Ro-nal-do Mi-la-nac…
What did you say? Your name, it’s a nice name. He didn’t pay her any attention; he picked up the shoe to see what it was made of. No surprise that she was having trouble with it—it was a brand-new black pleather thing as stiff as cardboard. Do you want new ones? That had to mean she’d get two new pairs in as many days. Why was he going to all this trouble for her? Santee, in turn, had quickly learned not to deal with questions, there was no use in asking them in Ram’s world, where you had to just go for it, and that was what Ram did, with animal instinct. Well, it looks like you need new ones, Ronaldo Milanac said, and then he tried to grab her by the arm like he had before. There isn’t any time to lose. But she pushed him off. She glumly put her shoe back on as best as she could, made a face, got up, and started walking again determinedly; after a few steps, she was leaning against him again. Coming out onto Royal Road with her hanging from his arm, he looked all around, embarrassed. A group of women were coming back from Beau-Bassin, pushing grocery store carts that jangled and clattered, heaped with provisions. Nobody noticed the two of them, and he couldn’t leave this faltering girl to her own devices with the town turned upside down. The night before, he’d been out with his friends and everything had been perfect, they’d raided a gas station, flipped over no less than six cars and, to top it off, out by Chebel they’d tackled a bus and the police hadn’t been able to drag away its carcass until nearly midnight. He was helpless now as he watched her pry off her shoes and walk barefoot on the cobblestones. The coolness seemed to soothe her and she slowed her pace: there was no rush anymore. You don’t have to, it’s okay, she said. He looked around. The women were walking right past them, talking loudly, the oldest one scolding the others for having rushed, for not having taken the time to pick and choose. The others laughed to themselves and pushed their carts this way and that. They were laden with frozen food, chickens, and cuts of meat that dripped a trail along the ground. If they followed this blood-tinged trail back, would they reach some source of plenty? Ronaldo hardly seemed to need this lead. She let him take her hand this time and, together, they crossed Royal Road. He led her straight to the Arcades. Other people were coming out, their carts jangling and clattering as well, but rather than wade right into the crowd in front of the grocery store, he turned off toward the clothing shops. Here, everything was still calm, and a subdued light bathed the boutique’s slender mannequins and its sprays of dried flowers. Santee rushed over to look. Multicolored T-shirts hung from a dead tree and pink and yellow and green shoes and sunglasses lay, as if washed in with the tide, on a stretch of sawdust standing in for a beach. In the background was the frozen burble of a sapphire sea. Ronaldo Milanac had vanished, thank goodness, now she could take all the time she wanted. The darkened passageway seemed to be empty; maybe Ronaldo was gone for good and now there was just her, the shriveled tree, and its blazingly colorful fruit. These clothes couldn’t be for sale. The clothes her mother bought were always stacked in display cases with the price tag on top, in piles to make more room; the salespeople went up and down the aisles with a wary look; you were supposed to haggle like Ma, she did it so well that she always came home from her errands in Rose-Hill with a delighted glint in her eyes behind her old tortoiseshell glasses. The sellers, either out of pity because they took country people for idiots or, more likely, just to get this pain in the neck out of there, played along and she always came back to Bienvenue in no time with all her steals in her arms. There was no shortage of canny negotiators in the family, all of them firm but fair—Ma’s older brother, Uncle Vijay, predicted a brilliant future for Ram as an economist once he was done with school, but Ram wasn’t interested in trade, or money, and Santee found herself wondering what was going on in his head.
A rattling noise marked Milanac’s return. He had a cart of his own now, brimming with jars of preserves and bottles dripping with condensation. He hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of the grocery store. You’re still here? he asked with a chuckle. She wasn’t charmed. Where did you think I’d go? He ought to have kept on dreaming about stuffing his face and left her alone with her display. Suddenly remembering that she had a problem with her shoes, he started rummaging in the cart. He hefted a jar of preserves but caught himself and gave it to Santee instead. Go for it—what’s your name? Shakuntala. Well, Shakuntala, be my guest. Go on! Throw it! You just going to stand there all day staring at me like that? You want those shoes or whatever? The first throw at the thick glass was awkward—the jar bounced back, barely missing her, and Milanac laughed heartily. Try again, you’ve got to earn those shoes, they look Italian to me, I’m not gonna do it for you, you think I’m at the beck and call of any lady I come across? He settled onto the sidewalk in front of the hair salon next door and pried the cap off a beer bottle with his teeth. Go for it, Shakuntala, have at it! Fury rose up in her and she grabbed the jar and threw it with all the anger she had at Milanac, at the blister on her foot, at Ram who threw stones at dogs while she had to clap whenever he hit his target amid the din of animals barking in pain and fear—she threw the jar against the glass. Huge shards rained down and shattered in front of her, and the sawdust beach spilled silently out onto the ground. The smell of the shop, a mix of flowery, fruity scents from a plug-in vaporizer, filled the air and she wanted to absorb it all into her skin, so she took a step forward. He jumped up: Careful! The glass is sharp and the hospital’s full! You’d bleed to death, Shakuntala! He yanked her away brusquely, pulled out another jar, and finished the job on the rest of the window. All right, Shakuntala, what are you waiting for? Someone to carry you in? She didn’t answer; the blanket of glass in front of the display fascinated her. Well, why not, you don’t weigh that much… Leaning over, Ronaldo Milanac picked her up in his arms, his thick sneakers crunching on the shards of glass, and, with one long step, he entered the shop.
The carpeting and fine clothing gave the space a cozy feel. She stood in the middle of the beach, not yet daring to look through the shelves. He headed toward the back to put on some music while she tentatively began to run her fingers over some of the fabrics. Don’t forget your kicks, he yelled to her, that’s why we’re here after all, you can’t just walk around barefoot all day. She nodded, grabbing a pair with yellow straps. Ronaldo, now sitting in a beach chair, watched her. He pulled off his shirt to take in a bit of the spotlights’ false sun. She came over next to him to try on her shoes; he got down to help her pull the straps tight. A sea breeze, teasing and salty, raised goosebumps on his skin. If you don’t like these, just say it now, don’t wait until we’re out walking again, I’m not planning on coming back. Not planning, not planning—as if it wasn’t clear that there was no going back in Ram’s town, if there had been, Ram himself would already have come home, shamefaced. She wasn’t mad at him anymore, she knew that what she needed to do was keep going until she found him. Back in the rear of the store, Ronaldo Milanac finished off his beer. She insisted that the shoes fit perfectly, but he kept asking, more to get her to walk around in front of him than because he didn’t believe her; she took a few more steps, not to prove anything but just to please him, and then she went back to the clothes. Take what you want and then we’re going, he said, annoyed that she would abandon him so quickly, I have better things to do than wait while you try on clothes, let’s wrap it up, take it all, I’ll get you another cart, just get a move on. She wanted to consider the options, to pluck the fruits from the dead tree one by one and hold them up in front of her to see how they looked in the mirror; she wanted him to tell her what he liked, to tease her, but the smell of the ocean was fading, the seaside breeze becoming stifling, just like the river back in Bienvenue, which sometimes teemed with runoff from the factory—the water took in everything, there was no use resisting. This was no time to be indecisive, nobody could stay in the same place for long in Ram’s world, especially not just standing and looking in a mirror. The black smoke of burning rubber filled the Arcades; Ronaldo got up hurriedly, pr
icking up his ears, We’d better shove off now, come on, quick, let’s go, they grabbed random armfuls of clothes, T-shirts and swimsuits, saris, straw hats. We forgot the necklaces, just one necklace. Okay, okay, but come on, let’s go, they knocked over the dead tree as they went out through the display window. She wasn’t upset about leaving the store, didn’t glance at the madras prints on the ground, the scattered hangers, the eroded beach. Once the clothes were knotted in a bundle, they threw them in the cart and went out onto the street. Shouts from amid the smoke of the grocery store, a siren. People had started running again, they all felt that impulse every so often to hurry. The two started moving more quickly too, working together to push the cart. There was still laughter amid the shouts, but it was becoming more strained. He decided to go down one of the sloping alleys, and they had to lean back with their whole bodies to slow the cart down. Other people with carts were headed the same way, the siren was getting closer, shriller; she occasionally turned around to see but there was nothing there, Don’t look back, there’s no use, you’ll make the cart tip over, we just have to keep going even if we can’t see. The others were trading jokes as they raced—matriarchs, a guy in a business suit with an armful of dishwasher detergent—and she could hear bits and pieces amid their panting. People were telling jokes and others were piping up with the punchline, and as they ran they introduced themselves: Oh yes, you’re the one I saw at Moody’s, you’re Jennifer’s cousin… The road forked, some went in the direction of Beau-Bassin to try to get to Cité Barkly, others headed for the swanky part of the Cascade. The siren caught up to them. It turned out to be an ambulance with a mangled body in the back, a gray pair of pants with odd creases, bare feet that were totally white. The poor thing, who knows what happened to him, He jumped from the spire of the Église Montmartre. His head was shaved, his face no longer visible under the oxygen mask that a nurse had fastened absentmindedly, her attention more on a colleague holding a bag of saline solution. Santee made Ronaldo stop to watch the big white body go past, the guy in the cab had been big, but he couldn’t have been this big, maybe bodies steeped in Ram’s town all grew to match the size of the vehicles they were in. They got going again, pushing the cart together; she felt weaker; they had to pay attention so they didn’t follow the others down the side roads, down slopes that were gentler and more alluring. They went toward Le Pouce mountain, why that way and not any other he didn’t say. He couldn’t possibly know that, the night before, she had come down this exact same path; no, it couldn’t have been the same one, in the cab driven by what was his name again—these were empty days, days without memory, and, every morning, everything started all over again on a different track. She couldn’t possibly know for sure either. Through the sweat trickling into her eyes she saw only the vague shapes of trees, houses, and some stretch of pavement ahead. She was holding the cart back with both hands, letting herself be pulled forward, and at the same time she was yoking herself to Ronaldo Milanac in their effort. She could smell apples and alcohol, but also other smells, less remarkable ones amid the groceries. She heard his anxious panting in her ear as he told her they had to put as much distance as possible between them and the others—that was the best thing to do, these were new days, days full of promise.
We can’t go any farther, she protested, only to hear, No, we can. She could feel the cart drawing them forward, downward, toward the coast; they’d never have the strength to push the cart up back toward Rose-Hill. But why do we have to go back there, anyway? Ronaldo Milanac had no good answer, they had to go back, pure and simple, but for the moment they stopped. Ronaldo’s weariness surprised her—she could have kept on pushing the cart with him forever. He was pale and struggling to keep his hold on the cart so that it wouldn’t go sailing off without them if she let go. It was tempting to let this overloaded cart pull him, it would be so much easier to stop making decisions and just go with the flow. She left Ronaldo Milanac to dwell in his thoughts and peered between the slats of the fence to their right. The shoddily squared-off planks were worm-eaten and stood atop a rather low wall of rough stones. Little could be seen from the road; people would have to do what she was doing—wedge their eyes between the loose boards. He heard her whispering: I can see trees and ponds and fish in them, I can see children yelling, but he couldn’t hear anything else apart from his own pulse pounding dully. That’s the Balfour Garden, he said. She repeated, I can see trees and lawns, so many palm trees, Yes, I know, if you want to, we can go in there, I’m sure they have birds and deer in enclosures, your choice, we can go… It didn’t seem like a bad idea at all. She wanted to make him smile, We’ll be able to relax there for a few minutes.
He knew the Balfour Garden well, nothing particularly unexpected would happen there, it would be nice to introduce this girl from the villages to the garden. He looked around, they were alone and nobody had followed them. The gate was open. They struggled to get the cart up the steps onto the stone path. Between the rows of thief palms and clumps of bougainvillea were sandpits and playhouses, but not a single child. She walked up to a swing that was still brightly colored despite its flaking paint; he waited for her to climb on, or to lean on him to get to the top of the slide, but she was the one to hold back this time, she wouldn’t do it. She ran her fingers over the rougher spots on the ropes and gave the seat a few small pushes. Then she made up her mind and kept on going down the path. She’s got to be thinking about her missing brother, he thought, unaware that Ram had always refused to get on a swing, to the great annoyance of Pa who had bought him a brand-new one. Come on already, she said, running ahead of him as he wearily pushed the cart over the stone slabs, and before long she had disappeared around the bend past a row of bottle palms. When he had her in his sights again, she had stopped at the railing by the cliff. Her belly was pressed against the wooden crossbeams and her chest was thrust out over the abyss like an animal’s. There was no question in his mind that if not for the barrier she would have instinctively gone flying into the grayish green stretches of the Grande Rivière’s gorges. A few expansive seconds hovering above the sugarcane fields and looking out over the far slope, like the trickling waterfall, an unmoving, almost transparent line not unlike the Tour Blanche, set right in the middle of its lawn more than a century ago; then, suddenly, everything would start moving again, not just her plunging into the abyss, but also the creepers and the wind, the tropicbirds with their shrill cries. The far-off river that had been dry for months would start flowing again. She leaned over the railing, her arms windmilling like a drowning swimmer’s, and he was certain she was going to throw herself over. He left the cart and rushed over, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her away as she fought against him. Her eyes were blazing, but he held firm. It took some time for her to calm down, for the tropic-birds to turn their gazes skyward again, for the monks to go back to walking peacefully under the banyans. Her eyes lingered on the Tour Blanche for a while longer, then she calmly pulled away from Ronaldo Milanac, her last anchor. She tottered to the treacly stream, Watch out, it’s slippery, the mud’s disgusting, be careful with your new shoes, but his words came too late, the sludge was already up to her ankles. He found himself a spot in the shade of a flame tree. The beer was still cold and he nestled between the buttressing roots, his legs splayed out. No use trying to make sense of girls, he’d brought plenty of them here, sometimes they’d cry, sometimes they’d tell him all sorts of ridiculous hopes and dreams. They were like all the plants in this garden, each one blooming in its own season. This one was drinking water from the stream, which flowed from the Trianon factory, and just thinking about it was enough to put him off his beer. He could only see her butt, as small as a child’s ball, hidden among the taro vine leaves, but then she stood up again. She cupped some water in her hands, splashed it on her face, her hair, her arms. Maybe it was a rite, he thought, something Malbars did in accordance with their religion, like walking on hot coals or pricking their cheeks with needles. That was an explanation that fit
her in her place, like the river in its bed, or a tortoise in its shell. This life was pleasant enough, but it beat a silent, throbbing rhythm in his body like a voice reaching the limits of falsetto. He started to regret not having gone back to the others in the town center.
Kaya Days Page 4