Paris. No, she had to go live in Varanasi. I swear she thinks she’s Mother Teresa in Prada. She shows up at the marketplace and women beg for her advice on everything from child care to fashion. Child care. Are you kidding me?”
“That’s a little surprising.”
“You think?” Robin shook her head. “But you know she loves it all. Never mind. I promised myself I wouldn’t bitch about her, but it’s always so tempting. Anyway, the city of Varanasi itself was awesome. I’ll probably return with a tour group sometime. I saw the Monkey Temple and walked for hours along the Ghats overlooking the Ganges. It was amazing. I took lots of photos. I’ll send you the link.”
The Ghats were the flights of steps that ran for miles along the Ganges River. “It all sounds fascinating.”
“It was. And I have a surprise for you from my mother.”
“For me?”
“Yes.” She held up one of the bags she’d brought with her. “Do you want to see it?”
“Of course I do.”
“Let’s go to your workroom.”
My curiosity piqued, I picked up our wineglasses and followed her to the front room of my loft, where I did my bookbinding work. We pulled two tall chairs close together and sat at my worktable. Robin turned the shopping bag on its side and slid the contents out onto the surface. It was a worn leather satchel made in the style of a courier bag, with a long, wide shoulder strap, but it had to be decades old.
“It’s… a bag,” I said. “How thoughtful.”
Robin chuckled. “Wait for it. You know my mother. We must build the suspense.”
She unbuckled the satchel and pulled out something wrapped in a wadded old swathe of Indian print material.
“Um, is it a scarf?” I said, touching the pale, woven fabric. Once, it might’ve been dark green with burgundy and orange swirls of paisley, but it was faded now. Colorful beads, tiny brass animals, and chunks of mirrored glass were woven into the fabric and tied into the braided fringe at each end. “Is this really for me?”
“Hell, no.” Robin wrinkled her nose at the matted material. “That’s my mother’s idea of wrapping paper, I guess.”
“Ah.”
“She told me I could keep it and wear it. She just doesn’t get me. Never did.” Resigned, she flicked one of the silvery beads.
“No, she never did.” The threadbare fabric had an ethnic style that was intriguing, but I knew Robin wouldn’t be caught dead in it. I stroked the worn leather of the satchel. “This bag is nice.”
“I suppose it is, if you’re a camel driver.”
I laughed, then fingered the old scarf again. “Maybe Shiva’s been in India a little too long.”
“You think?” She shook her head as she gingerly unwrapped the cloth. “Okay, get ready.” She pulled the last of the fabric away. “This is for you.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
It was a book. The most exquisite jeweled book I’d ever seen. And possibly the oldest. It was large, about twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, and almost three inches thick. I suppressed the urge to whip out my metal ruler.
The heavily padded leather binding was decorated with intricate gilding and precious gems. Teardropshaped rubies were affixed to each corner. Small, round sapphires lined the circular center, where a gilded peacock spread its tail feathers. Tiny diamonds, emeralds, and rubies were encrusted in the feathers. The thickly gilded borders of the cover and turn-ins were reminiscent of the patterns used by royal French bookbinders of the eighteenth century. Some of the gold had flaked off and the red leather was rubbed and faded in spots.
“Peacocks are the national bird of India,” Robin said. “Did you know that?”
“I had no idea.” I picked up the book and studied the foredge. With the book closed, the pages were deckled, or untrimmed, for a ragged effect. I could tell that the paper itself was thick vellum.
I checked the spine. It read,
“Open it and find out.”
“I’m almost afraid.” But I lifted the front cover and turned to the title page. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“The Kama Sutra?”
“Yes.” Robin grinned.
“From your
Now she laughed. “It actually belongs to one of Mom’s friends who’s been wanting to have it refurbished for a long time. Mom insisted there was no one better for the job than you.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“I thought so.” Robin sipped her wine as she watched me ogle the book.
“Who’s her friend?” I asked.
“His name is Rajiv Mizra and she’s known him forever. Nice man. Wealthier than sin, naturally, or why would Mom hang out with him? I think he’s been in love with her for ages, but she always says they’re just good friends.”
“Very interesting.”
“Yeah, I wonder if maybe they’ll get together eventually. Anyway, he wrote a letter of authorization and tucked it inside the book. That’s to let you know he’s consented to let you do whatever is necessary to make it sparkle and shine. So, you think you can clean it up?”
“I can take it apart?”
She laughed. “I guess, but you don’t have to sound so excited about it.”
“Are you serious? I live for that.”
“Good times.” She took another sip of wine.
“It is for me.” I stroked the corded spine, counting the ribs.
“Once it’s cleaned up, they’d also like you to have it appraised.”
“Sure.” Opening the cover, I studied the dentelles, the lacy patterns of gold that were worked into the leather borders. Some dentelles were so intricate and unique, they were as good as a bookbinder’s signature. I couldn’t wait to study this pattern more closely. “I wonder why your mom recommended me to do the work.”
“Apparently, Abraham visited her a few years ago and talked you up.”
“Really?” I smiled softly. “Isn’t that nice?” Abraham had been my bookbinding teacher for years. He’d died a few months back and I still missed him every day. I turned another page with care, unwilling to disturb the binding too much. The book more than one hundred years old, and I was amazed to see that it was written in French.
I turned to a page near the middle of the book and saw a hand-painted illustration of a couple having sex in a most fascinating style. I closed it quickly. Then I couldn’t help but sneak another peek.
“Wow, it’s painted by hand,” I said after clearing my throat. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yeah, it’s all about the strokes.” She snickered. “Paint strokes, I mean. Beautiful.”
We both began to giggle. It must’ve been the wine.
Robin let out a deep breath. “Well, hey, speaking of sex…”
“Were we?”
She laughed. “Sort of.” She waved her hands as if to get rid of that thought. “And I’m not talking about the sex you’re having. It’s about me. I met a man.”
“Oh.” That got my attention. “In India?”
“No. Here in San Francisco, just last night. I was on my way home from the airport and I was starving, so I stopped at Kasa to get some food to go. He came in right after me, so we were both waiting for our orders and struck up a conversation.”
“You went to Kasa after coming back from India?”
She laughed again. Kasa was part of a small, local chain of good Indian restaurants. “I still had a taste for the food. But that’s not important just now.”
“You’re right. So who is this guy?”
“He’s…” She looked baffled. “He’s… wonderful.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What’s his name?”
