Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter Page B

jars, full of water and gravel, which were taken aboard the
Moorish Queen
. Throughout the long voyage to India, Ezekiel had the water siphoned out and replaced each day to keep the eggs alive. Ezekiel himself had turned his back on New England, with a sad, stern look on his face. He was a hardy, self-made man, not given to outward emotions, but as he sailed beyond the headland and caught a last glimpse of the high slate roof of the Yankee Mahal, his eyes glistened with remorse.
    Stone by stone, he had built that house, dreaming of carrying Camellia over the threshold one day. It was to be a home in which they raised a family and lived in contentment for the rest of their lives. But the dream had frozen over as quickly as the surface of the ice pond in December. Ezekiel had nothing left to live for there. His ships, with their cargo of tea and ice, had made him a wealthy man, but none of that mattered, now that Camellia had refused to give him her hand in marriage.
    The only thing Ezekiel took with him from Massachusetts, to remind him of bright autumn days like this, was the brood of fish eggs. In the foothills of the eastern Himalayas above Ajeebgarh, he planned to stock a pond with trout. Everything else he left behind, his house with all its furnishings, his horses, his orchards, his land. Never again would he see the foliage turn gold in autumn, or feel the crunch of snowbeneath his boots, or touch Camellia’s soft brown hair. Instead, he sailed away to a lonely exile in the East.
    And now, as he kneels beside his fish hatchery, watching the fingerlings swimming back and forth, he realizes how far he’s come. Ambital is no bigger than the ice pond—a secluded lake in the mountains above the tea estates he owns. Unlike the European brown trout (
Salmo trutta
), brought by the British to other parts of India, these American brook trout are a different species—
Salvilinus frontinalis
. Ezekiel will release the fish halfway around the globe, as a tragic reminder of his loss and a wriggling testament of thwarted hopes.

24
Beyond Xanadu
    Leaving Prescott to his stamp collection, Gil and Nargis took the poem and went out to the garage. Leaning against Prescott’s Volkswagen, Gil shook his head.
    â€œI swear, the last time I read this poem, a genie appeared. I can’t figure out why it didn’t work.”
    Nargis took the paper from his hands and began to read the verses aloud. As soon as she reached the last line, there was a muted explosion and the ink disintegrated into a whirligig of smoke. Dropping the paper, Nargis jumped back, almost tripping over a lawn mower.
    â€œAt your service m’lord!” said the genie.
    Gil swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you appear when my grandfather read the poem?”
    The genie shrugged. “I was off duty,” he explained. “Elevenses.”
    Nargis stared at the apparition that hovered inside the garage, like a cloud with a human face.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Gil. “I thought you were supposed to be here whenever I need you.”
    The genie took a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and wound the knob.
    â€œWell, that’s true, sir. But we genies operate on a strict schedule, negotiated and agreed upon by common consent. You see, I break for breakfast from eight to nine, then elevenses at eleven o’clock, of course. Lunch is from half past noon to two o’clock. Afternoon tea: three to four thirty. Dinner is six to nine PM . After that I’m off until seven AM .”
    â€œThat doesn’t leave you much time to work,” said Gil.
    â€œWe also get Saturdays and Sundays off, as well as bank holidays,” said Aristo, polishing his watch and returning it to his pocket.
    Nargis didn’t like the genie much. After the first shock of seeing him rise up off the page, she found him pompous and condescending. Though he greeted Nargis with formality and called her “m’lady,” he seemed much