The pears and leeks are tender. Now, he purées them in the food processor. Catherine and Andrew have a good one, the same make as his. The soup comes out a lovely pale green, sweet and oniony at the same time. He bears it to the table, dippers it into white bowls. Into each bowl he crumbles some dry and veined Stilton. He opens a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne; it’s perfect with the soup, and they all can make toasts: to Siobhan’s degree.
The others sit down with cries of amazement this time for the colour of the soup, the clean light taste, the surprise of champagne. It’s a shame that champagne is traditionally saved to the end of a meal, he says; its lightness makes it a better wine to begin with. He knows more about wine than most people, though he hopes he’s not boring about it.
You should live here and have the use of this kitchen! Catherine says. You deserve it more than I do.
There’s no way to answer that.
The fact of Catherine: a sort of permanent ache somewhere in his body. (Not his groin, necessarily, though that is sometimes a pressing issue.) No: the ache is behind his ribs, a little to the right of his breastbone. It’s a sort of dry ache, like you get from an empty socket, if you have a less competent dentist. It’s the ache of air coming too close to the bone.
He leaves the others having seconds of soup to finish prepping the main course. The squash comes out of the oven; the sea bass goes in. The mushrooms, too, must cook now, in the sauté pan with some olive oil. While they sauté (the brown earthy salty smell rising from the pan like appetite incarnate), he scoops out the flesh of the squash, which separates into tender translucent threads, into a bowl, and dresses it with his own honey-garlic-ginger vinaigrette. He opens two wines for the main course: a 1998 St. Emilion Grand Cru, and a bottle of 2000 Millefiori. He had spent some time the day before tracking them down.
When Catherine had brought Siobhan to meet him, she had said: We fit together now like two clasped hands. We’ve been travelling toward each other all this time. It’s like we are connected souls.
But he had said only: We have a lot of shared tastes, yes. We fuck nicely, yes. He’d been wary, ungenerous, perhaps.
She had gone back to Andrew, to the other life she had made.
And she had been right to. What is passion, after all? A firing of neurons, triggered by hormones, fuelling, in turn, some stories and images in the mind. Not something real, outside yourself. There’s always the point where you choose – where you know, if you have any self-awareness at all – that you’re choosing this, making a decision to keep on going, to take this fork in the road. After that point, yes, things get freaky: The brain or heart or whatever it is becomes Pavlov’s dog, dissolving willy-nilly into warm body fluids at the sight of the beloved’s ass or the sound of her voice. At that point, it’s a speeding train, and etc. But before that, a decision.
And then the flood of chemicals subsides; the sensory receptors get dulled. You sit next to the other person and don’t get an erection. You get irritated with her over a misplaced receipt and stay mad for three days. You notice the ursine slope of her shoulders, the slurping sounds her tongue makes on the spoon.
It burns off. Or drains off, ebbs away like the water in a flooded basement, leaving, if you’re lucky, a crystalline high-tide mark on the walls of memory.
There is no point, now, of changing the shapes of their lives. If there’s one thing he has learned since he was twenty-three, since he lost her, it’s that sex or lust or romantic love is not everything: that there are many more hours in the day to be filled. There is work; there is companionship. There is self-respect; there is kindness; there are children, aging parents. There is community and food, music. There is making a clean, well-lighted place of life, to borrow a phrase.
At twenty-three he had thought these all shabby imposters, false claimants for his life. But now he has learned that they are all worthy, or none of them is. And Catherine knows this too; perhaps she has always known it. It sounds banal but it is only as banal as daily bread.
The timer goes for the sea bass; it’s vital to cook it to just the right point. He pulls out the tray of wrapped, papery packages, which have acquired a varnish like that of an old pine table. Perfect. He punctures one package, carefully; the scents of the cooked bass and truffles and foie gras burst out in wisps of steam. The mushrooms are done; he finishes them with a drizzle of the truffle oil, a splash of sherry. He has found a stack of white plates; onto each plate he spreads out a nest of the squash filaments, which are shimmery, opalescent, and then circles the squash nest with the rich loamy mushroom ragout. Then, onto each nest, he lifts tenderly the rice packages. He snips each wrapper so that a small feather of steam ventures, a spirit messenger. He carries his offering to the table.
You are an artist, Kevin, Andrew says, his hands together, his pink head shining faintly, priestly, even in his ordinary clothes.
You either believe or you don’t believe, maybe. You see that possibility as real, transcending and preemptive of normal experience, normal rules. You believe that falling in love with the one right person will transform and hallow your life forever, or you don’t believe that. If you believe it, you will think it worth any price. And if you don’t believe in it – well. You’ll have a much more stable life. You’ll wake up every day, grateful that the wool hasn’t been pulled over your eyes. That you haven’t risked – or lost – everything. You’ll wake up grateful for that every day.
For dessert, a lemon tart, a bottle of Californian orange Muscat.
From across the table Catherine’s face: soft, astonished, bewildered.
HIS RETURN FLIGHT isn’t until Sunday afternoon, and, waking Sunday morning, he wishes he’d scheduled the flight earlier. He has no idea what he’s going to do with this day. But before he can bring himself to get up, there’s a tapping at his door, and Catherine comes in, wearing something that isn’t quite a bathrobe, her hair on her shoulders. She’s carrying a mug of coffee that he can smell is real.
Andrew is out, she says: He’s running a half-marathon. Anna sleeps in on Sundays, she says, but Catherine herself is an early riser. She likes the unspoiled morning.
He growls: Lock that door. I want to take you right now.
He doesn’t know why he says this.
She smiles; she sits on the edge of the bed. She bends over him, wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him on the mouth, deeply, slowly.
The flesh of her upper arms hangs loosely, now, and her small nose and mouth disappear in flesh when she leans forward, but he does not close his eyes.
There is no strangeness between them, only comfort, only familiarity. She lays her head on his chest, for a few moments. He strokes her hair. She sighs.
Catherine slides her body down beside his and puts one leg over his thigh. She props herself on her elbow and gazes into his eyes. What is that? A flicker, an unextinguished match tossed, he thinks. He hears her thought: Perhaps we could have this. Perhaps it would not cost everything. Perhaps it wouldn’t burn itself out.
He grips her hair in his hand, tightens his grip. This too is a sign between them. Scent of roses, wine on the tongue. The prerogative of the invisible. Okay, he says. Holy. Okay now. Okay.
THE BIRDS OF INDIA
SHE’S THE FIRST TO ARRIVE at the airport. Peter drops her off on his way to work, hefting her suitcase and giving her an unexpected hug. Ow, ow, she says. Her upper arm is still sore from the last of the injections. He pats her bottom as if it’s a neighbour’s dog, a little mechanically, but with general goodwill.
Then he’s gone, the truck disappearing behind the smokescreen of its own condensation-filled exhaust. She goes through the large automatic doors quickly. It’s January, and she’s left her parka in Peter’s truck.
Vancouver, New Delhi, the ticket agent says, and she feels a little rush of the importance of this trip. Not many people must be flying that route today, from this little airport. “I wonder if my friend Charlotte has checked in yet?” she asks, though she knows it’s muc
h too early. The ticket agent says, “No, none of the other passengers continuing on to India have checked in yet.” She wants to tell the agent why she is going, she wants to be asked, but the agent does not make an opening, and there are other passengers lined up behind her, and so she does not say anything, though it is bubbling up inside her.
She’ll kill some time in the coffee shop. She means to have only a cup of coffee, but ends up eating a second breakfast, in spite of her New Year’s resolution. The date muffins look so good, and who knows when she’ll get another meal? She takes a table positioned to see the rest of the airport, so she can watch for the others. Likely they’ll come in for coffee as well.
But they do not, and when her flight is finally called, and she goes through the security check and into the boarding lounge, they’re already there, standing in a little group.
So she is the last to arrive, instead of the first.
And there is Charlotte, reassuringly. She doesn’t know any of the others. Charlotte is talking to a tall man with silver hair and a little silver earring, but says, Ah, there you are, and introduces her. It’s the group leader, Henry, who will be shepherding them all of this trip.
Henry asks, Was it difficult to rise so early this morning? She starts to answer that she’s up early every morning, getting Peter’s breakfast, but his eyes lose focus, drift slightly sideways, almost instantly, to gaze around the airport, though he almost instantly recalls himself, places his attention back on her with professional discipline.
Her tongue falters then, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. He’s a handsome man, lean, with well-proportioned features. Very handsome. His voice is deep and resonant, a singer’s. He’s casually but elegantly dressed in a light linen blazer, a very fine cashmere pullover, trousers that are not khakis or jeans but something else, something matte and crisp. Peter does not own anything like these clothes. He wouldn’t have any occasion to wear them. From Charlotte’s description, she had imagined Henry in some sort of uniform: tan gabardine, a badge on the shirt.
She sees herself in his eyes, a middle-aged woman, a little fleshy, sensibly dressed in grey no-iron pants and a blue flowered shirt. As always, a little less glamorous than Charlotte, a lesser replica: a little shorter, a little fatter, a little less fashionable. Charlotte has on some sort of tunic sweater and leggings, in shades of taupe. Is her outfit too stylish for the occasion?
Your outfit looks comfortable for travelling, she says to counter her critical thought. Charlotte is thinner, since her illness. Her hair has grown in nicely, though, and swings in a honey-brown wing near her jaw. Charlotte grimaces, slightly. She has said the wrong thing, again. She had once asked Charlotte for the name of her hairdresser, and had gone herself. She had come out with a hairstyle that had transformed her for about two days, until she had washed it, and not been able to get it to fall in the same way. She’d had a colouring, too, layers of tinfoil lowlights and highlight, and she has to admit it looked natural, and didn’t show roots as quickly, but she couldn’t justify the price, when she could buy a box of L’Oréal at the drugstore for twelve dollars.
But Charlotte is saying now, Vicki and I worked in pediatrics together. Vicki has such a lovely touch with children. Ah then, Henry says, You’ll lose your heart to our Centre.
She had been head of pediatrics for several years, has just retired from nursing. She waits for Charlotte to say something about this. It is her expertise that has brought her on this trip.
Something about the way Charlotte is standing. At their age. What they are offering now is their labour, their generosity, their expertise. Their wisdom.
SHE HAS HEARD ABOUT THE HEAT, the smells, the noise, but in fact the Delhi airport could be any very large airport, and they step from its shining air-conditioned corridors into a perfectly modern air-conditioned bus and then are whisked to a perfectly modern air-conditioned hotel. They could be anywhere. She sleeps heavily in the room she shares with Charlotte. In the morning, though, Charlotte is wan, a little edgy.
Did you not sleep? she asks, and Charlotte pulls her lips up almost sarcastically.
The jet lag, probably.
Once they arrive at the Centre, she minds, at first, when she finds out that she is to fill the days taking her turn at cooking – which mostly seems to be carrying water and washing and cutting up vegetables – rather than work as a pediatric nurse, as she has been trained to do. She had thought, when Charlotte had told her about the trip, a mission for children in India, that they’d be doing medical work with the children, but in fact there are young doctors and nurses here who are doing that. She doesn’t so much as hold a baby. Charlotte isn’t doing nursing work either. Rather, she seems to be busy with Henry, who is, apparently, not really in charge, as there is a Director, a small, dignified, silver-haired Indian man. Of the rest of their group, some are put to work in the garden – in which weeds seem to grow foot-high overnight – and others are put to work on a new hospital structure. There are engineers, professional builders, who have also volunteered their time, she understands. Their group members, though some of them are experienced builders, too, carry lumber and bricks and plaster. If Peter had come, he’d be frustrated – he’d be put to work as a labourer. There’s some sort of inefficiency here. She tries to talk to Charlotte about it, but Charlotte spends her days at Henry’s elbow, doing paperwork and taking minutes at meetings.
The vegetable chopping and water carrying fills the time. She’s learned to get up very early, when it’s not so hot yet, and start her chores. The other workers are also mostly awake and on the move. She doesn’t leave the clinic compound: doesn’t venture further than the compound farm with its ancient trucks, the cinder-block and corrugated tin buildings. The land is dry here, like back home: bare hills with scrubby, prickly trees, sparsely distributed, but she doesn’t venture out of the Centre. She walks as far as a large banyan that seems to have faces in its braided trunk – at least, she sees them out of the corner of her eye, though when she focuses on them more squarely, they’re gone.
She feels that she is experiencing everything through smudged glass. It might be the anti-malaria drugs.
In the evenings, in her fifteen-minute allotment of computer time, she emails Peter, and sometimes CCs their sons, Mark and Cory, if she feels she’s put more effort than usual into the message. She describes the birds, which she has begun to identify – Henry has loaned her a book, or rather borrowed one from the elderly doctor who runs the clinic. Peepel, mynah, she writes. She doesn’t know if Peter is interested, but she knows he can name the hawks that they see around Kamloops. She describes the farming practices and implements, sometimes with, she thinks, a fair bit of skill. One evening she writes to Peter, I do not know why I’m here. Maybe I should try to get a flight home sooner. She doesn’t send the email, though.
She feels that she is floating, disembodied, invisible.
She shares a small room with an elderly Indian woman who also works in the kitchen, and who doesn’t speak much English, but who has some status that sets her apart from the other Indians who work for the clinic, the locals. She was supposed to share with Charlotte, but Charlotte had asked to be moved. You snore, Vicki, Charlotte had said.
She had chosen not to be hurt. She knows she snores. It’s her weight, and the dust, which aggravates her allergies. And Charlotte is still not really well, though she looks better now that she has tanned a little.
One day there is an expedition for their group to a nearby bird sanctuary, a famous one where hundreds of species of migratory birds stop. Some of the French doctors and nurses who are volunteering go too – but not Charlotte.
At the park gates there are bicycles to rent by the hour, but they are in an advanced state of disrepair. Instead, it seems, they must hire bicycle rickshaws pedalled by very thin Indian men who seem either very young or very old. None of the rest of the group invites her to share a rickshaw, but a middle-aged German couple in shorts and hiking boots offers her a ride. She climbs
in. It will be a three-hour tour. Their driver has a long name that sounds like a little creek flowing over rocks, but which she forgets instantly. He says that he is called number forty-two, anyway. He is supposed to identify all of the birds and other wildlife they come across. There are few birds. The sea of shimmering water, the 350 species of local and migratory birds promised by the travel guides, do not materialize. What they do see are peafowl, and water birds like moorhens and widgeons that she might see on any pond back home.
The Germans, who sport a checklist, express their dismay twenty minutes into the trip. They want to see exotic birds. More birds appear, gradually – egrets, cormorants, eagles, herons. Bitterns and swallows. The rickshaw driver points them out. The Germans seem somewhat appeased.
She tries to remember them for Peter. She has forgotten to bring the bird guide loaned to her by the Director. The Germans offer her their high-powered binoculars with formal courtesy, but she doesn’t really care, she finds.
No Siberian Crane? the male German curtly asks their driver, who responds with a combined glibness and halfhearted optimism, Oh, yes, sir: just not visible today, sorry, sir. Their exchange so layered with pretense and distrust as to sound diplomatic.
A hammering grows and fades as they bump around the lake path: diesel pumps, she sees, sputtering water from tattered hoses into muddy pools. The driver explains. There is a drought: The monsoon has not yet come, this year. Villagers are diverting water from the park for their own uses. He tells them a long, angry story about a riot the week before: villages clashing over a rumour, intentionally started, that a new irrigation pond would be dug in a graveyard.
There will always be droughts. What is important: the welfare of thousands of villagers, or of thousands of migratory bird species? She is not sure. No ibis, no spoonbill, no hornbill, the German woman observes, as if she will fail an important exam.
Snakebird, the driver says, pointing. Very rare. There is a bird, or rather the long, yellow-pink extended neck of a bird cutting through a pool of water. The water is opaque, café au lait; the bird’s face sharp-billed, with turquoise cheek patches. The rest of the bird is invisible under the water. The Germans have a discussion, express doubt, it sounds like, over the rarity. She writes the name of the bird down anyway. She cannot tell what is important, or real, anymore.
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