“No one I recognized,” Sister Eleanor whispers. “But, yes, they were Punjabi.”
“A Tamil wing of the R.S.S. claimed responsibility for Chennai,” Monica nods.
“Ten parishioners killed,” Sister Catherine cries, “and one priest.”
“God keep their souls.” The younger nun bows her head.
“The point,” Raul leans heavily on a chair, “is that these goons harass all over the bloody country. With tacit approval of the National BJP and state leaders.”
Father Freitas rushes in the refectory door. “Is everyone OK? I heard on my way from giving the Last Rites to Bina Singh. Her neighbor was at the clinic, a young woman named Veena. She said there were guns and knives.”
“No,” Raul laughs edgily. “No dynamite either.” The chair wobbles under his grip.
Monica wonders if it—or he—will crack under the stress.
“No hand grenades,” he snaps. “Nothing cinematic. Just big talk from the inflated chests of small-minded men.”
“But what can we do?” Sister Eleanor entreats. “They’re coming back.”
“We can pray,” Sister Catherine clasps her hands together.
“We can indeed,” declares Monica, “and we can continue our work.”
Raul eyes her gratefully, finally sitting down.
“With God’s help.” Father moves toward Raul, grasping his friend’s arm. “Dr. Murphy is right. People in Moorty know us. We will carry on.”
*****
Monica lies across her bed listening to the night rain. Is she imagining the deluge is ebbing? How can she describe this morning to Beata without terrifying her? She felt so frightened today, although oddly invisible. Raul was effective, an authoritative voice devoid of Walsh’s sanctimony. Imagine even momentarily missing Walsh! If Dr. Blowhead had been here, it would have grown ugly. At best, they’d be stuffed in Emmanuel’s van now, winding down the mountain to the airport.
It was good of Father Freitas to say Mass after dinner. Being together in their beautiful little chapel helped. Praying helped.
Bang. Bang. Loud, piercing sounds. Her heart races.
Bang. Bang. Ring.
The telephone. What’s wrong with her.
Two rings. For her.
Phone, she scolds herself. Before answering, she listens to the natural patter of rain to steady her nerves.
“Monica, are you all right?” Sudha’s voice is loud, anxious.
“Just fine. A little shaken, but nothing happened, except...words.”
“Hmmm.”
Sensing Sudha’s exasperation, she adds. “OK, the threats are frightening. But one is grateful there were no assaults.”
“Indeed,” Sudha sounds relieved, “this one is grateful you’re safe.”
Tears well up. Finally.
Sudha listens to her weep. “Good. Normal. Even saints cry. Didn’t Jesus cry at Gethsemane?”
Taken aback, she remembers that Sudha’s Scottish boyfriend took her to some services. And Sudha is a quick study. Monica is touched that this friend, who has her own critique of the Mission, is comforting her with Christian scripture. She cries harder, releasing the tension she couldn’t betray earlier.
“Yes, cry, get it out. I would have rung sooner, but I was visiting Neela.”
“How did you hear? Who told you?”
“Monica, news like this travels like lightning. Everyone is agitated. The town is behind you. I saw Raj in the street and he was shouting, ‘Moorty has no room for these hooligans.’ ”
“Raj Agarwal?”
“People can disagree with you without wanting to destroy you.”
Her tears dry up. “Neela, how is Neela?”
“Recovering. The baby is well. I offered more moral support than anything.”
“That seems to be your vocation today.”
“Do you need anything? Do you want me to come over?”
“It’s raining.” Of course, selfishly, she wants to see Sudha.
“It’s been raining for a month. Indians are waterproof. It’s in the genes. How about it? I haven’t even put away my umbrella.”
“No, Sudha, you need to rest after your journey. School starts early tomorrow. We’ll have our usual long talk on Saturday. I’m much better for hearing your voice.”
“You are sure?”
“Just fine. Good night now. Thanks for phoning.”
Monica stands and stretches, peering out the window into the darkness. Darkness is harder than the rain. It’s true that the days are a little longer than when she arrived in February. But night falls by 7:15. In July. On summer evenings, she and Beata used to go to dinner, then walk around Lake Calhoun until 10 o’clock. Friends, that’s what she needs. Monica refills her tea cup and sits down with Beata’s letter.
My dear Monica,
Wonderful to hear about your progress with Hindi. I bet your patients appreciate it. Your new friend Sudha sounds nice. I’m glad you have a break from the almighty Walshes. I hope they don’t canvas in the Twin Cities.
Kevin Walsh won’t go further than Chicago.
We’ve been lucky this year—just a few thunderstorms. My roses are gorgeous. Thanks again for those silvery pink ones. I think of you whenever I gaze at the garden.
James and I had a fab time in Redwing last weekend. Yeah, I can hear you say, Finally making some progress. You’d like him. He loves jazz as much as I do. He doesn’t tease me too much about the infamous shoe collection (I have gotten better, really.).
James is a poetry reader. He’s great in bed. Funny and kind. Did I say great in bed?
So what’s the catch? OK, I know this shouldn’t bother me. James is divorced. No children or any ties. Amicable. I wish he’d told me earlier.
Wouldn’t that have scared you off, old pal?
OK, it would have troubled me a lot. He said he wanted to wait until I knew him before telling me. What’s the deal? At least half of adult Americans are divorced. Of course I’m not being rational. I didn’t want a virgin. Maybe I’m unrealistic because I’ve been alone so long.
That’s a point.
So he’s given me some “space” to think. Gone to visit his parents in Cleveland for a week. He’s a very attentive son. Oh, Monica, I wish you were here and we could really talk. That’s selfish. You’re doing such important work in India.
Odd that Beata thinks of her being in India rather than in Moorty.
Let’s see, what gossip. Heard the inimitable Dr. Jill twice on the radio. Diet and exercise are this month’s themes. Oh, she doesn’t’ say anything bad. It’s just so obvious. You’ve probably long forgotten your irritating colleague.
I’m still thinking about that trip to India in the late summer. James keeps mentioning a time share in Captiva. But he knows India is my priority.
Come soon, friend. R.S.S. bullies. Visa officials. Warring colleagues. She can’t control any of it. She can pray. Sometimes all she can manage is praying for the willingness to pray.
TWELVE
July and August, 2001, Moorty
Monica and Raul linger over tea after Friday night dinner. Everything is more relaxed minus the Walshes. It’s nice to spend time alone with him. Father Freitas is off on an evening call. The nuns always leave table promptly. Cook will bang around in the kitchen for another hour, washing up and preparing for breakfast.
“Minneapolis is very cold?”
“In winter, yes. Often below zero for most of January.”
“Below zero Fahrenheit?”
“You betcha!” she grins. “January must be a different story in Buenos Aires.”
He closes his eyes. “Early summer. The roses and the tourists.”
“Tourists flock to St. Paul in February for the ice sculpture show.”
“No!” Laughter softens his long face.
So good to see him relaxed. His large eyes are often shaded in anger or worry. Tonight the brown irises are clear. Newly washed hair drops in curls over his forehead. Does he go to the barber in the Lower Bazaar, the one who props a mirror against a tree? The intimacy of this question shifts her into bashful silence.
“It gets cold in Mendoza. Where we lived when I was small.”
“I’ve heard of Mendoza. It must have been a lovely childhood in the Andes foothills.”
“Until my father was kidnapped, sí.”
“I am so very sorry. Father Freitas told me some of the story.”
“That story,” he shakes his head fatalistically, “happened long ago and far away.”
“How did the rest of your family survive?” she persists gently.
“Mama moved us to Buenos Aires, to Palermo, near her family. It wasn’t bad. She found office work. And on Sundays we walked the city, Mama and I, to watch the street dancers in La Boca; to browse the market in San Telmo.”
“But how did you get to medical school? Wasn’t it expensive?”
“When my grandfather left Italy, his siblings left too and went to New York. A better choice in some ways. At least financially. Mama’s cousin was a doctor in Texas, and he helped me get into medical school there.”
“Your mother must be very proud.”
“She was a wonderful woman, who died too young of a broken heart. And afterwards I had no reason to stay in that godforsaken country. I couldn’t remain in Texas. India seemed the ‘logical’ choice,” he says.
They sip tepid tea in silence. Raul taps his foot against the wooden table leg. He seems to expect her to say—or ask—something.
“Your father, you have no idea where they took him?”
“Back to Mendoza, I always imagine.”
“Oh?”
“They tossed them from planes, you know. I can just picture the bastards flying back to Papa’s beloved mountains and then ‘releasing’ him there.”
“Oh, Raul, no,” she automatically puts her hand over his. It’s warm and she feels blood ruggling through the tangled veins.
“I must not torture you with my grisly imagination,” he lowers his voice.
“You’re the one who is tortured.” Where is she going with this? Walking onto Lake Calhoun before the ice has frozen over. “And talking about your grief, well, that’s what friends are for.”
“Friends,” he regards her dolefully. “I’m not a person with many friends.” He gulps the last of his tea and stands. “I wasn’t, as you say, socialized properly. I didn’t learn the ways of normal, happy children.”
Monica holds her tongue. Her own girlhood pain is nothing compared to his loss. Still, she’s a little piqued that he assumes her passage has been simple.
“Thank you for the conversation.” He turns. “I wish you pleasant dreams.”
“Good night. Sleep well,” she whispers.
He nods, waves on the way to the door.
Understanding that he prefers to walk to the residence alone, she lingers at the table. What a story. What a life.
*****
Her phone rings at one the morning. Who would call at this time? Has Jeanne had another car wreck?
“Hello, Monica?”
“Hello,” she hesitates. “Ashok.”
“Yes, oh, my god, did I wake you? I’m so sorry. I’m calling from Madison and I didn’t really think through the time properly. Oh, no.”
“It’s fine,” she laughs, amused by her apologetic, absent-minded friend. “I was just getting up. How is the conference?”
“Grand. My paper went over well. But I was thinking of you,” he pauses.
She waits.
“Well, this is the weekend I was planning to visit you in Moorty.”
“Yes,” she says vaguely.
“So I was thinking about you,” he stammers. “Because this was, well, going to be our weekend.”
Our weekend is all she can hear.
“Monica, are you OK? Have you fallen back to sleep?”
This feels like a dream. Our weekend. She’s fully awake now and thoroughly tongue-tied. He’s calling from the States. Her heart races.
“So,” he continues gamely, “I decided to call you from your country. I don’t know, it was a silly notion.”
“No, a lovely idea,” she finds her voice. “Very thoughtful. Tell me about the conference, about your panel.”
He describes the meeting, his observations about Madison, the weather.
“Ah, yes, July in the Upper Midwest, a soggy time.”
“You forgive me for running off like this?”
“Of course.” She tried not to think of Dad. This was just a weekend.
“I’d like to come in November, if that works for you.”
“Yes. It will be snowing.”
“I’ll bring warm clothes, Doctor, so I don’t catch a chill,” he laughs. “Tell me how things are at the hospital? With your friend Sudha?”
As Monica talks, she savors this simple conversation with, well, a good friend. She hopes he’s more than that. And she imagines how Sudha will tease her.
*****
Sudha has promised a fête. The mela is crammed into a huge tent. It’s almost possible to forget this site was an empty lot between the Tasty Bite Café and the derelict liquor outlet last week. Today Sudha and Monica are surrounded by a cheerful yellow canvas. Stalls display brilliant tie-dyed scarves from Rajasthan; pink and white pearls from Bangalore; khadi from the Punjab; appliqué from Orissa; ikat from Andra Pradesh.
“This is the ideal place to buy presents for my trip to Delhi.” She thinks about those lovely farewell tokens. “So many gorgeous fabrics.”
“You are from England?” the woman in the purple sari asks as she wraps Monica’s silk scarf in brown paper.
“No,” she’s slightly taken aback. Sometimes she forgets how much she stands out. “I am from the U.S.”
“Welcome to our country.”
“Thank you.”
Sudha draws her to a stall of Kashmiri shawls. “I told you the mela would be fantastic.” She’s glowing. “This shawl would suit you nicely in that Tundra of yours.”
“Trying to get rid of me again?” Monica teases.
“Or for your friend Beata? You’re always saying how she hates cold winds.”
“Did I tell you Beata is coming at Christmas now?”
“Yes, she went off to California with that boyfriend for a summer holiday. Imagine choosing California over India.”
“Florida,” Monica smiles. “Indeed, what possessed her to follow her heart? The guy does seem perfect for her.”
“Perfect. Dangerous word.”
She’s grinning, pleased that Sudha and Beata almost know each other, often ask after one another. She can’t wait until December when they all have supper together.
“Look, look at these dolls from Haryana,” calls Sudha threading her way through the bargainers to the other side of the aisle.
“Cute. I like the one carrying wood on her head.”
“A worker doll.” Sudha lifts the wooden doll in the air. “I can see how you would be drawn to a worker doll. But for Meenakshi, I think I will choose the one holding a baby. My niece is a traditional child.” Sudha’s arms are filled with gifts and she’s still eagerly looking around.
“Sometimes, my friend, you’re like a child yourself. We need to rest. Have lunch. A carbohydrate pick-up.”
“You think I’ll grow faint under the weight of all this fun?”
“I am growing faint. Under the weight of hours. It’s 2 p.m.; I ate breakfast at dawn.”
“OK. OK. I’ll repress my consumerist weakness for the sake of your stomach.”
Taking several of Sudha’s packages, Monica shakes her head. “You could use a porter.”
“Thanks.” Sudha turns left and cries, “Oh, we must!”
Monica sees nothing but a bindi stall and, next to that, an old woman at a card table.
“Our fortunes,” Sudha exclaims. “I haven’t heard my fortune told since I was twelve.”
“I can tell your fortune.” Monica shakes her head. “Tomorrow over dinner you’ll complain about having spent too much. Come, let’s get something to eat.”
“No, really, we must do this.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Maybe my student was right. Maybe you Americans are not a spiritual people.”
She’s tempted to laugh, then realizes she knows nothing about Sudha’s history with fortune tellers. And what harm can it do?
“OK, but you owe me one.”
“Sorry?”
“An American saying.”
The old woman purrs softly to herself. Her pale skin is almost the color of her ivory sari. She doesn’t seem to register their presence.
Sudha greets her, “Namaste.”
She peers through clouded eyes, offers “Namaste,” and motions for them to sit.
Monica perches on the edge of a rough wooden bench.
Sudha settles her packages on the dirt floor, then joins Monica on the bench. She leans forward fixedly.
Loud, raucous music intrudes from the carnival, just outside the tent. Monica finds herself oddly drawn to the rollercoaster, remembering flying high over the State Fair with Jeanne, holding her once impetuous sister in her seat as the red metal car swayed wildly from side to side. Jeanne shivered while the other kids squealed in delight.
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