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We have subtitled versions, miss," the man continued. He wiped his fingertips quickly on his shirt andpulled out three titles. "No," Miranda said. "Thank you, no." She wandered through the store, studyingshelves lined with unlabelled packets and tins. The freezer case was stuffed with bags of pita bread andvegetables she didn't recognize. The only thing she recognized was a rack lined with bags and bags of theHot Mix that Laxmi was always eating. She thought about buying some for Laxmi, then hesitated,wondering how to explain what she'd been doing in an Indian grocery. "Very spicy," the man said, shaking his head, his eyes traveling across Miranda's body. "Too spicy for you." By February Laxmi's cousin's husband still hadn't come to his senses. He had returned to Montreal, arguedbitterly with his wife for two weeks, packed two suitcases, and flown back to London. He wanted a divorce. Miranda sat in her cubicle and listened as Laxmi kept telling her cousin that there were better men in theworld, just waiting to come out of the woodwork. The next day the cousin said she and her son were goingto her parents' house in California, to try to recuperate. Laxmi convinced her to arrange a weekend layoverin Boston. "A quick change of place will do you good," Laxmi insisted gently, "besides which, I haven't seenyou in years." Miranda stared at her own phone, wishing Dev would call. It had been four days since their lastconversation. She heard Laxmi dialing directory assistance, asking for the number of a beauty salon."Something soothing," Laxmi requested. She scheduled massages, facials, manicures, and pedicures. Thenshe reserved a table for lunch at the Four Seasons. In her determination to cheer up her cousin, Laxmi hadforgotten about the boy. She rapped her knuckles on the laminated wall. "Are you busy Saturday?" The boy was thin. He wore a yellow knapsack strapped across his back, gray herringbone trousers, a red Vnecked sweater, and black leather shoes. His hair was cut in a thick fringe over his eyes, which had darkcircles under them. They were the first thing Miranda noticed. They made him look haggard, as if hesmoked a great deal and slept very little, in spite of the fact that he was only seven years old. He clasped alarge sketch pad with a spiral binding. His name was Rohin. "Ask me a capital," he said, staring up at Miranda. She stared back at him. It was eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. She took a sip of coffee. "A what?" "It's a game he's been playing," Laxmi's cousin explained. She was thin like her son, with a long face andthe same dark circles under her eyes. A rust-colored coat hung heavy on her shoulders. Her black hair, witha few strands of gray at the temples, was pulled back like a ballerina's. "You ask him a country and he tellsyou the capital." "You should have heard him in the car," Laxmi said. "He's already memorized all of Europe.
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