Valmiki's Daughter

by Shani Mootoo

  “How come you still sleep with him, Anick?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

  “Oh, Viveka, he is my husband. I cannot tell him no every time.”

  “Do you want to — are you —” She didn’t know, really, what she wanted to ask.

  Anick hazarded an answer. “I don’t know what to do. I cannot stay with Nayan any longer. I am not in love with him anymore. I love only you. We can wait until this child is born and then you and me and the baby, we can go away together.”

  Viveka glared at Anick in disbelief. “You think you can take Nayan’s child, Ram Prakash’s grandchild, and go your own way?”

  “We can go away together,” Anick repeated desperately. “You and me, we can be a family.” It was as if the particulars of her situation, the reality of Nayan, the Prakashs, of Viveka’s own family, of their position in Trinidad society, had vanished from Anick’s comprehension. Viveka glanced again at the house. Then se gripped the steering wheel and readied herself to drive away.

  She wanted to tell Anick to get inside the car with her right away. What would she do then? she wondered. There was no hideaway on a small island. Drive to the airport, abandon her father’s car there and get on the first plane going anywhere? The outside world, which had always seemed unfathomably grand, suddenly felt too, too small. At the same time she knew she had to get away. But no, not with Anick. In a way she had, minutes ago, already left Anick.

  “Say something, Vik. I am so sorry. I didn’t want this to happen. But, please, say something. Say you will wait and you will go away with me.”

  Viveka looked at Anick. She wanted to get out of the car and hold her, wrap her arms around her. “Do you love Nayan, Anick? Tell me. I need to know.”

  “I told you already. But is not that I love him or don’t love him.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I don’t hate him, Viveka. Is just that —”

  Viveka cut her off. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand this push and pull. You seem to have done that to him from the beginning. Don’t do that to me.”

  Anick reached a hand into the car, to the back of Viveka’s head. She grabbed a handful of hair and gently closed her fist on it. “Vikki, I have no life without you. Do you understand this? I love you. Only you.”

  Viveka thought, I have no life here. She started the engine of the car. Anick let go of her hair and stepped back into a clump of flowering cock’s comb. She remained there until Viveka had backed out, driven off, and disappeared.

  THE AIR-CONDITIONING IN THE CAR WAS SWITCHED ON, THE WINDOWS rolled up.

  We have good news . . . the baby will be born in April . . . Oh Viveka, he is my husband. I can not tell him no every time . . . you better watch yourself . . .

  The words formed an endless loop in Viveka’s mind. Her limbs felt limp. Thoughts of Anick came to her, and each time she felt a gripping sensation deep inside, as if pleasure and pain entwined there. As she neared San Fernando, a thousand realizations buzzed in her brain: all that she and Anick had felt between them had been real; she had felt more open and authentic than she had ever felt before. Big. Full. Full of purpose. How could any of this be wrong? She had to find a way to be all that she was, regardless of how society would view her. She could not live clandestinely. She would not. Nor would she let her present sadness devour her. She had to train herself to remain above it, otherwise she would become like Merle. There simply had to be a place where she would fit in, and she would find that place.

  She thought of her and Anick’s first kiss, of her fingers sliding inside Anick, of Anick gasping and thrusting against her, and she determined not to go mad. Of the tip of her tongue encountering Anick’s heat and wetness, of how good that had been, and she promised herself that she would find a way out. She thought of lying on Anick, Anick gripping her tight, whispering into her mouth, against her cheek, and tears welled in her eyes. She thought of her parents holding her back from participating in sports, trying to break who she was and redesign her so that she didn’t bring notice to herself and shame to them, and she wept uncontrollably. She recalled hovering, moving her body against Anick, and the strange, absolutely true feeling in those moments that between her legs there was an appendage, a phantom one that swelled with all her desire and something baser, too, something more bestial and demanding, something that could enter and penetrate Anick, empty itself into her. How many times had she wished that she could cause Anick to become pregnant, and how often had the futility of the wish made her feel inconsequential and invisible? Tears poured down her cheeks and she made sincere bargains with a God she hadn’t really believed in before. In exchange for honesty, integrity, a lifetime of service, she prayed that she and all people like her be granted the freedom, so long as it did not hurt anyone, to love whomever they chose, to love well, and have that love returned without judgment. She implored, and her thoughts rambled on, and she made promise after promise and apology after apology for anything she had done to put big and small obstacles in the path of her way of loving. She thought of Nayan and the hurt he might have been caused, and apologized to him — then quickly decided that Anick and Nayan had been hurting each other so much, it was their love that should have been brought to an end, not her love with Anick.

  She had to leave. That was clear. But leave how, and go where? What if she were to find a haven in the Trinidad Anick had told her about, in the north of the island? But in her heart she knew that there was nowhere on her small island far away and safe enough. After all, it was not only her security but that of her family, her mother and her father and Vashti, that would be affected.

  By the time she arrived home in Luminada, Viveka was drenched in sweat, her face and neck tear-stained. She had no map of her future, but she knew who she was. She would not be diminished because of it.

  IV Valmiki’s Daughter

  Your Journey Home

  YOUR JOURNEY BEGAN IN SAN FERNANDO. YOU VISITED LUMINADA Heights with its magnificent views, and continued inland, east to Rio Claro. Now, you’ll circle back to San Fernando, where your journey abruptly ends. All that has changed along the way is landscape. Implicit in an ending is a beginning — destination rendered futile. In any case, as the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are. There you are.

  The Krishnus

  THE LARGE PICTURE WINDOW LET IN THE EVENING’S HARSH LIGHT but not its heat. Without a wind, everything except for two blue-grey tanagers hopping erratically up and down the length of a yellowing coconut tree branch appeared still. The two birds slapped each other with their wings and pecked at each other’s beaks in elaborate gestures of quarrelling, or perhaps courting. Viveka could imagine the ruckus they made, but nothing that went on outside was audible inside the cool, air-conditioned room. The garden sloped away on this side of the house. The lawn, lushly green, had been cut the day before, edged tightly where it met beds that had been plumped with fresh black manure. This, and the precise, trimmed clumps of flowering hybrid hibiscus shrubs that were her mother’s pride, amounted to a picture framed on two sides by heavy damask curtains.

  The bed in the guest room where Viveka sat was a mountain of colourful boxes, presents wrapped in iridescent foils with wedding bells and brides and grooms printed on them. Her mother sat on the edge of a chair, a shawl wrapped around her against the cold from the air-conditioner. Vashti hovered about excitedly and Trevor leaned against a wall, watching, as Viveka untied the ribbons and tore the wrappers off. Viveka called out what the gifts were: a wand blender, a punch bowl, ladle and glasses, a Waterford water jug, a crystal ship’s decanter, and so on; and who its sender was: Molly and Angus Ramsumair, Auntie Joan and Uncle Peter, Allan and June, Auntie Sylvia and cousin Mohan, and so forth. Her mother jotted these down in a notepad. The cards ranged from the simplest tag exclaiming Congratulations On Your Marriage to epistles that went on and on for pages — thoughts on Two Hearts, Two Souls, Pledges, Pathways, and pronouncements that Love Stirs The Heart, wishes
that included Hopes And Dreams and Growing Deeper Day by Day. Many of them were flecked with sparkle dust, points of which stayed on Viveka’s fingers and made their way to her face. Some of the gifts were so beautifully and craftily packaged that her mother would rise, pull the shawl tighter and come to the bed, take the package from her, examine it, and then go back to her armchair.

  Trevor nodded acknowledgement every once in a while, and Vashti took the unwrapped, recorded presents and passed judgment on each: “Oh my God, this is so heavy, how can you fill this and then lift it and pour from it?” “They got this from Bisessar’s Furniture and Rug Emporium — I saw these there, and this was, by far, the nicest one.” “You see, if we had gone and chosen gifts from Landry’s, instead of letting people just buy whatever they wanted to, you wouldn’t have gotten three of this and two of that, and none of these dreadful patterned glasses. Why did we invite them anyway?”

  The cards and tags Viveka collected in a shoebox, and the bows she shoved into a clear plastic bag for recycling. To the side, an extra-large black garbage bag overflowed with scrunched-up paper, and a deep cardboard box held smaller boxes that she broke down and made flat and placed on top of a variety of protective packing material.

  After a while, Devika told Vashti to take the full bag of papers out to the garage and to fetch a new one. Vashti opened the door and the sizzling crescendo of moist ingredients dropped into hot oil screeched in the air, then subsided quickly with the clatter of a metal spoon urgently stirring it all. In an instant, the guest room was flooded with the aroma of anchar masala and its signature note of roasted cumin. The family looked at one another and made noises of appreciation and anticipation. Pinky was currying mangoes.

  These days, every day was festive for Pinky. It was as if her own daughter was marrying. Viveka worried that four days from now, the day of the wedding, she would have gained so much weight that the outfit being made for her would fit poorly or not at all.

  Vashti shouted out to Pinky to come bring a new bag, but Devika shook her head. “She is doing her work. You go and do it,” she said.

  For two days in a row Viveka had worn a sun dress, a flimsy thing with spaghetti straps, close-fitting at the waist and falling to mid-thigh. With encouragement from her mother, Vashti, and Helen, she had had three of these little dresses made by a seamstress who used patterns found in a Vogue sewing book she showed to her customers. As Viveka smoothed the dress and tried to fix an image in her mind of each gift with that of its sender, Trevor was saying, for the second time since they had begun opening the gifts, that they could buy this item, or that one, for much less than it would cost to ship them.

  Valmiki, home from work now, entered the room just in time to hear Trevor ask how Viveka was planning to trek all of this to Canada. His heart lurched at the umpteenth realization that this daughter was marching onward, past them all, past him. He put on his best face and answered, “Oui, papa! Trev, boy, this is a lot of loot, in truth. Let’s open up a little shop, you and me, and make a little money, man. This could be the start of an empire!”

  Valmiki stooped down to look at the unwrapped gifts. “Who is this from?” he wanted to know of an eighteen-inch giraffe ornament, the fire of its crystal flickering in its belly when he picked it up. He fingered an Indian-silk bedspread with a glass-beaded border and embroidered elephants that hung on the back of a chair and wanted to know who had sent that, too. Winking at Devika, he said, “I didn’t know the Williamses have such good taste! You don’t think this would look good on our bed?” If no one else heard the tremble in his voice, Devika did.

  Vashti was rummaging through the gifts on the bed again, her brow scrunched up now. “Hey, did Anick and Nayan send us anything?”

  Devika pursed her lips and Valmiki grinned too widely for comfort.

  Trevor watched Viveka as she answered, “Us?”

  Vashti caught herself and, embarrassed, muttered, “You know what I mean.” Then she bounced back with, “In any case, are you two planning to have children? You never wanted any, Vik, so in the end I will inherit all of these gifts. So, I ask again, what did Anick and Nayan send us?”

  “They sent something, but it’s buried under here. We’ll get to it eventually.”

  “You’re lying. You probably opened it already.”

  Devika said warily, “Why do you two have to speak to each other like that? Be nice, Vashti.”

  Viveka unwrapped a large picture box and, with some effort, out slid a low-relief picture set in a deep frame. A grainy photographic image, silk-screened onto moulded plastic: a panoramic scene of Niagara Falls. A light set inside the frame at the top suggested that the image could be illuminated. Everyone erupted into laughter. Before Viveka could read the card, one of those that went on for pages — Sacred This and Vows That — Valmiki burst out, “Wait, wait. Let me guess. That is from your Aunt Radica.”

  “My aunt?” Viveka asked, with feigned indignation. “She is your mother’s sister. And you’re dead-on. Who else would send something so . . . so . . .”

  Trevor filled in, “Redolent. Prosaic.”

  Vashti untied the length of electric cord attached to the picture and plugged it into a wall outlet. A fluorescent light flickered and then the scene was bathed in a harsh light. Seconds later, to everyone’s surprise, a cascade of previously imperceptible optical fibers woven into the silk-screen image animated the falls.

  “Trevor is right,” Viveka blurted out, shoving the item toward Vashti. “We can’t possibly take all of this with us. Here, Vashti, I bequeath this to you.”

  The faint ringing of the phone outside of the room could barely be heard beneath the laughter and the hum of the air-conditioning. Pinky knocked and opened the door, letting in the weighty scent of masala-fried hot green mangoes. The aromatic sourness made Viveka’s mouth pucker and fill in an instant with saliva.

  Pinky glanced at the colourful disarray, broke into a quick grin of approval, and announced, “It’s for Miss Viveka.”

  “Oh,” Viveka said, disappointed to be disturbed. “Can you ask them to call back?”

  Looking intently at Viveka as if there were no one else in the room, Pinky said more quietly, “It’s Miss Anick.”

  Vashti groaned. “You shouldn’t have told her who it is. Now we are going to have to wait. I bet you’re going to take it, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. I know she has to go out this afternoon, and if I don’t take it I won’t be able to get in touch with her for the rest of the day.” Viveka got up, folded some wrapping paper, and shoved it into a bag, studiously avoiding any show of haste.

  Vashti babbled to Trevor, “Everything always gets put on hold for Anick. When they get on the phone they talk for hours.”

  In Viveka’s peripheral vision, a vision sometimes more accurate than frontal, she saw Trevor straighten, steel himself.

  Devika, her eyes hardened and jaws clenched, stood up as Viveka walked out of the room to the telephone. As if permission to start and stop opening the gifts were hers to give, Devika said, “That’s enough for today anyway. You can open more tomorrow.”

  Viveka could hear Vashti saying to Trevor, “Do you speak French? The two of them, they speak French together all the time. Well, Vik pretends she can speak it. As if they don’t want anyone else to know what they are talking about. She’ll probably tell you, though, because now it’s you she’ll have secrets with.”

  Just before she picked up the receiver, Viveka saw that Valmiki had interceded and invited Trevor to have a beer on ice with him out on the patio.

  Viveka and Trevor, Part One

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER, VIVEKA HAD BEEN IN HER BEDROOM CURLED up in an armchair, a textbook in her lap. She had been sitting there for about forty minutes and had read only two pages. Little interested her these days.

  Devika entered without knocking. “I just want to let you know,” she began without pause, “we’re having people over for lunch on Sunday. So don’t make other plans, eh.”

  “Is
there an occasion?”

  “Well, we haven’t had anyone over for a while.” Devika went to the window and opened it wider. Then she walked over and sat on Viveka’s bed.

  “Who’s coming?”

  “The Rattans. The Williamses. Joan and Rodney De Cairies.”

  “That’s it?” Viveka said, feigning disinterest. It was with a good measure of relief that she noted no mention had been made of any of the Prakashs.

  “We invited the Clarkes, Helen, and Wayne and his cousin Trevor also.”

  At this Viveka slowly uncurled her legs and let them down onto the floor. Devika responded to the frown taking shape, and the questioning twist of Viveka’s mouth.

  “He asked us if he could take you out once and you never responded. We thought it was only polite to have him over. In any case he is leaving the day after, so you don’t have to worry that we’re pushing you on him, or him on you.”

  Over two months had passed since that invitation. Trevor had returned to Canada shortly after, and Viveka had not heard from him since. She had almost forgotten about him, actually.

  “But, Mom, he asked me out, not you all.”

  “So what? You want to ask him out? You know you can’t do that. He might be living abroad, and might have adopted foreign ways, but he must know that a good girl from a good family would never take it upon herself to reciprocate in that way. And he had the decency to call and ask us if he could take you out. He is that kind of man.”

  “Things are changing, Mom. If I wanted him to come over, I could have asked him myself.”

  “Child, don’t be crazy. How could you do that? You mean you would call him up and invite him on your own to go out with you?”

  “Well, not to go out, but maybe to come here. But that’s only if I wanted to. I mean, I would ask you and Dad, and then yes, I would do it myself. Where he comes from, people at my age don’t have their parents doing things like this. At my age people don’t even live at home with their parents, come to think of it.”