Translator (26 page)

The room's sparseness reminds Hanne
of the ryokan. Or a monk's cell. Or a prison's. Only a twin-sized bed, a faded wood nightstand, a lamp, and one round window too high to look out of. With her head bowed, Aruna asks if she might need anything.

Don't feel ashamed, my dear girl. I am just relieved I wasn't sent away. “A glass of water would be wonderful,” says Hanne.

Aruna quickly returns with a pitcher of water and a cup, along with slices of homemade bread and whipped butter. Hanne thanks her and empties the glass. A visitor only. She relinquished her status as mother when she sent her daughter away, and now she will be treated as someone visiting. To visit, to go to see, to avenge, to visit the sins of the father upon his children, to afflict, to reside as a guest. It is something. It is a beginning.

In the morning, Aruna appears, wearing a clean white robe. After she shows Hanne to the shower, she is to bring Hanne to the prayer hall. Hanne rushes through her bathing—an outdoor stall by the hay field—dresses and tells herself to accept whatever Brigitte has to give. Anger, frustration, rage, sorrow, self-pity, Hanne will nod and say she understands. She is here, that's what matters.

Hanne follows the girl outside to the large white sandstone building. Before entering, Aruna removes her shoes and points to Hanne's. “I'm sorry. Full of impurities,” she says. Hanne takes them off, padding to the tile entrance in bare feet.

Inside, it is cavernous and dark. Thankfully, the air is cooler and it smells of incense and candle wax. Rows of pews fill most of the room. At the front, a window lets in a stream of sunlight. The girl bows and leaves. Is that Brigitte up at the front? If so, Hanne does not recognize her.

The woman does not come at once. She is lighting candles, one by one, about twenty or so, taking her time, as if she's never seen a flame before. As if it is the most astonishing thing. Hanne sits on a pew and watches the match touch the wick and burst into a flame. Two insignificant things coming together to create fire. Is that what is about to happen? Hanne and Brigitte meeting again, Brigitte igniting with fury?

Eventually the woman strides down the aisle toward Hanne. She wears a flowing white robe, but it does not conceal her skeletal frame. Nor does it does it hide her head, which is tan and bald.

Six years since they've seen each other. The world instantly stills. Brigitte stands in front of Hanne, erect, her hands clasped in front of her. Despite her thin body, her daughter feels sturdy and solid, as impermeable as a brick wall. Is this who she has become now? Or is she bracing herself? Hanne is transfixed. Her gaze bounces from Brigitte's hands, still held tight, to her shiny bald head. Has she become a monk, required to shave her head? Wear these robes? Gone, too, is her smooth, pale skin, which is now deeply tanned with a fan of faint lines at the corners of her pale green eyes and on her forehead. The backs of her hands are mottled with brown spots—too much sun?

There will be, it seems, no embrace. Brigitte's hands remain a circle unto themselves. “How are you?” says Hanne. A stupid thing to say. But what? Something catches in Hanne's throat. “Thank you for seeing me. I'm very grateful.” She's about to say more, but she can't stand it any longer. She steps toward Brigitte and hugs her. She can feel Brigitte's bony ribs.

“Welcome,” says Brigitte, gently pulling out of the embrace. She bows slightly, turns and heads to the front of the big hall. Hanne assumes she is to follow. When she reaches the front pew, Brigitte takes a seat. Hanne sits beside her, this woman who sits with perfect posture, who feels like a stone.

But that's not right. She is solid, as if what was once tumultuous and chaotic inside has settled into something hard. But not sharp, with dangerous angles. Water comes to mind. Can water be solid without turning into ice? It's what Hanne always wanted for Brigitte, to have the strength to weather life's hardships. And India is full of hardship. At least she's given Brigitte something worthwhile after all. “Have you been living here a while?” says Hanne, groping for something to say. She hadn't thought beyond this moment, beyond seeing Brigitte.

“Three years,” she says. They first set up a school for the local children, she says, then an orphanage, a small outpatient clinic, a soup kitchen. The needs are so great, each year it seems a new service must be added and more funds raised. “We are here to serve, love, give, purify and meditate,” says Brigitte. Her voice is formal and controlled, as if she's given this talk many times, perhaps to philanthropists and other visitors. A breeze comes through the window at the front of the room, bringing with it Brigitte's smell, something starchy and sharp and sour.

“I'll give you a tour,” says Brigitte, standing.

Hanne almost weeps with relief. There will be no outbursts or vengeful words. She will not be sent home. A fact, frankly, she marvels at. Her daughter feels bigger than her personal history. She has surpassed her petty concerns, it seems, her resentments, her hatreds. As if she outgrew herself and now—Hanne despises invoking a cliché—Brigitte is full of love, enlightened. If moksha is to be had, it is for her daughter. Hanne will be given a tour.

Hanne follows obediently. Like Renzo's dog, she thinks. She will be like Morsel, pleased for any attention, waiting attentively by Brigitte's feet, tail wagging. And when Brigitte is preoccupied or uninterested, she will collapse on the floor or head outside and run madly in circles, as if chasing her tail. It will be enough.

Brigitte takes her to the one-room school, where thirty or more children, upon seeing Brigitte, stand and say “Good morning, Honorable Nivedita!” Smiling, Brigitte bows to them, and they proceed to sing a song in English.

It reminds Hanne of her years spent in Catholic school. Her parents were not religious, but they approved of the rigors of the school. When one of the crotchety old nuns poked her head into a classroom, if you did not politely call out “Good Morning!” in a sunshine voice, you were summarily whacked on the knuckles with a ruler and sent to the corner to stand and recite a thousand Hail Marys. Hanne didn't complain, convinced her parents would say that one must endure. Her mother one day saw Hanne's swollen knuckles and surprised Hanne by declaring that she would no longer attend such an abominable school. Hanne doubts that such disciplinary measures are invoked here, though. The politeness feels sweet, genuine.

The dormitory smells of bleach, and underneath that is the odor of urine. Neat little cots lined up in a row. About forty of them, their sheets pulled tight and tucked under thin mattresses. Orphans, Brigitte tells her. “I can't ever turn one away.” Each cot has a small nightstand where the children keep small trinkets—bracelets, a blue bead, a miniature doll, a race car. A nest of private belongings. The kitchen is set up to make huge meals with big pots and pans, chopping areas, a colossal refrigerator that hums.

Brigitte's room is as bare as Hanne's. The only accessory is a bookshelf and a hotplate with a tarnished tea kettle.

“So much accomplished in three years,” says Hanne as they head back to the prayer hall. “And your role here?”

Brigitte raises an eyebrow. “My role?” Her voice is full of wonder, as if she's baffled at the question. “I live here.”

Hanne thinks she hears a rumble of anger. But maybe not. Maybe she's reading something into Brigitte's response that isn't there.

As they enter the dark prayer hall, Hanne rattles on about Tomas and Anne, and her two nieces. She refrains from saying Sasha reminds her of Brigitte when she was a girl, her aggressive curiosity, her intellect. She doesn't ask: Have you ever met them? She doesn't really care. Tomas, his family, her fall down the stairs, Japan, Moto, all of it feels like a previous life.

Brigitte walks to the front of the temple and lights incense. The place is empty. She returns to the pew and sits beside Hanne. Minutes of silence seem to tick by. Occasionally the silence is interrupted by the spit and sizzle of a candle, the scratch of a branch against the window.

Hanne draws a long breath. “I've come to apologize, Brigitte. I don't think I understood you. Who you were, what you truly needed and wanted. I made mistakes. So many of them, I've lost count. I've come to say I'm sorry.”

“I've waited a long time to hear those words.” Brigitte looks down at her hands. “Tossed into the wilderness and forgotten.” Then, “I didn't mean to say that.”

“Whatever you want to say.” Hanne takes a deep breath. “If you'd had contact with me, told me where you were, I could have apologized long ago.”

Brigitte raises an eyebrow. “It couldn't have happened earlier, because you didn't feel this way.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “It's not necessarily a bad thing, you know. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. Wouldn't have found this.” She looks directly at Hanne now. “You've gone through hardship, haven't you? Your voice. Your eyes. I'm sorry it's been so hard, but it's brought you here.”

Silence. A long silence. Will Brigitte declare the meeting over? Good to see you, now I'm on my way? Hanne feels herself try to come up with something more to say. The distance between them feels like miles and miles. But then her daughter's breathing catches her attention. It's coming in short bursts. “Are you all right?”

Brigitte closes her eyes. “No. Unfortunately I'm not. I'm afraid I've made Tomas even more anxious.”

In that instant, everything realigns—Brigitte's bald head, her frail body, her ribs.

“What?” says Hanne.

“Cancer.”

“Cancer?”

Lymph nodes, now nearly everywhere. She's tried different treatments. “But I've had enough of that.”

“You've had enough of that?” Hanne can't seem to do anything but repeat what her daughter has said. Her mind is spinning wildly, as if someone has snuck up behind her and hit her on the head. But no—that call from Tomas long ago. Brigitte is sick. And then nothing. Her heart hammers away, as she tries to think of something to say.

“No more experts or doctors,” says Brigitte, her voice calm, steady. “I don't want to spend my days that way.”

“But it seems you have a good life here,” says Hanne, speaking rapidly, trying to find the right words. “Why not do more good work?”

Brigitte remains silent.

Hanne has her English back, her Japanese, and a handful of German, but none of it is of help. She has no words.

“This vessel may be dying,” says Brigitte, running her hands down the front of her robe, “but my spirit is alive and strong and I can still be of service to others. I know you don't believe in God, but I do. God's ways are mysterious and profound and I don't pretend to understand why my time here is so short. But I do know more treatments mean more days in the hospital, more days feeling sick from the treatments. I want to spend my remaining time here. Here is my life's work. Here is where I am needed. This is my home.”

Maybe Brigitte has fallen out of life as Moto fell off his stage. No longer able to feel, she is tired of going through the endless motions. Everything is used up, dried out, the meaning of life washed up. Not much difference between life and death, so why not throw herself into death's maw? “Assuming there is such a thing as a God,” says Hanne, “why did he give us a mind that can figure out medicines and procedures to prolong life? Surely you feel you are doing good things here. That you've made a life that is valuable and meaningful to you. Why not continue?”

She goes on, money is no object, whatever needs to be done will be done, but as she babbles on, thinking she'll sell her apartment, her car, everything to raise money, she senses that she is losing. One of the candles burns out, and a spiral of smoke rises to the ceiling.

“We also have minds that know too well how to destroy and kill and demand more and more. It is never enough,” says Brigitte. “The mind is never satisfied. Just because we can think of something does not give us license to act upon it. We're not God.”

“But we are not talking about killing. We are discussing saving. Saving you.”

“Yes, well, I think I've had enough of you trying to save me.” Brigitte smiles patiently, but her voice has an edge to it. “I don't expect you to understand.”

She was ready to accept it all, her daughter and her life, the years of silence. But this too? Hanne wants to cry. “Okay,” she manages to say. “You're right. I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn.” She wants to add: Please don't send me away.

Brigitte rubs her finger along her bottom lip. For a second, Brigitte is a child again who wanted Hanne to sit beside her on the couch while she read her book. And when Hanne didn't, when she was too busy, when she couldn't for whatever reason, she'd take a swatch of her hair and stroke the silkiness of it against her lip. A gesture to soothe herself. My poor child, she thinks, I'm failing you again, providing you no solace.

She's about to apologize again when forty or so children file into the prayer hall. Brigitte instantly reassembles her composure, her face now a mask of serenity. She climbs the four steps to the front stage, holding her head perfectly erect on her long neck, smiling. Her hands clasped in front of her, her two sandaled feet peeking out of the bottom of her robe, she looks like a pillar of strength. No one would guess she's sick, except for her excruciating thinness. But even that isn't much of an indicator, given the poverty here. The children are chattering excitedly, presumably because they have a visitor.

Brigitte raises her hands in the air and silence falls. Then she begins to speak. It's a language that Hanne does not know.

Hanne sits on the front pew, listening to her daughter say something, then the children's murmured response. Back and forth, Brigitte speaks, the children answer, an ebb and flow, a wave of sound washing up on shore. For a moment the waves are comforting. Whatever language they are speaking, it pulses with beautiful sounds and rhythms. Her daughter's face is rapt.