“Sounds like a storybook,” I said.
“Not really. Mom loved Buenos Aires. She was very popular, as a teenager. It killed her to leave. We went back every year when I was growing up, but it was never the same. I don’t think she ever got over it.” Grace dipped a pot sticker in hot sauce. “Meaning, she had some issues with alcohol.” There was one sibling: an older sister who’d relocated to California after high school, and taught English to migrant farmworkers in Watsonville.
Grace had been the kind of kid who’d spent hours in the attic, swimming through back issues of National Geographic so old they had ads for wringer washers. She’d always wanted to take pictures, but had followed her father into hands-on science. Her field was neurobiology, but after two years in grad school—“cutting up rat brains”—she had a meltdown during a routine lab session. It was traumatic enough to retool her life. Two months later she was in Paris, renting a cold-water flat and stringing for the AP.
“You dropped out?”
“Yep. Just like that.”
“Wow. What did your dad say?”
“I’m sure he was disappointed.”
“You didn’t talk about it?”
“Not so much. Why?”
“I’m just curious,” I said. “What happened in the lab? I mean, after two years I’d think you’d have seen everything. Did a rat rise from the dead?” I curled my fingers and leered, Nosferatu-style.
She looked downward. A shadow of pure vulnerability crossed her face. “There was an accident. I dropped something.”
“A vial of Ebola?”
“No.”
“A beaker of . . .”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okay. Sorry.” I felt a flash of insecurity and wondered if I’d already blown it. But she refilled our glasses.
“So, you moved to Paris . . .”
“I just shot lots of pictures. Then I got into photo-essays. When my stuff on the neofascists was picked up by Figaro, I put all the money into new gear. And a one-way ticket to Asia.” She grinned in triumph, holding a single green pea in her chopsticks. “Then New Delhi, then here.”
“How did you meet Coal and Clarice?”
“It was literally the day after I arrived. Do you remember the bar that used to be across from the American Embassy?”
“Flo’s?”
“Coal was in there, talking to some Marine sergeant about how the CIA used to supply arms to the Khampas during the Cultural Revolution. Even earlier, maybe. Anyway, he seemed pretty interesting. Very down-to-earth. We hung out a few times, and he hired me to shoot some ads for his business, then I ended up modeling for him. They’re fun, I love them. Clarice is a riot. Do you know she originally went to school to be a vet?”
“I had no idea.”
Grace tucked her legs in, topped my glass, and leaned forward. “Okay, enough. Tell me about you.”
What about me? I gave her the general rundown: a younger brother, an even younger sister. My own bizarre, vaguely interesting arc from sculpture to writing. And then, because he was on my mind, I launched into an anecdote about Jordan: his academic brilliance, his gift for languages, and his sharp eye for art and photography.
“After my first long trip to Europe and Asia, eleven years ago, I was showing my brother my slides. There were about 140 images, a full Kodak carousel, mainly of smiling Greek kids, fish hanging on clotheslines, monkeys on temples . . . you know.”
“I have the same ones.”
“When I finished, I asked Jord if he could guess my favorite picture. ‘Not only can I guess it,’ he said, ‘I’d like a print for my wall.’”
Grace raised her eyebrows. “Was it the same one you liked?”
“Well, this is typical of my brother. He refused to tell me, or to let me tell him, which one I meant. He wrote a one-line description of it on a scrap of paper and sealed it in an envelope. ‘We shall break the seal on delivery,’ he announced.” I paused to sip my tea.
“And?”
“I came back to New York again that December with an eleven-by-fourteen print in a mailing tube. Before he opened it, Jord fished the envelope out of his sock drawer. I opened it. The note said ‘Amsterdam. Snow-covered bicycle, leaning against a pole.’ Then he opened the tube and unrolled the print. It was the bicycle, of course.”
“Sounds like he knows you pretty well.”
“We’re usually pretty close. But he’s been through some tough times lately. Not much fun to be around. To tell you the truth, I’ve been out of touch with him for a while. “
“For how long?”
“Until today, actually. He wrote me a letter. Using words like thus, and belletristic.”
I was quiet for a minute.
“He sounds strange,” Grace said. “But I think I’d like him.”
The intimation that what we were starting here might extend into the future, as far as an encounter with my brother, made me momentarily dizzy. “So. I have a question for you,” she said. “Are you seeing anyone back home?”
I wasn’t prepared for this, although I’d suspected it might come up. There was someone. Her name was Carlita, and we’d been dating for several years. The relationship was already on shaky ground when I’d left the United States last fall. In spite of that, or because of it, our parting at the airport had been sentimental and painful. There were tears and promises. But five months of separation, punctuated by sporadic and increasingly confrontational letters, had reminded us of what we’d known when I bought my ticket: We were looking for different futures. It was hard, almost impossible, to imagine myself sinking back into that dynamic.
On the other hand, I didn’t feel like starting off with a lie.
“When I left the States I was involved with a woman in San Francisco. Carlita. My extended absence is not going over well, but it’s probably telling us both something we already knew.”
“Do you hear from her much?”
“Not lately. She was furious when I wrote to say I might extend my stay here. Which of course I have.”
She nodded. “Well. Thanks for being honest. I hope you figure out where that’s going.” I looked for a sign of retreat, but saw nothing of the sort. She tipped a Star toward my glass, but the bottle was empty. “So how long will you stay?”
I shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not sure.”
“Fair enough, I guess none of us are. I’ll put it this way: Why would you leave?”
It was an interesting question. The waiter materialized. “One second.” I ordered two more beers and a plate of spring rolls. “I never thought of it in those terms. It’s been more like, ‘Why would I go home?’ But I’d leave if I felt useless in Nepal. If it starts to look like the movement will never get anywhere. I mean, I love it here, but there are only so many stories I can write about what might eventually happen.”
“That’s true—if the only stories you can sell are about the revolution. But there’s always so much going on . . . I don’t know, right now I can’t even imagine being anyplace else.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But while all this is going on, it makes writing about other stuff—festivals, whatever—seem clueless.”
“Like going to South Africa and writing restaurant reviews.”
“Exactly. That’s another wild place right now . . . and didn’t they just release Mandela from prison?”
“On the eleventh. It’s amazing.” Grace linked her fingers and stretched her arms above her head. Her small breasts rose, taking my pulse with them. “It’s almost enough to make you believe the world is changing.”
“Do you think it is?”
“I do. I feel like I’m on the edge of a gigantic wave—with this crazy idea that I have some kind of control. I think that’s what attracted me to photography. It’s not about possessing things, or capturing them; it’s about control. This illusion that if I focus on the changes, literally focus on them, I can keep my balance. And be a part of what’s changing.”
It
took a minute for this to sink in. Once it had, I realized I felt exactly the same way. “Listen,” I said. “I like you.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Because I like you, too.”
“Okay, then, it’s your turn. Are you otherwise engaged?”
“I’m not. Right now. I was, back home. For a while. Not actually engaged, but living with someone. But it didn’t work out. I might as well tell you.” She drew a breath. “Guys get spooked around me. And not just guys. I have this weird thing . . . I’m sort of accident-prone.”
“Really?” It seemed hard to imagine.
“Really. Actually I have a reputation as a walking disaster zone. I’m not kidding. It scares people.”
“That’s ridiculous. It can’t be that bad.”
“No? You think? Okay. This is just the past year.”
Grace began what sounded, to my ears, like a practiced soliloquy. During ten months in Asia she’d been robbed four times: passport, travelers’ checks, everything. She’d spent two weeks in a Thai hospital, being treated for a violent allergy to a mysterious substance that turned out to be tamarind. Her weekend bicycling partner had run into a sacred cow, and was shipped home with a broken pelvis. On a trek to the Annapurna Sanctuary, Grace had stopped to shake a stone out of her boot; fifty yards up the trail, the rest of her group was hit by a landslide (no fatalities, but a lot of sprains and bruises). On various other occasions she had stumbled into a wasps’ nest, fallen through the boards of a Nepali outhouse, and watched an India-bound night coach careen off the road and into a rice paddy. On a recent river trip, the inflatable raft in front of hers had somehow burst into flames.
I listened with amazement, unsure whether to laugh out loud or console her. It wasn’t at all clear what kind of response she was after.
“At least you’ve come through in one piece,” I offered.
She snorted. “More or less.”
“No? What happened?”
She started to say something, but stopped. Her eyes, green in the candlelight, studied her plate. I wondered again about the lab accident she’d mentioned. After an uncertain moment, she shook her head. “I’m fine,” she concluded. “Anyway, it’s pretty weird. It’s hard, sometimes, not to take it personally. Like it’s some weird karma thing.”
“Your luck might change,” I said. She looked at me thoughtfully, and I reached past the soy sauce for her hand. “I’m not scared of you.”
“That’s sweet.” She let her hand be held. “I hope you’re right.”
I was being reckless. Her tales did concern me, but months of involuntary celibacy also had their say. We took a cab back to my flat and listened to Babar Maal for a while. There was chemistry between us, but a wavering as well, as if the smallest first step would commit us to a high-wire act. Finally, in the kitchen, I sort of cornered her near the refrigerator and stroked her hair away from her cheeks. She leaned back against the pale green metal. I slid my hands down to her shoulders and behind the base of her neck, beneath her collar. My fingers crossed the gristle of a scar. She flinched, but held my eyes. We kissed, lightly, and then deeply. Despite the Chinese food, she tasted delicious, but as my hands moved toward her breasts, she slid away.
“Slow down,” she whispered.
She didn’t seem angry; just protective. We kissed a few minutes more, but the potential turning point of the evening had passed. When she collected her jacket, I wondered if we’d even see each other again.
“I’ll walk you to a cab.”
The street was dark and shuttered, but a taxi had pulled up into a pile of gravel near the corner. I opened the door for her.
“Are you doing anything special this weekend?” I said obliquely.
“Shivaratri’s on Saturday,” she reminded me. “Are you busy tomorrow?”
I hid my surprise. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s walk through Asan. To Indrachowk. You can buy me a necklace.”
8
Nag Pokhari
FEBRUARY MORNINGS IN Kathmandu are bone-chilling but beautiful, draped in a milk-white fog. Women emerge from the mist, wrapped in woolen shawls, carrying brass pots and puja trays toward the neighborhood shrines. Cows bend over rubbish piles, nosing through damp paper and broken straw for wilting lettuce or rotten apples. Muted bicycle bells betray, with fading Doppler chimes, the vectors of hidden riders. From Nag Pokhari itself comes a steadier, more persistent ring: the monotonous clanging of the heavy brass bells flanking the stone Ganesh statue by the entrance.
It was Saturday, Laxmi’s day off. She’d be off regardless; today was Shivaratri, one of Nepal’s most important festivals. My didi would already be at the sprawling Pashupati complex on the banks of the Bagmati River, standing in line with thousands of other pilgrims for the opportunity to pay her respects to Shiva, the great creator/destroyer of the Hindu pantheon. I had never been inside the actual temple at Pashupati; entrance is forbidden to non-Hindus. But I’d glanced through the main gate, catching a glimpse of the gigantic golden Nandi that faces the central shrine. Nandi, Shiva’s mount, is a powerful bull; from outside the entrance one can see his anatomically correct hindquarters, with huge golden testicles gleaming like Super Bowl trophies.
Grace had gone home late. But I’d awakened early, and walked through Naxal to Snake Lake. Rarely did I enter the shrine. I’d just stand near the low fence surrounding the complex, watching the neighborhood kids on their way to school. They trotted by in packs, chattering in singsong voices, toting textbooks tied with twine.
Today, of course, there was almost no one about. The few people I saw were walking briskly north, toward Pashupati, offerings in their hands. From Naxal, it was a thirty-minute walk to the temple grounds. Grace would meet me here, arriving from the opposite direction.
Nag Pokhari—the “lake” itself—is a rectangular water tank, fed by aquifers and surrounded by a brick wall. Rising from the center is a tall column, crowned with a sculpted cobra’s head. At each corner of the pool, a fountainhead in the shape of a serpent faces the pokhari. The brass snakes are meant to spew fans of water in elegant jets, but fail to fulfill their purpose. This particular morning, three of the spouts weren’t working at all. The fourth issued a lame trickle, which drooled over its gold-plated jaw and into the water.
Overlooking the site is a row of dilapidated apartments. I wondered how old they actually were. Perhaps they’d been built when the sacred site was discovered, to accommodate devotees. When a new shrine reveals itself in a Hindu kingdom, things happened fast. I’d actually seen such a phenomenon in action. In 1983, two snakes had popped their heads out of a muddy little pond on the outskirts of town. Within a week the place was surrounded by refreshment stands and ringed with a continual procession of naga worshippers. The devotees arrived in the morning, poured their offerings of milk into the water, and waited until dusk, hoping to catch a glimpse of the serpents that had been seen to rise, like a Hindu caduceus, from the murky waters. When, after a month, someone provided lighting—a single incandescent bulb, suspended over the water—the place became a day-and-night attraction.
This Nag Pokhari may have gotten its start the same way: as a local phenomenon, like an image of the Virgin emerging in the moss of a Mexican grotto.
An old man, or so he appeared, walked around the perimeter of the tank with a long-stemmed net, pulling leaves and insects from the water. This was Ramana, the shrine’s attendant. He lifted his hand in greeting.
“How’s the fishing?” The fog muted all sound.
“Tik chha!” Ramana called back. “Very good. Yesterday I found a thong.” He flapped it in the air. “I’m looking for the twin.”
“I have some old shoes, but I don’t think they’ll fit you.”
“Bring them! I’ll put newspaper inside.”
Ramana returned to his scooping. I puffed on a bidi. “Tapai Pashupati janee?” I called out.
He straightened, and flexed his shoulders. “My wife is there, with my daughters. Me, I
don’t like it. Too many people. Are you going?”
“In a few minutes. I’m waiting for a friend.” Meaning, of course, Grace.
“Haus.” The groundskeeper took my statement in stride. But already, the word friend tasted funny. I realized that, pretty soon, I might have to start calling her something else.
YESTERDAY—FRIDAY AFTERNOON—we’d taken a cab down Kantipath to the junction of Kamalachi: the long, diagonal road leading through Kathmandu’s urban bazaar. The sun had slanted out of the narrow lane, and the air was cooling. A steady human tide, flowing up and down the street, took off the chill.
Grace held my arm as we strolled past the microdistricts that lined the street, moving toward Asan. It was a path that led us slowly back in time. Here, near the throat of the market, one could shop for shiny new Chinese bicycles, ready-made snow jackets, India-made transformers and fans. As we moved along, the imports gave way to local wares. Handwoven carpets and runners hung from the latticed windows of traditional Newari homes. Just below, popcorn and toy vendors pushed their carts past shops selling wooden lime squeezers and plastic pails.
We emerged into the frenetic confluence of Asan. The open tole was the hub of old Kathmandu. Six lanes, from all corners of the downtown district, converged here. The winter market was a mosaic of colors: red radishes, green onions in tight bundles, carrots so hilariously orange they might have been yanked from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. It appeared riotous, but everyone had their place: Saffron and chili sellers dovetailed against carts crammed with Indian shampoos and vermilion bindhi powder. Apple sellers shouted into the crowd, and bikes tilted between the hounds and cows that nosed through the castoffs. Asan was an ever-changing labyrinth, with a thousand possible centers.
“It’s medieval,” I said, not knowing where that idea had come from—and realizing, to my embarrassment, that the nearest thing I’d seen to this joyful chaos was the Renaissance Pleasure Faire in California.
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