by Rishi Reddi
“I didn’t know you were getting into cotton,” Smiley said.
“It is belonging to my cousins. First crop. This is Karak Singh, Ram Singh.”
Jake Smiley’s eyes wandered over the wagons, packed full. “Looks clean and good. How many acres?”
“One hundred and sixty,” Karak said.
Smiley raised his eyebrows. “Taking a chance with the first, aren’t they?”
“They knew how to do,” Jivan said, glancing at Ram. “Good farmers. Very good,” Jivan added. Ram could understand so much English now.
Smiley went back to his shed and the first wagon in line moved up to the gin. The others shuffled up behind it. Ram sat on a chair in the shade of the shed. Amarjeet lay on a bench nearby. An hour later, while they were still waiting, another string of wagons filed down the path. They pulled up behind the Singhs’. Ram saw that the man in the lead wagon was irate, the skin on his forehead knotted together. His eyes lingered on Jivan and Karak, who were talking under a ramada, fifty feet away. Jivan was adjusting his dastar, rewrapping it in the half privacy of the ramada.
The man jumped down from his seat and strode toward the gin. From his place near the shed, Ram could hear the man call, “Hey, Jake, come on out here. I’d like a word.”
“Be with you soon,” the ginner called out. “I’ll come by.”
“Sooner rather than later.”
Amarjeet sat up as the man passed on his way back to his wagon. “That’s Roubillard,” he whispered to Ram. “He’s no good.”
A solitary wagon pulled up with a load and joined the line. Then, after ten minutes, eight more arrived, bearing signs from the Hutchins Ranch. Ram began to grow restless. Amarjeet fetched water and poured it on their mules’ flanks. They had been waiting for more than two hours, and there was still a wagon ahead of them.
Smiley emerged from the shack and walked past, ignoring them now. Ram saw him talking to Roubillard, glancing at Jivan and Karak under the ramada. As if they sensed something was wrong, Jivan and Karak approached them. Ram went too.
Roubillard was chewing tobacco. His tongue worked it around and tucked it into a corner of his mouth. “I’m in a hurry.” He turned his head to the side and spat. The dark spot landed a foot away from Jivan’s shoe. “I’m sure you and your boys wouldn’t mind stepping aside.”
Jake Smiley’s face showed no emotion.
Jivan opened his mouth to speak, but Karak thrust himself in front of Roubillard, looking down into his face. “You not the only man in a hurry, Roubillard.”
“Move your wagons over, I need to get through,” Roubillard said, without stepping back, so that he and Karak stood only inches apart.
Smiley stuttered. “Maurice—”
Roubillard turned to him. “You go against me, Jake, I swear I’ll head straight to Jim Hubbard’s operation and I’ll take half that lot with me.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the line behind him. “I already talked to them. They know what’s at stake here. They all want through right now.”
Jake Smiley’s eyes followed the long line of cotton-filled wagons. Ram could see that he was a mild man. His jaw clenched when his eyes met Maurice Roubillard’s, but he didn’t argue.
“You men please step aside,” Smiley said, without looking at Jivan. “We’ll get you as soon as this lot is through.”
“Jake,” Jivan said. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. Later Jivan would tell Ram that during the flood, they had worked together to move Eggenberger’s cattle away from the speeding water. That was how they had met.
“Take the mules to the side, Amarjeet,” Jivan said.
“What is this, bhai-ji?” Karak said in Punjabi.
“Let it be—” Jivan said.
“What?” Karak spat again, as if he could not comprehend.
“Listen to what I say. I have a reason,” Jivan said.
Karak grimaced in disgust.
Smiley returned to his shed. Amarjeet sprang to the driver’s seat of their first wagon and directed it to the side. Ram followed with the second. Roubillard moved his wagon to the ginning shed. Smiley’s son directed Roubillard to pull up closer. When Roubillard jumped down from the wagon, he slapped him on the back and chuckled. “That’s more like it, my boy!” Smiley’s son did not respond.
Jivan looked out at the line, at the eight Hutchins Ranch wagons that followed. Ram knew what he was thinking. If Smiley did not allow them in after Roubillard’s load, the humiliation would be too great. He turned to Ram, avoiding Karak’s gaze. “Let’s return home,” he said.
The Singhs’ wagons were moving up the dirt path when Smiley’s younger boy called out, “Mr. Singh!” He raced past Ram’s wagon to reach Jivan’s. Ram could see Karak scowl at him. “Mr. Singh. Pop told me to tell you to come tomorrow. Come early.” He looked two or three years younger than Amarjeet. A sweaty patch of hair clung to his forehead. He squinted against the sun, hesitating. “He told me to tell you he couldn’t help it.”
They drove back three hours in the waning sunlight, and the mules were tired. At the farm, at dinner, Jivan told everyone at the table to sleep early.
“We will rise at one A.M. Amarjeet, hitch up all three wagons by then.”
“Why so early?” Amarjeet asked.
“Because that is my wish.”
Later, when they lay down on their cots to sleep, Ram asked Karak, “How did you come to know Roubillard?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Karak said. “I know the bloody bastard, that is enough.”
RAM WOKE AT ONE O’CLOCK to the sound of Amarjeet hitching up the mules. Jivan walked past his cot fully dressed, holding a lamp. Ram sat up quickly. “Bhai-ji, I will be ready in a minute.” This work was for his own crop, but he could see that Jivan cared about it as much as he.
Ram could feel the wind blowing up dust in darkness. In the animal shed, the mare whinnied. Karak climbed on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, his dastar sloppily tied and his beard tucked too loosely. Ram drove his wagon behind it. His body ached from the previous day, carting the cotton twenty-six miles, baking in the sun, the final humiliation at the end. They had accomplished nothing for all that effort. Two nights before he had written to Padma about picking the cotton, but he knew he would not tell her about the gin. Something about Roubillard’s chuckling at Smiley’s son left him without feeling. It reminded him of Hambelton. He was grateful that Amarjeet climbed into the seat next to him.
Kishen handed him a tiffin. It was warm and comforting in his palm. They did not speak. The wagon began to trundle forward. Ram opened his tiffin and ate the roti that he found there. Silently, he blessed her.
How different this trip was from the one yesterday, when they had set off in high spirits at dawn. They passed the same farms, silver and luminescent by the light of the three-quarters moon. At the Roubillard place, Karak spit on the side of the road. What good would it do? Ram thought.
The moon was still bright when they pulled off the dirt road to the gin. Karak brought his wagon right up to the shed, so that the mules’ noses touched the door.
“What do we do now, bhai-ji?” Ram asked, calling out to Jivan.
“We wait.”
Jivan’s mule snorted and brayed. In moments, they heard dogs barking, and soon after, Smiley came out, holding a lamp in one hand and a rifle in the other.
“Who’s there?”
“Singhs from Eggenberger farm,” Jivan called down from his seat on the wagon. “You told us, ‘Come early.’”
Smiley held the lamp up higher so he could see Jivan’s face.
“Tell me,” Jivan said, “is it early enough?”
“John Singh,” Smiley said. He lowered the lamp. “What d’ya men want?” They must have seemed menacing; there was a tremor in his voice.
“We have three loads to gin. Same as yesterday,” Karak said.
Smiley’s eyes swept their faces. “Bring ’em forward. I’ll wake my boys.” The night was lifting. The sky grew pink. On the
way to the house, he turned back. “What happened yesterday afternoon—y’all should know, that ain’t how I meant it to happen. Always happy to have your business.”
Karak nodded, serious.
“I don’t like that jackass,” Smiley said. In the dim light of the lantern, they could see him swallow. He shrugged. “He don’t really know what he’s doing. Brought me the dirtiest cotton I’ve seen. When the pump pulled it out of the wagon yesterday there were two clods sittin’ right there as big as your head. Said his pickers did it on purpose and his weighting man winked at them.” He huffed, smiled a half smile, adjusted his cap. He was apologizing without apologizing. “I had to cut him seven dollars a bale. He’s blamin’ me now.”
The information was like an offering, but the Singhs were silent, even Jivan. Smiley turned to fetch his sons.
13
* T E L E G R A M *
originating: Fredonia Depot, California, August 30, 1915
destination: Lower Chenab Colony, Lyallpur
ESTEEMED UNCLE COTTON BROUGHT GREAT PROFIT. $2300 COMING TO YOU. PLEASE CONFIRM RECEIPT. HOPE YOU PURCHASE ACRES IN OUR SHAHPUR AS YOU DESIRE. IF HERE MY DUTY IS FULFILLED I WILL RETURN HAPPY.
RAM
The cotton brought so much more money than Ram had expected, he allowed himself to keep fifty dollars before he wired the remainder home. The day he sent the telegram, he walked around the town as if he had grown into someone else—a man with influence and power, who would never again fail, who would never again feel sad.
To celebrate their success, Karak brought Ram to a casino across the border called El Owl. Karak had often asked Ram to come with him to Mexicali before, but Ram had refused, and Karak would go alone. Now Ram did not want to disappoint him, not when Karak had been the cause of so much of Ram’s good fortune. On the ride to the border on the buckboard, Karak told him about Avenida Porfirio Díaz, the main street that could be seen across the muddy canal that formed the line between two nations and two cities: Calexico and Mexicali, names created by a clever man who thought the mix of letters showed how the monies, the interests, the people of the two towns would be interlocking, inseparable. He was right, Karak said. The border, the line, the boundary between people and countries, did not matter too much.
They left the mare and buckboard and checked in at the immigration shack. They crossed the wooden bridge into Mexico. It was the first time Ram had been there. It was dusk; the sun was a red disk floating on distant clouds.
A Chinese man strolled toward them. A cluster of Negroes were farther down the street. They passed an opium den before reaching El Owl, which was perched between El Buck Horn Fat’s Place and El Climax Cantina. Ram was not morally opposed to such places, as Jivan was. He had accompanied Karak on his adventures in Hong Kong. In Hambelton, he had visited the back alley with his companions. His objection was not about morality—although if he had asked himself for the truth, he would admit that he did not know how to behave in such places; he was never at ease. He thought he worried about more pragmatic things. He could not waste money at the bar. He did not like the smoke of the opium dens. Regarding women, he could satisfy himself in private; he would not risk acquiring syphilis in the cribs.
El Owl had wealthy and well-known clientele, Karak explained to Ram: the mayor’s son, heads of Imperial Valley businesses, members of the Chamber of Commerce. Sometimes these gentlemen even brought their lady friends to go slumming south of the line. El Owl had the finest food, the best whiskey, the greatest number of gaming tables. The mujeres públicas had their own bedrooms there; a man never had to leave the building. He said this without shame, which fascinated and disgusted Ram at the same time. Karak had visited several times in the last two years; he was familiar with the place but the employees did not know him, with the exception of the lady whom he favored. Ram hoped he did not have to meet her. They approached the building just as it grew dark. Lamps shone through two windows in the front. Three or four Anglo men milled about the entrance. As Ram and Karak moved to the door, one of these men situated himself at the threshold.
“Whites only,” the man said, his eyes scanning Karak’s dastar and beard.
Ram looked in the window and saw about fifty Anglo men sitting around gaming tables. In the far corner, two men who appeared to be Japanese leaned into a conversation; the others did not seem to mind them. Ram wondered if he would have been stopped had he arrived alone. He wore no dastar for this man to stare at.
“No sign is here,” Karak said calmly, but Ram could feel his anger surge.
“Don’t need a sign.”
“Many times I have come here,” Karak said.
“I don’t think so,” the man said. He spat on the sidewalk.
“Aw, let ’em in, Pete,” another man said, striding up. He was smoking a cigar. Its moving tip made streaks in the dark air. Ram could not place him.
“Rules is rules,” the man said. There was liquor on his breath.
The cigar man chuckled. “You got Tom Moriyama in there!”
“That’s different.”
“Lighten up, Petey.” The cigar man chuckled again, good-naturedly. “I’ll vouch for these boys. They’re good farmers and never cause no trouble.”
The other man seemed confused.
“On my word,” the cigar man said.
The other man stepped out of the doorway and the light spilled onto their faces. Karak nodded at the cigar man—a quick, smart movement. Only then did Ram see the knowing eyes, the belly. Through a smoky haze, the man tipped his hat. “Sheriff,” Karak said.
“Karak,” the sheriff responded, grinning.
Karak traded his money for tokens, ordered a whiskey, and sat at a table where they were dealing panguingue. Ram ordered a mezcal at the bar and watched. There were three Anglos at Karak’s table, and when he sat they acknowledged him with a glance. In the far corner, Tomoya Moriyama raised his hand in greeting. Karak began to have a very good night; in seven hands, he won four. After the third win, his eyes searched for Ram, who answered him with raised eyebrows. Yes, he had been watching. Yes, he was doing well. Ram had been keeping track; he had followed the strategy in each hand. When Clive Edgar lumbered in and sat down beside Karak, he was sipping his third whiskey and sitting before stacks of neatly ordered tokens. “Makin’ good jack,” Clive said, and Karak nodded curtly, not acknowledging the wins. Ram knew he would not want to offend the other players. But a moment later, Karak grinned at Clive, easily, comfortably. Ram understood now—Karak and Clive were friends. He thought that odd.
“Clive Edgar,” the land agent said, extending his hand and greeting the other three men at the table. They shook with him, stating their names.
“Haven’t seen you men before, have I?” Clive said.
“Passing through from Arizona, originally from Kansas. Me and my nephew here,” said one of the men. The other man was from Date City, newly founded in the Valley, way north. Clive was dealt in. They played a hand. Another man arrived, sitting down in the chair that stood empty next to Clive’s. Ram’s and Karak’s eyes met.
“Hello, Maurice,” Clive said.
“Hello, Clive. Didn’t know they were letting the riffraff in here,” the new man said. Ram recognized the voice. It was Roubillard, the cotton farmer who had forced them out of line at the gin, who farmed the third portion of Eggenberger’s land.
For a moment Clive looked confused, as if he didn’t know what Roubillard meant. Then he snorted and tuned back to his cards.
“Ain’t you gonna do something about this?” Roubillard said to the dealer.
“Pete let him in.” The dealer shrugged. “He stays.”
Karak clenched his jaw.
“Have it your way.” Roubillard lit a cigarette and took a drag.
Karak looked at Ram. The stare told Ram everything. Karak would not leave now, even if he wanted to.
“That his friend?” Roubillard tipped his head toward Ram. When the dealer ignored him, Roubillard directed his gaze at Clive. �
��Raghead nigger got a friend who ain’t a raghead.”
“You been drinking, Maurice,” Clive said, as if to explain everything.
“Are you playing this round, sir?” the dealer asked.
“Sure am.”
The game continued. Karak won. The dealer swept the chips toward him. Clive was leaning forward now, just staring at the table in front of him.
“Hey, Clive, you know the stuff these ragheads eat?” Roubillard was talking too loudly.
Clive finally looked up. Karak caught his eye, and something passed between them. An expression Ram couldn’t decipher. “What d’ya mean?” Clive said good-naturedly.
“They love that slop we give our pigs. What d’ya call it? Butter something—butter water? Butter milk? That’s it, buttermilk!” He sprayed the table with his saliva. All the men smelled the liquor. He slapped the table and laughed. “We throw it in the slop for our hogs, but they like to drink it for breakfast. Hank at the woodshop told me that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Same stuff, two different uses.” He laughed again.
“He is a jackass,” Ram said in Punjabi, hoping to hold Karak back. “Keep your temper.”
Roubillard nudged Clive. Clive snorted again. “Let it go, Maurice.” His gaze returned to the table.
“Why you feeling so bad, Roubillard?” Karak said. His voice came from deep in his throat. “Maybe you feeling that we are farming better than you?”
Ram bit the inside of his cheek. Why could the man not keep from taunting?
“Maybe you bring dirty cotton to Jake Smiley last week?”
Roubillard’s eyes narrowed.
“Maybe your cotton so dirty he gave you less payment than he gave to us next day?”
Clive lifted his head to look at Karak. Roubillard scanned the table. He took a drag on his cigarette. “You think you can come in here and do what you want, boy?” His voice softened. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. “Ya better know your place. Ya hear me? Boy, it’ll be better for ya if ya know your place.” With one quick movement, he flicked the cigarette butt at Karak. Karak caught it against his shirt—a movement without thought—then snapped his hand away in pain. The cigarette fell to the floor. He stamped it out with his boot.