by CK Collins
“Doubtful,” Rika mumbles.
“But I’m the monster. We live in a strange world.” Like a curious headmaster, Sidaarik smiles and peers at Rika over pressed-together palms. “She detests him, does she not?”
“I don’t know. Always seems that way.”
“How is it that she fancies you, then?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”
“You’re slipping, Mr. Murai — and you were doing so well with the firmness. Is it a way of taunting the Colonel? You’ve other virtues, I’m sure. I can see it, though: she hates the man but can’t do anything about him — so she snubs him and the rest of the family whilst shining on the sensitive lad, the one who’s too soft.”
“She enjoys that it bothers him.”
“Nice I suppose. But so indirect. Petty. You see, I’d have had him executed. Promptly, publicly — an act of education. You’ve seen how we do it.”
“I have.”
“They like to compare me to Stalin. It’s unjust, don’t you agree? Stalinism is obsessed with production, with power. Material strength. It’s wonton. It’s atheistic. Hilm Hivaa could not be more different. We don’t want to own or re-make man, we want to undo the ruining of man. What we want is to make the world fresh and clean and pure again.”
A sprinkle of rain, warm and welcome in the humidity. Sidaarik looks skyward. “He did have talents. Stalin. The religious ones as well: Mohammed, John Calvin, Siddhartha. All brilliant in their way, but so wayward. Tragic how much human genius has been squandered on absurd obsessions. Imagine if Paul — here’s one example — imagine if Paul had devoted his talents to promoting the glory of Ashma and not some bizarre death cult. A cult so obviously destined for obscurity, but somehow he made it grow. The most amazing marketing triumph in all of history, don’t you think?
“A contagion. Crossing the oceans, infecting Liashe. Those priests, the greatest criminals in history, abandoning their sacred duty to Ashma. Our Faith, our birthright, the One Truth — perverted to accommodate the bizarre obsessions of Judea. We’re to worship a Creator of worlds who cares passionately about foreskin and yeast? We’re to feel respect for people who believe that three sums to one and who think that God can exist in a cracker? It’s madness.
“But I don’t despair. I am an optimist. People don’t believe it, but I am. The arc of history — and it is an arc — bends toward truth. It bends toward Ashma.” With an expression of genuine wonder: “Mr. Murai, the arc of history bends toward you.”
Rika looks away.
“I know. It seems ridiculous. You? Ashma chose you?” Sidaarik is a moment appraising him. “I thought I might need to explain it to you. But I can see that you know exactly what I’m talking about. And please know that I’m being sincere when I say that I grieve for what happened to your wife. Am I right to think that she knew? Before you did, that she somehow grasped Ashma’s will?”
“She knew something.”
“Amazing. And this woman, the bizarre American, did your wife tell you where to go, what to look for?”
“No.”
“When you met the woman, did you feel something that you would call love?”
“No.”
“Something more like, what would be the word — compulsion?”
“More like that.”
“Not love then? No affection?”
“No.”
“You were a vehicle? Not yourself?”
“I was not myself.”
“When you saw her, though — you knew.”
“I didn’t know anything. I just did. She was what I needed. I needed and I did. I couldn’t be apart from her. I couldn’t stop talking, emptying out my brain. Emptying out my . . . everything.”
“Fascinating, fascinating — not a vehicle, that was the wrong word. You were a vessel, is that it? You became something to be emptied?”
“Yes.”
“And it felt . . .?”
“Total. Perfect. Awful.”
Sidaarik nods thoughtfully. Respectfully. “You did well indeed getting her out of Ghaatasira.”
“Thank you. I don’t remember it.”
“Well, you were quite ill. A curious thing, that. But then there are so many curiosities.”
“Yeah.”
“I can tell you — you must be curious — she’s living in your house. In Jaya. And she’s been attacked. A vawdra, if you can believe it, just as in the story. Or do Runais not learn that story? In any case, we’ve begun looking after her. From a distance, careful not to alarm her.”
“That’s very considerate.”
“Well, I am determined — what’s that English phrase? ‘the right foot,’ yes — I am determined to get off on the right foot with her. More on that in a moment, but first I’ve a question, Mr. Murai. An important one.”
“Alright.”
“Have you been visited by a child?”
“A child?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t recall any.”
“Not necessarily real. In your dreams perhaps?”
“No children visitors, no.”
It’s not clear whether Sidaarik believes him. He uses the tip of his shoe to spell a word in the dirt:
I-K-I-D-R-I-S
“Don’t pronounce it. Please. Just tell me — is it familiar to you?”
“No. It’s not.”
Sidaarik eyes him dubiously and erases the word with his heel.
“We comprehend Ashma so poorly. We were closer once. But we’ve allowed ourselves to recede.”
“It’s true.” Rika has never considered the matter, but at this moment it feels like the one indisputable thing he knows.
“One failure follows another — the pattern through history. Colonialism retreats, a great victory, but then what replaces it? They call it ‘globalism.’ A vast, hydra system of connections in which all the world, this beautiful world, is reduced to property. Our land, our people, our resources, all commodified. The pursuit of pleasure reigns. Materialism reigns. The spiritual urge, what remains of it, distracted by these ludicrous religions. Clearly we deserve no further chances at redemption. And yet. And yet, and yet. And yet somehow — we have you and your American.”
“She’s not mine.”
“But she is. Mr. Murai, she is. You were chosen.”
Rika shakes his head. Sidaarik grabs his palm — not violently but with strength — and holds it open until a drop falls. “The riddle: What brought this drop, this one drop, to fall in this one place of all places — at this one time of all times?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, how could you?” and he gently releases Rika’s hand. “It’s beyond our knowledge. Is there a specific drop from the clouds that is destined to fall on a specific blade of grass? Is there a single blessed raindrop that is meant for a single blessed mouse? Do you wonder? Thousands of years, millions of rains, and then one day — the raindrop meets the mouse.”
He pats his own wet hands on the leg of his durna. “I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Murai, that you are that mouse. You know it already. And let’s be candid: your unique contribution has already been given. But — you can still be of help. You want to have a use, don’t you? Of course you do, everyone does.
“Now, you can’t believe that you still have a place in Jaya? After all the trouble you’ve caused. The embarrassment. And in any case — could you imagine resuming that same vapid life? After all that’s happened? Without your wife? No, it’s impossible. Your home no longer lies there.”
It’s true, it’s true, there is no place for him, there is no him. All that ever belonged to him belongs now to her. He would hide the truth from Sidaarik, but his curtains are too threadbare, he is a window of vacant panes.
“You will need to go to Jaya. A short visit. We’ll prepare you, of course.”
“Alright.”
“There will be many questions from your family and Mrs. Daar’s personnel. But I believe you have it in you to be a very compell
ing liar, Mr. Murai. And you just need to sustain it long enough to discuss things with the woman.”
“Discuss what?”
“The salvation that is available to her.”
“Why me, you don’t need me for that?”
“Well, I’m sceptical she would accept an invitation from me.”
“You don’t need to invite her, do you?”
“Yes but abduction seems a very bad way to begin a friendship. She appears to have no inkling of her gift. Isn’t that amazing? Well, I’m counting on you to explain it. You will describe what must be done, and she will follow you most happily. You will deliver her to the protection of Hilm Hivaa.”
“And what then?”
“You’ll be a family, of course. A happy family. Mr. Murai, there will be exactly one chance to raise this child in the correct way. He will have a mother and a father, as every child should. He will have security. And happiness. And he will have an education.”
18 February
* * *
Liashe, Masalay
The other novices like to complain about faculty meetings. Brother Carodai is no better, he brings papers to edit and can’t go five minutes without muttering a sotto voce sarcasm. Today he’s come with an anagram and makes no attempt to disguise it.
The First Minister proceeds through the agenda — not dull at all, in Tchori’s opinion, it’s nice knowing about the Basilica renovations — and then clears his throat. “Brother Carodai, might you favour us with your full attention? It is but once a month.”
“Simply taking notes, Minister,” Carodai replies. “I so want to capture your every word.”
Some snickering. They might not stick up for Brother, but they don’t mind being amused by him.
The Minister continues. An update on discussions (ongoing), with the Liashe city council vis-à-vis noise abatement. Two faculty recruitments officially opened. A formal accord being pursued (as ever) with the Sisters of Isaan. A new policy addressing the use of mobiles on University grounds.
Comes the penultimate item, listed as Survey on Religious Affiliations. “Your packets will have a summary of the Krepp Foundation’s most recent survey on religious affiliation worldwide. Note, if you will, that for the first time in the history of the survey, we find the number of Liashean Ashmanists abroad exceeding the number in Masalay proper. Long a treasured goal of the Bishop’s and a terrific landmark in the growth of our Great Faith.”
A round of applause.
“Of interest, you will note that the survey finds Liashean to now have surpassed Sikhism worldwide. By significant margin, you’ll see.”
Tchori tries to dissuade Brother with a look — what good can come of antagonising the First Minister? — but there’s no stopping him when he has that cat’s glint. “All very good about beating the Sikhs, Minister. But I’m worried about the Shintos. Are they within sight? Certainly we can catch the Shintos. They don’t even have a basilica.”
“As it happens,” the Minister answers with rigid jaw, “Liashean Ashmanism exceeded Shintoism several decades ago.”
“You don’t say? Why we’ve not been taunting them more . . .”
“Perhaps the Brother could consult the table if he has further questions.”
Only feeding the fire, that, because Carodai does make a show of perusing the list. “Oh dear, that is quite a lead for Anglicans. And the Pentecostals — now there is a religion on the move. How do they do it? Is it the songs? I’ve always felt we could have better songs.”
“Most unhelpful, Brother.”
“It is all most unhelpful, you’re right.”
Carodai folds his arms and the Minister scans the room for further sedition. “Let’s see then. We’re near the hour, but the Bishop has asked that we begin to include regular discussion of the Church’s charitable activities in Masalay and abroad.”
He shuffles his notes whilst several faculty consult the clock. Locating the right paper: “That’s right, yes, yes, remarkable stuff. Lest we neglect to note the invaluable work being performed by Brother Passua and the Orphans Mission. There is a lovely letter, just received from a woman of Jaya. The dear woman writes that she was last month on holiday along the Nova Coast and had fortune to become acquainted with one of Brother Passua’s former charges.
“There’s mention of a Sister Inurra, who is with the Mission’s school in East Anartha. I gather that great numbers of igmaki — so called, so called — are seen there. She does terrific work, the Sister, we send her our thanks. The dear woman writes that this lad has, remarkably, saved not only her life, but also the life of her unborn child. The attack of an animal and he sprang most courageously to her aid.”
Pausing for effect, the Minister looks about the hall. “We note with some interest that the dear woman, a Miss Voros, enjoys some association with the Murai family of Jaya. Some of you perhaps will know them as terrific servants of the nation, terrific friends of Liashe. We have, needless to say, forwarded the commendation to Brother Passua. It’s terrific work they do in the missions, absolutely terrific stuff, and we couldn’t be more proud.
“A testament, as well, to the good character of this dear woman — she has taken the step of bringing the lad with her to Jaya. Where she believes he will be a boon to her and her family until such time as another placement can be found. A lovely story, and I believe that does equal the hour. I shall look forward to resuming in a month’s time. All blessings from Ashma.”
As the staff and faculty file out, Tchori beams at Carodai, who has written three words above his anagram:
Murai
Jaya
Voros
Afternoon
Jaya, Masalay
I have to Callie said once that igmakis are unclean. It made her cross and she has since then been thinking about it. That is what she says to Bidaan as we sit in the yellow room.
She is wanting me to know that there is not such a thing as people being forever unclean. I say that I have been told that by the Sisters. And I know that through God I can find redemption. But she is not happy of that answer. She says I need to bury my past and be done with it already.
I am not wanting to dispute of Callie, Ashma. But I tell her that my evil is very great. More cross this makes her, and she is back and forth walking. There is then in her a decision. Through Bidaan, she says I must tell her the worst thing I have done.
I am wishing very much now that I had not spoken what I did. And the look of Bidaan is, Ephraim don’t be crazy. I say no, but Callie says I must of her show trust. Just as she has in me trusted.
———The worst you have done, Ephraim. The worst. I want to hear it and don’t you dare lie to me.
Ashma, how to choose a worst evil of me I don’t know.
But there is one evil I have been thinking much of. When I say to Bidaan that I will tell about melon cutting, he says to me he will not do it. Callie is a long time disputing with him. Comes he agrees. But he is then slow for finding the English and has a look of disgust. He does not like it that his tongue must touch my sins.
How I begin is saying about the cards we used for picking the cutter. The cards did not ever pick me. Bidaan is wanting me to say that I would have refused that the card. But Ashma that is not so.
All then was noise. Noise of music and noise of pain and mercy pleading. Noise of wagers being called. I have always in my wagering chose girl. I do not remember the reason of that.
To cut the woman’s melon in a single slice was praised. But most often iirik and strong orange and the thrashing of her made it many jagged cuts. It was of the cutter then to remove the baby and shoot the mother. Of girls I have cheered and taken what I won. Always we tipped the melon cutter.
Throughout my talking Callie has stood of folded arms and no expression. At me she will not look. Am I done she asks Bidaan. I say that I am done, and from me Callie goes of hiding tears.
Bidaan shakes his head and has nothing to say to one as sinful and stupid as me. Outside he goes to talk to
Callie. I am then seeing him pass the window to his bus. The door of the outside opens and Callie is saying come into the garden.
In the bright sun we sit.
To me she says an English thing. It is for me to look at her. It is very hard, but I do not look away. She is a long time and then she stands.
She leaves me for the inside. I wait. For anything she wants to do, Ashma, I am ready. When she comes back, it is with a pear. Beside me she sits and takes my hand. Callie bites the pear and then to me gives the pear. I take a bite and take her mercy and together we eat the pear.
