As we cleared the dishes, I figured it was time to ask Robin the burning question I’d avoided long enough.
“So, did you see your mother?” I asked cautiously.
Robin scowled. “And we were having such a lovely evening.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said with a sigh. “Yes, I saw her. I left my group in New Delhi and flew down to Varanasi to spend some time with her. And yes, she’s just as annoying as ever.”
That was no big surprise. She and her mother, Shiva Quinn, had always had issues.
Shiva’s real name was Myra Tully and she was raised by missionaries. Suffice to say, Myra had a real savior complex from the get-go. In the 1970s, Myra had accompanied the Beatles to India to see Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. While there, she changed her name to Shiva Quinn. No one was sure where
Quinn
came from. As for
Shiva
, Robin always thought it was telling that her mother had named herself after the supreme god of Hinduism.
When Robin was really irritated with Shiva, she’d call her Myra.
It didn’t help that her mother was tall, glamorous, and model thin. She was also sophisticated and interesting and everyone loved to be around her. Her missionary upbringing gave her an awareness of the world and its problems, which led her to become the spokesperson for a humanitarian organization called Feed the World.
By the time Robin was ten years old, her mother was traveling constantly, returning home every few months for only a day or so. But that was okay with me, because when Shiva left the commune, Robin would stay at my house. We had a slumber party every night. I would’ve been happy if Shiva stayed away permanently, but I could never say that to Robin.
“How long did you visit with her?” I asked as I started the dishwasher.
“Three excruciating days.” Robin laughed drily. “She’s such a drama queen. She couldn’t settle in London or 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,
Vatsyayana
. I looked at Robin. “What is this?”
“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
mother
?”
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?”
“Alex.” She smiled dreamily. “He’s an engineer. Can you believe it? He was born in the Ukraine, but he’s lived here forever. His full name is Alexei Mikhail Pavlenko. Isn’t that cute? He’s great. Really handsome and funny. And smart.”
“You found out all that while waiting for to-go food?”
“We ended up grabbing a table and eating there together. It was his idea. He said he didn’t want to be a ship passing in the night, never to see me again.”
“That’s sweet.”
“He really was. I’m feeling very sappy about the whole experience.” She even shook her head to wipe the sloppy smile off her face, but it was useless. “Anyway, we had a great conversation and found out we actually have a lot in common. He’s wonderful; you’ll see. We’re going out tomorrow night.”
I stared at her in surprise. “Oh, no, you’re blushing. You never blush. You really like him.”
“Give me a break.” She rolled her eyes. “I blush sometimes. But yeah, I like him.”
Disconcerted, I glanced down at the Kama Sutra and decided that further inspection could wait. I closed the book and looked up at Robin. “Okay, he sounds great, but I have to ask why you’re seeing Mr. Wonderful when you’re in love with my brother.”
Her lips curved into a frown. “Austin hasn’t made any moves in my direction lately.”
I frowned, too. “Well, it’s not like you live in the same neighborhood anymore. He’s going to have to make an effort to come after you.”
“Yes, he is,” she said pensively. “Look, he traveled and partied for years and now he’s ready to settle down back home in Dharma and run the winery. But I’m not ready to do that yet. Not that he’s asked me to.”
I sighed. “I don’t want my brother to blow this.”
“I don’t want him to, either.” Her chin jutted out stubbornly as she added, “But I’m not going to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring.”
I wanted to kick my brother sometimes. Robin had been in love with Austin since grammar school, but he had always considered her too young for him. That had all changed a few years ago, when he finally settled down in Dharma and realized that Robin was perfect for him. That was right around the time she moved to San Francisco and was beginning to be recognized as a talented sculptor and artist.
But instead of pressing Robin to move her work to Dharma and live with him, Austin had decided to back off and give her space to have fun and enjoy her life as he had been doing all those years before he moved back home. Now, every time she suggested that she might come back to Dharma, he brushed her off, telling her she should experience the world and live every moment to the fullest.
With all the mixed signals, Robin had decided to let Austin make the next move. But if he didn’t move soon, he would lose her.
Timing was everything, as they say.
She looked like she could use a hug, so I jumped off the chair and wrapped my arms around her. “You know I love you, no matter what happens. So I hope you have a good time with Mr. Wonderful.”
“Yoo-hoo!”
We both jolted in surprise. I turned and saw my neighbors, Jeremy and Sergio, poking their heads through my open door. I guessed I hadn’t locked it earlier.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “Come on in. You remember Robin, right?”
“Of course,” Jeremy said, waving both of his hands at us as he walked in.
Sergio gave me a hug, then said, “Hi, Robin.” Then he handed me a small white paper bag. “I brought you some cookies from the restaurant.”
My eyes widened as I opened the bag. “You brought cookies? Did you make them yourself?”
“Of course,” he said modestly. Sergio was a world-class chef whose pastries and desserts were the stuff of dreams.
“Thank you,” I whispered, overcome by the sight of the half dozen tiny, chocolate-laden, delicate puff-pastry circles all bundled up in plastic wrap. In a separate packet were fragile pastel-colored macaroons. I opened it up and handed one to Robin, who reverently placed it on the tip of her tongue and closed her eyes.
“We’re sorry to bug you,” Jeremy said, pacing around my workroom, staring at the shelves, “but I’m preparing for my performance-art debut at the Castro Street Fair in a couple weeks and I’m on the hunt for accessories. Do you have a boa or any girlie hats or big jewelry?”
“Big jewelry isn’t really my style,” I said, “but I probably have a hat you could use.”
“I have lots of pretty things at home,” Robin said, wiping a tiny cookie crumb from her lips.
“Your stuff is probably too nice for what he wants,” Sergio said, then whispered, “He’s presenting an homage to the homeless.”