Light and dark.
The General and the Emperor.
Good and evil.
All possibilities resided within me, and they required me to be here. If I left, what would be left of me?
BY ELEVEN O'CLOCK, Ghosh excused himself from the company in the living room and came back with us to our room. Hema followed.
Shiva said, “We haven't slept in this bed since you left.”
Ghosh was touched. He lay in the center, and we huddled on either side. Hema sat at the foot of our bed.
“In prison, lights were out by eight o'clock. We'd each tell a story. That was our entertainment. I told stories from the books we read to you in this room. One of my cell mates, a merchant, Tawfiq—he would tell the Abu Kassem story.”
It was a tale well known to children all over Africa: Abu Kassem, a miserly Baghdad merchant, had held on to his battered, much repaired pair of slippers even though they were objects of derision. At last, even he couldn't stomach the sight of them. But his every attempt to get rid of his slippers ended in disaster: when he tossed them out of his window they landed on the head of a pregnant woman who miscarried, and Abu Kassem was thrown in jail; when he dropped them in the canal, the slippers choked off the main drain and caused flooding, and off Abu Kassem went to jail …
“One night when Tawfiq finished, another prisoner, a quiet, dignified old man, said, Abu Kassem might as well build a special room for his slippers. Why try to lose them? He'll never escape.’ The old man laughed, and he seemed happy when he said that. That night the old man died in his sleep.
“The next night, out of respect for the old man, we lay in silence. No story. I could hear men crying in the dark. This was always the low point for me. Ah, boys … Id pretend you both were against me, just like this, and I would imagine Hema's face before me.
“The following night, we couldn't wait to talk about Abu Kassem. We all saw it the same way. The old man was right. The slippers in the story mean that everything you see and do and touch, every seed you sow, or don't sow, becomes part of your destiny … I met Hema in the septic ward at Government General Hospital in India, in Madras, and that brought me to this continent. Because of that, I got the biggest gift of my life—to be a father to you two. Because of that, I operated on General Mebratu, who became my friend. Because he was my friend, I went to prison. Because I was a doctor, I helped to save him, and they let me out. Because I saved him, they could hang him … You see what I am saying?”
I didn't, but he spoke with such passion I wasn't about to stop him.
“I never knew my father, and so I thought he was irrelevant to me. My sister felt his absence so strongly that it made her sour, and so no matter what she has, or will ever have, it won't be enough.” He sighed. “I made up for his absence by hoarding knowledge, skills, seeking praise. What I finally understood in Kerchele is that neither my sister nor I realized that my father's absence is our slippers. In order to start to get rid of your slippers, you have to admit they are yours, and if you do, then they will get rid of themselves.”
All these years and I hadn't known this about Ghosh, about his father dying when he was young. He was like us, fatherless, but at least we had him. Perhaps he'd been worse off than we were.
Ghosh sighed. “I hope one day you see this as clearly as I did in Kerchele. The key to your happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have, and own the ones you don't. If you keep saying your slippers aren't yours, then you'll die searching, you'll die bitter, always feeling you were promised more. Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny“
AFTER GHOSH LEFT, I wondered if the army man was my pair of slippers. If so, they'd come back once already in the form of his brother. What form would they take next?
Just when my thoughts were coming in illogical sequences, a prelude to sleep, I felt someone lifting up the mosquito net. In the instant that I saw her, she was already sitting on my chest, pinning my arms down.
I could have thrown her off. But I didn't. I liked her body on mine and I liked the faint scent of charcoal and the frankincense that permeated her clothes. Maybe shed come to make up to me for being so rude before. She could ‘ve climbed in through one of the open windows.
In the light from the hallway, I could see the fixed smile on her face.
“So, Marion? Did you tell Ghosh about the thief?”
“If you were hiding here, you already know.”
Shiva, awake now, looked at the two of us, then rolled over, and closed his eyes.
“You almost told that officer, his brother.”
“I didn't. I was just surprised …,” I said.
“We think you told Ghosh and Hema.”
“Of course not. I wouldn't.”
“Why wouldn't you?”
“You know why. If it gets out, they'll hang me.”
“No, they will hang me and my mother for sure. You'll be to blame.”
“I dream about his face.”
“I do, too. And I kill him every night. I wish I'd shot him.”
“It was an accident.”
“If I'd killed him, I wouldn't call it an accident. If I'd killed him, we'd have no worries.”
“Easy for you to say because you didn't kill him.”
“My mother thinks you'll tell. We're worried about you.”
“What? Well, you tell Rosina not to worry.”
“It'll slip out one day and get us all killed.”
“Okay, stop. If you know I'll tell, why talk to me? Get off me now.”
She slid down so that her body was spread-eagled over mine. Her face hovered over me, and for one second I thought she was going to kiss me, which would have been very strange in the context of our exchange. I studied her eyes so close to mine, the blemish in the right iris, her breath on my face, sweet, pleasant. I could see the dangerous beauty she was going to turn into. I thought of the last time we were this close. In the pantry.
Her pupils dilated, her eyelids sagged down over the irises.
I felt something warm where her thighs were on top of mine, a spreading heat.
I felt fluid soak my pajamas. The air under the mosquito net filled with the scent of fresh urine. Now her eyes rolled up, showing only the whites, and she threw her head back. She shivered. Her neck was arched, the strap muscles taut. She looked down one last time. “That's so you don't ever forget your promise.” She jumped off and was gone before I could think of reacting. I reared up now, ready to chase after her, to tear her to pieces.
Shiva held me back, whether from his desire to be a peacemaker or to protect her, I couldn't say. His eyes were downcast and they managed not to look at me. I stood shaking with anger as Shiva stripped the bed. My pajama bottom was soaked; Shiva had been spared. In the bathroom Shiva ran the tub and I got in. Shiva sat on the commode, quiet but keeping me company. We did not exhange a word. Back in the bedroom I was putting on fresh pajamas when Ghosh came in.
“I saw your light. What happened?”
“An accident,” I said.
Shiva said nothing. The scent was unmistakable. I was ashamed. I could've told on Genet, but I didn't. I opened the window for a few minutes and then closed it.