End of the Road (32 page)

Sonam shook off the last shreds of sleep and
recognized her.

“
Michi-
didi
,” he cried out, and ran to
her.

Emily bent down and scooped the boy up in
her arms. He rubbed his cheek against hers.

“
I’m here for you, Sonam,”
she whispered.

“
Are we going home
now?”

“
If that’s what you want,”
Emily replied, staring intently at Deepak. “I will honor his
mother’s wishes,” she said.

“
Are you going to protect
him?” Deepak asked. “Do you even know who the boys who bully him at
school are?”

She shook her head.

“
They are the little
brothers of the gangsters who killed his father, Tibetans and
Sherpas. The monks didn’t tell you that, did they?”

Emily turned a searching glance on
Rinpoche.

“
It makes no difference,
Michi-
chhori
,” he
said. “His mother brought him to us.”

“
They will never leave him
alone,” Deepak said. “And when he’s old enough, they’ll kill him.
He is safe with us.”

Sonam’s little arms clung tightly around her
neck. She felt his chest heave with a sob. Somehow she had become
the arbiter of his fate, and the puzzle of what to do with him was
fast becoming insoluble. Only one place offered her any promise of
clarity.

Emily closed her eyes and listened to the
air enter her chest and then slowly leak out. In and out, slowly at
first, and then even slower, her breath pressed outward against the
walls of the room, and then came seeping back to her. She heard the
breathing of the others, all of them, some frantic, anxious,
worried, one resolute: Deepak. Rinpoche’s chest hardly moved at
all, as if he were barely even there. Only one chest really
mattered, the one pressed against hers.

Sonam’s breath was hectic at first, then
gradually calmer until he found the rhythm of her breathing. She
could feel his heart beating against hers, almost hear the blood
sloshing in his veins. The warmth of an innocent heart flooded her
body. In that moment, she saw what she must do.

“
I am here for Sonam. We
will honor his mother’s wishes.”

“
And if the Sherpas take
him?”

“
Then I will get him
back.”

“
And after you leave, what
then?”

“
After I go, that duty
falls to you, I suppose. But the boy will stay at the
monastery.”

Deepak stepped forward and stared into
Emily’s black eyes, thinking perhaps to test the extent of her
resolve. What would he find there? Perhaps the same darkness
everyone before him had seen, almost palpable, so placid, so clear,
and yet at the very bottom so turbulent, a storm of sublime
immensity. He stepped back, blinked once or twice, and nodded his
acquiescence.

“
As you wish, Tenno
Michiko. But we will be watching.”

Emily turned toward the door and led her
little party back out to the taxi on the other side of the
fence.

5: Yesh and the Mongol Girl

“
Have you come to a
decision, chhori?” Mrs. Kansakar inquired innocently over
breakfast.

Steam from a large pot on the stove filled
the kitchen with the smell of curry. Emily had made breakfast all
week, but this morning, at least, she saw no raised eyebrow. She’d
also heard of no further incidents at Sonam’s school. The bullies
seemed to have lost interest in him, and perhaps the Sherpa gang
had, too. Other than Mrs. Ranjeet trying to fix her up with a
grandson named Yesh Malla, no other dangers appeared on the
horizon.

“
I’m supposed to report in
Annapolis at the end of next week,” Emily replied.

“
Is that what you
want?”

“
I think it may be for the
best.”

Mrs. Kansakar clicked her tongue and shook
her head.

“
What, can’t you picture me
as an officer?”

“
Oh, child, there are so
many better things I can picture for someone as pretty as
you.”

“
Yeah, you and Mrs.
Ranjeet.”

“
You could do worse,
chhori
. Yesh will be a
good earner, and he’s not bad-looking.”

In the relative calm of the past couple of
weeks—and she would not like to admit this to Mrs. Kansakar, for
fear of encouraging the two old ladies—Emily had entertained the
prospect of accepting Yesh, whom she had not actually met. So far,
he was little more than an abstraction, but still intriguing. What
shape might their lives together take? Could she be content as a
shopkeeper’s wife? Could he stomach the sort of choices she might
prefer, left to her own devices?

More importantly, could she safely diffuse
the mischief her grandfather (and her mother) may have wrought in
her genes among these people dwelling at the top of the world? And
if her genetic materials were not sufficiently diluted, if her
warrior-spirit were transmitted in its full intensity down the
generations, what might her descendants make of such an
inheritance? Would they eventually seek dominion over the Earth
from this little cul-de-sac in the Himalayas? And what would they
be willing to do to achieve it?

A picture of her little
ones, hundreds of them, thousands, charging into battle flashed
before her mind, still children, armed with toys, and it brought a
smile to her face. Their battle cry echoed in her ears:
Jaya
Mahakali
—Glory to Kali. “Yes,” she
thought. “That’s how they’d remember me, as the goddess of
death.”

The tone of the voices crying out to her
changed under her mental gaze, deepening into the full-throated cry
of mature young men and women. No longer fighting with toys, the
scene in her imagination had become horrendous. A real battle now,
not just child’s play, fleeting glory to be won as death stalked
gigantically among the warriors. They would fight and die, or live,
but they’d never know peace. She would not be there to teach them
anything about serenity.

A sudden chill shivered her whole body at
the path her thoughts had taken. But did she need to pass her
spirit on at all? Couldn’t she simply arrange to be the last of her
line? Perhaps that would be the wisest choice, though something
inside her rebelled against it.

Almost against her will, she found herself
thinking about Midshipman Hankinson, the young man who first
suggested the Naval Academy to her. He planted the seed of an idea
that military service might help shape the moods her extraordinary
martial discipline tended to produce. He was no more prepared to
marry Kali than Yesh could be, than anyone could be. But hadn’t he
caught a glimpse of what violence truly is, the violence that
resides at the bottom of her heart, when he sparred with her? He’d
tried to fight back as none of the other midshipmen had. Was there,
perhaps, the tiniest spark of some warrior demon in him, something
to carry him through the dark times that were sure to come if he
allied himself to her?

“
Has your family already
arranged someone for you,
chhori
?” Mrs. Kansakar asked, after
Emily took such a long time to reply.

“
Arranged someone? Why
would I let anyone arrange something like that?”

“
Because your elders might
be wiser than you in such things, child.”

“
I doubt that. Nobody knows
my heart better than me.”

“
Of course not, but the
heart is fickle, and marriage depends on other things,
too.”

How odd that Mrs. Kansakar’s explanation of
arranged marriage should seem so reasonable to Emily. That it did
probably said more about the changing contents of her heart than
about any supposed wisdom of the elders of her acquaintance. What
did she know about love, after all?

Some of her new clothes had required
alterations, and Mrs. Ranjeet sent word for them to come by in the
afternoon for a final fitting. It all sounded rather suspicious,
but she decided it was simpler just to go along, rather than spoil
the old ladies’ fun.

On the walk to
Asan Chowk
, Mrs. Kansakar
was slightly more officious than usual. Apparently, even the
smallest details of Emily’s gait required emendation.

“
Don’t slouch,” she said.
“Hold your head up, child. Shoulders back. Why do you place your
feet down like that when you walk? Are you trying to sneak up on
someone?”

“
Just old habits, I
guess.”

“
A woman can be a force in
the world, if she simply presents herself in the right way. No
slouching, no sneaking. When you’re wearing your new clothes, take
pride in yourself.”

Emily couldn’t help smiling at this last
piece of advice. Mrs. Kansakar’s sense of a woman’s place was
completely respectable, even admirable. But somehow, Emily couldn’t
help thinking that a little bit of sneaking might be more suitable
to her own personality. She felt forceful enough as it was.

“
I still like my old
clothes.”

“
Don’t be silly, child. We
can give those old things to the poor. There’s always a
need.”

Before Emily could protest, they’d arrived
at the front door to the shop. The little bells jingled as they
stepped inside. A plump, white-haired lady standing at the back
counter haggled over the price of a shawl with Mrs. Ranjeet, who
flashed a furtive little smile their way and sought to extricate
herself from the negotiations. Try as she might, however, the
customer was unmovable. Emily understood nothing of their
conversation, but in the end the self-satisfied smile on the
customer’s face told Emily who had won.

“
Come this way,” Mrs.
Ranjeet said, after all the formalities had been gone through. “I
have something for you upstairs. Just let me lock up down here and
I’ll be right up.”

Emily rolled her eyes as they climbed the
back staircase. “Let’s see who’s waiting up here,” she thought. A
dark landing at the top, Mrs. Kansakar took a moment to find the
doorknob. Mrs. Ranjeet’s light and airy apartment smelled of cumin
and sugar. The front room was sparsely furnished with a few caned
chairs lined up neatly along one edge of a low table. Two tufted
ottomans on either side of a cushioned armchair filled out the
seating options. A short, stout statue of the elephant-headed god
watched over the room from the far corner.

“
You’ve been baking,
Manisha,” Mrs. Kansakar called out.

“
Welcome, welcome,” a sweet
voice chirped from the kitchen. “Please make yourselves
comfortable.”

“
Sabina-
bahini
,” Mrs. Kansakar replied.
“You’re back. How is your mother-in-law?”

“
Not well, I’m afraid. I’ll
be returning to her tomorrow. And who have we here?” she asked
politely.

“
Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kansakar
said, remembering her manners. “This is my houseguest,
Michiko…”

“
Please call me Emily. All
my friends do.”

“
And this is Sabina Malla,
Mrs. Ranjeet’s daughter.”

“
Please, sit, while I bring
the tea,” Sabina said with a shake of her head.

When Mrs. Ranjeet finally came up the
stairs, her daughter had some hushed words for her in the kitchen.
Emily caught only a few bits and pieces that chanced to be in
English.

“
Maa
, this is who you want to introduce him to?” When her mother
made no audible reply, Sabina continued. “I thought you wanted a
Newar for him. She’s not even Aryan. Do you really want your
grandson to marry a Mongol?”

“
So you don’t like Mongols
now?” Mrs. Ranjeet asked.

“
Don’t be ridiculous.
You’re the one who rejects all the girls he likes, and you know
he’s attracted to
them
. And she’s so tall.”

Mrs. Kansakar smiled nervously at Emily and
tried to look like she heard nothing. Emily growled out a quiet
“hmm” to let her know she wasn’t fooled. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ranjeet
tried to shush her daughter with a sharp whisper to no avail.

“
Yes, she’s pretty enough,”
Sabina hissed. “But aren’t you the one who said she had to be
Newar? And the blue jeans? You hate those. Don’t deny
it.”

“
We’ll see to that in a
little while.”

A moment later, Sabina and her mother came
out of the kitchen wearing unconvincingly broad smiles and carrying
a large tea set and a tray full of little cakes.

“
How delightful,” Mrs.
Kansakar gushed, trying to turn around an uncomfortable situation.
“Here,
chhori
. Have
a piece of spice cake.”

Emily sipped tea and ate
whatever was put in front of her. Gradually, afternoon turned into
evening, and tea cakes gave way to more substantial fare. Before
she even had time to register what was happening in the kitchen,
Sabina brought a tray full of little bowls, some steaming, others
cold. Plates of rice were handed around and bowls of a lentil stew
called
dal
, as well
as what Emily assumed to be steamed kale. Best of all, she thought,
were the spicy pickles Mrs. Kansakar called
aachar
.

“
Do you eat meat?” Sabina
asked.

When Emily nodded, she
passed around a plate of dumplings.
Momo
s, she called them.