by Frank Wynne
Dorothy didn’t know what to do, she looked around at everyone in a comical plea for help. But, like detached and unassailable masks, suddenly not a single face showed any expression. The party interrupted, half-eaten sandwiches in their hands, some dry piece stuck in their mouths, bulging their cheeks with the worst timing. They’d all gone blind, deaf and dumb, croquettes in their hands. And they stared impassively.
Forsaken, amused, Dorothy gave her the wine: slyly just two fingertips’ worth in the glass. Expressionless, at the ready, they all awaited the storm.
But not only did the birthday girl not explode at the miserable splash of wine Dorothy had given her but she didn’t even touch the glass.
Her gaze was fixed, silent. As if nothing had happened.
Everyone exchanged polite glances, smiling blindly, abstractedly as if a dog had peed in the room. Stoically, the voices and laughter started back up. The daughter-in-law from Olaria, who had experienced her first moment in unison with the others just when the tragedy triumphantly seemed about to be unleashed, had to retreat alone to her severity, without even the solidarity of her three children who were now mingling traitorously with the others. From her reclusive chair, she critically appraised those shapeless dresses, without any draping, their obsession with pairing a black dress with pearls, which was anything but stylish, cheap was all it was. Eyeing from afar those meagerly buttered sandwiches. She hadn’t helped herself to a thing, not a thing! She’d only had one of each, just to taste.
And so to speak, once again the party was over.
People graciously remained seated. Some with their attention turned inward, waiting for something to say. Others vacant and expectant, with amiable smiles, stomachs full of that junk that didn’t nourish but got rid of hunger. The children, already out of control, shrieked rambunctiously. Some already had filthy faces; the other, younger ones, were already wet; the afternoon was fading rapidly. And Cordélia, Cordélia looked on absently, with a dazed smile, bearing her secret in solitude. What’s the matter with her? someone asked with a negligent curiosity, head gesturing at her from afar, but no one answered. They turned on the remaining lights to hasten the tranquility of the night, the children were starting to bicker. But the lights were fainter than the faint tension of the afternoon. And the twilight of Copacabana, unyielding, meanwhile kept expanding and penetrating the windows like a weight.
“I have to go,” one of the daughters-in-law said, disturbed, standing and brushing the crumbs off her skirt. Several others rose smiling.
The birthday girl received a cautious kiss from each of them as if her so unfamiliar skin were a trap. And, impassive, blinking, she took in those deliberately incoherent words they said to her attempting to give a final thrust of enthusiasm to something that was no more than the past: night had now fallen almost completely. The light in the room then seemed yellower and richer, the people older. The children were already hysterical.
“Does she think the cake takes the place of dinner,” the old woman wondered in the depths of herself.
But no one could have guessed what she was thinking. And for those who looked at her once more from the doorway, the birthday girl was only what she appeared to be: seated at the head of the filthy table, her hand clenched on the tablecloth as though grasping a scepter, and with that muteness that was her last word. Fist clenched on the table, never again would she be only what she was thinking. Her appearance had finally surpassed her and, going beyond her, was serenely becoming gigantic. Cordélia stared at her in alarm. The mute and severe fist on the table was telling the unhappy daughter-in-law she irremediably loved perhaps for the last time: You must know. You must know. That life is short. That life is short.
Yet she didn’t repeat it anymore. Because truth was a glimpse. Cordélia stared at her in terror. And, for the very last time, she never repeated it—while Rodrigo, the birthday girl’s grandson, tugged at Cordélia’s hand, tugged at the hand of that guilty, bewildered and desperate mother who once more looked back imploring old age to give one more sign that a woman should, in a heartrending impulse, finally cling to her last chance and live. Once more Cordélia wanted to look.
But when she looked again—the birthday girl was an old woman at the head of the table.
The glimpse had passed. And dragged onward by Rodrigo’s patient and insistent hand the daughter-in-law followed him in alarm.
“Not everyone has the privilege and the honor to gather around their mother,” José cleared his throat recalling that Jonga had been the one who gave speeches.
“Their mother, comma!” his niece laughed softly, and the slowest cousin laughed without getting it.
“We have,” Manoel said dispiritedly, no longer looking at his wife. “We have this great privilege,” he said distractedly wiping his moist palms.
But that wasn’t it at all, merely the distress of farewells, never knowing just what to say, José expecting from himself with perseverance and confidence the next line of the speech. Which didn’t come. Which didn’t come. Which didn’t come. The others were waiting. How he missed Jonga at times like this—José wiped his brow with his handkerchief—how he missed Jonga at times like this! He’d also been the only one whom the old woman had always approved of and respected, and this gave Jonga so much self-assurance. And when he died, the old woman never spoke of him again, placing a wall between his death and the others. She’d forgotten him perhaps. But she hadn’t forgotten that same firm and piercing gaze she’d always directed at the other children, always causing them to avert their eyes. A mother’s love was hard to bear: José wiped his brow, heroic, smiling.
And suddenly the line came:
“See you next year!” José suddenly exclaimed mischievously, finding, thus, just like that, the right turn of phrase: a lucky hint! “See you next year, eh?” he repeated afraid he hadn’t been understood.
He looked at her, proud of the cunning old woman who always slyly managed to live another year.
“Next year we’ll meet again around the birthday cake!” her son Manoel further clarified, improving on his business partner’s wit. “See you next year, Mama! and around the birthday cake!” he said in thorough explanation, right in her ear, while looking obligingly at José. And the old woman suddenly let out a weak cackle, understanding the allusion.
Then she opened her mouth and said:
“Sure.”
Excited that it had gone so unexpectedly well, José shouted at her with emotion, grateful, his eyes moist:
“We’ll see each other next year, Mama!”
“I’m not deaf!” said the birthday girl gruffly, affectionately.
Her children looked at each other laughing, embarrassed, happy. It had worked out.
The kids went off in good spirits, their appetites ruined. The daughter-in-law from Olaria vengefully cuffed her son, too cheerful and no longer wearing his tie. The stairs were difficult, dark, it was unbelievable to insist on living in such a cramped building that would have to be demolished any day now, and while being evicted Zilda would still cause trouble and want to push the old woman onto the daughters-in-law—reaching the last step, the guests relievedly found themselves in the cool calm of the street. It was nighttime, yes. With its first shiver.
Goodbye, see you soon, we have to get together. Stop by sometime, they said quickly. Some managed to look the others in the eye with unflinching cordiality. Some buttoned up their children’s coats, looking at the sky for some hint of the weather. Everyone obscurely feeling that when saying goodbye you could maybe, now without the threat of commitment, be nice and say that extra word—which word? they didn’t know exactly, and looked at each other smiling, mute. It was an instant that was begging to come alive. But that was dead. They started going their separate ways, walking with their backs slightly turned, unsure how to break away from their relatives without being abrupt.
“See you next year!” José repeated the lucky hint, waving with effusive vigor, his thinning, white hair fluttering. H
e really was fat, they thought, he’d better watch his heart. “See you next year!” José boomed, eloquent and grand, and his height seemed it might crumble. But those already a ways off didn’t know whether to laugh loudly for him to hear or if it was enough to smile even in the darkness. More than a few thought that luckily the hint contained more than just a joke and that not until next year would they have to gather around the birthday cake; while others, already farther off in the darkness of the street, wondered whether the old woman would hang on for another year of Zilda’s nerves and impatience, but honestly there was nothing they could do about it. “Ninety years old at the very least,” thought the daughter-in-law from Ipanema melancholically. “To make it to a nice, round age,” she thought dreamily.
Meanwhile, up above, atop the stairs and contingencies, the birthday girl was seated at the head of the table, erect, definitive, greater than herself. What if there’s no dinner tonight, she mused. Death was her mystery.
TWO MAGICIANS
Satyajit Ray
Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha
Satyajit Ray (1921–1992). Widely regarded as one of the greatest filmmakers of the twentieth century, Satyajit Ray was a true polymath. Aside from his career as a film director, he created two of the most popular fictional characters in Bengali children’s literature and occasionally worked as a translator (he translated Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” into Bengali). In 1992, less than a month before his death, he was awarded an Honorary Academy Award, making him the first and only Indian yet to receive the honour.
‘Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.’
Having counted all the trunks, Surapati turned to his assistant, Anil. ‘All right. Send them off to the brake van. Just twenty-five minutes to go.’
‘Your compartment is ready too, sir,’ Anil said. ‘It’s a coupe. Both berths are reserved for you. No one will disturb you.’ Chuckling, he added, ‘The guard’s a fan too. He’s been to your show at the New Empire. Ah, here he is—this way, sir.’
Biren Bakshi, the guard on the train, extended his right hand towards Surapati with a wide smile.
‘If I may, sir, allow me to be honoured by shaking the hand whose tricks have given me so much pleasure.’
A single glance at any of Surapati Mondol’s eleven trunks would reveal his identity. The words ‘Mondol’s Miracles’ were stencilled in bold letters on the lids and sides of every trunk. No other explanation was necessary—for, just two months earlier, at the New Empire theatre in Calcutta, the audience had conveyed its appreciation through prolonged applause. The newspapers had been full of praise too. Mondol had been forced to promise the theatre authorities that he would perform again during the Christmas holidays.
‘Please do let me know if you need anything, sir.’
The guard escorted Surapati to his compartment. Looking around, Surapati breathed a sigh of relief. It looked comfortable.
‘Now if I may take leave, sir…’
‘Thanks very much.’
When the guard had left, Surapati leaned back against the window and took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. This was probably the start of a triumphal journey. Delhi, Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Lucknow. That was all this time around, but there were so many states yet to be covered, numerous cities and towns. And why think of India alone? There was a world beyond—a huge expanse. Being a Bengali didn’t mean being unambitious. Surapati would show everyone. His fame would reach as far as America, home of the magician Houdini, reading about whom used to give him goose pimples once. He would prove to the world how far a boy from Bengal could go. Just let a few years pass. This was just the beginning.
Anil came running. ‘All okay, sir. Everything.’
‘Have you checked the locks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m just two carriages away.’
‘Have they cleared the line?’
‘Any moment now. Will you have a cup of tea at Burdwan?’
‘Not a bad idea.’
‘I’ll get you some.’
Anil left. Surapati lit a cigarette and looked out the window. A constant and noisy stream of porters, passengers and vendors streamed past in both directions. As he gazed at them his mind wandered. His eyes clouded over. The hubbub on the platform died down. He went back a long way in time, to a place far away. He was thirty-three now, but then he was only seven or eight years old. A tiny village in Dinajpur district—Panchpukur. It was a quiet autumn afternoon. An old woman was seated in front of Moti the grocer’s shop with a gunny bag. People old and young were thronging around her. How old was she? Could be sixty, could be ninety. Her sunken cheeks were criss-crossed with hundreds of creases, which doubled whenever she smiled. She kept up a torrent of words through her missing teeth.
‘Bhanumatir khel. Magic!’
The old woman had put on a magic show. For the first and last time. But Surapati never forgot what he saw, and never would. His own grandmother was sixty-five—her entire body shook uncontrollably when she tried to thread a needle. And this old woman had so much magic in her wrinkled hands. She was making things disappear under everyone’s noses, and then conjuring them from thin air the next moment—money, marbles, spinning tops, nuts, fruits. Taking a rupee from Kalu Kaka, she made it vanish, sending him into a rage. When she made it materialize again, going off into peals of laughter, Kalu Kaka’s eyes turned into saucers.
Surapati had been unable to sleep for several days after this magic show. And even when he eventually did, apparently he would often cry out, ‘Magic! magic!’ in his sleep.
After this, whenever there was a fair in the village, Surapati would visit it in the hope of watching some more magic. But he hadn’t come across anything remarkable.
At sixteen, Surapati moved to his uncle’s house on Bipradas Street in Calcutta to study for his intermediate degree. Alongside college textbooks, he read books on magic. Surapati had bought them within a month or two of arriving in the city, and had taught himself all the tricks in the books soon afterwards. He had had to buy several packs of cards. He would stand in front of the mirror for hours on end, practising. Surapati would sometimes perform his magic tricks on Saraswati Puja celebrations in his college or at friends’ birthday parties.
He was invited to his friend Gautam’s sister’s wedding during his second year in college. It was a memorable day in the history of Surapati’s magic training, for this was where he met Tripura Babu for the first time. A marquee had been erected in the field behind the enormous house on Swinhoe Street, and Tripura Babu was sitting in one corner, surrounded by guests. He had appeared nondescript at first glance. He was about forty-eight years old, with wavy, parted hair, a jovial expression, and traces of paan juice at the corners of his mouth. You saw countless such people on the streets. But what was happening on the sheet in front of him forced you to change your mind. Surapati couldn’t believe his own eyes at first. A silver fifty-paisa coin rolled along to a gold ring placed three feet away, and then escorted the ring back to Tripura Babu. Surapati had been so stupefied that he hadn’t even been able to summon up enough strength to clap. And then, the very next moment, another extraordinary piece of magic. Absorbed in the performance, Gautam’s uncle had spilled all his matchsticks from the box while trying to light his cigar. As he was about to bend over, Tripura Babu had said, ‘Why put yourself to trouble, sir? Allow me.’
Piling the matchsticks in a heap on the floor, Tripura Babu had held out the matchbox in his left hand, calling, ‘Come, boys, come along now…’ And, just like pet dogs or cats, the matchsticks had trooped into the box, one by one.
After the wedding dinner, Surapati had gone up to Tripura Babu who was standing by himself in a corner. Tripura Babu had been astonished by Surapati’s interest in magic. ‘Bengalis are happy enough just to watch,’ he had said, ‘I don’t find too many people interested in performing. I am genuinely surprised that you’re interested.’
Surapati had vis
ited Tripura Babu at home within two days. He lived in a tiny, ramshackle room in a boarding house on Mirzapur Street. Surapati had never seen anyone live in so much poverty and deprivation. Tripura Babu had told Surapati how he made a living. He charged a fee of fifty rupees for a magic show. He barely got two commissions a month. Making more of an effort might have helped, but Surapati had realized that Tripura Babu was not that kind of a man. He couldn’t have imagined that such a talented person would be so lacking in ambition. When he said as much, Tripura Babu had answered, ‘What’s the use? Who’s going to value good things in this accursed country? How many people really understand art? How many can tell the original from the counterfeit? You praised my magic so effusively at the wedding the other evening, but no one else did. As soon as they were told dinner was served, they abandoned the magic to line up to worship their bellies.’
Surapati arranged for Tripura Babu to perform on special occasions at a few friends’ and relatives’ houses. Partly out of gratitude, and mostly out of affection, Tripura Babu had agreed to pass on his magic skills to Surapati. He had objected vehemently when Surapati had mentioned paying him. ‘Don’t even bring it up,’ he had said. ‘What is important is that I will have an inheritor. Since you are so interested and so enthusiastic, I will teach you. But don’t be in a hurry. You have to dedicate yourself. Haste will achieve nothing. If you learn properly, you will experience the joy of creation. Do not expect too much money or fame. But then you will never share my plight, because you have ambition, which I don’t…’
‘You’ll teach me all your tricks, won’t you?’ Surapati had asked hesitantly. ‘Even the one with the coin and the ring?’
Tripura Babu had laughed. ‘One step at a time. Don’t be impatient. You have to keep at it. It needs dedication. These are ancient arts. This form of magic came about at a time when man had genuine willpower and concentration. Modern man cannot take his mind to that level easily. Have you any idea what an effort I had to make?’