Right of Thirst (27 page)

“What did she say?” Elise asked.

“She asked if she can touch your hair,” he said.

“Of course she can,” Elise said immediately, smiling and rising from the couch.

Fatima said something to Rai, eyes narrowed, but Rai simply waved his hand and replied in a casual tone. Still, she looked mortified, as Elise sat down cross-legged on the carpet in front of the girls, and bowed her head like a supplicant.

The girl—Saniyah—looked questioningly at her father, who nodded, and then she reached out and lightly stroked Elise's hair. In an instant her sister did the same, and for a few moments Elise sat there enduring their curious fingers. I laughed, and then Fatima did as well, biting her knuckle as she did so.

Later, when Elise had been prevailed upon to help put the girls to bed, and all the many dishes sat piled on the table, Rai rose to the china cabinet, opened the door, reached up high, and pulled out a bottle of scotch from the back of the top shelf.

“It is only for special occasions,” he said, showing it to me both tentatively and proudly. “Johnny Walker Black.”

He opened the bottle, which was more than half empty, and poured each of us a generous portion. From the back rooms I could hear the girls.

“I must smoke,” Rai said. “But Fatima does not like it inside the house. She is worried about the health effects.

“Let's go outside,” he continued. “To the garden. And drink our whiskey.”

I stood, and followed him into the dark hall. We passed the girls' room, a weak yellow bar of light flowing under the door along with the sound of their voices, and then to a door at the back of the house. Rai eased it open, and we stepped out onto a small concrete porch. It was completely dark; only when Rai struck his cigarette lighter did I see the rusty wrought-iron table with an ashtray, a candle, and two molded plastic chairs of the kind sold by the millions throughout the world. He lit the candle. The rain fell steadily.
The porch was narrow enough that we each eased our chairs back against the wall to escape the fine spray from the ground. He lit his cigarette, then handed the pack and the lighter to me. I didn't want a cigarette, but I took one anyway. For a few moments we sat there in silence, sipping the whiskey, listening to the rain fall.

The garden, as he called it, was a square of patchy half-dead grass, perhaps fifteen feet across, surrounded by a wall. In the candlelight I couldn't see it well—a few shrubs had been planted along the wall, but I could barely make them out. The houses on either side were dark, as if no one was home.

The whiskey tasted good after the meal—the endlessly prepared small dishes, delicacy after delicacy, the labor of hours. They'd spent a month's budget on us, I was sure. I let the cigarette burn in the ashtray. Then Rai spoke, breaking the silence.

“You are going home soon?” he said.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” I replied. “It's an overnight flight.”

“Well,” he said. “Then your adventure is over.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Do you think you will come back someday?” he asked, taking a drag, looking out into the curtain of water off the roof.

“I don't think so,” I said.

He nodded.

“Thank you for the helicopter, Doctor,” he said, as he had done at the hotel.

“You're welcome.”

I sat back in the chair, which was unexpectedly comfortable, and finally puffed a little on my cigarette, and drank the last of my whiskey, and watched the candle for a while. Rai stood then, and excused himself.

He returned a few moments later with the bottle, and filled our glasses again.

“Are the girls asleep?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “They are too excited.”

For a few seconds I thought about it, the choices that we always have to make.

“Sanjit,” I said, finally. “I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes. About Ali. And the girl, Homa. I've been thinking about what to do.”

“Of course,” Rai said.

“I feel responsible for them. In some ways—”

“You are not responsible,” he interrupted, but I raised my hand, and he fell silent.

“Let me finish,” I said. “I am going to give them some money. I will give Homa what I promised her, and I would like to give Ali's family some money as well.”

“That is kind of you,” he said.

“I'll need your help to do it.”

“Of course,” he said.

I reached into my pocket, and withdrew the envelope. I was theatrical about it; I gave that to myself, because he was not the only one rehearsing scenes in his mind. I opened the envelope, and withdrew the checks. There were three of them, certified by the national bank, which had a branch office at the hotel.

“This is for Homa,” I said, handing him the check. “I have made this out to you. I am trusting you to make sure she gets both the money and a new leg, even if it is difficult and inconvenient.”

Rai started to speak, but I cut him off again.

“Please,” I said. “Let me finish.”

He looked perplexed, then took the check from my hand, peering at it in the dim light. He glanced up at me.

“It is more than you said.”

“It's two hundred pounds a year for fourteen years, plus some extra for the leg.”

He put the check down on the table.

“This is for Ali's family,” I said, handing him the second check.

He glanced at it, then looked again, then held it up to the candle to be sure, the shock abundantly clear on his face.

“I think you have made a mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a very great deal of money.”

“It's not a mistake,” I said. “And you see that the check is also made out to you because I don't know Ali's last name or anything else about him.”

He stared at the check in his hand.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said, looking at me with dismay.

“No,” I said. “I haven't. That check is for Ali's wife and children so they don't have to worry about starving in the streets. I want it to go only to them. No cousins, no uncles, no one else. Just his wife and children. I want them to get all of it. I'm sure his wife is illiterate and uneducated. Someone could take advantage of her very easily. So I want you to help her with the money. Do you understand?”

Rai started to speak, in protest, but I interrupted him.

“I realize you could keep the money, and I'd never know. But if you steal from them then I've been completely wrong about you. You're partly to blame for his death. You made him carry too much, and if you'd read the map correctly he'd still be alive. This is your chance to make up for it.”

Rai looked up at me.

“You are partly to blame as well,” he said, tightly.

“You're right,” I said. “It's something we share.”

I reached into my shirt pocket, and withdrew my hotel pen.

“How do you spell your daughters' names?” I asked, before he could stir himself to anger.

“What are you doing?” he said, but of course he knew.

“Just tell me.”

He opened his mouth again, as if to say something else, but then he thought better of it, and did as I asked, enunciating each letter clearly and carefully.

I wrote down the names on the third check, pressing it against the plastic table, and then I handed it to him.

He stared at it for a few seconds.

“You have given me the same amount,” he said, in disbelief.

“Yes,” I said, calmly. “But I haven't given it to you. I've given it to your daughters, to provide for their future. Do you understand?”

Rai looked stunned. He looked at the check again, then rose, and began pacing back and forth across the narrow porch. He lit another cigarette, drew on it, then threw it down and crushed it underfoot.

“I do not understand you,” he said. “I do not understand why it is so much. A little, perhaps. But not so much.”

“I can afford it,” I said. “And it's my business.”

Again Rai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and again he thought better of it. I knew it was too much for him to turn down. A little, and I would have offended him, or worse—tempted him toward the rest. But now, if he was what I wanted him to be, I'd given him no choice.

“You didn't have to shoot those men,” I said. “Both of us know it.”

He looked very confused, sitting there in the dark.

“So you have given my family this money because I shot the enemy?”

“No,” I said. “It's the opposite. I'm giving you a way out.
General Said is the worst kind of man in the world. It sickens me to watch you try to impress him. And if he asks you about any of this, tell him I guessed about his hunting trips and you told me I was imagining things. And tell him that I gave you nothing.”

Rai sat down again. He shook his head.

“You said you didn't know what it was like to be given anything,” I said. “Now you do. You don't have that excuse anymore.”

Rai thought for a long time, in silence, smoking. Periodically he would look up at me, then away.

“I do not understand why you have done this,” he said.

I sipped at the whiskey, and took my time before replying.

“It's simple. This trip needs to mean something. Otherwise I can't go home.”

I'd earned the indulgence of my words, I thought. Or at least I'd bought it. And if I enjoyed the power of my money a little too much in that moment, it could not be helped, because without it I had no power at all.

“Are you a religious man, Doctor?” Rai asked, suddenly.

“No,” I said. “I don't believe in God. But do you think Ali's family will be able to tell the difference?”

He didn't answer.

“Will you do it,” I said, “or not?”

“Yes,” he replied, finally. “I will. I promise this. You are a very generous man, Doctor. Too generous, I think. You do not know what this means for us. You think you do, perhaps, but still you do not.”

“Good,” I said. “I want you to send me a picture of Homa in six months. With a new leg. If I don't receive it I'll write to General Said and tell him that you did in fact tell me about his hunting trips and his use of military helicopters for his own plea
sure. I'll also tell him that you accepted a large bribe from Scott Coles's organization for services that you didn't provide.”

Rai stared at me, and I drained the second glass of whiskey.

“Here's my address,” I said, putting down the glass, reaching into my pocket again for my office card. “Don't lose it.”

I put the card down on the table.

“Is this an arrangement you can accept?”

Maybe I was a fool, I thought, grandstanding to the last, forcing significance on a story that meant nothing. But that hardly mattered in the end. What mattered to them was the money.

He looked down. Perhaps he had tears in his eyes, and was hiding them. I couldn't tell.

“I must accept it,” he said. “And you know this.

“You do not understand what life is like for us,” he continued, his voice tremulous. “This country…” But then he stopped, and let the sentence trail off unfinished. He lit yet another cigarette before continuing.

“They have assigned me to a forward unit,” he said, his voice steady again.

“Along the border?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have been commended for my actions at the camp. And so they have rewarded me.”

“Are you going to go?”

“Of course. I have no choice.”

“If you get yourself killed it would all be for nothing.”

He smiled.

“No, Doctor,” he said. “It would not.”

“Will he give Homa the money?” Elise asked me, as soon as we got in the cab. It was a proper car, a battered Japanese sedan that Rai had walked out with his umbrella into the rainy dark to find.

“Yes,” I said. “He will.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” I said. “He's going to send me a picture of her in six months. So then we'll know.”

“Thank you,” she said, and leaned against my shoulder. I put my arm around her, then turned, and gave her a kiss on the top of the head. It seemed natural, the kind of thing that neither of us would misinterpret. The driver, however, kept sneaking glances at us in the mirror.

“Stop looking at us,” I snapped. He glanced anxiously back at me, and though he spoke no English he must have understood, because he kept his eyes fixed through the windshield the rest of the way back to the hotel.

Elise was crying.

“I am sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I don't know why I do this.”

“It's all right,” I said.

I kept my arm around her. At first she leaned against me, but
after a few minutes she began to ease away again, and her tears ceased. I felt it, and let her go, and then we were back, and the driver swung in through the gates. He stopped without a word, and I handed him a bill as the bellmen converged, as greedy as pigeons.

But as we entered the lobby together, she took my arm. Music played at the bar, light reflected off glass, the concierge glanced up at us, watching, then down again at the desk, and we continued to the elevators. And this, I thought, would have to do; this was as triumphant a return as any I would have again. I was the high-roller now, I'd cast down the dice as if they didn't matter in the least. I'd allowed myself only so much, and no more, and that was my night to spend it all. A pretty young woman on my arm, in her willing yellow dress, as blonde as a wheat field—and everyone was watching, everyone was wondering who we were. I was a little drunk; the whiskey had gone to my head, as Fatima slept on, in ignorance, with the children. It was midnight, it was late, it was both the end and the beginning of my life, I was with Rachel, it was thirty years before, and she was a head turner then, she was an absolute knockout, gray-eyed and lovely as they come, far lovelier than this girl here, her hair black as the center of a vein of coal, her scapulas like cheekbones, that shimmery dress of hers, so long and dark and blue, and then she was turning toward me, down there in the deep, and she was looking at me, as unreadable as ever, as if to say, here we are together still, after all this time.

There was a
ping
, the elevator doors opened.

“Good night, Elise,” I said, a short while later at her room. “Sleep well.”

“Good night,” she replied, composed again, and then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly on the lips.

On to the minibar, restocked. One and two, then three. My
mouth tingled despite myself. The streets below me, the shine of headlights on their anointed surfaces, less frequent, less frequent again, as formally it grew late. I was awake, head swimming, alert nonetheless, feeling the air-conditioner gasp from beneath the window against my chest.

I called Eric one more time, and once again he wasn't there, or didn't pick up. It was an effort to speak clearly. I gave him the details—the airline, the flight numbers, and arrival times. I enunciated well enough, I was sure, though I was also sure that he would hear something in my voice that he did not expect. Johnny Walker Black, I thought, but of course it was more than that.

 

Toward the end, Rachel turned to miniatures, to oils half the size of playing cards, with tiny matching frames. They were simple—flower petals, drops of water on a railing, leaves on a walk. She used her smallest brushes, and painted through a magnifying glass.

They were like the beads of a rosary. Her precise attention, dipping the filament into the paint again, and the freedom from thought that it gave her, the peace of otherness, and elsewhere—that is how she endured the last few months of her life. There were many times when I would peer in through the door, wanting to sit beside her, and yet I knew that my presence would distract her, would carry her back from that world to this, and so I slipped away.

When she was done, she had several dozen. They were gifts—to her family, to her friends, and to her students.

“Which one do you think Danielle would like better?” she would ask me, with two or three arranged on the table.

“I think she'd like the gold coin,” I said.

“How about George?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe the fish in the pool.”

She would nod, and make a note on a legal pad.

She left them in a gift-wrapped pile on the table in her studio, with names on each one. Her address book lay on top of the pile, and beside it, a sealed envelope.

I'd put it off for many weeks, but when I was finally done with that room, and the paint and turpentine and drop cloths and brushes and rolls of empty canvas were in the trash at last, I opened her letter.

Charles
, it read,

Then her name.

 

I was going home to my dog, with his bad hips and the three-beat thump of his tail, gummy-eyed and stumbling toward my key in the door. I imagined my hand on his head, the warmth of his shoulder against my knee, the smell of the house, shut up for months, the cool white piles of mail at the post office, the fall scent in the air; and there I would be, standing in the doorway as if for the first time. Though of course he was staying with friends, he wasn't in the house, but I pictured him there anyway, sleeping off my absence, rising heavily from time to time to drink
from the water bowl, coming to perfect clear-eyed attention at the sight of a squirrel in the backyard trees, the years falling off him for a few seconds, then finally the two-circled collapse back onto his elaborate sheepskin bed, which Eric had chosen for him out of a catalogue, and sent to him for Christmas.

And I imagined her there, too, looking out through our yard toward the cornfields, saying, the trees are dry, aren't they? And I reply—yes, I suppose they are—and put my hands on her shoulders again.

We come back, it seems, endlessly to the same place; we drink from the same well. How strange, I thought, that I would be faced with this, at my age. But it was required; it was what my life had somehow given me, despite all the plans, all the years and struggles and hopes.

I could feel the approach of the future, I could sense it like a mist on a winter morning, so delicate on the farms around my house, as the coffee warmed, and the sun burned through to the fences, and finally to the fields, laced with snow, the radio filling the warmth of the kitchen with the pleasure of the cold, the pride in the weatherman's voice, as if to say, yes, these are unusual times, and this is the coldest morning of the year.

When I was a young man, living with Rachel in that small apartment not far from the hospital, I remember the mornings especially, driving home after a night on call, the heavy black pager on my hip, antique as a rotary telephone, my breath visible in the car, in the bright sun, and the steely blue surface of Lake Michigan, threaded with whitecaps and birds. I loved the solemnity of the ships, steaming toward the docks, and the train horns of the tugs. It was out of my way, a little, but I'd take Lakeshore Drive nonetheless, and sail along in the off-hour morning, home to breakfast, and finally to the fitful sleep of the exhausted. Throughout those years, those long white nights of sickbeds,
young and strong and full of what I thought was promise, I felt that I was struggling for something larger than myself, and greater. I was never sure, exactly, what it was I was moving toward, but I could feel it coursing through me, as if to say, look out, and look ahead, the future is wide open, and someday it will find you. The glory of possibility, the lure of the difficult—it was irresistible to me then, but now it seems like just another thing the world has lit within us.

My younger self would have been shocked to find me as I am. That's all? That's all you've become, and that's what you're going home to? How dismayed he would have been—I could almost see his expression, accusatory, disdainful, and afraid, as if I'd let him down, which perhaps I had. But I've become disdainful of him as well, deluded as he was, full of incoherent work and unexamined ambition, claiming all his wants as his own, incapable of rising above them. So we look at each other, with mutual suspicion, across those years. And if he can't forgive me, so much the worse for him.

In the end I slept well that night. The whiskey was just enough, and not too much, and it led me easily away, far more easily than I would have thought.