They lay like that for a long time. Awake in the dark. Quietness and Emptiness.
Not old. Not young.
But a viable die-able age.
They were strangers who had met in a chance encounter. They had known each other before Life began.
There is very little that anyone could say to clarify what happened next. Nothing that (in Mammachi’s book) would separate Sex from Love. Or Needs from Feelings.
Except perhaps that no Watcher watched through Rahel’s eyes. No one stared out of a window at the sea. Or a boat in the river. Or a passerby in the mist in a hat.
Except perhaps that it was a little cold. A little wet. But very quiet. The Air.
But what was there to say?
Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honeycolored shoulder had a semicircle of teethmarks on it. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.
On the roof of the abandoned factory, the lonely drummer drummed. A gauze door slammed. A mouse rushed across the factory floor. Cobwebs sealed old pickle vats. Empty, all but one-in which a small heap of congealed white dust lay. Bone dust from a Bar Nowl. Long dead. Pickled owl.
In answer to Sophie Mol’s question:
Asked on the evening of the day she arrived. She was standing on the edge of Baby Kochamma’s ornamental pond looking up at the kites wheeling in the sky.
Sophie Mol. Hatted, bell-bottomed and Loved from the Beginning.
Margaret Kochamma (because she knew that when you travel to the Heart of Darkness [b] Anything can Happen to Anyone) called her in to have her regimen of pills. Filaria. Malaria. Diarrhea. She had no prophylaxis, unfortunately, for Death by Drowning.
Then it was time for dinner.
“Supper, silly,” Sophie Mol said when Estha was sent to call her.
At supper silly, the children sat at a separate smaller table. Sophie Mol, with her back to the grown-ups, made gruesome faces at the food. Every mouthful she ate was displayed to her admiring younger cousins, half- chewed, mulched, lying on her tongue like fresh vomit.
When Rahel did the same, Ammu saw her and took her to bed.
Ammu tucked her naughty daughter in and switched off the light. Her goodnight kiss left no spit on Rahel’s cheek and Rahel could tell that she wasn’t really angry.
“You’re not angry, Ammu.” In a happy whisper. A little more her mother loved her.
“No.”
Ammu kissed her again.
“Goodnight, sweetheart. Godbless.”
“Goodnight, Ammu. Send Estha soon.” And as Ammu walked away she heard her daughter whisper, “Ammu!”
“What is it?”
“
Ammu leaned against the bedroom door in the dark, reluctant to return to the dinner table, where the conversation circled like a moth around the white child and her mother as though they were the only source of light. Ammu felt that she would die, wither and die, if she heard another word. If she had to endure another minute of Chacko’s proud, tennis-trophy smile. Or the undercurrent of sexual jealousy that emanated from Mammachi. Or Baby Kochamma’s conversation that was designed to exclude Ammu and her children, to inform them of their place in the scheme of things.
As she leaned against the door in the darkness, she felt her dream, her Afternoon-mare, move inside her like a rib of water rising from the ocean, gathering into a wave. The cheerful one-armed man with salty skin and a shoulder that ended abruptly like a cliff emerged from the shadows of the jagged beach and walked towards her.
Who was he?
Who could he have been?
The God of Loss.
The God of Small Things.
The God of Goosebumps and Sudden Smiles.
He could do only one thing at a time.
If he touched her he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her be couldn’t leave, if he spoke he couldn’t listen, if he fought be couldn’t win.
Ammu longed for him. Ached for him with the whole of her biology.
She returned to the dinner table.
Chapter 21.
The Cost of Living
When the old house had closed its bleary eyes and settled into sleep, Ammu, wearing one of Chacko’s old shirts over a long white petticoat, walked out onto the front verandah. She paced up and down for awhile. Restless. Feral. Then she sat on the wicker chair below the moldy, button-eyed bison head and the portraits of the Little Blessed One and Aleyooty Ammachi that hung on either side of it. Her twins were sleeping the way they did when they were exhausted—with their eyes half open, two small monsters. They got that from their father.
Ammu switched on her tangerine transistor. A man’s voice crackled through it. An English song she hadn’t heard before.
She sat there in the dark. A lonely, lambent woman looking out at her embittered aunt’s ornamental garden, listening to a tangerine. To a voice from far away. Wafting through the night. Sailing over lakes and rivers. Over dense heads of trees. Past the yellow church. Past the school. Bumping up the dirt road. Up the steps of the verandah. To her.
Barely listening to the music, she watched the frenzy of insects flitting around the light, vying to kill themselves.
The words of the song exploded in her head.
