Interpreter of Maladies (14 page)

He took off his shoes and placed them side by side on the floor. Then he peeled back the comforter and crawled into Miranda’s bed with the almanac. A minute later the book dropped from his hands, and he closed his eyes. Miranda watched him sleep, the comforter rising and falling as he breathed. He didn’t wake up after twelve minutes like Dev, or even twenty. He didn’t open his eyes as she stepped out of the silver cocktail dress and back into her jeans, and put the high-heeled shoes in the back of the closet, and rolled up the stockings and put them back in her drawer.

When she had put everything away she sat on the bed. She leaned toward him, close enough to see some white powder from the rice cakes stuck to the corners of his mouth, and picked up the almanac. As she turned the pages she imagined the quarrels Rohin had overheard in his house in Montreal. “Is she pretty?” his mother would have asked his father, wearing the same bathrobe she’d worn for weeks, her own pretty face turning spiteful. “Is she sexy?” His father would deny it at first, try to change the subject. “Tell me,” Rohin’s mother would shriek, “tell me if she’s sexy.” In the end his father would admit that she was, and his mother would cry and cry, in a bed surrounded by a tangle of clothes, her eyes puffing up like bullfrogs. “How could you,” she’d ask, sobbing, “how could you love a woman you don’t even know?”

As Miranda imagined the scene she began to cry a little herself. In the Mapparium that day, all the countries had seemed
close enough to touch, and Dev’s voice had bounced wildly off the glass. From across the bridge, thirty feet away, his words had reached her ears, so near and full of warmth that they’d drifted for days under her skin. Miranda cried harder, unable to stop. But Rohin still slept. She guessed that he was used to it now, to the sound of a woman crying.

On Sunday, Dev called to tell Miranda he was on his way. “I’m almost ready. I’ll be there at two.”

She was watching a cooking show on television. A woman pointed to a row of apples, explaining which were best for baking. “You shouldn’t come today.”

“Why not?”

“I have a cold,” she lied. It wasn’t far from the truth; crying had left her congested. “I’ve been in bed all morning.”

“You do sound stuffed up.” There was a pause. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m all set.”

“Drink lots of fluids.”

“Dev?”

“Yes, Miranda?”

“Do you remember that day we went to the Mapparium?”

“Of course.”

“Do you remember how we whispered to each other?”

“I remember,” Dev whispered playfully. “Do you remember what you said?”

There was a pause. “‘Let’s go back to your place.’” He laughed quietly. “Next Sunday, then?”

The day before, as she’d cried, Miranda had believed she would never forget anything—not even the way her name looked written in Bengali. She’d fallen asleep beside Rohin and when she woke up he was drawing an airplane on the copy of
The Economist
she’d saved, hidden under the bed. “Who’s Devajit Mitra?” he had asked, looking at the address label.

Miranda pictured Dev, in his sweatpants and sneakers, laughing into the phone. In a moment he’d join his wife downstairs, and tell her he wasn’t going jogging. He’d pulled a muscle while stretching, he’d say, settling down to read the paper. In spite of herself, she longed for him. She would see him one more Sunday, she decided, perhaps two. Then she would tell him the things she had known all along: that it wasn’t fair to her, or to his wife, that they both deserved better, that there was no point in it dragging on.

But the next Sunday it snowed, so much so that Dev couldn’t tell his wife he was going running along the Charles. The Sunday after that, the snow had melted, but Miranda made plans to go to the movies with Laxmi, and when she told Dev this over the phone, he didn’t ask her to cancel them. The third Sunday she got up early and went out for a walk. It was cold but sunny, and so she walked all the way down Commonwealth Avenue, past the restaurants where Dev had kissed her, and then she walked all the way to the Christian Science center. The Mapparium was closed, but she bought a cup of coffee nearby and sat on one of the benches in the plaza outside the church, gazing at its giant pillars and its massive dome, and at the clear-blue sky spread over the city.

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to Mrs. Sen’s for nearly a month, ever since school started in September. The year before he was looked after by a university student named Abby, a slim, freckled girl who read books without pictures on their covers, and refused to prepare any food for Eliot containing meat. Before that an older woman, Mrs. Linden, greeted him when he came home each afternoon, sipping coffee from a thermos and working on crossword puzzles while Eliot played on his own. Abby received her degree and moved off to another university, while Mrs. Linden was, in the end, fired when Eliot’s mother discovered that Mrs. Linden’s thermos contained more whiskey than coffee. Mrs. Sen came to them in tidy ballpoint script, posted on an index card outside the supermarket: “Professor’s wife, responsible and kind, I will care for your child in my home.” On the telephone Eliot’s mother told Mrs. Sen that the previous baby-sitters had come to their house. “Eliot is eleven. He can feed and entertain himself; I just want an adult in the house, in case of an emergency.” But Mrs. Sen did not know how to drive.

***

“As you can see, our home is quite clean, quite safe for a child,” Mrs. Sen had said at their first meeting. It was a university apartment located on the fringes of the campus. The lobby was tiled in unattractive squares of tan, with a row of mailboxes marked with masking tape or white labels. Inside, intersecting shadows left by a vacuum cleaner were frozen on the surface of a plush pear-colored carpet. Mismatched remnants of other carpets were positioned in front of the sofa and chairs, like individual welcome mats anticipating where a person’s feet would contact the floor. White drum-shaped lampshades flanking the sofa were still wrapped in the manufacturer’s plastic. The TV and the telephone were covered by pieces of yellow fabric with scalloped edges. There was tea in a tall gray pot, along with mugs, and butter biscuits on a tray. Mr. Sen, a short, stocky man with slightly protuberant eyes and glasses with black rectangular frames, had been there, too. He crossed his legs with some effort, and held his mug with both hands very close to his mouth, even when he wasn’t drinking. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sen wore shoes; Eliot noticed several pairs lined on the shelves of a small bookcase by the front door. They wore flip-flops. “Mr. Sen teaches mathematics at the university,” Mrs. Sen had said by way of introduction, as if they were only distantly acquainted.

She was about thirty. She had a small gap between her teeth and faded pockmarks on her chin, yet her eyes were beautiful, with thick, flaring brows and liquid flourishes that extended beyond the natural width of the lids. She wore a shimmering white sari patterned with orange paisleys, more suitable for an evening affair than for that quiet, faintly drizzling August afternoon. Her lips were coated in a complementary coral gloss, and a bit of the color had strayed beyond the borders.

Yet it was his mother, Eliot had thought, in her cuffed, beige shorts and her rope-soled shoes, who looked odd. Her cropped
hair, a shade similar to her shorts, seemed too lank and sensible, and in that room where all things were so carefully covered, her shaved knees and thighs too exposed. She refused a biscuit each time Mrs. Sen extended the plate in her direction, and asked a long series of questions, the answers to which she recorded on a steno pad. Would there be other children in the apartment? Had Mrs. Sen cared for children before? How long had she lived in this country? Most of all she was concerned that Mrs. Sen did not know how to drive. Eliot’s mother worked in an office fifty miles north, and his father, the last she had heard, lived two thousand miles west.

“I have been giving her lessons, actually,” Mr. Sen said, setting his mug on the coffee table. It was the first time he had spoken. “By my estimate Mrs. Sen should have her driver’s license by December.”

“Is that so?” Eliot’s mother noted the information on her pad.

“Yes, I am learning,” Mrs. Sen said. “But I am a slow student. At home, you know, we have a driver.”

“You mean a chauffeur?”

Mrs. Sen glanced at Mr. Sen, who nodded.

Eliot’s mother nodded, too, looking around the room. “And that’s all … in India?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sen replied. The mention of the word seemed to release something in her. She neatened the border of her sari where it rose diagonally across her chest. She, too, looked around the room, as if she noticed in the lampshades, in the teapot, in the shadows frozen on the carpet, something the rest of them could not. “Everything is there.”

Eliot didn’t mind going to Mrs. Sen’s after school. By September the tiny beach house where he and his mother lived year-round was already cold; Eliot and his mother had to bring a
portable heater along whenever they moved from one room to another, and to seal the windows with plastic sheets and a hair drier. The beach was barren and dull to play on alone; the only neighbors who stayed on past Labor Day, a young married couple, had no children, and Eliot no longer found it interesting to gather broken mussel shells in his bucket, or to stroke the seaweed, strewn like strips of emerald lasagna on the sand. Mrs. Sen’s apartment was warm, sometimes too warm; the radiators continuously hissed like a pressure cooker. Eliot learned to remove his sneakers first thing in Mrs. Sen’s doorway, and to place them on the bookcase next to a row of Mrs. Sen’s slippers, each a different color, with soles as flat as cardboard and a ring of leather to hold her big toe.

He especially enjoyed watching Mrs. Sen as she chopped things, seated on newspapers on the living room floor. Instead of a knife she used a blade that curved like the prow of a Viking ship, sailing to battle in distant seas. The blade was hinged at one end to a narrow wooden base. The steel, more black than silver, lacked a uniform polish, and had a serrated crest, she told Eliot, for grating. Each afternoon Mrs. Sen lifted the blade and locked it into place, so that it met the base at an angle. Facing the sharp edge without ever touching it, she took whole vegetables between her hands and hacked them apart: cauliflower, cabbage, butternut squash. She split things in half, then quarters, speedily producing florets, cubes, slices, and shreds. She could peel a potato in seconds. At times she sat cross-legged, at times with legs splayed, surrounded by an array of colanders and shallow bowls of water in which she immersed her chopped ingredients.

While she worked she kept an eye on the television and an eye on Eliot, but she never seemed to keep an eye on the blade. Nevertheless she refused to let Eliot walk around when she
was chopping. “Just sit, sit please, it will take just two more minutes,” she said, pointing to the sofa, which was draped at all times with a green and black bedcover printed with rows of elephants bearing palanquins on their backs. The daily procedure took about an hour. In order to occupy Eliot she supplied him with the comics section of the newspaper, and crackers spread with peanut butter, and sometimes a Popsicle, or carrot sticks sculpted with her blade. She would have roped off the area if she could. Once, though, she broke her own rule; in need of additional supplies, and reluctant to rise from the catastrophic mess that barricaded her, she asked Eliot to fetch something from the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, there is a plastic bowl, large enough to hold this spinach, in the cabinet next to the fridge. Careful, oh dear, be careful,” she cautioned as he approached. “Just leave it, thank you, on the coffee table, I can reach.”

She had brought the blade from India, where apparently there was at least one in every household. “Whenever there is a wedding in the family,” she told Eliot one day, “or a large celebration of any kind, my mother sends out word in the evening for all the neighborhood women to bring blades just like this one, and then they sit in an enormous circle on the roof of our building, laughing and gossiping and slicing fifty kilos of vegetables through the night.” Her profile hovered protectively over her work, a confetti of cucumber, eggplant, and onion skins heaped around her. “It is impossible to fall asleep those nights, listening to their chatter.” She paused to look at a pine tree framed by the living room window. “Here, in this place where Mr. Sen has brought me, I cannot sometimes sleep in so much silence.”

Another day she sat prying the pimpled yellow fat off chicken parts, then dividing them between thigh and leg. As
the bones cracked apart over the blade her golden bangles jostled, her forearms glowed, and she exhaled audibly through her nose. At one point she paused, gripping the chicken with both hands, and stared out the window. Fat and sinew clung to her fingers.

“Eliot, if I began to scream right now at the top of my lungs, would someone come?”

“Mrs. Sen, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I am only asking if someone would come.” Eliot shrugged. “Maybe.”

“At home that is all you have to do. Not everybody has a telephone. But just raise your voice a bit, or express grief or joy of any kind, and one whole neighborhood and half of another has come to share the news, to help with arrangements.”

By then Eliot understood that when Mrs. Sen said home, she meant India, not the apartment where she sat chopping vegetables. He thought of his own home, just five miles away, and the young married couple who waved from time to time as they jogged at sunset along the shore. On Labor Day they’d had a party. People were piled on the deck, eating, drinking, the sound of their laughter rising above the weary sigh of the waves. Eliot and his mother weren’t invited. It was one of the rare days his mother had off, but they didn’t go anywhere. She did the laundry, and balanced the checkbook, and, with Eliot’s help, vacuumed the inside of the car. Eliot had suggested that they go through the car wash a few miles down the road as they did every now and then, so that they could sit inside, safe and dry, as soap and water and a circle of giant canvas ribbons slapped the windshield, but his mother said she was too tired, and sprayed the car with a hose. When, by evening, the crowd on the neighbors’ deck began dancing, she looked up their number in the phone book and asked them to keep it down.