There are twelve different voices at twelve different registers, but somehow they come together, a unified sound, and when Joan feels she is intruding, seeing bared so many hearts, she walks on, to the back of the courtyard, until the chanting trickles away. Small pine trees in a row, and beyond them, the hills appear so close, a trick of vision, of perspective that encourages Joan to reach out her hands, to touch the toothy edges of the landscape, but reality is something different, and far away.
When the exhaustion of jet lag pulls at her, she makes her way back to the marketplace. The hotel provides its morning breakfast tray, but she did not ask whether there is a restaurant on-site, if she can order room service when she returns. She suspects not. She needs to be horizontal soon, on her comfortable bed, under the red coverlet, but if she wakes in the middle of the night, she will want something to eat. She sees a small store, its windows displaying children’s toys, a tower of bottled water, an assortment of intricate kites. She buys a bag of potato chips, another Butterfinger bar, an icy Dr Pepper, which she has not drunk since she was a teenager, and starts up the hill to the hotel. She does not need to decide anything more about Daniel, not at this time. She does not need to consider when she should find Eric. She does not need to talk to Martin. She need only put one beautiful golden crystalled sandal in front of another, recall the creamy banana cake, the lion in the latte, the girl with her stubbed braids, the monks praying, the Buddha, Camille Nagy and the meditators, and everything else she has seen so far.
From the balcony of her pine suite, she watches the flaming sun impale itself on the Himalayas. Can prayers sent out in a single kora do the trick, correct the wrongs in one human life? Would her people in Devata believe in such a miracle? They might, Joan knows, but she’s not there yet, for her the answer is still no.
34
She is in the tub nestled within its pine box, her cell phone on the ledge, when it rings. It is nine in the evening, Dharamshala time.
“Hi, Joan, this is Sherri Angell. I gather you know who I am. Your lawyer in Los Angeles dealing with the movie rights to the books.”
“I do,” Joan says. “Hello.”
“Hi,” and Sherri Angell gets down to business. “So the last two days have been very productive. We’ve got a final agreement, pending your approval. I’ve sent it to the email address Dr. Manning provided for you. It would be great if you could read it right away. If you’re on board, then sign the signature page, and fax it back to me. I think we ought to lock this down right now. You’re going to be very pleased.”
“I will,” Joan says. “Give me a couple of hours.”
“Of course. Call me with any questions or issues.”
In the fogged mirror, Joan’s face is gauzy, her limbs wrapped in white steam. She looks like a ghost who may soon disappear for good.
*
Even at this hour, Kartar is still at the reception desk. “I have a favor to ask,” Joan says to him, and explains what she needs.
“Of course, Ashby, with all of my pleasure. Come this way.”
He leads her around the teak reception desk to a small alcove. Desk, computer, printer, fax machine. Next to a small stone Buddha, serene and contemplative, a stick of incense releases delicate smoky curls. He fills the printer tray with paper, shows Joan how to log onto her email, and the button she needs to press to print.
“I’ll be out there. Just call when you require me for the faxing.”
Soon she hears him on the telephone speaking in his native language, a musical lilt to his words, a songbird at work.
The printer is slow and the contract Sherri Angell has sent is long, and Joan sits in the cozy alcove listening to the shush of the pages. Then she begins to read.
The film options for both books total a million dollars, against a purchase price for each of three million, with more due Joan if the production budgets go over thirty-five million, forty, forty-five, sixty. She is entitled to five percent of any net profits.
She puts her hand to her forehead and stares at all of the figures, huge figures written out in words, in numbers with dollar signs between parentheses. Although the books do not carry her name, between the publishing and movie monies, she will be wealthy in her own right, and stands to become much more than that.
She balls up her right hand into a fist to stop its trembling before she can sign her name below the other signature, the signature of an international American movie star who, Angell told her, has started his own production company, wants these books to be his first major cinematic splash as a producer.
“I’m ready,” Joan calls out quietly, and then Kartar is next to her, taking the slip of paper with the West Coast lawyer’s information out of Joan’s hand. Joan watches the stick of incense burn itself out, a last plume fading in the air.
Within moments, the fax machine whirs and delivers a confirmation page. The extraordinary contract she never could have imagined has been received on the other end.
*
Back in her room, there is a message on her phone. It is the East Coast lawyer, named Spellman, who says, “Hello, Ms. Ashby. Liz Spellman here. I’m calling to confirm that the funds from Daniel Manning have been transferred into your account, details supplied by Dr. Manning.” Joan saves the message and the phone beeps in her hand. A text from Sherri Angell: “Thx. Got it. We’re good to go.”
Joan stands out on her balcony in the dark night, the lit stars looking close enough to swallow. Publishing advance, movie option money, Joan will have no need to ask for anything, not for her equity share of their renovated house, the land still in her name, Martin’s successful practice, what they have in investments.
Is she really thinking about this?
About cutting ties, leaving the past behind, moving fully unencumbered into her future? Does she want to leave behind the man she does still love in some way, the good life that is theirs, the remnants of family, her position in the town where they are known and liked and admired? She would miss the grand architectural house, the lap pool in the bucolic glen, the Croatian limestone island in the kitchen, the shed hiding behind the weeping willow tree where she thought she would return to her writing.
Was her oft-desired flight from home, to India, her escape? Her son who went rogue and eviscerated his mother merely the excuse to do what she considered doing so many times? Well, his duplicity can’t be designated as her excuse. But how convoluted it is: because of Daniel, and Martin’s insistence on the lawyers, Joan can choose to live as she pleases, a life focused on her own work, if she desires, without any demands on her time, temporal roadblocks, emotional fastballs. She wonders if Martin understands that in helping her to negotiate this travesty, he has insured her freedom.
35