Fifty Degrees Below - Kim Stanley Robinson [164]
Edgardo laughed delightedly: “The great American novel! Here is all this debate about which is the Great American Novel, and meanwhile the real thing is a girl’s book hiding right under our noses.”
“I think so.”
“That would be so wonderful. But I have to suspect your judgment has perhaps been influenced by the winter we have just lived through. Content of a work of art tends to influence people’s aesthetic judgment to an unfortunate extent.”
“Like Anna’s husband Charlie, thinking Mr. Mom is Hollywood’s greatest movie.”
“Ha. Exactly! We love the art that tells our story. Maybe that’s why I love the Quartet so much. Expatriate angst in a steamy exotic city, full of sin and craziness. Maybe it’s the same Alexandria after all.”
“And is that why The Triplets of Belleville is your favorite movie?”
“Yes! Story of my life, every single detail of it, right down to the frogs. Right down to the dog.”
On they ran, laughing at Edgardo.
In the evenings Frank returned to the Khembali house. He learned that it had an “entertaining kitchen,” occupying the back half of the house’s ground floor. It had been big to begin with, and was now equipped as if for a restaurant and bakery. Its exquisite heat always enveloped a dozen women and half a dozen men, shouting over the steamy clangor in Tibetan, and also a guttural English that was like Indian English but not. Frank now understood why they sometimes put subtitles under the Dalai Lama on film when he was speaking English.
Early on Drepung introduced Frank to two men and three women, all of whom spoke this English Frank could barely understand.
“So good to have you,” one said.
“Welcome to Khembalung,” said another.
“Can I help?” Frank asked.
“Yes. The bread will soon be ready to take out, and there are many potatoes to peel for dinner.”
“How many do you feed per meal?” Frank asked later, surveying the bustle as he scraped the skin off a potato.
“Hundred. First hundred eat here, the rest have to eat out. Or leftovers. Makes people timely.”
“Wow.”
Sucandra came by when he was finished and led him out back past a frozen compost heap to show him the backyard, now a frozen garden patch and a small greenhouse, the steamy clear plastic walls gleaming greenly, like a shower stall for vegetable people. “Best to join garden duty now,” Sucandra suggested. “It will be very nice in the spring.”
Frank nodded, inspecting the trees in the yard. Possibly one at the back could support a platform. Something to bring up later, obviously.
Sucandra and Padma’s room was a half-flight below Frank and Rudra’s. This meant Frank had other acquaintances to talk to, even when Rudra was asleep or Drepung was gone. Sometimes one of them came up to translate something Rudra had failed to communicate in English but still wanted to say. Mostly the two new roommates were left to hash it out on their own. In practice this meant a few exchanges a day, combining with a formal lesson in the last hour before the old man fell asleep. Rudra would nod out over Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever, muttering in his gravelly low voice, “chalk, pencil sharpener, milk, cookies, paper clip, thumbtacks, lost clothing drawer,” chuckling as his finger tapped on the latest appearance of the pig man with the windblown hat. He would tell Frank the Tibetan words for these items, sometimes, but the main focus of their sessions was on English; Frank could learn Tibetan or not, Rudra did not care, he even appeared to scoff at the idea. “What’s the use?” he would growl. “Tibet gone, ha.” Many odd things appeared to strike him funny, and he laughed with an abrupt low “Ha,” as if laughter were a surprise attack against invisible demons.
Frank was content to lie there on his groundpad in the evening, listening to the old man read and occasionally correcting his pronunciation. Usually Frank worked on his laptop.
“Pumpkin, ghost, what say? What say?