THAT EVENING, DEVIKA AND VALMIKI SAT ON OPPOSITE ENDS OF THE patio, facing each other. The newspaper Valmiki was reading shielded him. As she fingered the ruby and diamond pendant Valmiki had arrived home with, Devika reflected: Whatever he had done to warrant buying these presents was Valmiki’s business; half of her good-sized collection of jewellery, selected from the best available on the island, had been given to her by him for no reason she knew of. What she did know was that he gave his gifts sheepishly, the red glow on his face suggesting some sort of guilt; if she were to try to sort him out as well as Viveka, she would go crazy.
It was time for her to do what she excelled at. She hadn’t thrown a party in almost a year. She was willing to bet that people had noticed and were wondering if something untoward had happened in her family — if finances were down, or an embarrassing and hush-hush illness was keeping them low key, or if Valmiki and herself were fighting, if he was running around again, or if something unseemly had happened to her daughters. For some time now she had wanted to send a flare up into the sky that all was well. And now that she and her daughters had been presented with this unexpected jewellery, she had better do something fast. She would host a party, tell the world that the Krishnu family was just fine.
In the past she had been able to handle throwing big parties — not just handle them: she excelled at them. But in the last year or so, she had felt an exhaustion that made no sense to her. After all, she did nothing that required great physical energy. What she wanted was not so much to throw a big party as to host a small one that would bring her the same kind of glory and admiration as the big ones did. She reasoned that basically the same work was required for any number of guests from twelve to forty. It was marginally more work to adjust from forty to sixty-five or so. It was only when you started hitting seventy and above that you required the kind of stamina that at her age — no, not at her age, just these last few months — she no longer had. She had been told enough times that she looked a good decade younger than she was. She simply wasn’t feeling happy-happy. A party would brighten her up, unite them all in a common purpose. Well, maybe not Viveka; Viveka always found a way to sabotage their happiness. A party was a good medium. But she wouldn’t let Viveka run their lives or ruin hers. So, how many people should she have?
She looked around. The rain served the garden well. It was lush. The ferns and philodendrons had firmed up. They looked ripe. Bougainvillea didn’t flower in the rain, but its foliage, which formed a backdrop to the swimming pool, was at least rampant. She’d get Sheriff the gardener to snip off the old dry leaves, the gold filigreed skeletons interrupting running clumps of bright light green. She had the good taste, he the green thumb — although their friends always complimented her on having the green thumb. Sheriff would freshen up everything. If anyone could, it was Sheriff. The Antigua Heat spread like a red rash along one section of the fence. The flowers of the halyconia in a corner hung like the characters of a foreign language, and the baliser punctuated it like eternal flambeaux. Most of the work of the garden was done by nature itself. The lawn, as green as if it had been fertilized, was all that would really need looking after. It grew overnight in weather like this. Devika could imagine people standing on the thick carpet of grass. It was not necessary for them to actually notice every detail of the garden, but her tending to these details, or rather having Sheriff tend to them, would aid in relaxing her guests, give them the sensation of being in a paradise without knowing why. She liked that. Indeed, she preferred that her guests not know what it was, exactly, that made her parties what they were. She imagined the guests. Heard the sounds of their glasses tinkling with ice, felt their fingertips wet and cold from the glasses they held, the beading from the cold wine inside meeting the warmth of the Gulf air. Oh yes, cocktail napkins. Well, that would fall under the list of things she’d have to get. She wouldn’t have them monogrammed. Everyone was doing it, and it had become quite tasteless. The gullies that divided lawn from beds would have to be lined with fresh manure. She’d order that right away. And the food. It would be out of this world. Appetizers, a full meal, courses served one at a time. Or perhaps a buffet, with several choices of meat. Followed by desserts.
Then there was the choosing and renting of cutlery, and chairs, tables, ashtrays, vases for every table, napkins and tablecloths. The ordering of flowers and candleholders. Hiring a deejay, or a solo musician for the entire evening, or perhaps a lone pan player or a classical guitarist for the cocktails, and a small band for the rest of the evening. After-dinner drinks. Well, she’d leave the drinks to Val. All of this made her feel tender toward him.
Valmiki turned into a different creature when there were parties at their house. She felt unusually close to him then, more so than at any other time. She enjoyed his surprise and delight when, not having paid attention to the goings-on around him, on the afternoon of the party he would arrive home earlier than usual and see that she had pulled so much together seamlessly. This never failed to have the same effect. When he had seen how much she had done, how marvellous the house looked, the lighting and decorations just right, the tables set and only the candles left to be lit and the food served, he would invariably put an arm around her shoulders and say, “When did you arrange for all of this?” And she would suck her teeth, smile with triumph, and say, “All of this has been happening right here in front of you for the last several days, but you, you never notice anything.” He would ignore her comments because he would be thinking of how awed their guests would be, of how good she makes him look. He would take her hand in his and lead her to the bedroom. She would ask, laughing, “What are you doing? I’ve got things to do.” But she would follow him.
He would shut the bedroom door and she will face him, grinning yet protesting in a whisper, “But what are you doing? I am needed out there.” He will close his eyes, lick her lips, the inside of his mouth tasting sourly of instant coffee, and her words will rise hesitant, and hoarse, and muffled in her throat, “Valmiki, Valmiki, don’t. I’ll have to shower all over again. We can’t be long, Valmiki.” He will hold her tight to him, and with his body pressed against hers he will guide her backwards into the bathroom and he will shut that door behind them, too. She will lean her back against the door as she mumbles, “People will be here in a couple of hours, Valmiki,” and holding the collar of his shirt she will draw his face to her, but he will push her back, pull his face away from her, and staring intensely into her eyes, he will grab the cloth of her dress about her thighs and slide it up against her legs until his hands are at her panties.
She will feel triumphant, for in that moment he would be — he is — a man, taking her like that. That other thing that happened on weekends, that odd friendship with Saul, whatever it was, that nameless thing, was an aberration that she could not understand, especially in someone who took her like that. Aberrations were not to be encouraged, but very smart, busy people with heavy responsibilities should be allowed an aberration once in a while, and all that should be asked of them is that they do not flaunt it. In any case, perhaps she had incorrectly imagined what Valmiki and Saul got up to.
Valmiki would lean into her and position his hardened penis at her crotch. He would close his eyes, and with hers open she would see the red thickness of his stiffened tongue come toward her mouth. She would open her mouth for it, while in her mind a pleasing image flashed of the tables in the garden covered in white cloths, aglow with silverware, water glasses, silverplate bud vases that each held one red carnation and a sprig of baby’s breath, and candles that were waiting to be lit.
With one hand pulling the band of her panties down, and the other unzipping his pants, Valmiki would reach into his under-pants and retrieve his penis. His tongue would seem even fuller and harder in her mouth now, and he would already be panting into her mouth. She would push his tongue back out, pull her face away, and bend sideways to pull her panties down the rest of the way. She would unhook one foot, but leave the panties caught around the other. That act in itself, being free of the garment yet having a part of it touching one ankle, would be enough to cause her to forget about her party, to wish that it was not scheduled for that evening. Valmiki would brace himself with one hand, palm firm against the door, the other cupping the glistening head of his dark penis, while his knuckles, rubbing against her thick hard hair would open a slippery path into which he would guide it. She would move her pelvis in the circular motion he likes, and grip the band of his trousers, shove them down enough to allow her hands in so that she could caress his ass, and hold him against her. She would arch herself, try to brace herself against the door, and he would attempt to pull her legs up by her thighs. She would make small hopping-up motions as she tried to help him, but they would both realize they can no longer do this as easily as in their younger days.
She would think again of time, hoping the bartenders would show the precision she hired this lot for, and not have drinks ready so soon that they were served watery from long-melted ice cubes or so late that people would mill about with empty hands. She would push Valmiki back and, grabbing hold of his once hard and thick legs — how flabby he has grown, she would think with heightened affection — would slide herself down to her knees. Valmiki would arch his back and hold his penis, pulling and pushing at the skin of it until she had fixed herself on her knees and was ready for him. She would look at its weeping eye, wrap both hands around its length. She would look up at him to find him looking down at her, biting his lower lip, and she would open her mouth. He would throw his head back and mutter something, but she would hear only the word head and just then he would come in one small but forceful shudder. She would think of the white napkins again, folded in triangles, pinned to the table by an upturned shiny fork.
It will all go well, Devika felt — more confident now than even in her most confident moments before. It would be a party like none before. The best she ever gave.
Valmiki would slump back and lean against the adjacent wall and Devika would slowly get up, her mouth filling with the constant release of her saliva. Her face would be tense. She would turn on the tap at full strength and spit, again and again, rapidly into the sink, saying between her spits, “Oh my God! Look at the time. We have to hurry now.” She would rush over to the shower and turn it on full, then rush back to the sink and put toothpaste on her toothbrush and take it into the shower as she said, “I’ve got to shower right now. I can’t let my hair get wet. I am going to shower right away, what are you going to do?”
All of this Devika thought while watching the newspaper that hid Valmiki’s face. They had been married twenty — or was it one? — twenty-something years now and had held, say, six parties per year. That would be about one hundred and twenty-six parties. Perhaps more. The incident she had just now remembered so well had happened when Anand was a baby. Just that once. But she remembered it, and she still held the feeling in her body. What were the chances that he would ever do that with her, to her, again? In the past fourteen years she and Valmiki had had sex once, and that once was seven years ago. Perhaps every seven they would have sex and a round, or a bout, of it was pending. Perhaps it would happen just before the new party she wanted to host.
What did Saul and his wife do? she wondered. His wife, what did she do? Women from those classes had more resources. They could fight in public, they could let it all out, they could leave or throw their husbands out on the street for several days or for good, but women like Devika had to behave themselves, take it all and smile in public and defend their husbands even if they were tyrants or bastards or useless in the privacy of their homes. Well, it wasn’t exactly so anymore. Times had changed. Younger women from her class weren’t putting up with what their mothers did. But she was too old now, and even if it was imaginable that she could leave the man hiding behind his newspaper she wouldn’t know how to begin life afresh. She didn’t have those kinds of skills. Leaving one’s husband was done when the children were small; that is when she should or might have done it. But time was not on her side then. Or now. She wouldn’t have left the children, and she wouldn’t have been able to take them with her. Do what with them? She had done the right thing. And look at her now: sitting on a reclining chair on a patio surrounded by a garden that looked like it came right out of a home and garden magazine. And soon she will go into her house and sit down to a dinner prepared by her cook (whom she did have to teach everything, but the cook learned well and fast) and eat off china that was bought on holiday in Italy, and she wouldn’t have to wash a dish herself afterwards. The pendant around her neck was the least of her gifts.
Perhaps Saul was different, and was able to do it with his wife as well as with her husband. She didn’t even know for certain what her husband and Saul did, and she didn’t want to be sure of any of it. The harassment of not knowing was better than certainty. There had always been talk of some wife or the other fooling around with her husband, but she felt disdain for that sort of rumour. She was the plug in the hole of their marriage and family life. If she were to pull out, everything would come tumbling down. And her reputation (she couldn’t bear the thought that anyone would know that she had married a man who, although he was known for his affairs with women, actually preferred the company of other men) would fall with it. No one knew how strong she was, and that aloneness was her burden to bear. Valmiki, sitting just some feet away from her, had no idea that such thoughts filled her head.
Devika had once met Saul’s wife in the Mucurapo Street Market when, in an unusual move to tour the local farmer’s market, she had accompanied the cook there. The cook had gone off to make a purchase of ground provisions and seasonings and had left Devika in a clean wide thoroughfare, watching the commotion of the market, which was very different from the quiet supermarket shopping she knew. The chauffeur stood like a sentry, a decent distance from her. Saul’s wife came up behind her and said, “Mrs. Krishnu?”
Devika hadn’t known who this person was.
“I am Saul Joseph’s wife,” the woman explained. “Saul is Doctor’s good friend.”
Devika’s instinct was to be gruff, to ask this woman what she wanted and tell her to keep her husband away. But the softness of Saul’s wife’s voice, her manner and warm smile, stopped her. She said only, “Yes. I know of him.” Surely this woman didn’t encourage or approve of the kind of man her husband was, and so, naturally, Devika would try to be civil. After all, the two of them were in a quandary together.
But Saul’s wife blurted, as if they were in the middle of a longer conversation, “Well, what to do? Just look at our crosses, na. You and me, we in this thing together. You know what I am talking about, eh?”
Devika did not mean to answer, but, in an attempt to discourage any lengthy explanation she nodded, albeit tersely.
Mrs. Joseph leapt at the opening. “The consolation is that the good Lord gives us no more than what we are capable of handling, not so? Take a look at me, Mrs. Krishnu. I am managing, you know. I know women living right on my street — my short street have two of them — who don’t come out they house for days because they don’t want nobody to see how they eye black or they lip bust. Me? I don’t have a mark on my body. I am not starving and I have a roof over my head. I have plenty to be ashamed of and to hide but I also have much to be grateful for. Life is a blessing itself. How you managing?”
Devika’s skin burned with embarrassment but there were no words to hurl. This woman had a point. She was, however, incensed by the woman preaching and commiserating in such a familiar way, as if the two of them — she had used the words you and me and us — had to stand arm in arm, as comrades, and bear the whole nonsense. Perhaps — but it wasn’t for this woman to make a side out of them. Condone it, is what Saul’s wife seemed to suggest. How dare she ask how I am managing? Devika had thought. She was livid. Imagine talking like that about women being beaten. Of course, she herself knew of one woman in Luminada Heights whose husband, one of the more well-known businessman in San Fernando, beat her so much and so regularly that she, too, hardly left her house. That woman wasn’t the only one from their social world rumoured to suffer such abuses. But this sort of thing was not something people chatted about so unabashedly, and especially in a public place such as the Mucurapo Street Market. What people did behind their closed doors was their own business. Not hers. Devika was nervous about how much the chauffeur had heard, and what he would have made of it. She said, “Look, Mrs. Joseph, I have no trouble bearing my own burdens, thank you. In fact, I welcome them. I can’t stop to talk now, I have to see what my cook is buying.” And she marched off in the direction of the cook.
But the words came back to her now: I don’t have a mark on my body. I am not starving and I have a roof over my head . . . I have much to be grateful for. And to those words she added, Even Valmiki. And my troublesome daughter. Yes, she would show her gratitude with a party, by doing what she did best.
Organizing the details was the easiest part of all. She would have to hire extra help — servers, bartenders, one person dedicated entirely to washing up. But managing people, getting them to do exactly what you wanted them to do, required stamina. No matter how many times she might tell and show them how a particular task was to be done, she knew that unless she stood there watching their every move, they would do it how they liked.
And there was, of course, Viveka’s attitude to be dealt with. While Vashti liked to dress and to preen, to come out and mix with guests — sometimes a little too long into the evening for Devika’s liking — it was difficult to get Viveka to wear a dress, to put a little makeup on her face, even just some lipstick, much less make a polite token appearance. Viveka would bury herself in some novel or other book in the study and remain there for most of the evening, going to bed early without saying goodnight to anyone. She didn’t seem to be shy, and in general she wasn’t unsociable. She was simply, to Devika’s mind, difficult. There were moments, Devika admitted — to herself only — when she was relieved that Viveka didn’t show herself. She made hardly any effort to make herself attractive, and after what had happened with that Bedi girl, living like a street person on the promenade, Devika worried about her own daughter. She would not form a sentence even in the recesses of her mind to say what it was, exactly, that worried her or why. The only words that come to her mind were, Wives know what their husbands won’t tell them, and there isn’t a thing that a mother does not already know about her child.
THE SUN WAS JUST GOING DOWN AND THE PATIO WAS AGLOW IN AN orange light. The electric patio light was switched on in anticipation of the usual speedy nightfall. Valmiki reclined in the wicker chaise-longe, his feet aimed directly at Devika. If he hadn’t turned the pages of the paper once in a while she would have thought he had fallen asleep. He raised his lower body, the left side, a couple of inches or so off the chaise, and there it hovered for a good few seconds. He would have looked up at her with a lame and apologetic smile if there had been an accompanying sound or a foul scent. But since neither emanated, he lowered his body and continued his reading. Animals had better scent perception than humans, Devika reckoned, for the birds in the four cages that hung from the patio roof, one sporting a Mohawk-like arrangement of feathers on its head and bearing a name she couldn’t pronounce suddenly became ruffled and hopped about in agitation. The newest addition scuttled defiantly on the cage’s metal tray, nervous and distressed. Valmiki shifted his body again, this time into a more comfortable position, raising one leg at the knee, and tucking the foot of that leg under the thigh of the other, as if to warm it there.
Devika watched him, wanting to remind him of her achievements as a hostess, as his wife. Wanting him to put down the paper and come to her, take her hand, and lead her to their bedroom, or better yet, to their bathroom. She loved it when he or the children remembered one of her parties and went on and on about what a terrific hostess she was. But that rarely happened. It’s different for him, she thought. If he needs a little boosting he will talk about an occasion when he rewired a lamp or did something else that was particularly remarkable, such as repairing a spindle that had come undone from the back of a dining-room chair. These were not skills he had honed by making a practice of doing repairs around the house, but one-off things he would impetuously jump to when the mood caught him. They were able to afford the cost of handymen and trades-persons to do repairs and make additions or alterations, but saving money was not in Valmiki’s mind at these moments. If Devika were asked, she would say that God alone knew what his motivation was. But she had her suspicion: he wanted to be the man about the house for his daughters. She wished that he would stick to prescribing medicine for them when they had the flu or a gastrointestinal problem. Then he was not man alone, but a god to his daughters. On the other hand, more than once his repairs had to be redone by a professional tradesperson called by Devika — without Valmiki’s knowledge. Still, when he wanted a boost, he would make a casual reference to one of these tasks, and Devika and Vashti — seldom Viveka — never failed to rise to his bait, and in no time at all he would be the centre of their conversation, both of them affectionately extolling his cleverness and teasing him about his “unusually innovative” techniques.
This had happened just the day before, here on the patio as they sat exactly as they did right now. Valmiki had begun with, “Phil Bishop has been on my mind lately. I don’t know why. I wonder how he is doing. The last time I saw him was at the Medical Association convention three months ago. He was there with his wife.” And he had no cause to say anything more, for Devika recognized the pattern and was hooked by habit. “Yes, he was there,” she piped up. His shoulders relaxed in gratitude. Devika continued, “I didn’t speak with them, but his wife waved at me. I haven’t seen them since. That was the night you gave that speech about the necessity for a health insurance plan for the elderly. People are still talking about how well you spoke. I met Millie Morgan in the grocery yesterday and she said her husband Phillip says all the time that you’re one of the few doctors in the country who is a true visionary, and that it was too bad that you were such a good doctor, otherwise he would tell you to form your own party and enter politics.”
Devika said all this with a certain quiet pride in how well she knew Valmliki, how well she knew how to handle him. But in an instant, as if a coin had been flipped and its other face revealed, her delight soured when he retorted, “So, do you think I might make a good politician? Can you imagine being the wife of the Minister of Health? Or Her Excellency Lady Devika Krishnu, wife of the President?”
The words that pooled in her head were: “Wife of the homosexual Minister of Health, you mean.” The words she let fly were: “What? You’re not serious? Don’t let Phillip put any nonsense into your head, please! I am not interested in any sort of public life where people would know my business even before I knew it. I don’t want myself and my children subjected to any sort of scrutiny, thank you. People here are too damn fast, and gossip much too much. Not a family doesn’t have a skeleton in a closet, but in this place people like to clean out other people’s closets before their own. Your affairs are one thing, you might not mind people talking about those, but there are other things I will not be able to tolerate in public. I don’t give a damn what people say but I do not want my children embarrassed, thank you. I have no aspirations to be the wife of a politician. Not one bit, but thank you for asking.”
Valmiki had sighed. His eyes had hardened, and he clenched his jaws. Seeing this, and with her tirade ringing in her own ears, she had added a more positive spin, “Politicians don’t even make the kind of money you do, Valmiki, unless they’re doing something they shouldn’t be doing. You make enough money and do enough good from where you are. You don’t need anything else, and I and the girls don’t want more than we already have.”
He had swallowed, and she took that as reconciliation. But she could not leave well enough alone. In a voice low and weary, she had asked, “I don’t know why you have to be so ambitious. What is wrong with where you are now? What more do you want? We have it good here, Val. You have provided us with more than most men can give their families. Everything is not ideal, but no one is complaining. No one has a perfect life. Some people have it damn hard. I know you would have liked a different life, but you would have had to stay abroad, given up this place. Given up your past, your history.” She knew she was talking to herself as much as to him, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to hear the words even if they came from her own mouth. “Look, just leave well enough alone and let us try to be as happy as possible in spite of everything. It’s from you that Viveka gets all her ideas about being more than she needs to be. Let’s just be happy as we are. Can’t we do that?”
He had grunted, “I wasn’t even serious. There is just no joking with you these days.”
“Well, I thought you were serious.”
“And what does Viveka have to do with all of this? What good is it to drag her into this?”
Devika didn’t answer. Seconds, and then a minute passed, and still she answered his last two questions only in her imagination. He closed his eyes. When he did this her blood boiled. She hated being shut out. She simply couldn’t let him have the last word, but she made sure that hers were as caring as she could manage: “You know, Valmiki, you don’t complain about things as they are but you always seem so remote, as if you’re living in another world.”
Now, Devika wondered how much of last evening’s acrimony had stayed with him. She would steal into his quiet and make an offer of some pleasantness. She would tell him she wanted to have a party. Perhaps the pendant Valmiki had given her this evening was not an indicator that he had done something wrong today but an acceptance of her words from last night. An apology, an admission. She would accept these without mention of any of it. Even he must agree that a party would do them all good.
“I want to have a party of my own. We haven’t thrown one in a good while now. What do you think?”
“What do you have in mind?” Valmiki muttered behind the paper. He had not really been reading it, contemplating still how close he had come that afternoon to shooting a dog.
“Not a sit-down. Something bigger. With a live band. Like we used to have.”
Valmiki closed the paper, rested it on his lap, and looked at her quizzically. “Am I forgetting something? Is there an occasion?”
“Have we ever needed one? But no, there isn’t one in particular. I just have an itch to organize something. Dinner, dancing. A good old-fashioned fete.”
He folded the paper, the rustling of it at odds with his pensiveness. He dropped it on the terrazzo floor. She expected him to recall a very particular one of her parties — not the one she had minutes ago remembered, but the one a while later that had exploded into a scandal without parallel. How could he not recall it? It was at that party that the nature of his relationship with Pia Moretti was made perfectly public. It had been a great party otherwise, later talked about for many reasons.
The complication had first arisen on a Sunday thirteen years ago, in the days before Valmiki spent the better part of his weekends hunting with Saul. Valmiki was down in the living room that day, trying to mount brackets to one of the concrete walls. He intended to erect three shelves to hold his growing collection of beer steins. Shelves, he told Devika, that might one day be encased, glass doors attached. He described to her how he could see the completed thing in his mind: the cedar stained to mimic mahogany, gold hinges, clasps, keyhole, and knobs on the doors. He could imagine it there off to the side, a thing of beauty. But Devika knew that he had no idea how to build it, other than to nail brackets to the wall and set pre-cut slabs of wood on the brackets. She reminded him that they could afford to buy a shelving unit or a cabinet, or even hire a carpenter to do it quickly. But Valmiki wanted to build it himself. He wore the tool belt Devika and the children had given him that Christmas past. He wore the belt low, like a gun belt, and from the leather holster he would pull the hammer out by its head and aim the handle at Devika or the children. It made them all laugh, and even though Devika had no confidence in Valmiki’s meagre abilities, it pleased her that he enjoyed wearing the belt and fooling with it. During the initial spurt of fixing things, he had taken off the light switch plate in the living room and replaced it with a decorative one. When he finished, the plate was askew. Devika asked him to straighten it, so, a little peeved, he removed it, and put it back, swearing that to his eyes it was fine. She shrugged, twisted her mouth in small despair, and left it at that. And soon she became accustomed to these halfway measures and left him alone to enjoy this play that kept him in the home, close to them all.
That fateful Sunday, Devika could see that Valmiki enjoyed being watched as he imagined the shelf. He stretched his hands and peered through the set square he had made with his fingers. He tried to draw it on paper for Devika, but his lack of skill left her clueless as to his intentions. He said to her, “Honestly, I know what I am doing. Here on paper it is exactly as I want it. I don’t know why you can’t see it; it’s so clear.”
Devika was not convinced, but accompanied by Anand, who clung to her, his nose runny as usual, she sat in the same room, not contradicting in the least, but picking up the nails that dropped from between Valmiki’s teeth or from between his fingers as he tried to hold them against the resistant concrete, or the hammer when it fell, and it fell often, or the tape measure that more than once sprang hard out of his hand while he awkwardly perched on an upper rung of the ladder.
That is where he was that Sunday when the telephone rang. Devika heard Viveka answer it from the hallway. She had taken to rushing to answer the phone before anyone else could, delightedly blurting out, “HelloDr.Krishnu’sresidencewho’scallingplea se,” her seven-year-old voice and greeting attempting to emulate that of their housekeeper. Devika and Valmiki looked at each other, rolled their eyes and smiled. Viveka hopped into the living room to announce that it was a lady wanting to speak to Dad. Devika said, “Did you ask who was speaking?” Viveka became shy. Yes, she said, but I can’t say her name. It is the new lady. She speaks funny.
Valmiki began to descend the ladder. Devika asked him who that would be. He seemed perplexed. “I don’t know. A lady who speaks funny? I wonder if it’s not the people who moved in up the road a couple months ago. The ones in the house with the front porch.”
Devika asked, “Are they your patients now?”
“They came once. She had something wrong with her back. I sent her to see Peter. I think he’s seen her already, but I haven’t spoken with him since.”
“But I think I have seen her. What’s wrong with her back?”
Valmiki didn’t answer. Devika carried on, “He is a painter, or some such thing? There is a sign on their gate. They have a Spanish name, a name with an accent, I think.”
Valmiki half-smiled and muttered, “Italian.”
Devika continued, “The sign says he is a house painter, I think. I wonder if he is any good. What’s the name, again?”
As Valmiki made his way out of the room to take the call in his home office, he said, “Mani and Pia Moretti.”
“Pia Moretti. Hm! That really is a lot of syllables,” Devika said, opening her eyes wide as she looked at Viveka. Viveka drummed her small hands on the coffee table in time to her repetition of the name: Pia Moretti, Pia Moretti.
Valmiki returned some minutes later to say that he had to make a house call, and oddly, it was not as a doctor but as a plumber. Mani, he explained was not at home, he was working on a house where there was no phone, and the Moretti kitchen faucet, which had already had a small leak, was suddenly beginning to gush water. The faucet, Pia worried, was likely going to pop right off the housing any minute.
Devika was puzzled. “I don’t understand this at all: you’re on a first-name basis with every Tom, Dick, and Harry! And I don’t understand if she is having a plumbing problem why she called you.”
Valmiki’s testiness when he responded —“Oh, God, Devika, she is new in the country, hardly speaks the language, and doesn’t know any other neighbours”— put her suddenly on edge.
“She obviously doesn’t have any trouble communicating with you. And you, all of a sudden, you know about plumbing? Well, that is a good one.” She wasn’t laughing.
“Well, it can’t be that big a mystery,” said Valmiki. “I mean, you just have to shut off some valves — they shouldn’t be hard to locate — close off the main, tighten a few things, and turn it all back on. With this handy little belt you all gave Dad, Dad can accomplish anything.” He winked at Anand, and walked past Devika saying, “I think you need something like washers. We must have washers somewhere in the toolbox, and that stickyish white tape — plumber’s tape. I’ll go look for them.”
Devika snapped, “So, what about lunch? It is Sunday. What about Sunday lunch at home with the family?”
“Her house will be under water if I wait. I’m already taking too long in leaving. Why are you being so difficult suddenly?”
“Well, why don’t you call our plumber? I mean, what on earth can you do for her? Here, I will get the number.” She made a step toward the hall where, on a small table, her address book rested.
But Valmiki leapt at her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to him. “Hey! Let me at least try. Besides, I will get there faster than he will. Look, don’t make a big thing out of this. I will be back as soon as I am finished.” He put his palm on her cheek and looked into her eyes. “In any case, I have seen plumbers do these things before, right here in our house. I can at least try. I will learn something at the very least. I’ll eat when I get back. Don’t wait for me. And don’t worry.”
All he had to do was touch her face and look at her like that, and Devika gave in to him, even when she didn’t totally believe him. In a softer, more conciliatory tone, she said, “Well, just don’t go and break anything, for God’s sake, and then find that you end up paying their plumbing bills.”
Devika had decided that she and the children would wait until Valmiki returned from his plumbing mission so they could all eat together. But after an hour the children became cranky with hunger, Anand crying in a low monotone wail that made her want to run out of the house, and so they ate without Valmiki. Devika took her sickly boy to nap with her in her bed. After he had fallen asleep, she went out to the back gate and looked up the road. She could see the fence of the Moretti house, but the house itself was obscured by the one before it. She went back inside, to the bathroom attached to her bedroom, and closed the lid on the toilet seat. She sat on the lid, and lit and smoked a cigarette out of view of the children. It made her eyes burn and her throat ache, but it had a calming effect. She thought of her two girls. Vashti was in the study combing the shiny yellow synthetic hair of one of her dolls. Viveka was in the backyard, trying to catch butterflies and grasshoppers with an aquarium fish net.
What Devika didn’t know was that sometime later Viveka had taken it upon herself to go up the road to look for her father.
Later that night, as Devika and Valmiki and the three children sat at the dinner table, just about to tackle their dessert (Valmiki had finally returned in time for supper), Viveka asked Valmiki why, when Pia Moretti was groaning, he had continued to lie so long on top of her.
Devika stopped breathing, She stared at the tip of the fork in her hand.
Viveka waited for an answer from her father. Valmiki glared at his daughter, but in his peripheral vision he was observing Devika.
She put down the fork slowly and reached for her glass of water. She gripped the glass. Valmiki gripped the edge of the table, bracing himself against his chair. But Devika simply lifted the glass, as if, oddly, to offer a toast.
Viveka whined, “Tell me, na, Dad. What were you doing?”
Valmiki sat up briskly and lifted his glass to comply with Devika’s raised one, but Devika merely brought the glass to her pursed lips and sipped the ice-cold water, thoughtfully. Valmiki was spared having to answer to Viveka’s question when Devika, in a chillingly soft voice, said, “I need to have a party. I need to have a big party. Right away. With a band. Food. Every single person we know.”
Valmiki lifted his glass higher and said, “Yes! What a good idea. I’ll drink to that!” and Viveka immediately forgot her question.
“WHO DO YOU WANT TO INVITE?” VALMIKI SAID, INTERRUPTING Devika’s reverie.
“The usual, and others whom we haven’t entertained as yet but owe an invitation.”
Their chatter was interrupted by the sound of the back gate being unlatched. They looked at each other puzzled, as no one was expected. Devika sat up, pulling the skirt of her dress over her knees. Valmiki instinctively checked the zipper of his trousers and stood up. There came a friendly rustling of leaves from the bird of paradise shrubs that crowded the path leading from the gate to the patio. Devika hoped, even as the thought unnerved her, that it was Viveka returning from her day at the campus library.
A man’s voice filtered through the shrubbery.
“Uncle? Auntie?” It was Nayan Prakash, their good friend’s son. His family and theirs were not related by blood, but like any decent young man he still called them uncle and auntie. Only this past month Nayan had returned from five years of university schooling in Canada, and he returned a married man.
Nayan rounded the garden path, followed by a slight white woman — the woman people were already talking about. Until three weeks before his return, Nayan’s annoyed parents had informed Devika and Valmiki, no one, not even they, had known of the presence of this woman in his life. Worse, he had married this foreigner, this stranger, a Frenchwoman, without their knowledge. No, it wasn’t a shotgun thing. The only sense they could make of it was that it was the passion of youth, impetuousness, the influence of North American ways, of that kind of culture, with its lack of consideration for family and for what people might think and say. They weren’t pleased, they felt obliged to express explicitly. They had had no hand in choosing this woman. She certainly would not have been on any list of possibilities for their son. (Devika had later told Valmiki that she almost felt that Nayan’s parents were apologizing to them for him having married this woman. She had itched to assure them that neither Viveka nor Vashti were upset when they heard he had married.)
This woman, the Prakashs had carried on, eyes wide with wonder, was white and not a Hindu, and English was not her first language. She didn’t even speak it well. They didn’t know a thing about her family — what class she came from, which, they were quick to add, was not the most important thing, but it was something, wasn’t it? What about her and her family’s medical history? They knew nothing of this, of any madness or hereditary diseases. And what was the matter with Nayan, in truth, for he had never spoken a word of French before meeting her? And still he only knew a handful of words — and she a handful of English — and the whole thing just drove them crazy, especially as they lived all together in the same house and had to listen to this tortured back-and-forth quarter-English, quarter-French, and-the-rest-I-don’t-know-what between the two of them. And how many parents had spoken with them in the hopes that their daughter might marry him? Some of those young women had steadfastly refused other shows of interests. Well, even if they were after the money, at least they were known families, Hindus — and regardless of class, this above all else was important.
There had been talk, not idle Valmiki and Devika could see now, that Nayan’s wife was a remarkably beautiful woman, in a glossy, foreign-fashion-magazine kind of way. This had not impressed Nayan’s parents but had rather irked them. Valmiki and Devika, on the other hand, were immediately impressed. Before Nayan could introduce them, Devika had already taken good note of the glistening double-gold chain that hung heavily from his wife’s neck.
“Auntie Devika, Uncle Valmiki, this is Anick.” The young woman uttered something Devika imagined was a greeting. The words were not only inaudible, but accented — perhaps not even English. Devika repeated Anick a few times, trying to get its pronunciation. Awkwardly she said, “It’s French, eh?”
Anick said, Mais, oui, with the tone of someone saying, But obviously, why wouldn’t it be, and Nayan rubbed his wife’s back and laughed as if to say, Isn’t she lovely and funny? Devika flattered back, “Well, I will just have to call you Mrs. Prakash, won’t I? I won’t get that wrong.”
Valmiki informed the pair that Viveka — their eldest daughter, he enlightened Anick — was still at the university, and Vashti — the younger one — was expected back any minute from an after-school extra-lessons class in preparation for the advanced level exams the following year. Devika watched the model-like features of the young woman, her long neck, minute waist — stomach flat, flat, flat — and the provocatively protruding pelvic bones. Anick’s nose was slim and ran straight down, no bumps or humps — a perfect angle. The skin on her face was flawless. There was not even a blemish from, say, a scratched pimple. Had she never had chicken pox? Her complexion was not fatty or puffy. It was thin, lean skin. Her eyes were brown, and although Devika had seen brown eyes on white women countless times, she noticed that Anick’s were unusually alert — a well-mannered and unintimidating alertness. Her eyelashes were long, but they weren’t false. They were definitely hers. She didn’t seem to be wearing mascara. If she were, it was obviously of a good quality. Her eyebrows arched perfectly, the arch itself in exactly the right place. Hard to do. There had to be help from nature to be able to do that. And they were not too thin or too thick. Her lips were pink, but she didn’t seem to be wearing lipstick. A little lipstick might have been a good idea, thought Devika, but she conceded that Anick might not have expected to have been brought to meet anyone on her stroll. They were shaped by the hand of God himself, Devika mused. She watched hard, trying to see if Anick really wore little makeup or if it was of such a quality and so well-applied that it looked natural. She thanked God that Viveka was not home, for next to this beauty Viveka would be rendered even plainer than she already was.
Nayan intoned apologetically that he had been taking Anick for a walk around the nieghbourhood and, spotting Valmiki and Devika through the shrubbery against the fence, had wanted to say a quick hello and introduce his wife. Devika invited them to come right in, come and sit down, have a cup of tea — or, Valmiki interjected, a glass of sparkling wine; there was a chilled bottle with no other but their names on it. He added that he had heard from Nayan’s father that Nayan had become a discerning wine drinker. Nayan raised his eyebrows and, chuckling said, “Discerning? That couldn’t be the word Dad used!”
“What would he have said?” Devika provoked.
“He would more likely have said I became a snob, and he might have used a qualifying expletive, too.”
Valmiki sought to quickly throw water on this by saying that Ram, Nayan’s father, had told them himself how proud he was of his son going abroad, graduating, and returning to his roots, qualified now to run Rimpty’s and Son. No one pointed out that Nayan’s marriage was not on that shortlist of accomplishments.
Valmiki insisted again on them coming right in for that drink and a slice of fruit cake. It was a display of hospitality that obviously pleased the young husband. He declined, saying that his mother was expecting them back shortly for dinner. Devika noted that he had grown into a lovely young man — not rough-around-the-edges like his cacao-farmer-father-come-to-town at all — and so gentle.
“Well, you will all have to come over soon and introduce . . . Anick . . .” Devika said to Nayan, a question mark in her voice, “to Viveka and Vashti.”
Then she said to Anick, “My eldest daughter likes your husband, you know. You will have to watch out, he is quite a catch.”
“Yes, I know, everybody tell me this,” Anick managed with a shy smile.
Valmiki slid in, “Well, clearly Nayan is the lucky one. You make a fine couple, Nayan. You did well. You did well.”
It was Nayan’s turn to laugh, to be shy and proud at once.
Valmiki inquired after Nayan’s parents.
“Mummy is good. Cooking a lot these days. And Dad, well, he is as usual. Everyday he goes to the office or up to Chayu, so we don’t see him too much, which is not a bad thing.”
Valmiki asked if Anick had seen the estate as yet. She had been asking to go, Nayan replied, wanting to see the countryside and the rich lands that he had told her so much about, but it was crop season — his father wouldn’t let her go when the workers were in the fields. He added, “You know how it is,” implying what didn’t need to be said — a pretty white foreign woman among the workers might have incited slackness and bravado. Anick said, in her small voice, “He think I do not know to take care of myself.”
Nayan smiled, but he was unable to properly hide his slight peevishness at her comeback. He asked “Uncle” if he still hunted, and told Valmiki that the other day he had seen an agouti on the estate. He invited Valmiki to hunt there on a weekend when less work was carried on.
When Nayan and Anick left, Devika said, “Hm! Well, he will have good trouble with her. She is one beautiful woman. You don’t think so?” Val raised his eyebrows, noncommittally. “He is one lucky man,” Devika persisted, “but he will catch his tail! You know how men are here. And you didn’t see the thickness of that gold around her neck, Val? I wonder if he gave it to her, or if it was his parents who gave her that.” When Valmiki still didn’t respond, she pushed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. Everybody is saying how pretty she is, but I never imagined her to be so beautiful. I wonder how she will fare in that family. They shouldn’t be all living in the same house, at all. That is a recipe for disaster, yes — she is a lot more cultured-looking than they are. You know what I mean?”
Trying unsuccessfully to hide the irritation in his voice, Valmiki retorted, “How can you tell that?”
“I can just tell. I mean, just look at her. Can’t you tell? She will have him watching his back like crazy. That calypso is right: Never marry a woman prettier than you.”
THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN BELOW THE GULF’S HORIZON AND THE SKY that had been red minutes ago had turned to a sooty black full of diamond-bright twinkling stars. Valmiki removed the bird cages from their hooks. The newest bird was jumpy. As he brought the cage down it slipped off its perch, its wings fluttering wildly behind it. Valmiki lifted the cage to his face. He looked through the wire bars directly into the bird’s eyes. It climbed back up and hopped along the perch to the far end. Finally it moved its head, first a little to the left, as if to see better with that eye, and then it spun its head almost 360 degrees to watch Valmiki with the other eye. Valmiki was as still as could be, watching the bird with softened eyes. Through all this he heard Devika. She was goading him, “But then again, you married a woman prettier than you, and I am the one who has been catching hell. So it doesn’t always work out as is expected, eh?”
This brought to Valmiki’s mind the line, Marry the one who loves you, not the one you love. He lowered the cage and asked wearily, “So, what about your party? What date are you thinking of?” He and Devika walked inside, both of them carrying a cage in either hand. Valmiki pulled the door behind them. He latched it tight. Devika went ahead to the entrance of the dining room and switched on the patio lights. They would remain on until after the girls’ return. He had long ago installed the plate for the light switch and it was crooked. That was more than fifteen years ago, and Valmiki knew that every time Devika passed it, it bothered her.
Seeing Nayan settled and happy had prompted in Valmiki thoughts of Viveka and how she unnerved him, how, lately, an image of her would come to his mind, but it would be as if she alternated in a constant and rapid tremble between being uniquely herself and adopting the perfect semblance of Anand. He and Devika were losing Viveka. He could feel it. Of course, he wanted her to soar. She, more than anyone else, would know what to do with opportunities that came her way, how to make something grand of life. But he worried there would be significant costs. What if, along the way, she lost herself? What he meant by that he wasn’t sure. He had the strongest desire to snatch her up in the palm of his hand as if she were a little gem, close his fist tight around her, and keep her there. On the contrary, however: he would let her be whatever she wanted, everything she wanted. Except this, and this, and this, and that.