I had replacements in my bag for several of the thinnest bangles. The mess of the real ones littered the floor. For a millisecond, before instinct kicked in, I blinked stupidly at the gold on the vacuumed gray carpet.
I knelt and began to gather the real gold, swapping in the fakes, which were lost among the authentic things quite quickly. Anita waved her clipboard in the owner’s face, demanding his signature on photo releases.
Mr. Mehta pushed Anita aside to help Prachi stand. By then I had made the swap. My hands were clammy. But it was done—three pieces of bridal gold were stuffed in the inside pocket of my messenger bag. We had hurt no one. It hadn’t been that hard.
“You know,” I said conversationally, dusting my hands off, for part of my role was to be blithe and dumb, “I think someone was trampled to death in an Indian mall the other day.”
Mr. Mehta glared at me. “Not nice to generalize like that.”
We arrived at the second target: screwvala purveyors of bombay gold. Hovering over the glass jewelry case stood the spitting image of grown-up Shruti Patel as I had seen her more than once now.
“I’m Dia,” said Shruti.
The moment of our most complex handoff was about to occur—we needed this stuff, and I saw, beneath Shruti’s—Dia’s—hands, through the glass, why. The pieces had a compact density to them. I thought again of Anita’s description of the right kind of toiling artisan, the one who kept the purpose of this wedding gold in the foreground of his mind as he worked. The Screwvala gold had clearly, even to someone as clueless as me, been made by such a hand. A row of rings, both simple bands and dramatic statement pieces stacked on top of one another in merry columns along disembodied white mannequin fingers. A few thin anklets, and an armband and one thicker tikka to drip onto a traditional bride’s forehead, plus a few sets of jhumka earrings that Chidi had mimicked in all their grooves. Pièces de résistance: two mangalsutras, the essential wedding necklace. In my bag, along with the forgeries: Anita’s ajji’s defunct mangalsutra, of no use to her now, as a widow.
I heard myself say to Dia, “You remind me of someone. You look just like her. I almost would actually say you were her. It’s funny how that can happen, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Shruti, Dia, agreed. “It is. It is funny how that can happen.”
And I was positive that she knew me just then. Knew not just who I was now but who I had been before. Knew, too, how the mad lust I felt now, for her gold, was one long continuation of the desire she had met with in Hammond Creek.
“Neil.” Anita’s eyebrows soared first in annoyance, and then, as she turned to Dia, recognition. “Oh. Oh.”
“Actually.” I saw it then, the way out, and I improvised thusly: “Ani, you see it, too, don’t you? Dia, you look just like our friend who introduced us to each other. You know, while we have a minute. While we’re waiting for Prachi. Why don’t you look at a few pieces, Ani? See, Dia, Ani’s been so busy. So busy organizing this. That she hasn’t been able to look for herself. And we’re behind. On our own wedding planning.” I cleared my throat. Tried it on: “Babe?”
Her eyes widened and the dark brown took on a sparkle of the fluorescent convention center lights. We had never been outside her apartment long enough to attempt pet names or public displays of affection. I placed my hand on her hip. Pulled her to me. Felt her stiffening through the black pleather. But going along with it.
“He’s right,” she said. Shruti’s, Dia’s, small eyes flitted between us, and then to Anita’s bare left ring finger. “I never wear it, it’s inconvenient when I’m working.” Anita waved her hand as if to cool it from a burn. “But, Dia, could I?”
Shruti blinked rapidly. “Of course.” She extracted a key and opened the case.
“Dia, what kind of set did you go with?” Anita asked. Dia maintained a blank expression. “I thought you mentioned, when we talked on the phone—weren’t you getting married soon?”
“Ah.” Dia gave a muted smile as she covered the case with gold, gold, gold. “That did not work out, madam. The boy’s family had been dishonest about their financial situation, and even about his educational credentials. They were after our business success. But what to do? Everyone wants something from someone else.”
“Oh, Dia, that’s terrible,” Anita said. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“Yes, it was too bad,” Dia, Shruti, said. “He was nice-looking. And it’s a nice thing, a nice wedding. But you do not want to wind up with someone who just needs you for this, that, or the other. It should be a good match, all around.” She slid some bangles onto Anita’s forearm and considered them wistfully. “My grandmother had given me all of her old wedding gold. It is out of fashion, but we were planning to melt it down to make something new. Your wrists are very delicate. If you have any family heirlooms, we can of course do that for you, create something absolutely custom.”
“Yes,” Anita said, pointing at several pieces. “I probably wouldn’t want my mother’s wedding gold.” I felt her eyes on me.
She turned back to Shruti, to Dia. Everyone wants something from someone else, isn’t that true, Neil (came Shruti’s voice, in its careening, angled pitch). “Go on, let’s see that one,” she said, “and, oh, Dia, that’s lovely,” and so on. I lifted the curtain, on alert, seeing nothing but hordes of brown limbs and dark hair, hordes who (I could not suddenly help but feel, acutely) were dumb
