idea even a little bit.

I didn’t hear from you after my last letter. I realized you might bear a grudge (or, in my more hopeful moments, only a tiny grievance) at my callous desertion of Elizabeth, my fiance-e. I assure you that my only intention in divulging such a private matter was to show you that my cowardice might be equal to that of your father’s when it comes to making amends.

You have tremendous courage, my dear. You’ve held your own where many fatherless children haven’t. You’ve undertaken an impossible task by the painter you so admire. You’ve ventured forth on your own. Many women—Indian or European—would never consider doing that. I have no doubt you will accomplish your goal. You are that determined (and that foolhardy if you’ll pardon the old man in me). It’s because of your pluck that I know you will be able to face your foe.

Did I tell you I looked for Elizabeth a few years ago? Age makes one reconsider one’s decisions and atone for transgressions. I found she had never married. My fault, I suppose. I kept meaning to write a letter, apologizing for my unforgivable behavior, but I never did. Would it only have served me, released me from my guilt, or would it have helped her to know that I still thought about what I’d done all these years later? I suppose I’ll never know since I was too much of a coward to send that letter.

Now it’s your turn, dear Sona. I don’t encourage you to see your father because it will help him feel better, but because it will help you feel better. Your resentment has no place to go until you talk to him.

Did you know military uniforms have buttons with a regiment number? Your father is wearing such a uniform in the photo you showed me. Edward did some digging and found the last known address of Owen Falstaff. I know you’ll think me a nuisance for pushing the issue, but humor an old man, will you?

Give it another think. I hope you will. If you are in need of that address and/or of funds, please write to Edward. He would rather love to hear from you. He’s talked of you often since you left. Godspeed.

In love and friendship,

R. S.

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