dreams. And not only dreams but also the part of me that was tender and moral. Latika had called it up. Without her, it could not survive.
Standing outside the dilapidated building, I was forced to admit that I had brought upon Latika trouble so deep that she might never recover from it. And this: though Naina didn’t want me for herself, the thought of my being happy with another woman stung her like poison ivy. She would fight to keep me tied to her for life, and in that battle her father would be her ally.
That evening Naina and I dined together as though nothing amiss had occurred. As I watched her compliment the cook on the Chicken Makhani, rage flowed through my veins like exhilaration. Liberated from the scruples that Latika had lovingly woven around me, I felt a plan taking shape. I would begin by flirting with Naina’s closest friends, women too well connected for her to ignore or harm. I would use my charms to embroil these women in affairs, and flaunt these affairs so all of Delhi’s rich and famous gossiped about them. If in the process I broke a few hearts, it didn’t matter, as long as Naina became the laughingstock of high society. I would shame her and her father until in desperation they would do one of two things, and at this point I didn’t care which. They would either hire a thug to kill me, or they would make sure I went somewhere far away. In this way, I would gain my freedom.
CAMERON HEARD THE END OF MANGALAM’S STORY, BUT IT WAS also a kind of not-hearing. In his head he had drifted into another place, in another dimension. Tall yellow flowers grow wild around the crumbly brick of the walls, all the way up to the locked iron gates. Cameron has no trouble recognizing the gates. Hasn’t he been looking at their photo for years? The road leading to the gates-no more than a gravel path-is mud-red. Cameron’s feet slip-slide on it as he walks. He wishes there were something to hold on to, a rail, a bush, another person’s arm. The wish surprises him. It is so un-Cameron-like. For years now he’s prided himself on doing without support, on being the one others come to for help. But his backpack is so heavy. He wants to drop it, but he can’t. The backpack is filled with gifts. Without the backpack, Seva might not like him. He hoists it higher onto his shoulders, though that makes it harder to draw breath. Around his heart, there’s a sharp, hot squeezing, like scorpion pincers. He’s encountered scorpions before, on desert missions. He hopes there aren’t any here in the foothills, because beyond the gates the children in their patched blue uniforms are playing barefoot.
The boys chase a soccer ball around the yard. From the articles he’s been reading to prepare for this journey, Cameron knows they call soccer something different here. But holes have opened up in his memory, and he can’t remember what. The girls play crocodile, jumping onto the porch of the old building with shrieks of delight and terror so that the girl who is crocodile can’t get them. Their legs are thin and scabbed, but when they run they’re transformed into forest flashes of golden brown. Seva runs the fastest; the crocodile will never catch her. When she reaches the gate, she swings up on it.
He drops the backpack and runs to the gate. He wants to touch her determined fingers, the nails black with dirt. But the orphanage bell is ringing. It summons the children to study hour. They make a ragged, reluctant line at the pump so they can wash their hands and feet. A teacher in a faded sari appears on the porch and yells at Seva to get off the gate, but she hangs there for an additional moment, listening, a perplexed expression in her eyes.
“THAT SUCKS, MR. M,” LILY SAID. “TO FINALLY FIND SOMEONE you love so much and then lose her like that. No wonder you were pissed off. I’m glad you got away.”
Now that he had finished his story, Mangalam’s teeth began to chatter again. He hugged himself. “I got away geographically,” he said. “But not legally. Or psychologically. Naina’s still my wife, and I can’t forget that. Maybe today, in a while, I really will become free.” He glanced up where the collapsed ceiling had been, and Uma, following his eyes, caught a movement there. A shattered light fixture, still attached by its chain to something, had begun a small, swinging movement. Why would it do that?
“It wasn’t all Naina’s fault,” Mangalam continued. “I started the cycle of wrongdoing. I used her to get what I wanted. It’s only fair that she became the cause for losing what I wanted even more. Karma’s wheel is intricate.”
“What do you mean, karma’s wheel?” said Mrs. Pritchett. She leaned across her husband toward Mr. Mangalam.
“Remember how I flirted and enticed purposely, intending to snare Naina’s friends? Well, after I achieved my purpose and was sent away to America, I found I couldn’t stop behaving like that toward women-even those I respected and felt a genuine liking for.” Here he glanced at Malathi. “It was like those stories we tell children to frighten them into goodness: if they grimace long enough, their muscles will freeze, and when they want to smile, they will not be able to.”
Mangalam turned toward Malathi and spoke as though they were alone. “I think we might die here-perhaps in the next few hours, if more of the building comes down or the air deteriorates further… I don’t want to die without telling you that I’m sorry for my behavior.”
Malathi said, “I accept. And thank you for translating my story, which I chose partly to jab at you, the kind of man I thought you were.”
Cameron had been coughing intermittently, but now he had a prolonged fit that left him gasping. Uma tried to hold him upright and Lily hurried over to help. He had to push their arms away to get at his pocket and extract the inhaler, which he used. When he held his breath, Uma found that she, too, was holding hers. He handed the inhaler to her-so frighteningly light-and she put it back in his pocket. Another puff and he might as well throw it away. “Tell your story,” she said to Cameron.
“I can’t,” he whispered, rubbing his chest. “It isn’t ready.”
She knew what he meant. Hers wasn’t ready either.
Then Mrs. Pritchett cleared her throat.
14
I apologize in advance for my story. I know it will cause my husband pain. The way I see these events is not how he views them; it cannot be. I only hope that he-and all of you-will see by the end why I had to tell this story.
You’ve been speaking of events that shatter lives in a day’s time: wars, betrayal, seduction, death. In my case, my life was turned around by a man I didn’t know helping his wife take off her coat.
THAT FATEFUL DAY BEGINS WITH MRS. PRITCHETT ENJOYING A cup of lemon tea in her morning kitchen, closing her eyes and breathing in the tangy steam. She believes in life’s small pleasures. Around her, the kitchen gleams: immaculate granite counters, a purring Sub-Zero refrigerator, a blue ceramic bowl she made in pottery class. The bowl is filled with apples and pears, her husband’s favorite fruits.
Mrs. Pritchett has sent her husband off to his office on a wholesome breakfast of oatmeal with almonds and brown sugar and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Until he returns in the evening, the day lies ahead of her, luxurious as a stretching cat waiting for her to stroke it. She makes a mental list: go into her dewy garden and pick an armful of irises; tidy the house in preparation for dinner guests, Mr. Pritchett’s old clients, grown into friends over the years; visit the local market to pick up strawberries for an English trifle she’s planning to create.
