On a Thursday night in October, Marc and Ms. Farber left to attend a function at their synagogue, and they planned on sleeping in Woodford. This would be Marc’s third night away that week, which irritated Siddharth. What was the point of putting up with Ms. Farber if it didn’t mean more time with Marc? What was the point of letting her fuck his father? He shed some of his anger when Mohan Lal declared that he was treating him and Barry Uncle to dinner at Pasta Palace.
The place was packed that night, with dozens of cops. They were in uniform, laughing, shouting, and drinking. Mohan Lal told the hostess to get Mustafa, but she said he was busy in the kitchen. It took them twenty minutes to get a table, and once they were seated, the waitress took ages to gather their orders. Barry Uncle thumped Mohan Lal on the back. “Boss, if this is how they treat VIPs here, I’d hate to be an ordinary customer.”
Siddharth was starving by this point, and he thought Barry Uncle was right. But he needed to stick up for his father. “Trust me, Barry Uncle. The wait is worth it.”
Mustafa eventually showed up with a complimentary round of drinks — more whiskey for the men, and a Coke for Siddharth. He also brought over a free order of fried mozzarella.
Barry Uncle had a weird smile on his face. “Mustafa-ji, I’ve heard a lot about you, boss.”
Mustafa laughed, stroking his thick moustache. “Well, Arora sahib here is one of our best customers. His wife, she was such a fine lady.”
Siddharth coughed on his Coke and the table fell silent. After an uncomfortable pause, Barry Uncle asked, “So what about you? You married, Mustafa?”
Mustafa broke into a big smile. “Oh, very happily married indeed. I’m very blessed, actually. I got two daughters — twin girls.” He pulled his wallet out and handed Barry Uncle a picture. Siddharth glanced over and saw two baby girls wearing little dresses. He had to admit they were cute despite their very dark skin.
“Girls, eh?” said Barry Uncle. He handed the photo back and finished his whiskey in a single gulp. Then he took a long sip of the other one that had come for free. “Tell me something. You gonna make those little darlings cover up their heads?”
Mustafa’s lips gaped but no words came out.
“Because those kids are sweet,” continued Barry Uncle, “and it would be a shame to cover up their little heads.”
Siddharth knew that Barry Uncle shouldn’t have said this, but a part of him was glad — for in that moment, he loathed Mustafa for bringing up his mother. Staring at Mustafa, he saw anger flash in his eyes — a cold, hard look. But then it vanished, and Mustafa was his usual smiley self again. He said, “Well, folks, I better be going. A lotta work to do tonight. The PBA’s here — annual function. Don’t wanna tick off the coppers. Am I right?”
Mustafa started walking away, but Barry Uncle grabbed his wrist. “Hang on, man. Let’s finish our little conversation. Your wife — you make her cover her head too?”
Siddharth now realized that Barry Uncle had crossed a line, and he wanted his father to intervene. But Mohan Lal was gobbling a saucy bite of fried mozzarella, which dripped onto the tablecloth. He swiped it with his finger and lobbed it onto his tongue. Siddharth winced at his father’s dining manners.
Mustafa dusted off his shirt and gazed around the restaurant. “You know what, gentlemen? Dinner’s on me tonight. The service is gonna be slow, so consider it an early Christmas present.”
Siddharth said, “Wow, Mustafa, that’s really nice of you.”
“Mustafa mia,” said Barry Uncle, “one more question for you.”
“Barry Uncle,” said Siddharth, glaring in his direction.
“Your wife — she’s your cousin, right? You people still do that, right?”
Chewing his fried mozzarella, Mohan Lal mumbled, “Enough, Barry. Let Mustafa get back to work.”
Mustafa definitely wasn’t smiling anymore. He was rubbing his neck and looked as if he might hit someone. Siddharth made a plan: If Mustafa hit Barry Uncle, he would grab Mohan Lal and run. If he hit Mohan Lal, however, then he would have to retaliate. He would give him a sharp kick — right to the balls.
Barry Uncle said, “Wait. . don’t tell you married your own sister. Mustafa, that that would be too much. That’s when we get into problems.”
Mustafa put both of his hands on their green tablecloth and leaned forward. He said something sharp in Hindi that Siddharth couldn’t understand.
Siddharth prayed for Barry Uncle to apologize.
“Mustafa-ji.” Barry Uncle emptied his whiskey into his mouth, then slammed the glass down on the table. “Mustafa-ji, how many thumbs do your little girls have? How many toes? Because if you married your sister, you better count those toes.”
Mustafa switched back to his guido English: “You know what, guys? We’re gonna need this table sooner than I thought. Why don’t I get your food wrapped up tonight? Why don’t you eat it at home?”
Mohan Lal stood up, dabbing his face with his napkin. “Good idea. That’s a very good idea.”
Siddharth glanced to the right and saw a gaggle of police officers staring in their direction.
Mustafa placed a hand Mohan Lal’s shoulder. “Arora sahib,” he said, “see you again — soon, I hope. But I’d lose the friend if I were you.”
Mohan Lal cocked his head to one side. “What was that?”
“Yous are always welcome in my restaurant. Always. Just not him.”
Shit, Siddharth thought. Mohan Lal was going to say something stupid. Something that could get them arrested.
Mohan Lal clasped Siddharth’s arm and yanked him out of his seat. “Come, son. Get away from that bloody mullah.”
3. Trick or Treat
For the first time in his life, Siddharth found himself actually looking forward to school. In junior high, he felt a new sense of freedom. He got to walk by himself to his classes, not like the primary-school drones with their regimented routines and single-file lines. He tried to plan his routes so that he could use the breezeway, an open-air corridor with a roof but no walls. The breezeway reminded him that he could flee the premises any time he wanted, and he used it even when it was raining.
Having his own locker that he could decorate any way he chose was another source of simple but constant pleasure. He put up a picture of Kurt Cobain that he’d ripped out of one of Marc’s copies of Rolling Stone, and a photo of a television actress in a sports bra from one of Sharon’s teen magazines. Luca gave him a magnetic mirror from his father’s beauty salon, and Siddharth used it at least twice a day to brush his hair, which was now long on top and shaved on the sides.
In some ways, Luca had changed over the summer. He was taller and had lost some weight. He dressed better, wearing brown moccasins and tucking in his shirts. A little stubble now shadowed his cheeks, and he had long, stylish sideburns, like the actors in 90210. He even acted fairly normally around other people, talking about sports with boys and listening to girls as if he really liked hearing about their summer breaks. But he would then do something to remind Siddharth that he was the same old Luca, like telling a joke about Mrs. Wadsworth sitting on someone’s face.
Luca liked to say good morning to the dorks in a voice that sounded retarded. He often snapped Carol Corcoran’s bra as she opened her locker, but strangely, Carol didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Luca and Siddharth were getting close to Carol, one of the pretty girls from Lower Housatonic Elementary. She and her friends were good at sports, but also liked to smoke cigarettes and drink wine coolers. Even though these girls had older boyfriends, they hugged Siddharth in the hallways or gave him a squeeze on the waist.