The Newlyweds (16 page)

1
She started college in the summer term, a year after she’d arrived.

She would turn twenty-six in July, and she was still two years away from becoming a citizen. According to Ghaniyah’s
Femina
magazine, she was no longer a newlywed, but the goals that she’d set for her first three years in Rochester seemed very distant. Even if everything went as she hoped, she wouldn’t have an American passport until July of 2008. As soon as she received it, her parents would expect to begin the visa application process. But now that she’d lost her job, the questions of where they would live and how she would pay their rent were more insoluble than ever.

The first night she came home from ESL, she told George that it was like having the whole world in one room: she had never imagined that there were so many different kinds of foreigners in Rochester. George had thought she might place out of the ESL requirement altogether, but he’d forgotten how much better her speaking was than her writing. Her score put her at the intermediate level, and so she signed up for ESL 125 and Calculus I. In ESL she sat next to a Lithuanian girl, Daina, who chattered constantly with another girl Amina had assumed to be Russian. Only later did she discover that Laila was actually Turkish but had been raised in Moscow. There were two Afghans who sat at the back of the room and spoke only to each other, and a Turkish boy, Abu, who could not refrain from giggling every time he tried to say something in English. Jamila was a Somali woman who wore a head scarf—her family was also Sunni, she told Amina after class one day—and Pico was from the Congo (only now you weren’t supposed to say the “the”). Pico’s British-inflected English was the best in the class, and he was never afraid to raise his hand.

Their teacher, Jill, had asked to be called by her first name. Amina guessed her to be in her late forties, but it was hard to be sure. She had short, bobbed hair, dyed black, and the kind of childlike features that made her look younger than she was; it was only when you got up close that you could see the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Jill told them that she’d been teaching at MCC for seven years and that she lived in Brighton with a cat and two parakeets. She said that she’d begun her career teaching English in Thailand, where she’d gone when her marriage hadn’t worked out.

“A lifetime ago—big mistake,” she said, smiling at them. Abu laughed, as did Daina, putting her hand over her mouth, but Pico frowned, as if he disapproved of such a confidence from a teacher. The rest of the class only smiled uncertainly with Amina. Jill told them she’d spent five years in Bangkok and then returned to Rochester and gone to SUNY Brockport for her teaching certificate, taking poetry classes at the same time. She had even published a book of poems, called
The Floating Market
. “It was a big seller, I can tell you. My mom and dad have ten copies.” Jill smiled. “But I love poetry and I’m going to inflict it on you guys.” One of their first assignments had been a three-paragraph response paper on the poem “Crusoe in England,” by Elizabeth Bishop. Amina had received a check, which meant that her work was acceptable if not distinguished, but when she looked over at the paper on Pico’s desk, she’d seen a bright red check plus plus.

On her way home from school that day she’d run into Pico on the bus; she’d gotten on after him, and there were no seats, but her classmate had insisted on standing up and giving her his. Amina had wished he hadn’t, partly because Pico’s skin was so dark—almost purple—that people on the bus turned to stare at him, and partly because it meant they had to manage a conversation. Pico had stood over her, holding on to a pole, and she’d said the first thing that came into her head:

“My husband ordered the movie
Congo
from Netflix.” Amina didn’t think she’d ever seen Pico smile, and so it surprised her when he laughed out loud.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“We didn’t watch it yet.”

“Well, if you do, remember that they made all that up,” Pico said. “That’s not what my country is like.”

Amina thought about talking to Jill, as she might have to a teacher at home, to ask whether there was anything extra she could do to improve her grade on the response paper. But when she imagined approaching the teacher in this politely humble posture—not fake, but not entirely genuine either—the words she thought of were in Bangla rather than English. And so she threw the assignment away and resolved to do better the next time.

Amina knew she was a different person in Bangla than she was English; she noticed the change every time she switched languages on the phone. She was older in English, and also less fastidious; she was the parent to her parents. In Bangla, of course, they were still the parents, and she let them fuss over her, asking whether she was maintaining her weight, and if she’d been able to find her Horlicks in America.

Was there a person who existed beneath languages? That was the question. As a teenager, Amina had thought there was. She had believed that she’d been born with a soul whose thoughts were in no particular dialect, and she’d imagined that, when she married, her husband would be able to recognize this deep part of herself. She thought that this recognition was how she would recognize
him
. Of course she hadn’t counted on her husband being a foreigner, a person who called her honey rather than Munni. In a way, George had created her American self, and so it made sense that it was the only one he would see.

2

Munni
,

Assalamu alaikum. It is after midnight now, and I am sitting at the computer at home. Probably everyone in the building is sleeping except
for my Sakina Apu, who stays up late watching television. It is raining, but they say the floods will not be so bad this year, inshallah. The window is open and so I am getting the smell of the “belly” flower from the veranda
.

I was sorry to hear from your parents that you did not observe our holy festival last year. What happened? I am sure there must be some sort of celebration at the ICR I mentioned about—or at least you might fast at home? Both years I was in UK I enjoyed breaking the fast at the restaurant with the other Deshis there—that was the only time our boss (my cousin) was generous with us. Walking around the streets on those days when I was fasting, doing my errands, I used to feel something special—it’s hard to explain. But it was like I had a secret from everyone around me
.

I think of you often, but try to keep from writing—I know you are busy with work and your life in America. Your parents give me all your good news, and I truly admire everything you are doing for them, Munni. They are wonderful people, and I will miss seeing them
.

Now I will confide in you my own news. Last week, Sakina Apu sent a letter to the parents of a girl. She and Shilpa said the girl is good in all senses, but—my bad luck—she won’t even agree to meet me. The reason: because I am not an MS holder. (She herself does not have a master’s degree, but never mind.) My sisters became furious, saying that it is an excuse—that this family cares only for taka, and now we know. Perhaps, but I cannot be angry. Maybe it is my temperament that keeps me from finding a life partner. I cannot care about all the things that other people care for—Allah knows what will happen to me
.

I have begun printing stories from the BBC. At first I am pinning these stories up around my desk, so that I would be sure to remember them, but my boss has asked me to take them down. He said my other colleagues think I am showing off my knowledge of English! I think you will also laugh at this notion. I took down my papers, but they are there on the BBC for anyone to read. I do not advise you to read them, because I do not want you to be shocked by the abuses they describe. (Though I am sure you have seen the terrible pictures from the Abu Ghraib prison.) You say that President George Bush is no worse than our two “Begums,” and perhaps you are right. But is the crime not more severe, the bigger the man who commits it?

I am glad that you have found a good George ;-) in America, and I am sorry to bother you. You are right that I have an obsession with “depressing news.” At night as I am trying to fall asleep, I think of those
prisoners still in their cells, crying out to our God. And so it is perhaps a good thing that my sisters have failed again, and that it is only myself and the tiktiki who are disturbed by my tossing and turning
.

Allah hafez
.

Your friend
,

Nasir

She reported to her parents that her classes had begun, but it took her a month to tell them that she’d lost her job. Her mother had started to cry, of course: she said she had a feeling they would never see each other again. When Amina told her that was ridiculous, her mother simply sobbed harder and handed the phone to her father, who asked whether her Chinese friend could help convince the boss to take her back.

“She isn’t Chinese,” Amina said patiently. “She has a Chinese tattoo. And anyway, she was also laid off.”

Her parents couldn’t understand the difference between “laid off” and being fired, even when she explained it to them exactly as George had explained it to her.

“And I don’t know why you need to gossip to everyone about my job right away.”

“We are not gossiping!” her father exclaimed. “Who told you that?”

“I have been receiving e-mails from Nasir.”

“Nasir!”

“Why has he been visiting you so often?”

“Not so often.” The connection was weak, and her father struggled to make himself heard. “He came one time. Your mother insisted on cooking for him.” She could hear her mother arguing stridently in the background; she couldn’t make out the words, but of course her mother was saying that it was Nasir, and he’d shown up at their door. How could she not invite him in for something to eat?

“If you’d only waited to tell everyone,” Amina said. “I could’ve gotten another job and no one would’ve known.”

“Yes!” her father shouted. “Please tell us as soon as you get another job! We’ll let everyone know!”

Amina was so exasperated that she almost hoped that the call would be dropped. Instead the connection got stronger again.

“Have you told Nasir not to visit again?”

“How could we tell him that?”

“He said that he was going to miss you, so I thought you must have told him not to come again.”

“Ah.” Her father coughed unnaturally.

“Is he going somewhere?”

“He has a good job at Golden Internet. Where would he be going?”

“Golden Horn,” Amina corrected. “But he knows you’re not going to America yet, so why does he say he’ll miss you?”

“Oh yes,” her father said, as if it had suddenly occurred to him. “Your mother gave notice to Mrs. Khan last week. We are moving home to the village until you come for us. You’ll need to send much less money, only half. And you can save for the future.”

“Tell Mrs. Khan you changed your mind!” Amina exclaimed. “How could you go back there now?”

“It’s only another two years,” her father said. “Your nanu has room for us. Why should we spend so much money here in Dhaka when we are only waiting to come to America?”

“How could you give up your apartment?” The apartment in Mohammedpur was a good one, and the rent was fair. It had been a comfort to know they had it, as she struggled to imagine how she would save enough for an apartment and even sometimes wondered whether Rochester was the right place for them. Now everything was different. Her nanu would have them in the village, but not forever—and so if they were going there she had no choice but to somehow find a way to bring them here.

“It’s more than two years—twenty-six months, at the earliest! Who knows how long it’ll take?”

“That’s true,” her father said cheerfully. “Or perhaps it will be even less time!”

3
When she’d first arrived, there had been some talk about Amina working for Cathy at Shampooch, and as soon as she lost her job, those conversations began again. Amina smiled and nodded politely whenever Cathy brought it up, but she told George privately that it was impossible. When she imagined telling her mother that she’d gotten
a job washing dogs—and then imagined her mother telling her Devil Aunt—she thought she would do absolutely anything to avoid taking Cathy up on her offer.

“Amina doesn’t like animals,” George had said at dinner last Sunday night, but the look on his aunt’s face was so shocked and hurt that Amina had tried to mend things.

“That’s not true,” she said. “I like dogs and cats very much in America. Dogs in Bangladesh are not very nice, because the climate is too hot for them. They go crazy and their fur falls off.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Eileen put in.

“Amina wants a job where she can stay clean,” George insisted. “She wouldn’t like washing dogs.”

Cathy looked surprised. “Well it’s not like I can’t easily find a couple of Cuban girls to do it. They’re illegal, and so they don’t have a lot of options. Of course they’re going to have babies, and so we’ll be paying for the bilingual programs—as if Rochester schools don’t have enough problems.”

“You employ illegals,” George said. “Where would Shampooch be without them?”

“I wouldn’t employ them if they weren’t
here
. I voted W. twice, but I can tell you, I wouldn’t do it again. They can call it a guest worker program if they want, but everyone knows it’s amnesty, pure and simple.”

Later in the car Amina asked whether Aunt Cathy had been offended by her hesitation about the job at Shampooch.

“She’ll get over it,” George said. “I was more worried about you.”

George had cracked the window, and the humid summer air reminded her of home. “Does Cathy dislike me?”

“No,” George said quickly. “No—she’s just bitter about her own life. And she’s competitive with my mom. She’d like Kim to settle down with someone, have kids—all that stuff.”

“I can understand Cathy,” Amina said. “My mother’s sisters are also competitive that way.”

George nodded. “That whole thing with the Indian guy almost killed her.”