by Pasha Malla
‘Like myself? Are you joking? I feel totally free here! You can be whoever you want. There’s nowhere else like it.’
Matt dug his feet into the sand, felt it trickle between his toes.
‘You probably just miss home,’ said Mieke. ‘Plus it’s Christmas. But with this sunshine, the ocean, palm trees, it doesn’t look like Christmas, does it?’
‘I guess not.’
‘In Dutch we say slechtgehumeurd. What is the English? Feeling out of source?’
‘Sorts.’
‘That’s why you’re out of sorts. You should join me and some friends tonight, mostly foreigners. We’re getting together to have a real Christmas.’
Friends? Weren’t friends the folks you knew your whole life—who you knew better than yourself? Did she even know their last names? (Matt didn’t know Mieke’s, though he wanted to.) Was a friend over here just any non-Indian?
‘With a tree and all,’ Mieke continued, ‘as you Americans celebrate.’
‘Canadian.’
‘Canadian, exactly! And there’s me, Dutch, and the host is from Chicago, and there’s an English, an Israeli—very multinational. We need you to complete the UN.’
It wasn’t until he’d committed to joining her, and she’d texted the host to expect one more guest, that she told him they were playing Secret Santa.
‘I’m supposed to buy a present,’ he clarified, ‘except I don’t know who it’s for.’
Mieke leaned in. The swell of her breast against his arm, tongue wetting her lips. In that moment, she could have convinced him to suit up in red velvet and plunge down every chimney in India. Matt scanned his brain for a pertinent Rule.
‘Ho ho ho,’ he said, pushing closer.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mieke, and moved her phone between them to send another text.
—
PERUSING THE SEASIDE SHOPS that afternoon, Matt’s gift options seemed limited to live chickens and freshly netted fish. He pictured himself showing up with a trout wrapped in newspaper, blood and scales and marine juices trailing across the marble floor of some palatial vacation home. So, no. But what then? A sari? A cellphone? A statue of Ganesh? His brain ached—the parasite muddying his thoughts, he was sure. And he was also sure, diagnostically, that even the faintest puff from a joint would sweep that fog away.
Eventually he found a stall selling toys, and in a bout of TV movie nostalgia (a nerd, a rifle, a blinding, revenge) settled on a gun. An airgun, sure, but a dead replica for the real thing. For lack of wrapping paper Matt used a couple of jute sacks bound with a shoelace. Only later, placed alongside Mieke’s ribbon-adorned gift bag, tissue paper artfully frothing forth, did this seem like the craftwork of a serial killer.
An auto-rickshaw took them inland from the resort to a block of housing with the look of an hourly-rate motel. Up a set of stairs, down an external hallway, three knocks on a door with a wreath of beach grass hanging from a nail and they waited, Matt’s gift concealed behind his back.
An Asian guy (Korean, Matt guessed, based on his passing resemblance to Chip) flung open the door and screamed, ‘Christmas!’
Matt stood aside so the Korean and Mieke could hug.
‘You must be Matthew,’ he was told. ‘I’m Ed.’ The accent was pure Midwest, the handshake eager, festive, possibly gay. ‘Oh great, you brought a present for Secret Santa!’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Great!’
Ed turned back to Mieke, took her by shoulders and danced her inside the flat. Matt trailed behind like a lost puppy.
In the living room a man and a woman were stringing toilet paper around some sort of potted bush; instead of a star riding the uppermost bough was a—good Lord Ganesh!—swastika.
There was music too: ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Matt’s favourite Christmas carol—although now it seemed like a dirge.
More hugs were exchanged. Matt hovered by the shoe-rack. The girl was Indian, very small and dark, and very young. The man could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty; his body was lean, but his face had that shell-shocked look shared by lifelong backpackers and cancer survivors. He stepped away from Mieke and eyed Matt across the room. ‘And who,’ he said, ‘do we have here?’
The accent—Russian? Possibly. Might Matt be about to arm the very people who wanted him dead? Even if just with an air gun. Because these canny agents could poison-tip the pellets. Or replace them with specially crafted bullets—the kind that explode and shatter inside the body, liquefying everything in their wake.
Matt mumbled hello, kept his head down, immediately forgot the couple’s names. Maybe he could make a quick switch and slip a fistful of rupees into the gift pile?
Ed steered him into the room by the elbow. ‘Come on in, don’t be shy. Put your present under the tree.’
Matt submitted. While the other offerings actually resembled gifts, his looked like the corpse of a small child bound for cremation. The Russian watched him intently.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ said Ed, ‘but I found a turkey.’
‘I told him it was impossible,’ said the Indian girl. ‘There are no turkeys in India.’
The Russian laughed. ‘Probably just a monkey with a beak.’ Such a racist, Russian thing to say! But then he added, ‘Though what do I know about Christmas.’
‘I’m not Jewish,’ said Mieke, ‘but I’ve not had turkey either. It’s not eaten in Holland.’
Was the Russian posing as a Jew? Could Jews also be Russian? Or hired by Russians? For the first time, ever, Matt wished he paid more attention to global affairs.
‘You eat turkey in Canada?’ Ed asked Matt, with a grin like an open door.
Transience, Matt was learning, let you reinvent yourself as anyone. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My mom makes it every year. With dressing, cranberries.’ What else? ‘Caesar salad.’
‘Wow,’ said Ed. ‘I hope the little lunch I’ve put together will be okay. Pressure’s on!’
Matt nodded benevolently. ‘I’m sure it’ll be awesome, bro.’
And so it was: not just turkey but sausages, gravy, grits, sweet potatoes, carrots, creamed spinach, two kinds of stuffing, a soufflé that Matt avoided, and homemade apple pie for dessert. Matt’s preferred mode of eating was to mash everything into a pulp for easy face-shovelling. This had long bewildered Ash’s mother, and whenever Matt came for dinner she watched him with awe. (‘Hey,’ he would shrug, ‘it’s all gonna end up like this anyway.’)
The talk around the table turned to Indian politics, the existence of which Matt hadn’t considered. (A government! Just like a real country! Who knew?) The Russian/Jew seemed to hold the most virulent views, tethered as he was to a voting citizen—literally clutching her hand as he sounded off on corruption and the economy. Meanwhile Matt puréed and gulped his food-paste in silence.
Lost in his thoughts, a line popped into his head, something an acting coach had once told him: If a gun appears in the first act, it must go off in Act Three. (A Russian had concocted this formula! Predetermined murder was in their blood!) The clatter of silverware was slowing; the evening’s second act drew to a close. Soon enough his gift would be unwrapped—and the weapon turned upon him.
Ed stopped Matt from clearing the dishes. ‘We’ll wash up later. Secret Santa first.’
While Ed laid the gifts out on the coffee table, Matt assumed a spot near the door, should he need to flee. The Indian girl went first. Though her eyes lingered on it for a moment, she bypassed Matt’s contribution and chose Mieke’s gift bag.
‘You can either keep it or pass,’ Ed explained.
Inside were a tasteful array of local handicrafts: a bracelet of colourful stones, a hand-embroidered purse, a letter-opener made from sandalwood, a marble elephant.
‘Oh,’ said the Indian girl. ‘Indian things. Wow.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Ed. ‘Any of us could steal those from you!’
‘Who’s next?’ said Mieke.
‘Me,’ announced t
he Russian. He eyed Matt’s weird parcel. ‘Looks interesting!’
‘Now, hey,’ said Matt. ‘I bet someone else’s—’
‘Easy,’ said Ed. ‘Don’t give away which one’s yours.’
Mieke laughed at this: one sharp burst like a rifle report.
The Russian held the box to his ear. ‘Nothing ticking…’
‘Why would there be!’ Matt yelped.
‘Quite a wrapping. How is one meant to…enter?’
Ed went to fetch scissors. From the kitchen came a jangle of knives as he rummaged through a drawer. Matt felt the killer’s eyes on him. How would he do it? Walk Matt down to the beach, make him kneel in the sand, blast an expertly placed pellet through some essential cord in his brain, then push the body out to sea? What a way to go, floating dead into the Indian Ocean to be devoured by sharks—on Christmas!
‘Who knew Jesus’s birthday could be so fun,’ said the Russian, smiling a hitman’s cold and joyless smile.
A single bead of sweat trickled icily between Matt’s shoulders, down to the waistband of his pants. ‘It can be,’ he said.
Ed returned. Expertly, as he might slice a jugular vein, the Russian cut the twine. He peeled off the outer sack and folded it neatly on the couch beside him (belying, Matt thought, his military training). It was all so excruciating. Then the second layer came off, and the box was revealed.
‘What is it?’ said the Indian girl.
‘A gun,’ said the Russian.
‘A pellet gun!’ screamed Matt. ‘It’s not real!’
‘A gun?’ said Mieke. ‘Really? That’s a strange gift.’
But the Russian was delighted. ‘An air gun! I had one like this when I was a kid in Israel. Right on! Great present. I’m keeping this, thank you all very much. And I’ll shoot you if you try to take it from me.’
Matt returned the high-five, suddenly recalling something Mieke had said about an Israeli being part of the group. But was this part of the executioner’s ploy, lulling his victim into false security before unleashing vengeance in a volley of pellet-fire?
Matt was next. He chose a small box. His last act as a living man, perhaps.
‘Ah,’ said the Russian, or fake Israeli. ‘That one’s mine.’
‘Don’t say,’ wailed Ed.
The package was very light. Maybe even empty.
Inside Matt expected a note: Meet me at the water or Say good night…forever. Or even simpler: Prepare to perish! Or anthrax. Or a poison gas, an odourless wisp of the stuff seeping into his nervous system and within minutes dissolving his internal organs to stew. So he opened the box with dread.
Never could he have guessed the Christmas miracle waiting inside.
4
NO ONE SEEMED TO KNOW the beach’s name, or if it even had one. All Matt and Mieke had been told was which bus to take from the station in Panjim and where to get off, over a little rise and through a gauntlet of roadside stalls and down into a tropical grove. ‘A great place to smoke that,’ promised the Israeli, and Matt lifted the guy into another off-ground hug and thanked him again, from the bottom of his heart—his Secret Santa gift secreted in his pocket.
Life was good. No, life was great. The gods had shone down: not only had Matt’s life been spared, his dreams had come true. Or if not his literal dreams, certainly his fantasies. Certainly his medical necessities. What were the chances that his Secret Santa would provide weed? And now this perfect plan: head to the beach, burn the Israeli’s ‘doobie’ with the sunlight dimming romantically and surf lapping the sand like tongues up thighs. And then, as the stars came out, Matt and Mieke would finally tilt their alleged friendship horizontal—or at right angles, whatever. However they did it in Europe!
The bus stopped beside a bank of communal toilets so fetid the air seemed to shudder. A sandy trail led through reeds to the beach. The sand squeaked as they passed a woman in traditional garb wading out of the sea, past a game of cricket played by a dozen shrieking shirtless boys, past a cart selling cold drinks and snacks, past an emaciated steer feasting on a mound of trash, around an outcropping of rocks to a little cove. And here they found solitude. The waves shushed and frothed; the palm trees were jostled by a languid breeze. Dusk was settling. There wasn’t another person in sight.
‘Holy crud,’ said Matt. ‘I’m living in a postcard.’
Mieke laid out her towel, sat.
‘I can’t believe that Jew gave me weed,’ said Matt. ‘Best Christmas present ever.’
‘So you keep saying.’
He took the joint from his pocket and gave it an adoring sniff. ‘Is it any good?’
‘Yaniv’s marijuana can be quite strong.’
‘Marijuana,’ Matt giggled. A new giddiness had come over him. ‘Wanna blaze?’
‘Let’s swim first. You go ahead, I’ll watch our things.’
‘Swim?’
‘Come on. You can’t come to Goa and not go in the ocean.’
‘What about sharks?’
‘Stop being such a baby!’
Matt stared at her. Was this his chance? He pictured the two of them cavorting in the surf, their bodies slick and saline, his trunks yanked down and her bikini bottoms shifted aside…‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll swim if that’s what you want so bad.’
Craftily he disrobed, shielding his furrier parts from Mieke’s purview, angling a shoulder or kneecap this way or that. Once down to his boxers he tore roaring to the water’s edge, arms out, like a jetliner cleared for take-off. And then he was in it.
The water was cooler than he expected, even bracing. He dove under, came up, breast-stroked out. He stopped, stood, the sand churning under his feet. A big wave knocked him down. Saltwater flooded his nose; he came up spluttering, called, ‘I’m okay!’ But on the shore, Mieke was lying back to watch the stars come out.
Matt swam further out. The water purpled in the twilight. He splashed some on his face, scrubbed the stubble on his head and dove again, wiggling along underwater like a sea lion on his way to the rutting of a lifetime.
He swam like this until he felt his lungs constricting, and even then kept on, pushing himself until he couldn’t take it any longer, and then rushed gasping to the surface. And Matt was shocked to discover a boy treading water beside him.
‘Hello,’ said the boy—not a boy, really. Maybe twentyish. ‘Namaste,’ said Matt.
‘You are swimming?’
‘You got it.’
‘And your good name?’
‘My? Oh, my name! Matt. Matthew.’
‘Matthew. And you are from?’
‘From? Like, country?’
The boy nodded.
‘Canada.’
‘Canada, very nice.’
‘You’ve been?’
Head wobble.
Matt tried to stand but was out of his depth; his feet kicked madly to stay afloat. The kid dove, rump in the air (a bloom of white y-fronts). He came up a little closer, spouted water from his mouth.
‘You would like to swim with me?’
‘Swim?’ Matt was confused. ‘Aren’t we swimming now?’
But the boy extended his hand, beckoned Matt with his fingertips. ‘We will swim together now. Come.’
‘Careful. I had a dropped finger recently.’
‘Come.’
Matt was led to shallower waters. Still holding hands, he and his new friend set down their feet and turned to face the horizon, a crease out there in the dusk.
‘One…two…three,’ instructed the boy, and leapt the first wave that came rolling in.
Matt stared.
‘Next one!’ said the boy, and began his countdown.
This time Matt jumped in time with the boy. Another wave came and they jumped again. And again. And paused, laughing.
‘Here comes another one!’ cried Matt.
But the boy released Matt to splash him, then they were chasing each other through the waves, laughing, and when at last the boy swam off—‘Goodbye, sir! Goodbye!’—Matt waded back to
shore with a grin he couldn’t shake. Mieke eyed him sideways.
‘Have fun out there?’
‘You see that? Some weird little Indian kid just swam up and—’
‘Became your boyfriend.’
Matt laughed. ‘You want to swim now?’
‘Is he still out there?’
The water ruffled dimly to where it met the sky. No sign of the boy. Or anyone.
‘Looks like you’re out of luck,’ said Matt.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ said Mieke, and Matt watched the two lobes of her buttocks jostle in their green holster all the way to the water’s edge.
THOUGH IT HAD BEEN A FEW YEARS since Ash had participated, Christmas in London went like this: everyone rose early, someone put on coffee, and then they did presents. There were assigned roles, too. Mona got the fire going and their mother distributed gifts, while Ash watched for anyone invading with unsolicited Yuletide cheer.
Now he delegated Rick to lookout: ‘If carollers ring the bell, you send them packing.’
‘I’ll do my best, my man,’ Rick promised.
Ash kicked back in the recliner beside the tree. Rick and his mother took the couch. Mona lay with Burt by the fireplace, releasing him intermittently to jostle the logs.
Like old times, his mom had gone overboard, with a half-dozen parcels each for Ash and his sister. But they happily played along, tearing through the wrapping paper and tossing the trash in the fire. Ash loved presents. He opened them greedily, in a frenzy, only distantly aware of Mona’s mounting haul a few feet away. ‘Socks!’ he announced. Also: a box of chocolates in paper sleeves, lip balm, a paring knife—and a humidifier.
‘Rick thought you sounded congested,’ explained his mother.
‘I’ve needed one of these for years,’ said Ash, amazed: Rick!
Together he and Mona, as they did every year, had renewed their mother’s (and Rick’s, by association) magazine subscriptions, and given each other books. Or, rather, he’d bought her a book, and Mona had given him a gift certificate to an online wholesaler.
‘I wouldn’t dream of picking something. You snob,’ she said.
‘Well that novel I got you is terrible,’ he said, ‘though probably just the kind of garbage you like.’
