“I’ll work on him for you.” Barry Uncle unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out a tiny blue sachet, emptying its contents into his mouth, and the car suddenly smelled like mint and pepper — like Delhi. “We’ll get him driving something more appropriate.”
Barry Uncle drove fast, taking a right turn where he should have gone left. They didn’t pass the old white church or town hall like they were supposed to. A nervy roller-coaster feeling churned in Siddharth’s stomach, but it was better than the unabating deadness of the past few days. He was too stunned to talk. He just sat there absorbing his surroundings. An actual car phone rested behind the gearshift. Did it work? Could he use it to call his father?
From the rearview mirror dangled a cardboard cutout of a blue Hindu god. It somehow looked different from the deities that had once rested on Arjun’s nightstand. This god had chiseled pecs and a six-pack, and it didn’t seem all tranquil and girly.
Barry Uncle, still masticating the contents of his blue sachet, touched the god and brought his fingers to his forehead. “You like him?”
“Huh?”
“Who’s that? Can you tell me his name?”
Siddharth shook his head. He could only identify the gods that resembled animals.
Barry Uncle pressed a button to lower his window and then hawked a glob of phlegm. “Ain’t your fault. Your father’s a busy man. Believe me, women take up a lot of energy.”
Siddharth clenched his jaw and stared out the window. They were paused at the intersection of Center Road and Route 1. To the right was a bank that could have been a suburban home. When he was six, Mohan Lal had taken him there to open his first savings account.
The light changed, and Barry Uncle made a left. “So what do you think of her?”
“Who?”
“Of what’s-her-name.”
“Ms. Farber?”
“That’s it.” Barry Uncle snapped his fingers. “She pretty?”
He shrugged. No, he wanted to say, she’s a fucking dog. He punched some of the buttons on the car phone.
“Easy,” said Barry Uncle. “Emergency use only.”
They drove in silence to the next light, passing by the road that led to the dump, then the pancake house where Arjun had once worked as a dishwasher.
“He should watch out, you know,” said Barry Uncle. “My ex-wife was a gori — what a terrible storm.” As Siddharth listened to these words, a surge of optimism pulsed through his veins. Maybe Barry Uncle’s return was the sign he’d been waiting for — a sign that things were really and truly returning to normal.
Barry Uncle said, “At least Dad’s got himself a Jew. With them we have something in common.”
“I know, I know. Bad tipping and hating Arabs.”
Barry Uncle turned into a plaza containing a bridal shop and a Subway, parking next to a Jeep Wrangler. “Good man,” he said. “Yes, we both have the same problem with the Mohammedans.” He shut off the engine, and the seat belts slid forward on their own. “Listen, kid, this all must be strange for you. But your father’s a smart man. And we all gotta look to the future.”
Inside Subway, the radio was playing “More than Words,” one of Luca’s favorite songs. Barry Uncle explained that the turkey here was better than the roast beef, and that pickles went well with the peppers. He called the Latina cashier “sweetheart,” telling her she had gorgeous eyes. Siddharth wondered if Barry Uncle could knock some sense into Mohan Lal — if he could keep him from doing something stupid, like marrying Ms. Farber.
They sidled up to a booth by the window, and Siddharth asked when he would see his father.
“Don’t worry,” said Barry Uncle, his mouth full of turkey, “I’m not gonna kidnap you.” He devoured his sub, then tapped his hairy fingers against the acrylic tabletop, the two of them going quiet.
Siddharth struggled to finish his sandwich, breaking the silence by asking, “You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Me? I’m an entrepreneur — got a gas station and half a liquor store. I actually do the things that your dad teaches.” He slurped some ginger ale through a straw. “You could say this place — America — has allowed me to live with some dignity. But things are changing over there too.”
“Over where?”
“In India, boy. I keep telling your father, but he doesn’t wanna listen.”
They took an odd route home, a tape with some wailing Indians playing on the stereo. Barry Uncle asked if Mohan Lal still listened to this stuff, and Siddharth shrugged. To him, all Indian music sounded the same. Barry Uncle said, “This is Rafi Sahib. Mohammed Rafi. Real music, not like your McHammer.”
Siddharth struggled to contain his laughter.
“What’s so funny, kid?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“It’s MC Hammer, not McHammer. And he’s lame.”
“Boy, all your music’s lame. Same with your cinema. Your movies are nothing compared with the classics. Me and your Dad, we used to go to the movies once a week. Your father, he was a Guru Dutt man. But me, I loved Raj Kapoor.”
“I should know these people?”
“Don’t tell me — you don’t know Raj Kapoor?”
He shrugged. “I saw Gandhi once.”
“That trash? That’s not a movie — it’s bloody propaganda.”
* * *
Once they were home, Barry Uncle poured himself some of Mohan Lal’s whiskey. He sipped it on the armchair while reading an Indian magazine that he’d pulled out of his briefcase. Siddharth sat on the sofa, and as he watched TV, he wondered if being here with Barry Uncle was better or worse than his after-school program. Maybe the best thing would be if things could just go back to the way they were a few weeks earlier. He took the cordless phone to the bathroom and dialed Marc’s number. There was still no answer.
He recalled a time when Barry Uncle had really pissed off his mother. They were eating a standard weekday meal of daal, vegetables, and frozen pita, and Barry Uncle declared that the food was nice, but that nothing was better than piping-hot, homemade chapattis. Siddharth’s mother had slammed down her glass. She took the man’s pita from his plate and threw it in the trash compactor.
Mohan Lal’s van pulled in a few minutes after eight, and Siddharth ran to the front door to greet him. As Mohan Lal hung his blazer over a kitchen chair, Barry Uncle removed an expensive-looking bottle of alcohol from a plastic bag.
Mohan Lal held the bottle up to the light. “Wow. Rocks and soda, chief?”
“Boss, that’s the good stuff,” said Barry Uncle. “We gotta have it neat.”
The men poured the whiskey into Mohan Lal’s special crystal glasses, sipping it on the family room sofas as they munched cashews flavored with Indian spices. Siddharth sat on the armchair, eating a plate of rajma on his three-legged Indian table. He tried to concentrate on a sitcom, but Barry Uncle kept interrupting him. At one point, he told Siddharth that his table was gorgeous.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I made it all by myself — from scratch.”
“I bet you don’t even know where it’s from,” said Barry Uncle.
He scrutinized the wooden table, as if seeing it for the first time. It was only a foot tall and had a round top carved with intricate floral patterns.
“Kashmir, boy,” said Barry Uncle, who then turned to Mohan Lal. “I bet he doesn’t even know where that is.”
Of course he knew where it was. Kashmir was in India, the goddamned country that nobody would shut up about.
“Why would he know?” replied Mohan Lal. “All kids know today is television.”
“But it’s his grandmother’s place. It’s one of the most beautiful places on this earth. Sid, listen up. You must visit Kashmir one day. But your father can’t take you there now. He can’t take you thanks to these bloody Pakistanis.”