The Wishing Trees (23 page)

As Ian gripped her hand, he mused over how the Taj Mahal appeared to be almost human in its demeanor—reflective and ambitious and original. Yet unlike any human, the mausoleum seemed perfect, in terms of both its design and its dimensions. One could not look at the Taj, he thought, and suggest ways to make it better.

His eyes continued to wander from one side of the mausoleum to the other. The bottom half was rectangular, filled with wondrous arches. Its top, of course, was crowned by a single white dome. A minaret, resembling a vast column, rose beyond each corner of the main structure, adding symmetry.

Ian pointed to the minarets. “Did you know, luv, that the architect designed those towers so that if an earthquake ever occurs, they’ll fall away from the mausoleum?”

“Wow.”

“A bloody genius, I reckon.”

Mattie realized that they were getting too close to the Taj Mahal. She wasn’t ready to lose the view from afar and she led her father to a nearby bench. “Can you tell me its story, Daddy?” she asked, sitting down.

“Sure, Roo. It’s a wonderful tale. A real dazzler.”

“What happened?”

He adjusted his traveling hat so that its brim kept the sun off his neck. “There once was a man named Shah Jahan. And he ruled India.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, I reckon three or four hundred years ago,” Ian answered, watching her face as she studied the Taj Mahal. “He had a slew of wives, but his favorite was named Arjumand. It’s said that they were madly in love, and she went with him everywhere. She was his most trusted adviser.”

“Like Mommy and you?”

He smiled. “Like Mommy and me.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, she died in childbirth, which happened a lot in those days. And as she died, she asked him to grant her one wish, and that wish was to build her something beautiful, and then to visit this place on their anniversary and light a candle.”

Mattie’s forefinger started moving on her skirt, as if she were sketching. “And he built her the Taj Mahal?”

“That’s right, luv. He wanted to build her the most beautiful place the world had ever seen. Unfortunately for him, as soon as he finished, one of his sons overthrew him and locked him up for the rest of his life in a small room with one window. And through that window he could see the Taj Mahal, where Arjumand was buried. When he finally died, he was buried beside her. And they’ve lain together ever since.”

“Can I sketch it, Daddy? Before all the people come?”

“Absobloodylutely. Though I want to watch.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Ian turned his gaze back to the Taj Mahal, remembering how Shah Jahan had wanted the mausoleum to mimic the loveliness of a woman. And it certainly did, reminding Ian of Kate in so many ways. He thought of her note, of how she had asked him to remember walking hand in hand through the structure. He wondered if somehow she could see them now. Might the world be so magical, so benevolent? Were Shah Jahan and Arjumand ever reunited, as he so wished?

Can you see us, my luv? Ian asked, pulling the shell she’d given him from his pocket and rubbing it between his fingers. Do you know how far we’ve come? I miss you. I feel like I’m trapped in a little room too, looking out through a single window. I’m trapped and I’m tired and I miss you so bloody much.

Tourists started to walk past, people from all corners of the world, most everyone talking softly, somehow hushed by the sight of the mausoleum. Ian turned to watch Mattie draw, following her fingers as they gripped a light blue pencil and she re-created the structure, making it appear as if it were reflecting the light of morning, which, Ian now realized, it was.

“You’ve got such keen eyes,” he whispered, not wanting to distract her. “You make me feel blind.”

She smiled but said nothing, her fingers turning blue and white. She filled the paper with the mausoleum, with its reflection in still water. Ian had seen hundreds of photos of the Taj Mahal but didn’t recall any as charming as Mattie’s drawing.

“I think Shah Jahan would love it,” he said. “And I know your mum would.”

“Daddy?”

“What, luv?”

“Last night, when you told me about what Mommy said in her letter, about how she wished that she’d helped more people, you said that you didn’t agree with her, that she’d actually helped a lot of people.”

“She did. A heap more than she ever gave herself credit for.”

“I think you’re right. And I want to tell her that.”

Ian pointed to a white space at the bottom of her drawing. “So have at it.”

Mattie nodded, thinking about what to write. She picked up the green pencil that she’d used to draw the cypress trees. Beneath her sketch, she wrote, “You helped everyone, Mommy. We love you.”

Kissing her brow, Ian said, “Perfect.”

“Daddy?”

“What, my little question asker?”

“Why do I . . . feel so close to Mommy here?”

He put his arm around her, pulling her to him. “You know, Roo, I’ve traveled around the world, and I’ve seen a heap of lovely sights. I’ve seen mosques and temples. And churches as big as a city block. But the Taj Mahal, it’s the only thing I’ve seen that was made to celebrate love, to cherish love forever. That’s why I reckon you feel your mum here, because Shah Jahan understood love. It was the best and most beautiful thing in his life, just like it is in ours. And the Taj Mahal . . . captures everything we feel about love . . . and makes us feel closer to everyone we cherish.”

She closed her sketch pad. “Is it as pretty when you’re standing next to it?”

“It’s at least as lovely. You can’t see them from here, but millions of semiprecious stones cover the exterior. They form flowers and vines and . . . I think even lines of poetry.”

“I want to see them. And where the emperor and his wife rest beside each other.”

He pocketed the shell, took Mattie’s hand, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

“One other thing, Daddy.”

“What?”

“I want to put my picture in a wishing tree, where Mommy can see it. But not near here. Can we find a good tree? Maybe tomorrow?”

“India is full of good trees.”

Mattie smiled, stepping toward the Taj Mahal, toward a source of beauty through which she could feel her mother. She started to increase her pace, eager to touch what her mother had touched, to see what her mother had seen. The Taj Mahal grew larger, a single jewel from an unknown stone, a dream of a dying woman, a sight so profound that Mattie wondered if it were real. She called for her mother quietly, looking up, above the great dome.

After taking off her sandals, Mattie began to ascend the white marble steps leading to the mausoleum. She thought of Shah Jahan, of Arjumand, of her mother and father, of her father’s pain at having lost such love. She squeezed his hand and let him lead the way inside, into a place that would surely stir his memories.

Please look down, Mommy, Mattie thought. Please look down right now and let Daddy know you’re here. He misses you so much. Just let him know you’re here and I think he’ll feel a little better.

ABOUT SIX HOURS LATER, IAN AND MATTIE walked back toward their hotel. Though they were tired from a busy day, they didn’t try to catch a ride in a taxi or rickshaw, as the streets were jammed with traffic. Walking, it seemed, might be faster. They moved along the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, where they encountered fewer obstacles. This strategy was far from original, however, and countless locals hurried home from work via this same river of humanity. Even in the early evening, the heat was oppressive, and many of the men had unbuttoned their collared shirts to their sternums. The shirts might have been white at one point but had been yellowed by sweat and pollution. The vibrant colors that the women wore were more resistant to the elements, but mothers and grandmothers still sweated and wiped their faces, still turned the other way as buses belching diesel exhaust lumbered past.

The crowds on the sidewalk were hard for Ian to navigate. He was taller than most locals, but being able to see ahead didn’t make it much easier for him to locate his hotel. Only in Tokyo had he ever felt such a press of people. And the crowds in Japan, while claustrophobic, were at least orderly, following long-established patterns of movement. Japanese walked and stopped as one. They waited in lines. In India, no such concepts seemed to exist. Businessmen, women in saris, beggars, schoolchildren, monks, and vendors darted this way and that, often cutting one another off. The horns and foul fumes from nearby traffic didn’t help matters.

“Reckon we should hail a taxi?” Ian asked Mattie, who held on to his belt and walked beside him.

Mattie tried to look around but could hardly see the road. “We’d just sit in that traffic jam. And I’m so thirsty. Can’t we find something to drink?”

“At least we could relax in a taxi. Then we’ll wet our throats at the hotel.”

“Let’s just get some water. I really, really need some water.”

Ian nodded, reaching into his day pack to remove a guidebook. He flipped to a map of Agra and tried to get his bearings. They were near their hotel, he was certain. But despite the thousands of banners, signs, and posters touting nearby businesses, most of the streets were unmarked. Ian remembered how, during World War II, Russians had often removed their street signs to confuse invading German armies. He wondered if people in Agra might have the same mind-set when it came to outsiders.

A large man with a thick beard bumped into Ian, almost knocking the guidebook from his hand. Ian muttered to himself, glancing again at the map, trying to avoid what seemed to be an onrush of people. He walked another twenty paces before putting away the book. “I reckon we’re almost home, Roo,” he concluded, twisting toward her.

Only she wasn’t there.

“Mattie?” he said, turning around in a full circle, his heart thumping like a series of fireworks. In every direction, Indians hurried past. Ian jumped up, looking toward where they’d come from. “Mattie!” Only horns and the confused stares of passersby answered him, and he hurried over to a pile of slabs of broken pavement, climbing up, holding on to a streetlamp. “Mattie!” he shouted, spinning on the cement, peering in all directions. He ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, God. Please don’t do this.”

He shouted her name again and again, continuing to look for light hair amid the sea of locals. Swearing, he scrambled down the pile of cement slabs and began to retrace their footsteps, bumping into passersby, asking if anyone had seen an American girl. As soon as people shrugged or looked around, he moved on, running now, jumping over obstacles. He hopped onto an idle bus, climbing up the ladder at its rear, rising to the roof, and looking again in all directions. “Mattie! Mattie, I’m up here! Look up!”

A nearby Mercedes honked, and the bus edged ahead. Ian slid down the ladder and jumped to the street. He ran back to the sidewalk, tripped over a shredded tire, and hurried toward where he’d last been with her. Arriving at the approximate spot, he called out her name again and again, asking nearby vendors if they’d seen her. People seemed eager to help, but no one recalled seeing her walk past.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Ian muttered, spinning around, jumping up. He continued to retrace their steps, peering into shops, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Mattie, luv! I’m here! Right here!”

The city seemed to grow louder—honks and screeches and distant jackhammers blending together to form a constant assault on his ears. Ian ran along the edge of the sidewalk, climbing higher when possible to get a better view. His stomach began to ache, filling him with a pain that normally would have doubled him over. But he paid this pain no heed. Instead he tried to corral his scattered thoughts, to formulate some sort of plan.

Realizing that Mattie had money, he wondered if she might have hopped in a taxi and gone to the hotel. Normally, she’d do just that, but he had a hard time recalling the name of the place they were staying—the Hotel Amar Yatri Niwas. Would Mattie remember that?

Deciding she might, he turned and ran toward the hotel. He moved from the sidewalk to the street, darting around idling cars, trucks, and buses. His day pack was banging against him, slowing him down, and he reached inside and tossed out his guidebook and a bottle of antacids. Running faster, he tried to ignore the distress of his body, but had a harder time doing so. Not only did his stomach ache, but his vision had begun to blur. He couldn’t seem to get enough air, coughing as he inhaled the stench of diesel fumes.

Ian rushed to an intersection, saw their hotel, and ran into it. The lobby was small and nondescript. He thought he might find Mattie by the door, but she wasn’t there, and the sight of that emptiness made his heart tumble. Cursing, he hurried to the front desk. The sole receptionist, a balding man who wore an old suit, looked up from a passport. “May I help you, Mr. McCray?” he asked.

“My daughter. Have you seen her?”

“I . . . I do not believe—”

“Have you seen her?”

The man shook his head. “No. Not since this morning. Is she missing?”

Ian closed his eyes, leaning against the wooden counter, the room threatening to spin. “I lost her. Ten, fifteen minutes ago. We were walking together and I lost her in the crowds.” He slammed his fist against his thigh. “Bloody hell! She’s gone!”