Across the Spectrum

by Nagle, Pati

  When Mangai was sixteen, Sundar had married. Her mother, along with several aunts, had prepared the wedding feast. The bride and groom had stayed at their home for eight days, before taking the train to Colombo, to her parents’ home. Mangai’s mother had had her making the midday meals during the week following the wedding as well. Mangai had never cooked for so many before, and while she made enough food, there was always something wrong with it. After every meal, one of the aunts would point out, kindly, that Mangai really had to be careful not to put too much tamarind into the fish curry, or too little salt in the sambar. After all, with her looks, it was important that she be a good cook. None of those meals came out perfectly—somehow, she always managed to ruin them. Secretly, she was glad.

  But now she has been cooking for sixty years; she has become better than a good cook; she is the best cook for miles around, and everyone knows it. That is why the children huddle in the rain, why young Rani, fifteen years old, peers boldly through the window. The girl is eager to catch the police chief’s son, and Mangai’s cooking skills would be a potent lure. Mangai could tell the girl that this kind of cooking is not learned by watching, or even by teaching—that it is only the passage of time that grinds the lessons into the muscles and bones. But she cannot be bothered.

  Mangai pauses before starting the second dish. She undoes the top of her sari, pulling the loose end of the fabric back over her shoulder, down across her breasts. She tucks it into her waistband, leaving her upper body covered only in her thin white blouse, less constricted. It will be easier to cook this way, though that is not why she does it. She chops three more onions, chops them finely this time. As they sauté, she sets eight eggs to boiling; they will be ready when the sauce is finished. Timing, again. Cumin and mustard seed, but this time only turmeric and salt are added. The onions cook gently, caramelizing, filling the room with their sweet scent. Nothing to make her choke; eggs should be sweet and slick, they should slide down your throat as delicate and ephemeral as honey. She had made eggs for those bridal breakfasts; she watched Sundar’s bride swallow them greedily, the muscles of her slender throat shivering down. Mangai had made eggs every morning for the pleasure of that throat.

  The onions have almost burned. She must pay closer attention—nothing can be made perfect without the closest of attention. That is one of the first lessons. It is important to understand that onions cannot be allowed to burn for even five seconds—the slightest burn will coat the dish with an aftertaste that no amount of chili powder can disguise. Once things have started going bad, they are forever changed; there is no going back to that perfect moment, the one that could have been. Although sometimes, there may be a going forward. Burnt food has its own flavor, and sometimes, you can work with it, make it into something else that is, at least, interesting. But that is not her current goal. Today she is creating perfection, and the memory of it to savor. She pours cold water over the cooked eggs; she cracks their shells, slices them into the yellow sauce. She scatters golden sultanas over the top, and slivered almonds. This dish will keep well; she turns a plate over it and sets it aside.

  She stirs the potatoes. They are half done, and so is she.

  Mangai’s hands move to the front of her sari blouse. She undoes the hooks one by one, working from bottom to top. When it is entirely undone, she slips out of it, folds it neatly, sets it on a corner stool. Her breasts had always been small; now they are further shrunken. The cold still makes her nipples harden, and she can hear the children’s sudden whispering. There are no boys outside, only girls. That is one of the rules, strictly enforced, imposed by the parents, not by Mangai. Only girls outside, to see what they will become in time. They have seen this before—still they whisper, every time. They enjoy whispering, as do their parents. That is one reason why Mangai can live in peace in this village; she brings her neighbors more pleasure as present scandal than she ever could as past expulsion. It is at times like these that they have an excuse to tell her story again, what they know and what they guess. It will give them something to talk about for days, something other than the war. In a way, it’s almost a gift she gives them. Perhaps they know it. But she does not do it for them.

  She takes a bundle of leeks in her hands, four thick stalks. She cuts off the ends, then begins slicing them, again, paper-thin. The thinner they are, the better. Her mother loved saying that. When not a single family offered for Mangai, her mother insisted that it was because she wasn’t thin, not like her brother, her sisters. Small and squat and dark. Like a potato. Mangai lived at home until she was almost forty; then her father died, and her mother became unbearable. Mangai left then, bought her own small house with her share of her father’s money. Her mother had screamed her rage but had been too feeble to stop her. The house was many miles away, far enough that she never needed to see her mother again. She heard, years later, that the old woman had died.

  Mangai finishes slicing and ends up with two large bowls full of leeks. She washes them in cold water, sluicing off all the dirt that had lain hidden under the skin. It takes some time. This is the simplest dish; four ingredients are enough. When she is done washing, she fries the leeks briefly in ghee, then adds turmeric and salt. She covers the pan and lets them cook on a low flame.

  The leeks will take half an hour to soften, and all she has left to make is the fish, which will not take so long. But it takes time to unwind her sari from around her waist, pulling the fabric out of its tucks in front, spinning slowly as she unwraps each layer of fabric. She would like to dance, but her hip does not allow for quick movement. It aches in this weather, in the rain. The place where the bullet went into her skin, grazing the bone, feels twice as large, twice as sore, when the rain is pounding down, thumping against the ceiling, the ground outside. In America, it wouldn’t have been a serious wound. Sundar, or his wife, would have been treated at a white-walled hospital, half an hour and out again, all patched up, good as new. Here, she had lain on her dirt floor, bleeding until she lost the world and faded into darkness. Her servant woman away, visiting relatives—Mangai had been left alone, unprotected in that house. She will never know if her neighbors waited at all when they found her. Did they run for help right away, for Pettiah’s son, who was studying to go to medical school in India? Or did they wait, deliberate? A chance to be rid of the scandal in their midst. The woman who had lived with her servant, Daya, for decades, in a house with only one bed. A woman they had insulted, behind her back and to her face. Did they wait, or did they run?

  It doesn’t matter. Pettiah’s son had bandaged her up, and she had healed. She had refused to tell them if the man with the rifle had been Tamil or Sinhalese. They left her alone after that—her hip had, inexplicably, won her peace with her neighbors. It was not a small blessing, after all those years—it made days like today a little easier. She finishes her slow turning, the layers of fabric cradled in her arms. Mangai folds up the sari with care, not letting any of the wet white chiffon drag across the dirt floor, and places it on top of the folded blouse.

  She stirs the potatoes one last time and then starts the rice, lacing the water with saffron threads, a sprinkle of salt, and a tablespoon of ghee. She cooks the last curry standing in only her underskirt, a straight shift of unbleached cotton from waist to ankles. This is the most difficult dish—not because it is so complex, but because fish is fragile. It must be handled with care, neither over- nor underdone. All the preparation must be done first, the sauce built carefully. Onions and ghee, cumin and mustard seed, fenugreek and cinnamon, cardamom pods and cloves, chili powder and a spoon of the dry-roasted spice mix. Salt. Tomatoes and vinegar and tamarind pulp, turning the sauce dark and tangy, so that already it smells of the sea. The rice is boiling; she pauses to turn down the rice to a simmer, to cover the pot with a lid. Then she returns to her sauce.

  Add a little water, cook it down until it is almost ready—and then slide the cubed fish in, so gently. Make sure all the fish is covered with the sauce, then just let it simme
r until it is done, without stirring at all. If you stir too hard, the fish will break apart, will dissolve into fragments. Her fish are soon simmering; she stirs the potatoes one final time; they have been cooking for an hour now, and are meltingly soft. Mangai turns off the heat on the pot. The rice finishes, and she turns off that one as well. And then she is only waiting for the fish, counting the time in her head, watching seconds slide by.

  When Daya died, Mangai went to the funeral. The priest had carefully not looked at her as he spoke the final words. She had not cried, not in front of the villagers. That night, she rowed her boat out into the merciless sea; she lay down in it and let the water carry her where it would. But when the sun rose, she found that she was not so far out that she could not row back. She returned to the barren shore. Mangai gave away all her saris and began dressing in white. At first the seconds, minutes, and hours had seemed unendurable, but eventually she began taking pleasure in them, in every second that slid by with her still in the world. It was a quiet pleasure, most days. Quiet was enough. Most days.

  When the fish is ready, Mangai turns off the last burner. She takes a plate down from the shelf, battered tin. She fills a tin cup with cold water. She serves herself rice, fish, leeks, potatoes, eggs. There is enough on her plate to feed a man four times her size. She undoes the tie on her underskirt and lets it fall to the floor. Mangai carries the plate and cup over to the wall; she sits down, cross-legged on the dirt floor, with her naked back against the wall, with the water sliding down, running along her wrinkled skin, over her ribs, pooling in the hollows of her hips. She takes a drink from the cup, and a sharpened edge cuts the corner of her lip. She balances the plate on her bony right knee, and, shuddering with pleasure, she eats.

  The Fiddler’s Price

  Sarah Zettel

  Back in the dark ages, I got hold of an anthology called Demons! In it was a story by Manly Wade Wellman called “Oh, Ugly Bird!” featuring a Appalachian-wandering, guitar-playing hero called John the Balladeer. It knocked my socks off. I was instantly in love. I raved about it at the dinner table, and my father says casually “Oh, yeah, there’s a whole bunch of those.” I demanded to know where, and when I got my hands on the collection of “Silver John“ stories, I read it to the point of memorization. So when the opportunity came to be part of a Manly Wade Wellman tribute issue for The Tome, I leapt at the chance. The result is “The Fiddler’s Price.” Warts and all, it remains a favorite of mine, because it was truly a labor of love.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Yes, I heard that story about how Jenny Fletcher came to disappear. But I do suppose you know there’re other stories too. There’s the one her cousin told me. She says the trouble really started on a Sunday, after church.

  When Reverend Cook came out of the church, Jenny Fletcher tried to make herself small behind her mother. It did no good. The preacher spotted Jenny at once and headed straight for her, like he was coming down from some high place. His black suit and hat made an ink stain against the spring green mountains. She knew, with a sinking heart, his sermon was not done yet. He had something more to say about her dancing.

  Her parents didn’t see him right off. Pa was deep in conversation with Mr. Graves about the abolitionists stirring up trouble at the county seat, and Ma was hearing about the Perkins’ baby’s scarlet fever from Mrs. Graves. But the preacher’s shadow fell straight across them and they all looked up, except Jenny. She just studied the dirt and grass in front of her toes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fletcher, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Rev. Cook in his deep, educated voice.

  “Mornin’, Reverend,” answered her pa. “Fine sermon.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” said Reverend Cook, truly pleased.

  The man’s voice sings even when he’s just talking, Jenny thought. He’d be grand to listen to if he’d stop saying such fool things.

  Reverend Cook turned his dark eyes to Jenny. “I hope you listened closely, Miss Fletcher.”

  “Oh, yes, Sir. I harked at every word,” Jenny replied him with frosty honesty. She had, too. “My text today is from Proverbs, 11:22,” he’d said. “‘As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.’” From there he’d gone on about worldly women, the ones who carried on dancing and singing until they got cast into the fiery pit.

  “I don’t think you’re a bad girl, Jenny,” Reverend Cook was going on earnestly. He held up his bony hand which was clamped around the Bible book. “I know you’re a good child and you work hard and mind your parents.” Jenny felt her ears heating up. The whole congregation had collected around her family. “But your carrying on is going to dance you straight into the devil’s arms.” The preacher raised his voice up for everybody to hear. “You must find a good man and be to him a good wife. You must pray to your God for forgiveness and make yourself right in His eyes.”

  Then and there, something inside Jenny snapped so hard she was surprised the whole crowd didn’t hear it go.

  “Anybody says I ain’t behaved myself right at any dance is a liar!”

  “Jenny!” thundered Pa.

  “And as for marryin’,” Jenny barreled on. “If a man wants to marry me, he’d better be ready to dance with me. Yes, and dance as long and as fine, or I won’t have him for nothin’.” Ma gripped her arm then, so hard Jenny had to bite her lip to keep from gasping.

  “You will regret those words, Jenny Fletcher,” said the preacher softly. “God has heard you.”

  Jenny struggled to keep her mouth closed. She felt her parent’s anger burning against her back and she could hardly miss the whispers all around her. The Reverend turned his back on her and walked off. Her mother scooted by with a sour glare and went after him.

  Probably to apologize.

  “You wait here, Jenny,” ordered her father and he too stalked off, probably to get the wagon.

  I won’t take it back. I won’t, she thought as she stood there clenching her fists.

  “Mornin’, Miss Fletcher.”

  Jenny whipped around, ready to shout, until she saw it was only Tom Hawkins, pinched old Jay Hawkins’s big son.

  “Mornin’, Tom,” she said in as polite a voice as she could muster. “How’s your pa?”

  “Bit of croup. Got him laid up,” Tom answered in his soft, steady voice. “Heard what you said to Mr. Cook. You mean it?”

  “I said it, and I don’t break my word,” Jenny answered evenly. Her mother had come back and was still glowering. Jenny fought not to shrink in on herself. Her father drove up in the wagon and he too was giving her black looks.

  “’Bye, Tom.” Jenny left him standing where he was and climbed into the wagon. As they drove off, she saw he was not glowering, just looking thoughtful.

  But Jenny knew a scene was coming well before they made it home. Pa shouted at the top of his mighty lungs. If she’d been just a year or two younger, Jenny knew, he’d’ve beaten her backside black and blue. Ma had her piece to say too, of course, about wicked, thoughtless girls who wound up having to leave their homes in disgrace.

  Jenny held her tongue through it all, thinking, I don’t care. I said it and I won’t take it back. I won’t.

  But that night, up in her bed in the loft, Jenny prayed softly they wouldn’t forbid her from going to any more dances.

  So, when Matt Hodges came round to ask Jenny to Mr. Cooper’s barn dance, Jenny held her breath and crossed her fingers under her apron. When she heard Pa say yes, she let out a great, gusting sigh of relief.

  Thinking more of Matt’s ten acres than Reverend Cook’s nonsense, Jenny smiled with quiet satisfaction.

  The night of the dance came. Jenny put on her yellow dress and tied her raven curls back with a matching ribbon. Matt came to fetch her in his father’s buckboard and helped Jenny into it, all polite.

  But as he slapped the reins on the horse’s backs and urged them on, he gave her a wink and a leer that were anything but good mannered.

  “I hope you’re set to get married
, Jenny Fletcher. I’m going to dance you right off your pretty feet tonight.”

  Jenny sat there, stiff and prim despite the motion of the wagon. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

  The barn was already crowded when they arrived. It was the first dance of the summer and a whole county and a half worth of people seemed to be trying to cram into the place.

  Folks drifted around, talking comfortably and eyeing the cakes set out for later. Gold lamplight flashed on the pink, blue and burgundy of ladies’ dresses. The men were all done up in stiff calico shirts and their creased boots had been polished ’til they shone.

  At the far end of the barn, Harry Davis, the fat fiddle player, took a swig from the jug beside the cracker barrel he sat on. He tucked his instrument under all three chins and ran the bow down the strings one time before he struck up “The Red Wine Jig.”

  Mr. Cooper stood up beside Harry and called out, “All right, folks, find your partner and your place!”

  Matt took Jenny’s arm. The feel of a dare hung all around him. Jenny smiled and let him see she took that dare. They joined three other couples to make up a square set. Matt and Jenny had their backs to the fiddler, so they were the first couple, with Jenny as first lady.

  “Honors to your partner,” sang out Mr. Cooper. Jenny spread her skirt and bobbed a curtsey to Matt. The sound of music swelled her heart already and she itched to be moving.

  “Corners the same!”

  Jenny turned and bobbed to Al Rolands, her corner, and saw a gleam in his eyes that was all for her. That gleam warmed her like the music did and she smiled right back at him.

  “First lady lead up to the right!” called Mr. Cooper. “Right hand round with the right hand gent, left hand round with the partner! Birdie in the center and seven hands round!”