The Book of Chocolate Saints

by Jeet Thayil

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be a pussy.”

  They were high above Union Square. The windows were uncurtained and old snow lay on the sill. The park was a patch of forest green and the Virgin store a distant smear on the wedge between Fourth Avenue and Broadway.

  She said, “Besides, Xavier doesn’t care what I do with other men.”

  “You tell him.”

  “Sometimes I make up things to tell him.”

  “Will you tell him about this?”

  “What about this? There’s nothing to tell. I mean, what? We ran into each other downtown and had a coffee. You came by for a drink. We may or may not have sex. It’s all so commonplace.”

  “If you tell him, mention it was your idea not mine.”

  “Maybe it’s his idea, I come here with random men and women and he gets off on the details. Maybe if it’s not your idea you should go home.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  Goody stared at him until something left her eyes and her mouth relaxed.

  “He’s always telling me to sleep with other people and it always upsets me.”

  “And yet.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  “Here we both are.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s got less to do with you than with me. I can’t do meaningless sex the way New can. He’s got a gift.”

  “Is this his place or yours?” he asked.

  She got up and took her cargoes off, olive cargoes that stopped at the calves and hung in straps to her ankles. They were the seasonal variation. Women all over the city were wearing them in ways that went against the military meaning of the trousers, in lavender, pink, and black velvet, the fabric gathered at the bottom in pleats with ornamental D-rings and untied laces. She took them off and dropped them in a heap on the floor beside a blue vase and a camera. In a corner was a smooth sand-coloured rock the size of his palm. She dropped the trousers and picked up the camera. She wore white underwear that said ‘Girl’s’ on the front and ‘Football’ on the back. She adjusted the hair that fell across her forehead and regarded the discarded cargoes. She had small bruised feet.

  “Goody.”

  “It’s his place but I live here.”

  “He never comes here?”

  “Never. He says it’s sterile and American. He’s not about to walk in so why don’t you relax? The one time he did come in unannounced he was more embarrassed than I was.”

  “And what about the guy you were with? How embarrassed was he?”

  “So fucking typical, you old-school dudes. What makes you think he found me with a guy?”

  Dismas walked around with the empty glass dangling from his hand and then he put down the glass and stepped out of his shoes. He knew what she wanted, a group of objects that would tell a story.

  “The rock in the corner, is it a pet?”

  “I found it in Delhi. I carry it around sometimes for protection. Never mind, long story. What kind of name is Dismas anyway?”

  “Dismas, the good thief.”

  “Real name or you make it up?”

  “Dismas the black saint who was crucified with Christ but without the fanfare.”

  “Answer, real or not?”

  “My father’s name was Mahi. He was an untouchable and a poet, untouchable twice over you could say. My mother was a Maharashtrian Brahmin, rendered casteless after she married my father. According to the holy books the offspring of a Brahmin woman and an untouchable man is a Chandala, the most degraded of all castes. We’re not allowed to look at a Brahmin or wear anything other than the garments of the dead and the only property we’re allowed to own are dogs and donkeys. I dropped the name Mahi for many reasons irrelevant to this discussion, and you’re not interested anyway.” “It’s good when you talk. It helps me get better pictures. Sit on the floor with your back to the window.”

  “Your hair, I like it.”

  “It’s the boy cut, is what.”

  “Boy on top and woman below?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Ambiguous.”

  “Ambivalent, ambidextrous, ambitious, take your pick.”

  “All right then, ambiguous.”

  “Take off your shirt. Sit on the floor with your back to the window. You don’t have to be clever. You don’t have to talk at all.”

  He made himself another drink. Then he took off his shirt and sat on the floor with his back to the window. The apartment was heated but the window was cold and when he leaned against it goose bumps puckered his arms. They looked at each other. His eyes were level with her vagina and they looked at each other and already there was a sense of aftermath and separation, as if the act of sex would not bridge the distance between them.

  “If it’s okay with you,” she said. “I’d like to tie you up. Hello, I’m talking? Look at me not my vajing-jong.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “May I tie you up? It won’t hurt, I promise.”

  He thought about it. Tied up and photographed. What kind of tie, hog or dog? What difference did it make? In for a paisa, in for a pound.

  “What will you do with the photos?”

  She opened a closet stacked with coils of brown rope and chose a short length. It was soft on the skin, pliable and comfortable.

  “Asanawa, natural fibre,” said Goody. “I don’t know yet. Show them in some way, I suppose. Just so you know, the tie and knot denotes the status of the model. The rigger decides.”

  “And what status am I?

  “Not high, obviously, you’re a man.”

  The coil dropped on the floor with a soft thump and he smelled oil and hemp. She looped the rope around his torso, a strand above and below his nipples, then around his belly and between his legs, a strand on either side of his penis and two more around his wrists.

  “I’m using the classic single column tie and a lark’s head knot. I’m keeping it simple,” she said. “Make a fist.”

  With his hands tied behind his back he opened and closed his fists. He got down on his knees in his spot against the window and she adjusted the lens and fixed the shutter speed and shot three or four frames. She pulled her chair forward, scraping the legs on the floor until she was directly in front of him, and she took a picture from above, the lens pointing at his torso, shooting as fast as the camera’s shutter allowed. She untied him then and checked the rope marks on his skin. Satisfied, she took a last picture of his marked wrists and put aside the camera.

  “I want to watch you do it.”

  “Do it.”

  “Get high.”

  “There isn’t much to see.”

  “Show me. That’s where you go, correct? When you disappear into the restroom?”

  But when he emptied half a bag on his wallet and shaped it into two rough lines and rolled up a five-dollar bill, she wanted a taste. This is what she said, a taste. The apartment was dark now, the big window fogged at the edges, and she switched on a floor lamp that picked out the clothes and shoes and vase and made them elements in a frame. There was a hum of isolation in the room.

  He said, no, can’t do, but he thought, yes, I can.

  She said, “I’m not going to sit here and watch you turn yourself on. Give me a taste or leave.”

  “Seriously, you don’t want to.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  And that was all it took. He gave her a line and did one himself and they lay on the floor and said nothing, they faded out and in. He turned on his side and took her T-shirt off one arm at a time. She pulled it one-handed over her head. There was a sound nearby of a helicopter thudding against the air. She unbuckled him one-handed and slid the belt off and went to work on his buttons, but there was no intention or urgency in her actions and he wondered where she was in her head. Was she with Xavier?

  She said, “Don’t take this the wrong way but it isn’t drugs I want, it’s money.”

  “Money.”

  “
I’m a woman, you’re a man. You give me money, I give you sex. Fair and unexceptional exchange, I should think. As conventional as it gets in the Indian context.”

  “How much?”

  “How much do you spend on heroin?”

  “Ten bucks a bag and I buy five at a time.”

  “Bloody hell, in that case give me a hundred dollars.”

  *

  Yes because I’ve never done a thing like this before and I might as well do it right what do you mean you don’t have a hundred on you okay fifty or no go that’s my rock bottom going out of business cannot go lower price a girl has to keep her self-respect she can’t be giving it away can she I’ve been giving it away since I was a child and I’m not going to do it any more it happens when your parents aren’t qualified to be parents I should say parent since I only had the one my stepfather was pure predator nothing remotely parental about him people talk about bad fathers but they never mention bad mothers why is that listen you can’t kiss me I’ll save that for New I can’t help asking myself what I’m doing here I mean what and why am I doing I’m such a mystery to me sometimes I asked Garima my therapist if mothers were to blame for everything because they bring us here and abandon us and she said is that what you think and I said well of course that’s what I think why else would I be saying so my mother should have had her parenting licence revoked she shouldn’t have been given a licence in the first place I mean you know what I mean listen this is new for me I wasn’t always so easy but I caught on I did he goes off on his trips and it isn’t like he’s sitting in the hotel all evening watching television I counted the condoms in the bedside drawer I spread them out on the bed and he said they were all there but I told him to check the dates there were new ones and he certainly hadn’t used them with me and I knew I’d crossed that line into crazy lady territory I knew it and I stopped and now it’s sauce for the goose and sauce for the gander hey ho how do you do listen do you hear that like a foghorn like a big ship sailing up First Avenue looking for port I heard foghorns when I was in college in England foghorns in the night and it always made me lonely made me want to find a warm bar where people talked in the gravest of tones as if they were discussing confidential information but they’re not they’re not sometimes a guy tries to pick me up and he tries so hard I can feel myself losing interest I tell him listen the more you talk the less I want you shut up and fuck me fuck more talk less I like that about you you don’t talk but I can’t help asking myself what you’re doing here and what I want from you and what I’m doing here at least I question myself I weigh the answer I allow for the possibility of doubt I mean no man ever does that does he and I can’t help feeling sorry for myself sometimes this is super stuff it is God I’m stoned what’s your name anyway your real name you can tell me I’m discreet like that I won’t tell call me what you want Sakina no Saki Candy Lucky Lucky yes I like that too we could all use a bit of lucky but first can you give me the money how much is this baby forty is this a first instalment do you want me to take off my bra or leave it on what am I doing I don’t know I don’t know I’m so stoned on this super shit I can see why you do it the lure it makes you numb and beautiful invincible would you like me to suck your cockadoodle let me suck you don’t have to do a thing or do you want to fuck me when I’m asleep I’d like that give me more money later okay I’ll run a tab for you wait don’t unhook I’ll just push it up so you can do my breasts with my bra on that’s what you want I know do you like them you don’t think the nipples are too big they’re huge they’ve always been huge how come you don’t want to suck on this one I’ll tell you because it’s smaller all the boys go for the other one girls aren’t so mammarian they’re into pussy New is obsessed with tits big bigger biggest sometimes when he’s off somewhere and I don’t see him for days and then we meet and he isn’t grabbing me I know he’s been fucking stands to reason how could he not and if I look for it I find it dyed hair on the couch or the smell of perfume always some telltale cheap thing that’s the kind of woman he goes for or I’ll smell the funk on his beard I mean I’m queer you hear I know the smell of pussy take this off no oh okaay you want to fuck me with your trousers on you want to put your nice cock into me without taking off your trousers Jesus this is good shit but it makes you talk oh I’m going to shut up for a minute while I use my mouth on you I love boys they come so easy you don’t need to work your arse off like with a girl suck on him a bit ride him and he’s done it takes a while with this fabulous shit but you will come yes you will you’ll have an insect orgasm that’s what junk does right makes you an insect or an ant or something an insect getting its cock sucked sexistential insect oh nice do that I thought you said you don’t come with this stuff do that and I’ll come a hundred times I’ll have an insectile multiple I will we’re all insects some of us look humanoid is all but I’m not going to touch myself you know why I’m going to wait for you I’m so so stoned ducky and wet not feeling sorry for myself now am I you can’t kiss me you can slap me but you can’t kiss me you untouchable Chandala son of a bitch why why don’t you fuck me I want to be fucked on my hands and knees it’s my second most favourite position in case you didn’t know or whatever you want I’ll say yes I said yes I will yes

  He was paying her. He owed her nothing, no pleasure or consideration; and he didn’t get on top of her until she asked him to, asked once and then again. He searched her face as he pushed into her because he wanted to see some expression of cynicism or pain but she was absent from herself, passive, the aggression gone. He could do anything and she didn’t mind; and though he lunged at her for hours until the movement was meaningless except as parody, for hours, she didn’t complain or turn away but lay with him, breathing and solemn.

  Early the next morning Dismas stood naked at the big window and sipped from a glass of whisky and water. On a desk he saw pens in a jar and a bottle of black ink and a magnifying glass and a Polaroid print of Goody in a sari, a black and white image out of Bollywood that she was turning into art in the style of Xavier, with pen and ink. He remembered seeing the image in the apartment on Central Park West and thinking it was Xavier’s work and his heart jumped as the meaning of it came to him.

  She slept on her side, slept right through the racket he made getting dressed, but opened her eyes when he unlocked the front door and looked at him and went back to sleep.

  At the end of the month she moved back to the apartment on Central Park West and that was the end of the affair with Dismas Bambai, though affair may be too weighty a word for an entanglement that ran its course in a month or two. She’d moved in with Newton, she told Dismas, and they were thinking of visiting India, maybe staying for a time. New had been offered a retrospective for his sixty-sixth birthday and he wanted to make it definitive, the party of the decade. She said, why don’t you come? It will be fun. It was said casually and he wanted to respond in the same way, make an off-the-cuff comment about the weather or popular sport. But when he spoke it was to tell her that he had enjoyed being tied up, it felt like freedom.

  3.

  This is the way the future arrives, flying low and fast, on silver wings that set the sign of the cross flickering over the business district. On a day like any other, a day like no other. You are one of the hundreds, one of the thousands hurrying to your place of employment. Above you the tower warms its skin in the falling sun, its steel core braced, the tower and its parallel twin built a segment at a time to withstand history. So when the plane appears the mind perceives it first as art. There is no other way to understand the images that follow: the clear blue sky, the clean line of flight, the way the plane tilts in the final seconds, the inevitability of impact. Later he will mark it as a premonition, the starting bell of the twenty-first century. And he will talk about eyewitnessing two kinds of terror, Islamic and white American. What he won’t talk about is the woman, because it makes him ashamed that he could not save her.

  From a walkway by the river Amrik sees smoke high on the north tower and then
he hears the crash and a cloud of fuel boils into the sky. People stop moving, unable to supply a thread of logic to the scene: a plane-shaped hole in the side of the building. The first news van and television crew have arrived, a local station, and a police cordon is up, but where are the fire trucks? When the second plane appears the cameras are ready. He watches the aircraft’s path into the new world, the scorched unstoppable gleam of it. Around him people are trying to get away or they are frozen in place, their heads tilted at identical angles, and he reverses direction to skirt the block. He’s pushing his way through when the first tower comes down and people start to run.

  The crowd is roiling off the buildings, the helter-skelter office workers in suits and dress shoes, the restaurant workers and tourists. He sees two men in running clothes standing frozen in place. He sees discarded backpacks and a pair of high heels and a single sneaker. A man takes off his scarf as he runs and the length of white wool joins the other detritus on the sidewalk. A delivery bike lies on its side, its rear wheel spinning.

  The woman is the only one who isn’t running, that is the first thing he notices. Hold this, she says, one second, and she hands him a small camera on a strap. Her eyes are lined with black and there is a leather tote on her shoulder and she’s reaching for something inside when he hears a roar of bass that builds and holds and builds again. Advancing up the street is a solid cloud of smoke twelve storeys high, the colour of dirty snow. A heavy underground thump shatters glass all around them and the woman loses her footing and in an instant he loses sight of her.

  Someone screams in short evenly spaced intervals, a woman’s voice screaming, Mara, and there are shouts and sirens and his lungs are on fire. It isn’t easy to absorb the moment: people concentrated on one task, the pumping of legs and the taking in of air and the deflection of thousands of arrows of information flying in from every direction.