Fugue States

by Pasha Malla

‘About yay big, short hair, brown eyes…No? Nothing?’

  ‘You describe half the tourists in Goa! Dutch, French, Israeli…Russian.’

  ‘Russian,’ Matt would whisper, and hitch his backpack and flee to the street.

  Lost in the fantasy, Ash could see it all: the city roiled. The air was damp and thick and people seethed in it like plankton through tropical seas. Matt was swept into a market. Hawkers hawked and shoppers shopped and Matt danced between carts heaped with spices and fruit and vegetables and caged clucking chickens and here was a man lopping the tops of coconuts and dogs skittered this way and that or lay coiled under great hulking trees that sprouted from the cement. Matt stopped to pay a lean, leering man to hack a half-dozen bananas from the bunch with a scythe. These he ate on the move, dropping each peel behind him to slip up potential stalkers. (Booby traps!)

  Three more hostels yielded no luck either—nor vacancies, another worry: once again, he’d nowhere to sleep. The afternoon slipped into evening; the light turned smoky, the crowds thinned, Matt’s belly grumbled and rolled. Another day was vanishing with nothing to account for it. No stories to tell, no memories made, no momentum heading into the night. And what day was it? He’d lost all sense of time. Maybe some other, realer version of himself was only now boarding his flight to Delhi. Or else maybe back home, in the future, he was already recounting the trip’s adventures to Ash over bong-hits and beers. Matt would feel between existences. Gutted and tired and lost.

  Though, would he? How could Ash guess what Matt might feel?

  The fantasy dissolved.

  Ash got out of bed and checked his email—nothing. Nothing on his phone either. So he opened up The Patrimony. Though the title struck him as inadequately singular. From that interrupted final line threaded infinite possibilities. So he renamed it The Patrimonies. (Was this a word? Could you earn multiple inheritances from the same dad? Or did it imply a squadron of dads, a flock? A dozen serious men in suits, say, cresting a hill with literal baggage—briefcases, of course, the carry-all of manhood.)

  His neck snapped up; he’d drifted off. And continued transcribing where he’d left off.

  And closer still drew the hero to his goal, the cave and the darkness within, while the sun burned and beneath his feet the snow seemed to be turning, yes, to slush. Everything was melting. The birds sang a song of spring a happy burble welcoming new life. It made the hero hurry. There was less time than he’d thought to reach, and so he quickened his step, through the slush, which soaked now his stockings.

  Ash crossed out stockings and replaced it with socks. Re-read the paragraph: the edit seemed false. Changed it back. Read the bit again: yes, that was it. Archaic, strange. Only a few pages remained. So Ash kept typing, saving diligently as he went.

  —

  WHILE ASH AND MONA were finishing lunch (Chunky Soup she’d smuggled in her gym bag) the front door opened. ‘Ho ho ho,’ bellowed a bearded voice. ‘Merry Christmas!’

  Preceded by a coniferous scent, Rick appeared in the kitchen doorway lugging a Christmas tree. This he stood proudly on end as if presenting a fresh kill. From the backyard where Ash had banished him, Burt barked wildly.

  ‘A tree,’ said Mona.

  ‘Things are slowing down at the fair so your mom sent me out. Such a cruel industry, poor creatures—whoops!’ Rick bobbled his grip, caught the tree before it timbered into the kitchen. ‘But she said it’s what you all do here. So here we are!’

  ‘If you need to get back,’ said Mona, ‘we’ll be happy to put it up.’

  ‘The decorations are in the garage, your mom said?’

  ‘We’re on it.’

  This job, historically, was one that Mona performed solo. Ash’s function was to fetch the base and ornaments and help screw in the trunk. Then he’d retire to the couch with a beer to have his decorating suggestions ignored.

  ‘You actually going to help this time, little brother?’ said Mona.

  ‘As long as you don’t boss me around,’ said Ash. ‘Big sis.’

  Once they’d got the tree standing on its own and its branches began to droop, Mona wrapped the branches in tinsel while Ash unravelled the lights.

  ‘Don’t be so rough,’ advised Mona. ‘You break a bulb and the whole thing’ll go out.’

  ‘You act like I’m some sort of monster!’

  ‘A subterranean one, these days. Nice to see you up for air.’

  ‘Do you want me to help or not?’

  ‘What are you doing down there in the basement, Ash?’

  ‘Working!’

  ‘Really. On what?’

  He’d long been subjected to Mona’s lawyerly equivocations of what he did for a living: admiration at his public achievements, but skepticism that reading and talking about books comprised actual work—at least compared to her eighty hour weeks where people’s lives hung in the balance. But when, with the intention of chastening his sister, he told her, ‘On Brij’s book,’ it felt mostly like an admission of guilt.

  ‘Really!’ Mona turned from the tree, peering at him with interest. ‘So you are going to try to get it published?’

  ‘No, no. Just typing it out.’ From the box of ornaments, Ash removed sparkly globes and crystal snowdrops and porcelain reindeer, laying them out along the sofa. ‘There’s only the one paper copy, and if we lose it the whole thing’s gone forever.’

  ‘So you’re not going to add anything? Like an ending?’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, digging a figurine from the bottom of the box. ‘Look who it is.’

  ‘Ganesh!’

  As a twelve-year-old intent on reclaiming her Hindu roots, this was what Mona had insisted on using to top the family tree: six inches tall, lavishly painted, regal and holy and slurping something like raspberries from his elephant trunk.

  ‘Wanna put it up?’

  ‘I’ll get the ladder,’ said Mona, and headed out through the mudroom to the garage.

  Left alone, Ash checked his phone: a message from Sherene that was just a line of question marks. Pocketed it again without replying. What to say? He had no words of his own for anything—not her, not his sister, not Brij’s book. He imagined opening salvos to talk to Mona about Harj. Something about growing up with split parents—they’d managed, it hadn’t been so bad…

  Mona reappeared with the stepladder, Burt trailing at her heels. Ash presented her with the elephant god.

  ‘Why don’t you do the honours,’ she said. ‘Not sure I should be going up ladders with a bun in the oven.’

  So with Mona and the dog looking on Ash climbed up, hooked Ganesh over a sprig of needles, and Hinduism lorded over Christmas.

  —

  THAT EVENING, as if in a ’50s cola ad, Ash, Mona, their mother, Rick and Burt gathered around the tree, with the radio on in the background. The only thing missing was Santa plopping down the chimney—an image that inspired Ash to picture Matt as an old man stationed amid some Arctic food court diorama, beard grown out and frosty, hauling children onto his lap while he ogled their moms on the far side of the barricades.

  At 10 p.m. promptly his mother turned up the volume on the radio. ‘Quiet, everyone. Ashy’s on!’

  Here was the opening music: still the same, they hadn’t changed that. But when it faded, instead of Ash a stranger welcomed listeners from across the country.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Mona.

  ‘I don’t fucking know,’ said Ash.

  ‘Language,’ said his mother.

  The host’s name was not one he recognized—not a producer dumped before the mic, not some network personality subbing in, not even a famous moonlighting author. Sherene hadn’t edited anything. Instead she’d simply replaced him with a nobody.

  The impostor ran down the same intro that Ash had long ago pre-recorded about ‘the year in books.’ But after blasting through the major awards and the bestseller list she went rogue, switching to an unlikely topic: poetry.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Ash. ‘Sherene got a poet?’


  ‘Watch your mouth,’ said his mother.

  ‘This is my show! And she put a poet on it! Do you know what these people are capable of? They’re the literary Gestapo. They say things like “prosody” and “objective correlative” in mixed company. They spell “oh” without the h—but always with an exclamation mark. They feud. And they suffer. O! How they suffer.’

  ‘Shush,’ said his mother.

  ‘Once a month, I get a letter—they write actual letters! on typewriters!—from one of these nut-jobs complaining that I never interview poets. Never mind that the show is specifically about the novel. Their persecution complex is out of this world.’

  ‘So both persecuted and the Gestapo,’ said Mona. ‘Quite a combo.’

  ‘Would you two please shut up,’ said their mother.

  Rick hauled Burt onto his lap, whispered something into his ear.

  The poet was boasting about what a swell year it had been for poetry. She had a slippery voice, gooey as egg yolk. Accustomed to holding court before a feeble gathering of the elbow-patched and cat-haired, she was clearly luxuriating in having poached Ash’s audience. How could Sherene have done this to him? They were meant to be friends!

  ‘She’s got a nice voice,’ said Ash’s mother. ‘Very warm.’

  ‘She sounds like a tool.’

  ‘She sounds nice!’

  ‘What’s all this about nice? Was that my problem? I wasn’t nice enough?’

  ‘Your problem, Ashy,’ said his mother, turning up the volume another click, ‘is that you don’t know when to shut your cake-hole and listen.’

  So he listened.

  The poet was introducing Into the Night, oozing on and on about what a ‘moving’ and ‘powerful’ book it was. How could she—a woman!—believe such things? It was all so phony and gross. At least Ash had possessed the gumption to stand up for what was right.

  ‘Great to have you here,’ said the poet.

  ‘Always good to be back in Toronto,’ said The Behemoth.

  So they’d flown him in. As an apology, Ash expected. The ticket, the hotel, dinner: not cheap. This both pleased and mortified him. He thought about finally messaging Sherene, but his phone was in the kitchen. Besides, what would he say?

  ‘Last time I saw you was at the Vancouver Festival,’ said the host. ‘Was that already two years ago now? God, time flies…’

  ‘How are your kids?’

  ‘University now, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Cronies!

  ‘So,’ said the host, ‘congratulations on the new book.’

  ‘Congratulations on yours.’

  And now they were flirting. Disgraceful!

  ‘Let’s talk about Into the Night. Such a brave book.’

  ‘Thank you. Obviously this story took time to find the right form.’

  ‘I want you to tell me about the characters.’ Her voice was fairly melting. ‘I want you to tell me about Hardwick. But first I want to talk about you.’

  ‘She sounds like Oprah,’ said Ash.

  His mother smacked his leg. She and Rick leant toward the radio like plants guzzling sunlight. And Ash knew, then, that they’d both read that ridiculous book—and loved it. The conversation ebbed into the subdued murmurs of a therapy session, and at 10:30 the poet thanked The Behemoth and signed off for the year—as if she were responsible for the previous thirty episodes, as if it were her show!

  Though perhaps now it was.

  His mother turned off the radio. ‘Very interesting,’ she said. ‘A shame, Ashy, that it wasn’t you talking to him. But you have to admit it’s quite a journey he’s been on. So sad.’

  ‘I do not,’ snarled Ash, ‘have to admit anything.’

  Mona and her mother stood and, with a synchronicity that hinted at prearrangement, informed Rick that they would be taking Burt for his final walk of the night. Ash watched them head out, a kind of quiet melancholy between them that even the dog, suddenly subdued, seemed to respect. Halfway down the drive Mona slipped her arm into her mother’s and set her head on her shoulder.

  Then they were gone. From within all that beard Rick stared at Ash with—was it? Yes: ravenousness. ‘Well, my man!’ he yelled, eyes wide and wild. ‘Just you and me.’

  A proposition seemed imminent. It couldn’t possibly be sexual, could it?

  No, worse: ‘You still play guitar?’ Rick continued. ‘You know any Bruce Cockburn? Because I’ve got my djembe here, be cool to jam.’

  Ash stood; sorry, he had work to do. And fled at a gallop to the basement.

  An email from Matt awaited him. Weird. The guy never wrote emails. Titled MERRY XXXMASS!!! it read like a telegram—or a street-corner, pantless rant:

  BRO WOW HOLY SHIT CAN YOU BELIEVE I’M EMAILING YOU!!! ANYHOW JUST WANTED TO WISH YOU AND YRS HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO YOUR MOM AND EVERYONE AND KNOW THAT I’M THINKING OF YOU BRO!!! BRO HONESTLY ITS CRAZY IN INDIA!!! YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!!! THERES RUSSIANS PRETTY MUCH EVERYWHERE BUT I FOUND MIEKE BUT SHE’S NOT HERE IN ANJUNA SHE’S FURTHER UP THE COAST SO I’M TAKING A BUS IF YOU THINK THAT’S SAFE!!! WELL TOO LATE I’M TAKING IT ANYHOW HAHAHA!!! SO THAT’L BE MY CHRISTMAS THERE THO I BET YOU GUYS ARE HAVING TURKEY AND PRESENTS IN LONDON SO THINK OF ME!!! OK BRO JUST WANTED TO WISH YOU AND YRS HAPPY HOLIDAYS SO MERRY CHRISTMAS AND I HOPE THINGS ARE GOOD WITH YOU LITTLE BUDDY LOVE YR BEST PAL MATT!!!

  MATT WAS FAMILIAR with makeshift Christmases. That winter he’d spent out in Whistler, while the rest of his ski team sucked hash from a bisected pop bottle he’d headed into the woods with a hacksaw and returned four hours later hauling a twenty-foot cedar like a carcass through the snow. Or years before that, when he and his mom had been invited to the Dhars’: after too much mulled wine his mom had fled to the bathroom, hand to her mouth, and Matt had to crank the carols to drown out the roar of her pukes.

  Christmas, generally, got Matt down. Too many expectations, too many ways to fail. His mom had tried hard for years, struggling on her crossing guard’s salary to stuff his stocking (Snickers bars, Certs, Archie comics); though they never had a tree, one year she sprung for a Butterball she roasted to dust. ‘At least we’re together,’ she’d said with a sad laugh, which had seemed to Matt a pretty meagre thing to celebrate—they were together all the time! What was the big deal about it now?

  Which is to say the holidays weren’t the primary thing on his mind on the three-hour bus-ride from Anjuna to the resort where Mieke was staying. Instead he imagined their reunion: him on his knees begging forgiveness, then the two of them seizing each other like something out of Bollywood and rolling around on the floor. After all, she owed him an apology, having stolen his ride and stuck him with the bill, plus cabfare home. But would she slap his face? Would he let her? Would that, maybe, be kind of hot, and lead to a release of passion and bodily fluids all over her room?

  The bus was a rickety thing, clad with rust, the luggage slung up onto the roof and not tied down. For the first hour of the trip Matt kept checking the road behind them for his backpack tumbling loose and bouncing away. Driving here was less chaotic than Delhi, but still the bus weaved and pitched, and the horn was a steady pulse. The other passengers were unfazed, staring blankly ahead until their stop—though ‘stop’ was a generous term for the bus slowing to a crawl and whoever’s luggage flung from the roof.

  As with everything he experienced in India, Matt felt on the margins. (Even just one little pull on the tiniest pinner of a joint would set him straight—but where to get some?) At home Matt was the star of the show. Here he was at best an extra, expendable and unobserved. And even as he thought this, a woman in a yellow sari came lurching up the aisle and fell directly on his lap. Not to cozy up! It was like Matt wasn’t a person at all—just a big old piece of white male furniture.

  Frig these people, he thought, as the woman’s blade-like buttocks carved into his thighs. At least with Mieke he’d have a companion, someone who knew him, someone to talk to. And maybe someone to love.

  �
�I’ve got a bad knee,’ Matt told his passenger.

  Nothing.

  ‘Anyhow,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the ride.’

  And on they rode through palm trees and little seaside towns, until at last Matt recognized the name of Mieke’s resort, and he shook the bony woman onto the floor and stormed from the bus into the daylight, liberating his phone from his back pocket.

  On the beach, Mieke had texted. Matt found her amid sunbathers, sprawled on a towel. Her bikini was green. What there was of it. Mostly he saw skin, coppery and smooth. His knees went a little wobbly.

  ‘You made it,’ she said. ‘Finally.’

  ‘I did,’ said Matt, and before he could apologize, or rub sunscreen on her back—a fantasy he’d enjoyed, with various climaxes—or say much of anything at all, Mieke was up, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Stay with my stuff,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

  Matt watched her tear down to the water and disappear into the sparkling waves. He dropped his backpack, rolled up his khakis and unbuttoned his shirt. It had been days since he’d done any grooming, so he didn’t dare unleash his stubbly shoulders or back. But at least he could ventilate. His chest hair had the look of moss bathed in fresh dew.

  After a while Mieke returned, swept up her towel, and stood dripping before him. ‘So,’ she said, ‘sounds like you’ve been having some adventures.’

  ‘Just making memories,’ said Matt unconvincingly. ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘As you say.’

  Why so casual? She’d abandoned him to the mob! A bug was eating his brain! And here was this blithe Dutchwoman, carelessly towelling off her dampest parts and acting like he’d crossed a room, not a country, to find her.

  She sat. ‘You want to swim?’

  Matt pulled his shirt closed. ‘Nah.’

  But she wasn’t looking at him, just staring out at the sea, which glittered in the late afternoon sunshine.

  ‘So, India,’ he began.

  ‘Amazing place.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘No?’ She shaded her eyes, looked at him briefly, then away.

  ‘I just…Do you feel—I don’t know—like yourself here?’