The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [58]
On board the Strathnaver on his way back, the judge sipped beef tea and read How to Speak Hindustani, since he had been posted to a part of India where he did not speak the language. He sat alone because he still felt ill at ease in the company of the English.
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His granddaughter walked by his door, went into her bathroom, and he heard the eery whistle of half water—half air in the tap.
Sai washed her feet with whatever piddled into the bucket, but she forgot her face, wandered out, remembered her face, went back in and wondered why, remembered her teeth, put the toothbrush into her pocket, came out again, remembered her face and her teeth, went back, rewashed her feet, reemerged—
Paced up and down, bit off her fingernails—
She prided herself on being able to take anything—
Anything but gentleness.
Had she washed her face? She went back into the bathroom and washed her feet again.
The cook sat with a letter in front of him; blue ink waves lapped the paper and every word had vanished, as so often happened in the monsoon season.
He opened the second letter to find the same basic fact reiterated: there was literally an ocean between him and his son. Then, once again, he shifted the burden of hope from this day to the next and got into his bed, hooked onto his pillow—he had recently had the cotton replaced—and he mistook its softness for serenity.
In the spare room, Gyan was wondering what he had done—had he done the right thing or the wrong, what courage had entered his foolish heart and enticed him beyond the boundaries of propriety? It was the bit of rum he had drunk, it was the strange food. It couldn’t be real, but incredibly, it was. He felt frightened but also a little proud. “Aiyaiyai aiyai yai, “he said to himself.
All four inhabitants lay awake as outside the rain and wind whooshed and banged, the trees heaved and sighed, and the lightning shamelessly unzipped the sky over Cho Oyu.
Nineteen
“Biju! Hey man.” It was Saeed Saeed oddly wearing a white kurta pa-jama with sunglasses, gold chain, and platform shoes, his dreadlocks tied in a ponytail. He had left the Banana Republic. “My boss, I swear he keep grabbing my ass. Anyway,” he continued, “I got married.”
“You’re married?!”
“That’s it, man.”
“Who did you marry???”
“Toys.”
“Toys?”
“Toys.”
“All of a sudden they ask for my green card, say they forget to look when I apply, so I ask her, ‘Will you marry me for papers?’”
“Flakey,” they had all said, in the restaurant where they worked, he in the kitchen, she as a waitress. “She’s a flake.”
Sweet flake. Heart like a cake. She went to city hall with Saeed—rented tuxedo, flowery dress—said “I do,” under the red white and blue.
Now they were practicing for the INS interview:
“What kind of underwear does your husband wear, what toothpaste does your wife favor?”
If they were suspicious, they would separate you, husband in one room, wife in another, asking the same questions, trying to catch you out. Some said they sent out spies to double-check; others said no—the INS didn’t have the time or money.
“Who buys the toilet paper?”
“I do, man, I do, Softy, and you should see how much she use. Every two days I am going to the Rite Aid.”
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“But her parents are letting her?” asked Biju, incredulous.
“But they LOVE me! Her mother, she LOVE me, she LOVE me.”
He had been to visit them and found a family of long-haired Vermont hippies feeding on pita bread spread with garlic and baba ghanoush. They pitied anyone who didn’t eat their food brown, co-op organic, in bulk, and unprocessed. Saeed, who enjoyed his basics white—white rice, white bread, and white sugar—had to join their dog, who shared his disdain for the burdock burger, the nettle soup, the soy milk, and Tofutti—“She’s a fast-food junkie!”—in the backseat of Grandma’s car painted in rainbow colors putt-putting down to the Burger’n Bun. And there they were, Saeed and Buckeroo Bonzai, two Big Boy Burgers spilling from two big grins, in the picture taken for the INS photo