by Shani Mootoo
Valmiki sought to quickly throw water on this by saying that Ram, Nayan’s father, had told them himself how proud he was of his son going abroad, graduating, and returning to his roots, qualified now to run Rimpty’s and Son. No one pointed out that Nayan’s marriage was not on that shortlist of accomplishments.
Valmiki insisted again on them coming right in for that drink and a slice of fruit cake. It was a display of hospitality that obviously pleased the young husband. He declined, saying that his mother was expecting them back shortly for dinner. Devika noted that he had grown into a lovely young man — not rough-around-the-edges like his cacao-farmer-father-come-to-town at all — and so gentle.
“Well, you will all have to come over soon and introduce . . . Anick . . .” Devika said to Nayan, a question mark in her voice, “to Viveka and Vashti.”
Then she said to Anick, “My eldest daughter likes your husband, you know. You will have to watch out, he is quite a catch.”
“Yes, I know, everybody tell me this,” Anick managed with a shy smile.
Valmiki slid in, “Well, clearly Nayan is the lucky one. You make a fine couple, Nayan. You did well. You did well.”
It was Nayan’s turn to laugh, to be shy and proud at once.
Valmiki inquired after Nayan’s parents.
“Mummy is good. Cooking a lot these days. And Dad, well, he is as usual. Everyday he goes to the office or up to Chayu, so we don’t see him too much, which is not a bad thing.”
Valmiki asked if Anick had seen the estate as yet. She had been asking to go, Nayan replied, wanting to see the countryside and the rich lands that he had told her so much about, but it was crop season — his father wouldn’t let her go when the workers were in the fields. He added, “You know how it is,” implying what didn’t need to be said — a pretty white foreign woman among the workers might have incited slackness and bravado. Anick said, in her small voice, “He think I do not know to take care of myself.”
Nayan smiled, but he was unable to properly hide his slight peevishness at her comeback. He asked “Uncle” if he still hunted, and told Valmiki that the other day he had seen an agouti on the estate. He invited Valmiki to hunt there on a weekend when less work was carried on.
When Nayan and Anick left, Devika said, “Hm! Well, he will have good trouble with her. She is one beautiful woman. You don’t think so?” Val raised his eyebrows, noncommittally. “He is one lucky man,” Devika persisted, “but he will catch his tail! You know how men are here. And you didn’t see the thickness of that gold around her neck, Val? I wonder if he gave it to her, or if it was his parents who gave her that.” When Valmiki still didn’t respond, she pushed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. Everybody is saying how pretty she is, but I never imagined her to be so beautiful. I wonder how she will fare in that family. They shouldn’t be all living in the same house, at all. That is a recipe for disaster, yes — she is a lot more cultured-looking than they are. You know what I mean?”
Trying unsuccessfully to hide the irritation in his voice, Valmiki retorted, “How can you tell that?”
“I can just tell. I mean, just look at her. Can’t you tell? She will have him watching his back like crazy. That calypso is right: Never marry a woman prettier than you.”
THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN BELOW THE GULF’S HORIZON AND THE SKY that had been red minutes ago had turned to a sooty black full of diamond-bright twinkling stars. Valmiki removed the bird cages from their hooks. The newest bird was jumpy. As he brought the cage down it slipped off its perch, its wings fluttering wildly behind it. Valmiki lifted the cage to his face. He looked through the wire bars directly into the bird’s eyes. It climbed back up and hopped along the perch to the far end. Finally it moved its head, first a little to the left, as if to see better with that eye, and then it spun its head almost 360 degrees to watch Valmiki with the other eye. Valmiki was as still as could be, watching the bird with softened eyes. Through all this he heard Devika. She was goading him, “But then again, you married a woman prettier than you, and I am the one who has been catching hell. So it doesn’t always work out as is expected, eh?”
This brought to Valmiki’s mind the line, Marry the one who loves you, not the one you love. He lowered the cage and asked wearily, “So, what about your party? What date are you thinking of?” He and Devika walked inside, both of them carrying a cage in either hand. Valmiki pulled the door behind them. He latched it tight. Devika went ahead to the entrance of the dining room and switched on the patio lights. They would remain on until after the girls’ return. He had long ago installed the plate for the light switch and it was crooked. That was more than fifteen years ago, and Valmiki knew that every time Devika passed it, it bothered her.
Seeing Nayan settled and happy had prompted in Valmiki thoughts of Viveka and how she unnerved him, how, lately, an image of her would come to his mind, but it would be as if she alternated in a constant and rapid tremble between being uniquely herself and adopting the perfect semblance of Anand. He and Devika were losing Viveka. He could feel it. Of course, he wanted her to soar. She, more than anyone else, would know what to do with opportunities that came her way, how to make something grand of life. But he worried there would be significant costs. What if, along the way, she lost herself? What he meant by that he wasn’t sure. He had the strongest desire to snatch her up in the palm of his hand as if she were a little gem, close his fist tight around her, and keep her there. On the contrary, however: he would let her be whatever she wanted, everything she wanted. Except this, and this, and this, and that.
Viveka
HAVING PLAYED VOLLEYBALL THE NIGHT BEFORE, HAVING GOT HER way, even if it was on the sly, Viveka awoke the next morning feeling generous toward her family. Even if her mother had not got past their altercation, Viveka had. She left her room ready to enter the heart of the house, sprite and congenial. She was ravenous.
As she approached the kitchen she heard her mother on the telephone, devising a menu with the caterer. On the kitchen table she saw a guest list: there were more than twenty couples on it. It took no time at all for a series of gripes to ripple through her gut. These were soon accompanied by a general feeling of weakness and nausea.
Perhaps, she thought, this was the effect of eating doubles purchased the day before from one of the vendors stationed outside the university gates. Elliot had eaten them, too. She should call and see how he was.
In spite of the queasiness in her gut, out of habit she opened the fridge. Numerous plastic containers of this and that sat atop one another. Saucers with slices of chicken, papaya, sardines, plastic wrap stretched tight over each. Paratha wrapped in foil. Cheese. Guava jam, peanut butter, marmite. She stared blankly for a long time, listening to her mother trying to decide between a North Indian-themed meal and a Chinese one: No, no, definitely no pork or beef, and the Chinese food would have to be done without a hint of pork, as there would be Hindus and Muslims at the party. Fish, chicken, duck — all three. Shrimp is fine, but you know how quickly it can turn in the heat. Nothing but the best, everything done with, with, with a European flair, if you know what I mean. Authentic Indian, authentic Chinese, whichever, but arranged and served with European — well, not just any European — more like French class and flair.
Viveka opened the oven door to see if anything left over from breakfast was being kept warm for her. A tea cloth draped a dish in which lay a wedge of coconut bake. There seemed to be no air in her chest. She shut the door and went back to the fridge. Her indecision caught her mother’s eye. Devika glanced over at Viveka, and while remaining engaged in her conversation, she snapped her fingers. When she had caught Viveka’s attention she pointed sharply to the oven, her forefinger wagging in insistence that Viveka take the bake there. Viveka hid behind the open door of the fridge and poured herself a tumbler of orange juice. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, her back to her mother and both hands wrapped around the cold and sweating glass. She felt badly about how she had left Elliot last night.
/> After she had refused to accommodate his desires a few weeks ago, he had withdrawn from her and they hadn’t seen each other for a while. Then, yesterday, they had seen each other at the doubles stand, and after an awkward few minutes of catching up they were walking hand in hand. She didn’t mind. In fact, she realized how much she missed him. They had spent the entire afternoon together at the library, and then Elliot invited himself to Viveka’s and Helen’s practice game. He kept his eyes on her and on Helen as they pranced about the court like colts. The coach had left the team to play without instruction, as he sometimes did. They played harder on such days, knowing well that the coach was noting the strong and weak points of each player, making the kinds of decisions that coaches make. One of Viveka’s teammates, Franka, of whom Viveka felt somewhat scornful for no reason she could identify, grabbed every opportunity to make contact with her — touching Viveka on her arm, her back, her waist. It was uncomfortable, in particular on an evening when Elliot was watching them play.
After the game Viveka and Helen went with the other players, as usual, to the pub. Helen’s boyfriend, Wayne, was meeting them there, and Elliot decided he would tag along. Wayne and Helen had been sweethearts since high school. Wayne was comfortable with the other women, and they with him. Of course, he and Helen sat next to each other. At times he seemed to envelope Helen, and she would disappear into his large warmth willingly. But she would never disappear for long, and when she reappeared, her dominance in that group of fighting players dwarfed him, and he accepted this easily. He and she were like waves and weeds, each taking a turn at nipping and tickling the other.
Viveka had tried to work out in her head the consequences of reconnecting with Elliot, of so quickly getting close again. Should she sit next to him? Or should she make it so that he ended up sitting between others, perhaps across from her but not next to her? Elliot, however, decided the matter. He pushed his way in through the throng of women, ushered Viveka along the bench, and slid in beside her. She angled her body away from him, but made sure to turn back to laugh a comment to him once in a while so as not to be accused of slighting him. But when Franka, on the way to the bar to buy a drink, came around to Viveka and stooped to whisper in her ear, asking if she could get her something from the bar, Viveka instinctively leaned against Elliot. She turned to face Elliot, and then looked up and smiled her decline to Franka. She made a fist and rested it on Elliot’s knee, thumping it occasionally.
Later, the four of them walked to Helen’s car, Wayne and Helen with an arm around each other’s waist, and Elliot clutching Viveka’s limp hand. Wayne and Helen were doing their long-goodbye thing, some feet away from the car. Viveka led Elliot directly to the passenger-side door. She opened it and turned to give Elliot what she intended to be a warm and friendly hug. Their conversation in the library earlier that day rang in her ears. She had enjoyed hearing all that he had been doing during their little hiatus. He had been working with an art gallery, helping them to locate the works of James Boodoo, Hing Wan, Kenneth Critchlow, Ralph and Vera Bainey, and Samuel Walrond that were in private collections; a public exhibition of these works was planned. He clearly wanted her to know that he was busy and doing big things with himself. She was impressed. She missed his conversations about painting and art, missed talking with him about the books she was reading. She really did want a close friendship with him, she decided, but nothing more — something like what she had with Helen.
Beside the car, Elliot held Viveka’s face in his hands. She became confused, then annoyed. She weighed what she should say and how she should act. She didn’t want to lose him again, but she didn’t want this either. He was too insistent. When he put his mouth to hers, she extricated herself by asking what his plans were for the following day. Elliot bit his lower lip, breathed in hard, and then said sharply, “I already told you. You know very well what I am doing.” He put his lips to hers again. Despite the discomfort of his tongue inside of her mouth, she garbled, “Yes, but I can’t keep your schedule in my head. Tell me again.” He withdrew long enough to say, “Just kiss me, Vik,” and so she did. Or rather, she let him kiss her. He had his hands on her back, and now he moved them in slow circles, each time dropping his hands a little lower. She stiffened her back. Just as she feared he would, he slipped his fingers under her shirt. Fatigued by the same old feeling of not wanting to seem rude or unfriendly to him and wondering if there was something wrong with her, she jerked her face away and put her hand to Elliot’s face, the gesture on his cheek a cross between a gentle slap and a stroke. There was a heavy silence between them, which Viveka broke by asking him if he had finished reading Mr. Biswas. Elliot sighed. Resignation in his voice, he breathed out the words, “No, Viveka. I have not finished it.”
Noting his tone, she carried on. “He is like a painter, Elliot, but with words. He uses landscape as metaphor.” She intended to continue with, “For the oppression of communal family living. The Indian, the Hindu family style of living, covertly incestuous. I know you’d find it interesting.” But she stopped herself, for she knew it sounded hollow.
Elliot continued to hold her, but she felt as if she were a folded-up shirt he was barely pressing against his chest. “God, Vik, nothing has changed, has it? I was hoping the time apart would have made things different between us. Art and literature are not all there is in life, you know. I like to talk with you about these things, to go to shows with you and that kind of thing, and I want to read all your favourite books, all one thousand and one of them, but I want to do other things with you, too.”
“I know, I know, but it’s not what I want. I want other things, different things.” She was pleading, apologizing, and sympathizing with him all at the same time.
Elliot let go of her suddenly. Viveka imagined herself, the folded-up shirt, slide down his chest and fall, crumpled, to the floor. She hadn’t expected to feel so dropped by him. She reached out a hand, intending to lay it against his cheek in a decidedly softer gesture, but he caught her wrist in mid-air, held it there and stared at her hard. She pulled her hand free and clutched that wrist with her other hand to suggest that he had hurt her. Perturbed, she got into the car and shut the door. The window was rolled up. Elliot stood where he was. Slowly, she rolled the window down. He walked away, looking back only to signal to Wayne that he would catch up with him later.
This morning, though, Viveka had an excuse to phone him to see how he was feeling — to see if the doubles had upset his stomach. Still, she hesitated. She slapped at mosquitoes that lived in the relative dark beneath the table, and scratched at old and new bites. Her mother got off the phone and greeted her with, “Is that all you’re having? There is coconut bake in the oven.” She was obviously not over her terseness with Viveka. Viveka reached to scratch a bite on her ankle. She muttered, “This is enough for now,” and in an even lower voice added, “Thanks.” Then she tapped the guest list with her forefinger. “What’s this?”
“We’re having a party.”
Viveka picked up the list and rolled it into a loose tube shape. She pressed it to her lips and blew into it.
He mother snapped, “Don’t do that. I need that list. Put it down.”
The admonishment was at least an engagement, and Viveka felt relief.
“You’d never guess who came to visit last night.” Devika had suddenly brightened.
Viveka wasn’t in the mood for guessing. “Who?”
Her mother adopted a playful tune. “Well, don’t you want to guess?”
“I don’t know. Who?”
“Nayan. We were sitting on the patio and he just came in. He brought his wife.”
Viveka pushed her chair back, ready to get up. “Yeah? Did he come with his hands swinging or did he bring chocolates?”
“Why do you have to be like that? But you’re right: he didn’t bring any chocolates. They had gone for a walk, and he saw us on the patio, and took the opportunity to drop in.”
“Gone for a walk! Nobody walks around here.
Was he showing off his wife to the neighbours or the other way around?”
Devika chuckled. If only Viveka could be more like this more often.
“Well, is she all they say she is? Does she speak English?” Viveka persisted.
“Not one word is a lie, when I tell you! She is gorgeous. White, but you can tell she is not a local white. You should have seen how she was dressed, and all they were going for was a walk. Minty and Ram said she doesn’t come from money herself, but it doesn’t show. Not with that kind of beauty. She has a lot of class, the way she carries herself. I don’t know where she would have got that from. But you know French people. All of them have that flair.”
“Flair is the same as class?” asked Viveka, in a tone that suggested her question was not to be answered but was supposed to be instructional.
Her mother was not interested in being educated.
“Well, she has landed herself a good catch. I am sure a lot of families here are disappointed.”
“Does she speak English?”
“A little. And Nayan doesn’t speak a word of French.”
“Oh, I bet he knows a word or two by now.”
“I only hope there is enough love between them. He better behave himself, and not become like men here. It will be very difficult for her here. I am willing to bet she won’t put up with any nonsense whatsoever.”
“Where are they living?”
“Right here. Not in their own home, but with Minty and Ram, I mean.”
“Oh my God. In the same house with Uncle Ram!”
Devika pursed her lips and nodded. “Minty and Ram don’t like her at all. They are not pleased one bit! Yet, if you see the gold chain she was wearing around her neck. That was no eighteen-karat chain. It was one heavy twenty-two-karat thing. I could tell by just watching it. A rope design. They must have given it to her as the wedding present. He is their only son. She is the only daughter-in-law they will ever have. It doesn’t matter if they don’t like her. She will still get everything.”
