“I’ll have the eggplant,” said Arjun. “Eating veal’s a tad uncivilized.”
As they ate bread and salad, Ms. Farber told Arjun that studying premed was admirable. “I’m sure your mother would have been very proud.”
Siddharth coughed, then downed some ice water.
“Actually,” said Arjun, “I’ve been meaning to mention it. I’m not really sure medicine is for me anymore.”
“What?” said Mohan Lal, crunching a piece of lettuce.
“Let me guess,” said Ms. Farber. “Law school?”
Arjun started fiddling with his facial hair. “Actually, I find the humanities very inspiring. I’m thinking about becoming a history major.”
Ms. Farber smiled. “You’ll be a professor, just like Dad.” She patted Mohan Lal on the shoulder.
“No, not like my father,” said Arjun.
Mohan Lal took a swig from his bottle of Becks. A pimply busboy dropped off a fresh basket of bread. Siddharth knew the busboy’s little brother, who was a fifth grader at Deer Run.
“History,” said Ms. Farber. “Are we talking Potsdam? Or Napoleon?”
“More like South Asia,” said Arjun.
Ms. Farber squinted. “You mean Vietnam?”
Mohan Lal scoffed at her. “South Asia is a term invented by the CIA,” he said. “It refers to the region that was once British India.”
Arjun shook his head. “Why do you always have to be so cynical?”
Siddharth nudged his brother.
The waitress arrived to clear their salad bowls. “We all set with drinks here?”
“I’ll have another beer,” said Mohan Lal.
“I’ll have one too,” said Arjun.
Ms. Farber told Arjun that he would make a great history professor. She told him that he would be a big help with the book Mohan Lal was writing about India.
“I highly doubt it,” said Arjun.
Siddharth didn’t like the way his brother was smiling, sensing trouble.
The waitress arrived with their beers, and Mohan Lal took a long sip. “You doubt it?” he said. “Son, what is it that you doubt?”
“Forget it,” Arjun responded.
“Be a man,” said Mohan Lal. “Speak your mind.”
“You want me to be a man? What does that even mean?”
Ms. Farber squeezed Mohan Lal’s wrist. “Arjun, I think your father just wants you to communicate a little more clearly.”
Arjun drank from his green bottle, then shook his head. “What I’m saying is that I want no part of that thing. I’m saying that I could never work with someone like him.”
Siddharth gave his brother a light kick on the shin. Arjun then stomped on his toes, and he had to bite his own wrist to keep from yelping.
“You’re a hater, Dad.” Arjun said Mohan Lal had taught them how to hate since they were children — hate Gandhi, hate Nehru, hate the Muslims. “I guess I shouldn’t blame you. You were programmed by the British. They programmed your whole generation so they could control you.”
“The British?” Mohan Lal thumped his hand on the table.
“Guys, let’s keep it down,” said Ms. Farber.
Siddharth had been about to say the same thing, but it didn’t sound right coming from her. She wasn’t family, and she shouldn’t have butted in.
Mohan Lal leaned in toward Arjun. “Let me tell you something about the Britishers. If it wasn’t for them, we’d still be shitting in the trees. And as for your Nehru and Gandhi, these fools were British agents. Look what they did to your beloved Muslims. Look what they did to Jinnah.”
“That was politics,” said Arjun.
“Politics? What about Abdul Ghaffar Khan?”
“Who?” said Arjun.
Mohan Lal smirked. “You’re the one in chains, my son. The chains of a pseudointellectual.”
Arjun opened his mouth to speak. Siddharth knew that he was about to say something bad, something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Fortunately, just at that moment, Mustafa and the pimpled busboy arrived with their meals.
“Wow, what a feast,” said Mohan Lal.
“Buon appetito,” said Mustafa.
Mohan Lal said, “Mustafa, tell me what to do.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Mustafa.
Mohan Lal grinned. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that my son is a bloody pinko.”
Siddharth watched Mustafa chuckle, and the combination of his smile and his thick mustache made him resemble Bugs Bunny.
Mustafa said, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s just an intellectual, like his pops.”
“Please,” Mohan Lal replied, “speak some sense into him. Tell him the truth about Gandhi.”
“Gandhi?” said Mustafa. “That guy was a crook. My pops, back in Pakistan, he said they were all a bunch of crooks. Gandhi, Nehru — Jinnah too.” He pawed his jet-black hair. “It’s the same with all the politicians. We work, and they stuff our money in their pockets. Only good one was Reagan. He locked up the crooks. He did something about all the welfare.”
* * *
After Mohan Lal paid the bill, they agreed to skip the movie and go straight home. Nobody said a word as they drove through the darkened streets of South Haven. Arjun put a hand on Siddharth’s knee, but he stared straight ahead at the pale hairs of Ms. Farber’s neck. For a moment, he wondered if he hated Arjun. He contemplated telling Mohan Lal about Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend. But then he realized something: His mother would have wanted him to prevent Mohan Lal and Arjun from fighting. She would have wanted to keep them together. He swore that he would never tell his father about Arjun’s girlfriend, not for as long as he lived. He thought about Mustafa, which made him hopeful. If Mustafa could be so nice — so normal — then maybe Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend would be normal too. If Mohan Lal could get along with Mustafa, then maybe he wouldn’t go ballistic about Arjun’s girlfriend.
When they walked into the house, the television was on, but the sofas were empty.
“Marc!” yelled Ms. Farber, peeking into the kitchen.
Siddharth found the remote control and started flipping through the channels.
Mohan Lal headed for the dining room; Siddharth knew it was for a whiskey.
“I hear music playing,” said Arjun. He walked toward the guest room and was soon yelling at the top of his lungs: “Dad, Rachel! You better get over here!”
Siddharth sprang up and sprinted through the kitchen, passing his brother, who was walking in the opposite direction and smiling. Somehow, Ms. Farber made it to the guest room before him. She was standing in the doorway, her bony fingers covering her mouth.
“Oh, Marc,” she said. “Marc, what the hell is going on?”
Siddharth was now behind her, and when he peered inside the room, his knees buckled.
Marc was on the guest room bed fastening his belt. Dinetta was next to him, buttoning up her checkered shirt. On the pink love seat, underneath the family portrait, sat Andy Wurtzel and Liza Kim. Andy was wearing plaid boxers, holding his face in his hands. Liza was swathed in a green blanket, one that Mohan Lal liked when watching late-night television. Various articles of Liza’s clothing were in a pile by her feet. There was a black bra, a pair of jeans, and a peach-colored T-shirt. Siddharth glared at Marc. How could he have done this? Liza was supposed to be for him.