The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Read online

  Soon they disperse, going back to their duties with their autographs happily in hand.

  “Dini, darling!” Dolly says. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Oh, Dolly,” says Dini.

  There is greeting and hugging. Dini introduces Maddie to Dolly. Dad welcomes Chickoo Uncle with a hearty handshake. As they make their way to the curb, Dolly chats away, while Dad and Chickoo Uncle begin to talk about something called tea futures.

  Dini has no idea what kind of future, singular or plural, may be in store for the tea that Chickoo Uncle grows on his estates in faraway Swapnagiri. What is so interesting about the future of tea, anyway? Dini is far more interested in her own future, which looms ahead filled with uncertainty. And, of course, in Dolly’s oh-so-glamorous past, present, and future.

  “I’m so thrilled that you’re going to be opening the film festival,” she tells Dolly.

  “I’m also very thrilled,” Dolly says, waving her hands and causing the usual shower of silver and green. “And most of all I’m thrilled to see you and to meet your friend Saddie.”

  “It’s Maddie,” says Maddie.

  “Maddie,” Dolly says, with her dazzling smile. “Of course. I utterly, absolutely adore all my fans. You know, it’s thanks to Dini that I am here in your great country.”

  “Yes,” says Maddie. “I know.”

  Now they’re both looking at Dini—her best friend in the world and the starriest star in Bollywood, whom Dini has persuaded to come here. Whose grand American opening of her latest, greatest fillum will also kick off a whole week of filmi dazzle at the Smithsonian. Dini begins to relax in this adoring glow. So a little shift in perspective got in the way back at the Customs counter. Maybe Dini danced the wrong dance—but it’s over now.

  Soon they’re all loaded up, Dolly and the girls packed into the taxi along with Dolly’s bags, and Chickoo Uncle in the car with Dad. The taxi driver has been given directions. Yes, he knows where the hotel is.

  And from here on out everything is going to be just fine. Of course it is. What else could it be? Dolly Singh has come to America.

  Chapter Five

  Futures

  THE CAB MAKES ITS WAY toward the highway. It begins to drizzle. The driver turns the wipers on. They execute a slow, swishy number as the raindrops trickle down.

  “So, are you all ready for my grand opening dance?” says Dolly.

  “We’re working on it,” Dini says cautiously.

  “Delightful!” Dolly says. “You must show me.”

  “You here on vacation?” the cabdriver asks Dolly.

  “No, no,” she says. “It’s my work. The work of my heart and soul.”

  “Is that right?” The cabdriver turns down a ramp onto a highway flanked by green trees. “Baltimore–Washington Parkway,” he says proudly. “Is this your first visit?”

  “Yes,” Dolly says. “I’m here to meet my public.”

  “No kidding,” says the driver. “Well, it’ll clear up for you. Partly cloudy and mild, it said on the Weather Channel.”

  Dini does not want to be sidetracked by the weather. “Dolly’s a movie star,” she says from the backseat, where she’s wedged behind two suitcases.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” says the driver. “Can’t hear you from back there.”

  “She’s a famous movie star!” Dini shouts. “She’s here for a movie opening.”

  “A grand opening,” says Dolly.

  “Really?” says the cabbie. “Where are you from, miss?”

  “India,” says Dolly proudly.

  “It’s on the nineteenth,” Maddie yells from behind another suitcase. “Tuesday.”

  “At the Smithsonian,” Dini adds. “Sackler Gallery. You should come.”

  “Hey, thanks,” says the driver. “I’ll bring my wife. We both love Indian food.”

  “It’s a wonderful movie,” Dini yells. She hopes he knows he’s going not to a restaurant but to the opening of a film festival.

  “I’ll tell my buddy Tariq,” he says. “He’s from Bangladesh. You know him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” says Dolly, “but I love the people of Bangladesh with all my heart, because of course they love my movies with all their hearts.”

  “He’ll be so jealous,” says the driver. “Wait’ll I tell him I gave a ride to a famous star—what’s your name, young lady?”

  “Dolly Singh,” says Dolly.

  “I’ll tell him,” the driver says. “You going to have refreshments at that opening, Dolly Singh? A little tandoori? And those fried doughnuts in syrup, whaddaya call ’em?”

  “Gulab jamun?” Dini shouts.

  “Yeah, them. Dee-licious!”

  “Naturally, we’ll have refreshments,” Dolly declares. “The museum has arranged for a caterer.”

  “It’s a great place, the Smithsonian,” he says. “They have big festivals and whatnot. I’m sure yours will be just as wonderful.”

  “It will,” says Dolly.

  Dini finds herself nodding. “Sure it will!”

  Maddie joins in. “I love going there. The museums and the Mall.”

  “Hey, remember when we went to one of those parades?”

  “In second grade!” Of course, of course. “The Folklife Festival.”

  “With floats and dancers and—”

  “An elephant!” they proclaim together.

  “Whoa!” says the driver. “An elephant, huh? Now that’s a parade.”

  There is a small silence. Then, “It is entirely possible,” Dolly says firmly, “that we’ll have a parade as well. With—why not?—an elephant.”

  Oh. “We will?” says Dini.

  “Why not?” says Maddie, fending off a carry-on bag. Did she even hear what Dolly said?

  “I’ve always wanted to be in a parade with an elephant,” Dolly says. “The way they wave their trunks is charming. As if they’re blowing kisses.”

  Alternate futures for this grand opening—with elephant, without—slip and slide distractingly through Dini’s mind. She tries to say something, but just then the cab turns onto an exit ramp. A large green duffel bag with swirly silver monogrammed initials, DS, thumps onto Dini’s lap, knocking the air right out of her.

  Chapter Six

  We Regret

  WHILE DOLLY IS CONJURING UP larger than-life images of a parade to her little audience in the taxi, a new crisis has just begun to brew in the peaceful offices of the Smithsonian Institution, that cluster of museums known affectionately as America’s Attic.

  Mr. Rolando Bayan, program director of educational and cultural events at the Smithsonian, has popped into his modest office on this Saturday afternoon to catch up with paperwork.

  An official-looking envelope demands his attention. It is stamped OPEN IMMEDIATELY. URGENT. TIME-SENSITIVE MATERIAL.

  It was not there yesterday. It must have arrived after he’d left. He opens it with a bad feeling. One person’s urgency is often another person’s problem.

  A single sheet of paper slips out of the envelope. Its words sear themselves into Mr. B.’s mind. They are weekend-ruining words.

  MEMO

  To: Rolando Bayan, Program Director of Educational and Cultural Events, Smithsonian Institution

  From: Contracts Department, Distinction Catering

  Date: April 8, 2011

  Re: Special-event catering request

  Our chefs have been invited to join the festivities at the Easter Egg Roll at the White House and must attend a planning meeting there on the 19th. Due to this scheduling conflict, we regret we cannot cater your event. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope you will consider us for other events in the future.

  The words of the memo dance before Mr. Bayan’s eyes. “Regret.” “Cannot.” “Conflict.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he blurts out to the empty room. He does not mean to whine. He is a retired marine and whining is simply not allowed.

  He braces himself. He’ll put his secretary on the job.
She’ll call every restaurant and caterer in town. Someone else must step up to the task. After all, the Smithsonian is hosting an important cultural ambassador.

  He picks up a pen. He writes a quick note across the top of the page: “New caterer?” He does not like to end his notes with question marks, but he has no choice. He looks through the rest of his mail. It’s a joyless task.

  Chapter Seven

  Distraught and Distracted

  CUT TO THE PROMENADE HOTEL, that beautiful building with a redbrick facade, located within easy reach of the National Mall and the Smithsonian. Dad pulls up to the hotel. He and Chickoo Uncle emerge from the car. They are greeted by hotel staff, who push a cart up for Dolly’s mountain of luggage.

  The cab pulls up. “Whew!” Dini says, practically falling out as the driver opens the door. “I was all folded up in there.” She pulls a suitcase out, manages to avoid landing it on her foot.

  The cabdriver gives Dolly his phone number (“Just ask for Dave, miss”) in case she needs transportation again during her stay. He promises to come to the opening. Then Dolly makes her way into the lobby in her green-and-silver paisley tunic and stylish black leggings, with a scarf to match and a silver earring that is just coming loose.

  Dini hums the KHSV signature tune—“Haan-haan-haan, nahin-nahin!”—as she reaches, stretches, and manages to deposit a silver suitcase onto the cart. The suitcase topples back down. Dini scrambles out of the way. She and Maddie try to get the suitcase back up again.

  “Careful,” Dad warns.

  “We’re being careful,” Dini protests.

  “Where are we going to find an elephant?” Maddie says.

  “I don’t know,” snaps Dini. She does not mean to snap. It just happens.

  “Why don’t you two dancing divas go talk to Dolly?” Dad suggests.

  That is the first good suggestion Dini’s heard in a while. “Okay.”

  “Stunning,” says Maddie. Maybe she didn’t get the snappiness. Dini hopes she didn’t.

  In a quick chan-chan, there they are at Dolly’s side. At this instant the word “stunning” is a perfect fit for Dolly. Her hair is stylishly disarrayed, slipping out of its silver filigree barrette. She settles into a handy sofa and kicks off her silver strappy sandals.

  And Dini notices something. Dolly’s presence is sending all the male hotel staff into a dithering spin. Five of them now advance simultaneously to ask how they may help her, never mind anyone else present. Dini has always wanted to be like Dolly, but she’s never noticed this particular Dolly effect before. She tries to see herself sending boys into disarray like that and fails. Just the thought makes her feel a bit funny.

  “Dolly, darling,” says Chickoo. He murmurs something Dini can’t hear, then says, “They need it so they can check us in.”

  “Of course, Chickoo,” Dolly says, and opens up her purse. She looks inside. She rummages. And looks. She clicks her tongue, shakes her head, wrings her hands. Such cinematic gestures. What is she looking for?

  Chickoo Uncle takes a step forward, then stops. Step. Stop. “Take your time, Dolly, no rush,” he says. Dini notices that when he’s worried, his face is all nose, not to be mean or anything.

  Dolly throws up her hands, sending rings flying around the well-appointed lobby. “I know I put it there!” she cries.

  “What is it, Dolly?” Dini says, wondering if she should go pick up that jewelry. “What are you looking for?”

  “My passport!” Dolly exclaims, knocking all other thoughts right out of Dini’s mind. “It was here in my handbag and now it’s gone!”

  “Oh no!” Dini and Maddie cry in one voice, a voice of alarm and concern. This is serious.

  “Let’s all stay calm,” Chickoo Uncle urges.

  “Hold your horses,” Dad agrees.

  “I think I need a rose petal milk shake,” says Dolly weakly.

  Chapter Eight

  Looking for Rose Petals

  DINI AND MADDIE TRADE GLANCES. Right on the money, those Filmi Kumpnee people. When Dolly’s stressed, she needs her rose petal milk shake.

  “Rose petal?” says the hotel manager in alarm. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’ll go check with the kitchen staff.”

  Dolly frowns. She looks doubtfully into her purse as if a rose petal milk shake might appear there. How is it, her pained look seems to ask, that such a beautiful hotel cannot summon up this most basic refreshment?

  “With chocolate sprinkles,” Dolly adds.

  “Rose petal, of course, yes,” says the manager hastily. “I’ll just—that is, I’ll see what I can do. And chocolate sprinkles? A round of that . . . for you girls as well?”

  “Yes, please,” Dini and Maddie say together. Maybe the Filmi Kumpnee people were wrong. Maybe, after all, Washington, D.C., can step up to the task of keeping Dolly happy.

  The hardworking manager of the Promenade Hotel hurries out the revolving door. His honest face wears a worried cast. The source of this worry is the chef in the kitchen of the Promenade Hotel’s popular and well-reviewed Urban Delight Restaurant. How is Armend Latifi, creator of gourmet delights and supreme commander of the kitchen, going to react to this new and highly unorthodox milk shake recipe?

  Chapter Nine

  Possibility

  NOTICE

  The Elephant House is closed for renovation. We will reopen April 23 with a new barn, wading pool, and rock-faced run. Thank you for your patience.

  —Administration

  WHILE DOLLY IS DISTRAUGHT AND distracted upon her arrival in America, the National Zoo is winding down from a busy afternoon. The giant pandas are polishing off their dinner of bamboo leaves in their water-cooled grotto. The baby giraffe is pooping a shower of small dung pebbles while its long-necked mother bats her eyelashes in admiration. Assorted children, trying to escape their caregivers, are running in circles around a refreshment stand. A hornbill chick has emerged from its nest and is flapping bravely about the aviary while a researcher with a video camera tracks its wobbly flight.

  Meanwhile, near the Elephant House, workers in hard hats have spent the entire day pouring concrete mix into preformed molds. Others have shaped a giant pool; still others have graded a meandering trail. People with tools and bags have been walking in and out of the building all day, fixing wires and moving things around.

  Evening falls. From within their ample quarters, the elephants watch the quiet descend. All but young Mini, who has been secluded in the outer pod for a few days on account of a cold. Now she is out in the yard, where she’s not supposed to be. She has found something interesting in a brown paper bag.

  One of the humans didn’t finish his lunch. Perhaps it was the same one who kept going in and out all day long, putting that door up. That shiny new door that swung so conveniently open when Mini nudged it. Not at first, although she could feel something clicking and tumbling about. The third try did it. Third tries are like that.

  Mini sneezes, partly from her cold and partly from excitement. She explores the bag with the delicate tip of her trunk. Little treasures tumble out. Ooh! Crunchy deep and roasty delicious. Mini tucks the morsels one by one into her mouth.

  She stays out in the elephant yard for a long time, lost in a peanut daze. Her eyes close. She sways in the gentle spring drizzle. She lifts one foot, then sets it down again. She can tread as lightly as a feather when she feels like it.

  If elephants dream, Mini is surely dreaming. Dreaming of peanuts and more. Dreaming some ancient dream stored deep within her elephant memory. Dreaming of wandering free, stripping young leaves off the branches of trees for a snack. Of the promises held by the great wide world.

  She flaps her ears. She twitches her trunk. Possibility is indeed a marvelous thing.

  NOTICE

  Due to rewiring in the Elephant House, all computer systems in this building will be down for 24 hours, effective 8 a.m. on Saturday, April 9.

  Thank you for your patience.

  —Administration

  Chapter Tenr />
  When Something Falls

  CABDRIVERS ARE THE EYES AND ears of a city. They go up and down and around all its streets and byways, knowing just how to get a passenger all the way from Anacostia to Adams Morgan without being snagged in a traffic jam. They know which streets turn unaccountably into one-ways at certain times of the day, yet open up to traffic in both directions at other times.

  Cabdrivers notice things on the road. It is their job to do so. But sometimes they do not notice the things that fall out of their cabs. Especially things that slip out of large purses carried by famous, if slightly careless, movie stars.

  So after the cab has driven away, the thing that has fallen out lies there on the sidewalk outside the airport.

  Anyone can pick it up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bad Pacing

  ROOM 503 IS MODESTLY NAMED. A plushly furnished suite on the fifth floor of the Promenade Hotel, it is tucked away at the end of a carpeted hallway. In the back, sliding glass doors open onto a spacious balcony with a view of the rose garden. Sprawling below is a panorama of woods and streets, parks and houses and shops. A creek cuts a silvery path to the Potomac River. Toward the western horizon the well-trafficked Beltway carries its load of cars and trucks and vans and buses to and fro, to and fro.

  To and fro is also how Dolly is pacing at this moment. “Where could it be?” she cries. “I’ve looked everywhere!” She is speaking of the passport, of course. A purse and a couple of carry-on bags have been turned inside out. Their contents spill over a desk, a coffee table, and a carved wingback chair.

  Chickoo Uncle clears his throat. “I think I’d better go back.”

  “To the airport?” A small glimmer of hope breaks through Dolly’s gloom.