‘But why do they call it prime?’ Safta asked.
As the oldest, Safta seemed to take everything quite seriously, from supervising her two younger siblings to achieving the best possible grades in school. Her eyebrows were such exact copies of her mother’s, that if anyone had doubted Mendel’s theory of genetics they would have only to look at Mrs Patel and Safta to see the power of DNA.
One could also see the power of environment. Instead of arching her brow in the gesture of questioning contempt that her mother routinely used, Safta made a little pucker just at the bottom of her forehead, slightly to the right of her nose. The pucker in her brow indicated worry, confusion, dissatisfaction and all the other negative emotions that Safta the elegant perfectionist was forced to live with.
Claire smiled at her and looked down at the textbook. ‘They’re prime numbers because they can’t be evenly divided by any other number.’
‘Well, what’s so prime about that? It makes them irregular or unevenly divisible, or annoying. I don’t see why it makes them prime.’
‘That’s one way to look at it,’ Claire agreed. ‘But the official definition is a whole number that has itself and unity as its only factor. It isn’t like other numbers that aren’t prime, and it also isn’t like other prime numbers. Because they have their own unity.’
Safta looked down at the textbook and then up at Claire. ‘I’m so stupid,’ she said. It wasn’t true, but Claire had already noticed that Safta didn’t feel good about herself. She hated her glasses, her school uniform, the practical shoes her mother bought her, the traditional way she was forced to wear her hair, living in the back of a grocery store, and the foolish programs her sister liked to watch on the telly. She was a serious girl who had already confided to Claire that she never wanted ‘to marry and have all those bloody babies’, but wanted instead to be a botanist. ‘So prime numbers have one quality that they share, but that is their uniqueness,’ she said.
Claire nodded.
‘That’s rather like me,’ Safta said. ‘I have uniqueness and unity.’
Claire sat back from the table and glanced over at Mrs Patel who was busy at the stove stirring something, while she held Devi on one hip and scolded Fala. Aside from dining regularly with the Patels, Claire had begun tutoring Safta, a job that she was enjoying very much. In addition, she was learning about real Indian – or Pakistani – cuisine, very different from the birianis and kormas Claire had had before in restaurants. ‘Garbage,’ Mrs Patel had sniffed. ‘They don’t bother to do anything right.’ Claire had to admit that tonight’s dinner was more extravagant than the previous meals she had eaten at the Patels’. The beautifully spiced vegetables, the lamb and chicken served in small pieces amidst healthy greens, and the dressings of dhal and homemade relishes were not only healthful and fresh but they also seemed to help her effortlessly continue to slim down. She had actually had to borrow sewing things from Mrs Patel and, with her help, had taken in the waist and the back seam of her two pairs of slacks as well as her skirt. How odd, she thought, that she was losing weight now without trying when she had failed to in New York, trying so hard.
Claire looked back at Safta and nodded. Safta was one of those children with gifts that did not help them to ‘fit in’. She was too intelligent and mature in school, she was too fastidious at home and, unlike Claire, she didn’t escape from her reality with novels but, rather, observed everything with a scientific detachment and the slightly puckered brow. Claire might have felt sorry for her if she wasn’t so very formidable.
‘Is the table clear?’ Mrs Patel called out. ‘Safta, get Devi his feeder.’ That turned out to be a bib, and Claire helped fasten it around Devi’s neck. All of the pots were steaming, Devi had stopped fussing and Fala was carrying a tin cup to the table.
‘We’d better put these books away,’ Claire said and in a moment Safta had jumped up, neatly replaced the books on her shelf, wiped down the plastic tablecloth and put out strange round trays that held smaller metal cups and bowls. There were no china dishes, knives or forks. The children took their places and Mrs Patel began spooning out fragrant vari-colored messes into all of the bowls on each tray.
‘These are lentils,’ she said. ‘They are mixed with a kind of onion. And this is sahg. Spinach, you know. We mix it with cheese.’ Claire’s face must have shown some of her dubiousness because Mrs Patel continued. ‘I know if you just look at it, it might be enough to put you off your feed. But try some.’
Claire tried not to show any more dismay at the idea of spinach and cheese. It certainly didn’t look like either one. ‘And this is korma which has yogurt and almonds and raisins.’
‘Korma! Hooray!’ said Devi. ‘And rice. And peas. And …’
All the little bowls were filled. Devi, Mrs Patel and Fala ate with their hands, delicately mixing the various dishes with the rice. Safta fetched two teaspoons, handed one to Claire and began eating with the other. Tentatively at first, then with greater pleasure Claire tasted dish after dish and found they were all very good.
‘Dish up some dhal for Claire,’ Mrs Patel chided Safta. ‘You put it on your rice, Claire.’
Claire did, and it was delicious. So were the sweet chutney and even the spinach and cheese. The stainless steel plates and the cups from which they drank water seemed strange, but as the family ate and talked and teased one another it all began to seem not only natural but sensible. As she continued eating, Claire felt the back of her tongue and the top of her throat react to the flavors. It wasn’t just spicy. It was subtle and most things had an aftertaste and mixed with whatever new flavor she spooned into her mouth. ‘Do you often eat like this?’ Claire asked.
‘No,’ Safta said disapprovingly. ‘Sometimes we eat in front of the telly.’
‘Not if I am here,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Devi, put the bowl down. You’ll spill.’ But Claire noticed that, even if some of the contents spilled, they were caught by the metal tray the bowls sat on.
‘What I meant was, do you eat this way, and I mean all this food, often?’
‘Oh, yes. This isn’t much. If I had time I would have baked roti and made some mutton. When my sister comes to visit we have big meals.’
‘Auntie! Auntie! I want Auntie!’ Devi yelled.
‘I want you to sit down and to be a good boy or there will be no Auntie,’ Mrs Patel told him. He did as he was told.
Claire looked across the table as Mrs Patel supervised Fala eating and then wiped Devi’s hands. She refilled the water cups and managed to finish her own dinner as well. Claire wondered at it all. Her mother had sometimes only managed bologna sandwiches, and complained about that. Mrs Patel was raising three children, bearing a fourth, stocking, staffing and managing a shop, keeping house, and seemed to think that none of it was too much. Her slim arms moved over the table, her wedding bracelets flashing and tinkling, adding to the clatter as she collected the empty dinner plates.
‘Safta, you do the washing up, Fala, help your sister.’ She looked at her youngest. ‘Devi, you keep out of the Fairy liquid.’ She gave his hair a loving pat then, as if to make up for it, she added, ‘Sometimes you’re enough to make me go spare.’ Mrs Patel turned to Claire. ‘I’m going back to reopen the shop,’ she said. ‘Thank you for joining us for dinner.’
‘Thank you,’ Claire said. ‘It was delicious.’
‘Mummy, can I show Claire my room?’ Safta asked.
‘Mummy, can I show Claire my room?’ Fala echoed.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Safta, put on the kettle and bring me some tea. Claire, would you like a cup as well?’ Claire nodded. She couldn’t get over how many cups of tea everybody drank at all times. Even the children had milk and tea morning and night.
Claire helped Safta clear the table, put the dishes in a pan of hot water to soak and then watched as she filled a kettle which, like Toby’s, instead of putting on the cooker you plugged into an outlet. Claire thought what a convenience it would be to have one like it for herself but before she got any further with the thought Safta turned and pointed down the little hallway.
‘Would you like to see my room?’ she asked shyly. Claire nodded.
With Devi and Fala on their heels they made their way down the dark narrow hall and into the overcrowded room the two sisters shared. There, Claire was met by another surprise. Along the windowsill, on a shelf, arranged on the desk and even under the bed Safta had grouped small pots of plants. African violets, sansevieria, Irish moss, and a host of other plants that were unfamiliar to Claire were arranged on trays of pebbles or in open plastic boxes. There was also a terrarium filled with ferns and mosses. On Safta’s desk a notebook lay open with a drawing of a plant. But it wasn’t a sentimental little flower, it was a botanically accurate rendering of a carnation. Complete with leaves, flower and roots.
‘Safta! This is wonderful! Did you do this yourself?’ Safta nodded. ‘It’s a perfect carnation,’ Claire told her.
‘I have to keep moving plants,’ Safta explained. ‘There’s only the one window and they don’t get enough light. I have a rotation system.’
Claire looked at the windowsill and beyond to the desolate little plot behind the shop. A thought began to form but just then the kettle began to whistle.
‘I better make the tea,’ Safta said.
‘Biscuit! Biscuit!’ Devi cried.
‘And I better bring some to your mom,’ Claire said. But the two of them exchanged a look of understanding.
But the friendship with Mrs Patel was about to be damaged. ‘I’ve had a stroke of luck,’ Claire told Mrs Patel. ‘I found a new place.’
Mrs Patel smiled. ‘That must be a pleasure. If you’re living in the same spot as that Maudie it must be tatty. Did someone see the note we posted?’
Claire shook her head. ‘It was another friend. He helped me get a room. It’s really lovely. Small, but clean and sunny and I only have to share the bathroom with the woman who lives in the flat.’
‘How close is it?’ Mrs Patel asked as she sipped her tea, her hand on her belly.
‘Oh. Quite far away from here.’
‘That’s too bad. I hope it isn’t inconvenient.’
‘Oh, I can manage the underground,’ Claire said airily. ‘I’m hoping to move right in.’
‘Move right out, more likely,’ Mrs Patel murmured, but Claire didn’t hear her.