We have subtitled versions, miss," the man continued. He wiped his fingertips quickly on his shirt and
pulled out three titles. "No," Miranda said. "Thank you, no." She wandered through the store, studying
shelves lined with unlabelled packets and tins. The freezer case was stuffed with bags of pita bread and
vegetables she didn't recognize. The only thing she recognized was a rack lined with bags and bags of the
Hot 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, argued
bitterly 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 the
world, just waiting to come out of the woodwork. The next day the cousin said she and her son were going
to her parents' house in California, to try to recuperate. Laxmi convinced her to arrange a weekend layover
in Boston. "A quick change of place will do you good," Laxmi insisted gently, "besides which, I haven't seen
you in years."
Miranda stared at her own phone, wishing Dev would call. It had been four days since their last
conversation. 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. Then
she reserved a table for lunch at the Four Seasons. In her determination to cheer up her cousin, Laxmi had
forgotten 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 V
necked sweater, and black leather shoes. His hair was cut in a thick fringe over his eyes, which had dark
circles under them. They were the first thing Miranda noticed. They made him look haggard, as if he
smoked a great deal and slept very little, in spite of the fact that he was only seven years old. He clasped a
large 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 and
the same dark circles under her eyes. A rust-colored coat hung heavy on her shoulders. Her black hair, with
a few strands of gray at the temples, was pulled back like a ballerina's. "You ask him a country and he tells
you the capital."
"You should have heard him in the car," Laxmi said. "He's already memorized all of Europe.