Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  Now he watched as the families gathered before him. It was an odd bunch. Mexicans, Hindus, an American, a quiet woman in Oriental dress. And they seemed joyless: The bride and groom had already wilted in the heat; the others would not meet his gaze. The families did not speak to each other. He wondered if the bride was already pregnant, how much the families had objected to the union. While he was perusing the license, the groom asked, “You will perform the marriage?”

  What an odd question, he thought. “’Course,” he answered, peering over the top of his spectacles. “I’m the justice of the peace, ain’t I?”

  Now the group, unusual as it was, seemed to relax. The bride’s sister fussed with the bride’s tiara and veil. The older turbaned man said something in a foreign language that made the younger one laugh. After signing the papers, the American guffawed and clapped the groom on the back. The matron of honor draped a string of beads around the shoulders of the couple as they stood, side by side. The bride smiled at her. The groom seemed in a daze, unbothered by anything—not when the young girl in pigtails cried, insisting on standing next to him, not when the American dropped something before the vows had been exchanged, which made a clatter against the wooden floor, and the groom picked it up and the justice realized it was the wedding ring. The American was the best man. The groom placed the ring on the bride’s finger. He kissed the bride’s forehead, embracing her. The Hindus, all of them, looked away.

  “Congratulations. Best wishes.” The justice of the peace shook the groom’s hand, nodded at the bride. Now they seemed happy, the justice thought. No, he corrected himself. They seemed relieved. That was the only way to describe it.

  JIVAN HELD A WEDDING RECEPTION for Karak and Rosa at the Eggenberger farm, a party under several tents on the field that stretched between the two houses. Mariachis played, guitars and trumpets drifting over the hum of conversation. Jivan welcomed several groups of Valley residents at the head of the line, greeting all the Punjabi men who gathered on Sundays at Fredonia Park, other countrymen from as far north as Date City, as far south as Mexicali; he clasped their shoulders and held them close. Karak and Rosa stood farther back, receiving their good wishes.

  A group of Anglo business associates had come without their wives; this was a business dinner, after all. They huddled together, holding glasses of iced tea and lemonade. Jivan Singh provided them with significant income and they would not stay away. But it was more than that; they liked him too. They would talk about this party at their own dinner tables tomorrow: a wedding reception for a Hindu and a Mexican with Japanese guests. Tomoya Moriyama mingled with the Anglos easily. His wife, Hatsu, helped Kishen fry the rotis that Ram rolled out. As the sun was setting, the food was laid out on a long table near the kitchen. Esperanza and her friends had brought plates of tamales, fried nopales, chilaquiles, mole with chicken. On another table sat dishes of biryani, paneer, chole, chicken with gravy. Guests lined up to eat. Amarjeet and Harry Moriyama hefted jugs of water and lemonade.

  As the sound of the guitar rose above the crowd, Karak felt a great sense of satisfaction. He was a married man now. The momentousness of what he had done finally settled on him. He had taken Rosa to Los Angeles the day after they said their vows before the justice of the peace. He had enjoyed her delight in their time away: their meals, the cinema, strolling about Chinatown and beyond. She had not been shy with him in their marriage bed, and he was relieved and happy. What would he have done with a woman who was too modest with her dress removed? She looked radiant now, clothed in her youth, her not-knowing, in a white dress that he had bought her. They had found it hanging in the window of a strange shop that sold goods from both China and France.

  She was unsure of herself; that was part of her radiance. He saw her searching the faces of the Punjabi men. From a distance, they were assessing her too; sometimes their eyes traveled too boldly. He knew she did not like it. Neither did he.

  “Do not worry too much about them,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “No pos, sí,” she said, “claro que no.”

  On the train returning from Los Angeles, she had told him she was nervous about moving into the Eggenberger house. Two weeks before, Karak had signed a lease with the Swiss man to rent his home. Jivan would still farm the land around it. Karak could not believe his good fortune. Now he and Rosa would live in a well-built, private home, separate from the others. He would begin a new life.

  When they had arrived at Jivan’s home, stepping over the threshold, Kishen Kaur had held a glass of water and circled it three times around Rosa’s head. It was the gesture of welcome usually given by a new mother-in-law. That is not who Kishen was to Rosa, but that oddity touched Karak even more. He had always thought Kishen Kaur did not like him. Jivan and he had glanced at each other, as if they recognized it was both the wrong and the right thing to do.

  As the Punjabis approached, Karak introduced them. “He is from my village,” or “He served in the army with my brother in Hong Kong.” Rosa smiled shyly, but she looked full into the men’s faces. Out of awkwardness, or manners, or discomfort with her westernness, they would not look into hers. Karak could smell their jealousy and desperation as if it were a predatory thing. Some had wives in Punjab; others were not established enough to marry. He felt everywhere the thrill of unbroken ground, of the new venture. He sensed the undercurrent of their disapproval too. Ram had ignored him since their return and he did not approach them now. Karak pretended he did not cure.

  The guests had all arrived, and now the mood of the party shifted. Karak and Rosa approached Jivan as he spoke to the group of Anglos. Clive pumped Karak’s hand, bending forward as if he would kiss Rosa on the cheek, but then stopped himself. “Got yourself a pretty one, Karak!”

  “Why did you not bring your wife?” Karak asked.

  “Her mother took ill. She needed her there.”

  Perhaps there was another reason, but Karak decided he would overlook it. In their circle stood the manager of Varney General Store, who had sold Jivan so many implements, and the Swiss brothers who exchanged buttermilk for grazing rights on Eggenberger land. A loan officer from Fredonia Bank said, “You’ve got a nice spread here, Jivan.” Another, looking around, added, “I didn’t know it was this nice.” Jasper Davis, the bank vice president, had brought his wife, Daisy, and his baby daughter too. Karak noted this with amazement. He felt a wave of goodwill toward the man.

  Daisy Davis mixed freely with all, speaking Spanish with the Mexican women, daring to laugh with their men. Later, she approached Karak and Rosa while they stood with Kishen and Amarjeet. Daisy handed the baby to Kishen, and Kishen held her, smiling and cooing, warning Daisy against the evil eye while Amarjeet translated. Daisy encouraged Karak to hold the baby as well; this too amazed him.

  “Mrs. Davis, this baby is so sweet,” Karak said, “I hope I don’t end up giving her the evil eye!” They laughed, and Rosa’s eyes met his, heavy with meaning.

  Twelve or fifteen families from the barrio had arrived together, and stood clustered near the drinks table. The men were quiet and did not talk much. They called Jivan “señor” and stayed close to Alejandro. They approached Karak only in a group. He remembered how the men in the barrio looked at him when he called on Rosa: the unbroken stares, the resentment. “¡Felicidades!” they said now, those same men—not meeting his eye, making sure Alejandro saw their skepticism, “Many good years to you.” They spoke with hardness, with clenched jaws. Without the Hindus, there would not have been an occasion for Mexicans and Anglos to gather together; the space between the two communities was too wide. In a rush, Karak felt something else that satisfied him. He had stolen one of their women, and they begrudged him that. He made them feel small.

  But the women laughed and spoke more comfortably. They sought out Rosa and greeted Karak when she introduced them. They looked up at him, smiling, the hems of their full skirts brushing against his pants, their shawls draped flirtatiously around their shoulders. He knew they thought he wa
s appealing, handsome, even if they might not have approved of the match.

  In the jumble of people, a man approached Karak. He was slightly built and balding, and he stepped forward with an earnest expression and shook Karak’s hand. It took Karak a moment to recognize Stephen Eggenberger.

  “I hope that in that house, you will be happy,” Eggenberger said. Karak was surprised at his sincerity. He could not know how the Swiss man felt about the home. How it had been the center of the happy early days of his marriage, before his wife’s illness forced him back to Los Angeles. Karak had met him only twice before.

  “The house is like a gift to us,” Karak said, meaning it. He did not speak of the pride, akin to triumph, that he felt in taking it over. He did not say how good it would feel to sleep inside a structure, instead of exposed to the raw dust of the desert. “We will keep it well,” he added, as if they were equals.

  “A house is better maintained when someone is living in it,” Eggenberger said. “My wife and I were happy there.”

  When he translated for Rosa, she lowered her eyes. “Gracias, señor,” she said, giving a short curtsy, not quite graceful.

  Jivan joined them, then Karak and Rosa wandered to the tables of food. From the edge of the gathering, Karak looked out at the crowd and felt a deep contentment. He had not ever thought he would be capable of this.

  The mariachis played and the sound of the strings and the flute swept over the crowd. The trumpet swelled above the tent and the sand and touched the pale disk of the moon. The Anglos were staying much later than Karak had expected, speaking among themselves easily, laughing with Jivan.

  Ignoring Karak, the guitarist approached Rosa and asked the name of her favorite song, and she told him “El centauro de oro.” They laughed together over the selection, and Karak felt a flash of jealousy; he had not even known that Rosa supported Pancho Villa. When they finished playing, the guitarist called on his comrades to play music for dancing, but the Mexicans would not dance. The guitarist tried to cajole them and the vihuela player called out to Karak and Rosa too. She looked up at Karak, but he did not respond.

  From the sidelines, in a group, the Anglo men gathered their belongings. Some had tried a bit of food, some had not eaten at all, but they said goodbye to Jivan, congratulated Karak once more, strolled past the house, and climbed into their automobiles and surreys and buckboards. As the last of them left the main tent, the guitarist turned his body to see them go. Jasper and Daisy stayed. So did Clive. A cool breeze blew in from the mountains, carrying no dust. The Hindustanees and Mexicans relaxed.

  The mariachis began to play more loudly. Harnam Singh brought out bottles of whiskey he had hidden in his satchel, smuggled up from Mexicali. More lemonade was mixed, liquor poured surreptitiously into the lemonade glasses. Bellies were full now, guests were satisfied, and whiskey flowed silver-gold. Two Mexican couples got up to dance. A group got up to join them, young and old, children.

  Karak pulled Rosa out to the dance floor. The trumpet blared louder. The women smiled, and the men tapped their feet, catcalling, clapping in time, faces glowing with perspiration. For a few moments, Karak felt their resentment disappear. Rosa’s face flushed with pleasure; her eyes grew wide, and she tipped her head back and laughed, leaning into him. He was not an expert dancer, but he could pretend he was. As he danced and held Rosa’s waist and spun his wife under the tent, the calls grew louder. He was conscious of Ram’s even stare, of Jivan’s hesitant smile. He saw Clive observing him intensely, as if to record the moment in his mind. That was odd, he thought. With a flourish the band stopped playing, putting down their instruments to rest for a few moments.

  From inside Jivan’s house, Amarjeet brought out Jivan’s phonograph and Ram cranked it. They played five Punjabi love songs that the men knew from village life, and the men sang along, slurring their words. Sikander Khan brought out three more records, and when those were finished too, Harnam Singh brought out his dholki, hung the drum around his neck, and joined with another song on the phonograph, picking up the rhythm, making it loud and vibrant. The Punjabi men danced in a circle, arms raised. “Va!” the cry went out, “Va!” on the beat. The whiskey was the red in their cheeks, the brightness of their eyes.

  Karak watched Rosa. He could sense her simultaneous attraction and revulsion to their loudness, their masculinity—he saw her and Esperanza exchange a glance. Perhaps the men alarmed her. Perhaps Esperanza was uncomfortable too.

  In the jumble of bodies, Inder Singh approached Rosa, sweating, wearing a scarlet dastar, shoving something into her hand. Karak sprang to her side. “Arre’ bhai! What are you doing?!” He took the money from her hand. ‘This is not Punjab!” he shouted at the other man, his voice louder than the music. “Why follow those customs here?” He slapped the bills against the man’s chest. Some of them floated to the ground. Karak and Inder’s faces were close, and Karak smiled, but he felt an affront he could not name—a hesitation for Rosa. Inder Singh backed away. His expression said, Let it go, and the moment passed. Around them, the dancing went on, as if the others did not recognize Karak’s intensity of feeling. Later, Rosa would tell Karak about her alarm and he would ridicule it—gently—even though, in that moment of possessiveness, he had felt it too.

  The Punjabi men were still dancing when another group of Mexicans arrived, only men, whom Karak did not know. The mariachis had already conceded defeat to the phonograph, and were putting away their instruments when a man yelled out in Spanish, “Where is Karak Singh?” Something in his voice made the party quiet down.

  Karak and Rosa were standing near the food tables. The new man, surrounded by five or six others, was at the edge of the tent, and twenty people stood between them. Karak did not recognize him, but Rosa said, “It is Carlos.”

  “Carlos?”

  “Our foreman when Ángel Cruz died. He despises Alejandro now—for swaying people against him. No one will work for him now.”

  As she spoke, Karak remembered more: How Carlos had looked at Rosa then, a young woman on his crew. How he spoke to her differently than he spoke to the others.

  Before Karak could respond, he heard Jivan Singh’s voice, loud in the darkness, coming from the middle of the crowd. “What do you want, Carlos Guerrero? You are drunk! Why have you come here?”

  “We have come to make things right! You have ruined my reputation. Your partner has run off with one of our women. I’ve come to set the matter straight.”

  “You and your drunk friends think you can do that?” Jivan said.

  Karak could feel Rosa’s hand around his arm. She stood in the middle of the tent, in her white dress, and could not seem to move.

  “There’s nothing to concern you here,” Alejandro said, stepping to the front.

  “Why does he not show himself?” Carlos asked. “Is he a coward?”

  Karak shook free of Rosa’s hold and joined Alejandro. “I am here,” he declared. “Get off our land.” In the lamplight, he could see Carlos’s round, grim face. Behind him, a man swayed, unsteady on his feet. But Carlos’s other companions seemed alert and malicious.

  “Get out, Carlos,” Alejandro hissed. “Go home to your wife.”

  The man’s eyes traveled from Karak’s hair, to his face, to his shoulders, assessing him. Karak’s anger steadily rose.

  “I don’t need to take care of my wife, Alejandro,” Carlos said, his eyes never leaving Karak. “She’s married to a mexicano, as she should be. But your sister-in-law must learn some things.” He reached into his back pocket. Moonlight flashed on a blade. He seemed to hold both in his fist—the knife, the moonlight. Two of Carlos’s friends withdrew knives of their own. People gasped. Karak, unthinking, lunged toward Carlos. A blast shattered the air, the vibration echoing in Karak’s chest. He realized, dimly, it was a gunshot. It came from the direction of the house.

  Jivan pushed his way to the front of the crowd, pointing the pistol at Carlos and his men. “Get out. Take your pandilla with you. Don’t come here again
.” He aimed the gun at Carlos’s chest.

  Carlos grimaced and backed away, stumbling, tripping on a chair behind him. His buttocks hit the ground without a sound in the soft sand. He waved to signal to his men, but there was no need to; they had already run off into the dark. He sprang up and ran after them.

  KARAK HAD SAVED THE HAIR that Rosa had cut. It lay in the knot in which she had tied it, tucked in a wooden box that he had purchased at the general store. He stored it in the cabinet where Mrs. Eggenberger must have kept her china. He thought that he would be able to keep the hair in his new home, that it would not be present in his mind. But it weighed on him in a way he could not name. Perhaps as a betrayal, or regret. Perhaps as realization that he had harmed himself, but that if he were presented with the decision again, he would make the same choice.

  Every day now he shaved and observed himself in the mirror that lay near the basin that Rosa kept in the kitchen. His mind wandered from the mirror, to the room in Esperanza’s home where the hair was cut, to Mrs. Eggenberger’s china cabinet. No, it would not do. In the early mornings when Rosa would awaken and find him there, shaving, she would smile in a way that was both shy and flirtatious. She would never imagine that he was thinking about the coil of hair, the wooden box, the cabinet.