Cereus Blooms at Night

by Shani Mootoo

  She unlatched the high, latticed gate to her father’s house. She didn’t want to think about the smell of someone else’s saliva on her breast, or that scrubbing off such evidence meant preparing her body for him. Inside the unlit, musty wood cubicle in the backyard, she filled an enamel basin with water. She decided it would be best to scrub herself with a concentrated solution of borax and rub her body with an unction of eucalyptus oil, camphorated oil and turpentine, and then to complain of a stomach ache and sore muscles.

  The staff and residents of Paradise Alms House were growing less afraid of Miss Ramchandin. Some were even beginning to doubt the rumours, which in the presence of her quiescence and pleasantness, began to seem ridiculous. There was talk that I had “performed miracles” with Miss Ramchandin. When I resisted such praise, knowing the change in Miss Ramchandin was only a result of humane treatment, I would be cut off with protestations that I was far too modest—for a man. Initially I felt flattered at being finally included in conversations and being missed if I didn’t show at meal times. Now, whether I had parted my hair this side or that, or wore a new scarf at night, I was no longer pretentiously fawned over. The change was delightful if not daunting. Then Sister asked if I would take over the care of Mr. Phu, a resident who had no rest and allowed his caretakers no rest because he was sure his room had been taken over by an army of red ants. She thought I might be able to wrestle that idea from him and calm him down. Although Sister asked and did not demand it of me, I could not refuse the transfer. Her asking was a sign of growing respect.

  That night I mentioned to Miss Ramchandin that I would not be spending as much time with her in the future. She didn’t respond. I returned to my room but kept one ear open all night waiting, expecting, wondering. As the hours passed and there was no commotion I became more and more despondent. I imagined that she too felt it was time for me to move on, that she looked forward to a fresh face. I thought of the dress stuffed behind the dresser and felt my chest cave in with grief. I slept in the early hours of the morning only because being awake, alive even, had become too painful.

  Delivering her breakfast was still my chore, and the next morning yielded another sign of how amicable everyone suddenly felt toward Miss Ramchandin. During the first weeks of her stay, I used to go into the kitchen and prepare her a meal without animal or fish products. Every morning I would have to listen to the cook rant and rave that I was making more work for her, that I was spoiling the old woman, giving her preferential treatment.

  This morning, I followed a trail of scrambled eggs into the kitchen, intending to make Miss Ramchandin her breakfast as usual. All the trays were lined up, each one looking just like the others with a mess of mashed eggs and a slice of buttered bread, a cup of cocoa and an unpeeled banana. I opened a cupboard and reached for the loaf of bread and bread knife when the cook silently handed me a tray: a mess of mashed avocados, a slice of bread, cocoa and a banana. I should have seen the offering as the cook’s and Miss Ramchandin’s accomplishment but instead my heart sank. I felt cheated. My spirits seemed perilously low, dragging on the floor several paces behind me like a reluctant shadow.

  I approached Miss Ramchandin’s bungalow with a dry mouth. My legs had become leaden and I wanted nothing more than to go back up to my room and fall deeply asleep. I knocked as usual, and as usual did not wait for an answer. When I entered I almost dropped the tray. The centre of the room had been made bare. Three dresses, a slip, two nightgowns, panties, four pairs of socks, a pair of shoes, a night potty, brush and soap were neatly lined up along the edges of the room. A roll of toilet paper had been dissected, sheet by sheet, each sheet pinned to the wall. The dresser lay flat on its face in front of the window. The bed frame, balanced on its side, sat on the dresser. It was straddled by the eating table atop which lay the mattress, which itself lay under four drawers, neatly arranged side by side. Two chairs faced each other with their feet symmetrically placed in the drawers. Straddling the two chairs was the stool and in, or rather on the stool sat Miss Ramchandin. She was close enough to the ceiling to pluck old spider web threads from the wood boards. I was grinning but she carried right on plucking. She made a low buzzing sound, like a neon light about to expire, punctuated by a single interjection, as if to the ceiling: “Where Asha?”

  I stayed by the door, leaving it open and feasting my eyes. To make certain she had seen me appreciating her grand statement, I gasped loudly. A crowd gathered. Sister came running. She gasped too, after which her only words, spat out and laced with frustration, were “Well! At least there are only imaginary ants to clean up in Mr. Phu’s room!”

  And I got to keep my full-time job caring for Miss Ramchandin.

  * * *

  —

  To everyone else, Miss Ramchandin appeared to have a limited vocabulary or at least to have become too simple-minded to do more than imitate. However, I knew for a fact she was able to speak and had volumes of tales and thoughts in her head. She rambled under her breath all day and all night, as long as she and I were alone. Seconds before someone else approached, as though she were trained to hear the stealthiest footfall, she would become flatly silent. I came to realize that no response was required yet I knew it was no accident that she chose to chatter only in my presence. For a while I considered this to be merely an honour. Then I began to recognize in her mutterings elements of the legendary rumours. I had Mr. Hector run me the errand of acquiring a notebook, and I started to jot down everything she said, no matter how erratic her train of thought appeared to be. When she saw me awaiting her next word and writing it down as soon as she uttered it, she drew nearer. I soon got the impression that she actually began to whisper in my direction, that I had become her witness. She spoke rapidly and with great urgency, in a low monotone, repeating herself sometimes for hours without end. There was little doubt that I was being given a dictation, albeit without punctuation marks or subject breaks. I scribbled and when she took to repeating parts, I caught my breath and rested my cramped fingers. It became apparent that the question “Where Asha?”—usually asked without emotion or nuance—was not idle rambling. There was a purpose to it and to all the chatter, and finally a purpose to my listening and to sifting, cutting and sewing the lot.

  * * *

  —

  One day a nurse arrived to announce that Miss Ramchandin had two visitors. I put my book and pen away quickly. The visitors, the nurse said, were the same ones Sister had turned away earlier—a Mr. Ambrose Mohanty and son, the ones who had left the cereus clippings. Miss Ramchandin’s eyes flickered. I had already run across the name Ambrose among her ramblings.

  Accustomed to reading, as if by Braille, her twitches and gasps, it was fortunate that I sensed to spruce her up first, for her visitors were dressed to the hilt. The old gentleman was a spectacle. From a distance he seemed to totter and shake and had to be supported by the younger man. Miss Ramchandin walked slowly alongside me. As we approached the visitors waiting in the garden she became mildly agitated. She did not look toward them but glanced from side to side, picked her fingernails, looked up at the sky and dawdled. I encouraged her with little nudges. Her nervousness could have been infectious were I not made curious by the visitors’ unusual attire. The old man wore a black top hat, a formal white shirt with a bow tie, and heavy black coattails and trousers, unusual at any time in Lantanacamara but especially odd in the heat and humidity of the season. He held a polished cane yet he shook so much that the cane was of no practical use. The young man at his side was tall and slim. At one glance he had the angularity and sprightliness of a girl reluctantly on the verge of becoming a woman, and at the next the innocent feyness of a young boy who would never quite grow into the glove of manhood. He too wore a hat, and though it was a straw fedora, it also drew attention, for in spite of the heat, head-coverings in Lantanacamara were reserved for funerals, church and state functions.

  Positioning himself behind his father, the younger man pu
t both hands on the old man’s shoulders. It could have been either a gesture of restraint or protectiveness. The old man trembled. He covered his mouth with one hand, as though holding back his emotions, and shuffled forward. Miss Ramchandin focused on a wispy cloud on the far horizon, off to the side, but she too began to shuffle.

  “Pappy, is she,” the young man said. “You all right, Pappy?”

  The old man, still with his mouth covered, started sobbing. His shuffle quickened toward us.

  “Oh, my-my, Mala Ramchandin, Mala Ramchandin, Mala Ramchandin. It is you, indeed, it is you. Oh, my-my. My Mala Ramchandin.” His voice was low and seemed riddled with remorse.

  Miss Ramchandin skirted around them and headed for the nearest park bench. I said hello awkwardly and continued to keep pace with her. The two men turned and followed. She sat down, calmed suddenly and looked across the valley, swinging her legs. Her face would have appeared expressionless to them, as though she were unaware of their presence.

  The old man walked up to her and his son moved discreetly around to the back of the bench. I found myself stealing glances at his unusually soft and hairless skin. He caught me staring and held out his hand.

  “I am Otoh Mohanty. Otoh. This is my father. He has known her for a long time,” he explained. “They were friends.”

  His hand was tender yet his grip so secure and present I was compelled to look directly into his eyes. I can think of no other way to express myself—even superlatives would be useless: simply stated, he was breathtakingly beautiful. He saw me gasp. My hand went limp with embarrassment and shyness. He held it a moment longer and smiled. I had to clear my throat to introduce myself.

  Mr. Mohanty hesitantly sat down beside Miss Ramchandin, his palms pressed together and tucked between his legs. He stared at her, shaking his head. Deep emotion contorted his face as he allowed his tears to fall freely.

  “Is he all right?” I whispered.

  Otoh Mohanty shrugged his shoulders.

  “He hasn’t seen her in many years. How is she? Is she all right? Does she know we are here?”

  “Yes, she knows. See how she is swinging her legs? You might not be able to tell, but I can. She is happy.”

  Miss Ramchandin’s face may have seemed expressionless but to me it was clearer and calmer than I had ever before seen it. I could not help my curiosity. “How well did she know your father?”

  Otoh gave me a look that said that he would explain later.

  The real question desperately wanting to slip off the tip of my tongue was, “Does he know her sister, Asha?” Confident that I would see these men again, I refrained from asking for fear of toppling the moment.

  The two gentlemen did become weekly visitors. I looked forward to their arrival as much as Miss Ramchandin did. Admittedly, my anticipation was in no small part due to my growing fondness for the most alluring Otoh Mohanty. Over the course of their visits Otoh explained just how well Miss Ramchandin and his father knew each other. From both him and his father I was able to fill in gaps and make sense of things she mumbled. One day, for example, she would go on and on about some gramophone or other, the next day about spiders, then about peekoplats or snails. As much as I had learned not to discount her mental fitness, I must admit there were times when I believed her words were fanciful imaginings. I wrote everything down though, just in case. You can therefore imagine my giddiness when Mr. Mohanty and the uncommonly lovely Otoh related tales in which the very same gramophone, spider, bird or snail were featured.

  II

  The temptation to digress from my mission and to relate every scintillating detail of the romantic blossoming of my knowledge of Otoh Mohanty is overwhelming. And every detail, at least in my estimation, because this was the first experience I had that actually occurred outside the realm of my fertile imagination, seems nothing less than scintillating. I must remind myself, however, that Mala Ramchandin’s story is my prime purpose here. Asha, if you are reading this, all I will say is that, thanks to your sister, my own life has finally—and not too late I might add—begun to bloom. Enough said. Now, I will exercise restraint. You will hear little more of me as I apply myself to the story of Mala Ramchandin, fashioning a single garment out of myriad parts…

  IN THE KITCHEN of a house in Government Alley, Otoh Mohanty was being closely watched by his father, Mr. Ambrose E. Mohanty, who slouched in a bentwood wheelchair. Otoh Mohanty pried three paper-dry fillets of heavily salted cod from a barrel and wrapped them in sheets of brown paper. Before washing the salty grit from his hands he nestled his face in them and inhaled the concentrated scent. Mrs. Elsie Mohanty sat at the kitchen table, shelling a basket of pigeon peas. Her motions conveyed her displeasure at the task. She grudgingly noted her husband’s every gesture as he directed their son. Finally, under her breath but making sure to be heard, she grumbled, “I suppose you will take the peas I shelling too. It is too many years now that every month without fail, I sit in this kitchen and watch you pack up food, my family food, to send to that woman. I going to go to my grave and be reborn before you wake up to think of anything else but that old lady. If I had known the spell that Bird put on you, I would’ve study my head good before I say I do to you, yes!”

  “And our son, our great joy, would never have been born,” said Ambrose Mohanty. “Mrs. Elsie Mohanty, wife of mine, Mala is mad. She is as mad as a brainless bird. Crazy. Do you understand what I am saying? From whence would she obtain the essentials of life, dearest? We are entrusted with her care. You might simply consider charity toward such a creature as insurance toward positive retribution. Truthfully, she has no mind for me, or anybody else in this town, as a matter of fact. There is no need, I assure you, for you to confuffle your tender brain.” He turned to his son. “Now the rice. Don’t forget the rice. And take a pack of matches, son.”

  “Pappy, I ever forget the rice yet?”

  Elsie shook her head with frustration. “Well, I never! Entrusted! By whom, pray? You say she mad and you sending matches for she? For what? For she to burn down house and town?” Once upon a time Elsie had been enraptured by the silken petals that fell from Ambrose’s Wetlandish-affected lips. Now she wished that he would either shut up or talk simply and plainly with her again.

  On the first Saturday of every month Otoh heard the same conversation between his parents. It was indeed the only one they really ever had. When he was a child the two hurled insults and accusations at each other, like people playing a game of ping-pong—each, however, with a different ball. Their tone had become duller and their pitch lower over the years, and the vociferousness of Elsie’s complaints lessened as she realized that they were absolutely in vain. Besides the occasional, under-the-breath mumblings calculated to reach Ambrose’s ears, she confined herself to drawn-out, carefully arched sighs.

  The first package of dried goods had been sent just before Otoh was born. From the beginning every delivery was accompanied by varying degrees of wrath from Ambrose’s new wife. She had in her enough compassion and sense of civic duty to appreciate the idea of sending food to a helpless bird, but she could hardly bear Ambrose’s insistence on preparing the food himself. He performed the task with such attentiveness that Elsie’s heart wept and her spirits became blistered. In the days before their marriage, rumours had spread that the bird up the hill had gone crazy but even if that was so, the fire of Elsie’s jealousy could not be easily extinguished. It was, in fact, jealousy that had driven her to marry this man.

  Ambrose E. Mohanty returned from study abroad to become the most eligible young man in Paradise, a foreign-educated fop with the airs and speech of a Shivering Northern Wetlandsman lord. It seemed a waste to the townspeople that such a catch would be so preoccupied with a woman whose father had obviously mistaken her for his wife, and whose mother had obviously mistaken another woman for her husband. It would have been a matter of pride to reform the eligible bachelor but Elsie herself had little to do with t
he transformation. It was only after Mala Ramchandin shoved Ambrose out of her life that he noticed one Miss Elsie Smart, who, looked at from a particular angle, with her hair pinned up in a high bun, quite resembled his beautiful Mala in the days before she turned into an untamable creature. He turned to the eager Elsie for solace.

  From the first days of their marriage all altercations between Elsie and her inert, non-confrontational husband concerned her jealousy—and his fixation on The Bird’s well-being. Their antagonisms took place mostly in the hardening of their eyes and hearts, becoming audible only around food delivery days. It was in those early days of marriage that Ambrose mastered the art of sidestepping his wife’s fits of rage against what she called his mental infidelity. He never missed a month’s delivery.

  Hardened hearts having little to do with conception, the couple had a child. Elsie gave birth to a girl. Her arrival in the midst of one of his (her, then) parents’ regular tirades profoundly affected all three. Ambrose never raised his voice again. He developed a propensity for month-long slumbers from which he miraculously awakened only long enough to replenish Mala Ramchandin’s supplies. Elsie refused to sleep or to even blink her eyes in case she missed the longed-for occasion when Ambrose might awaken and desire her and a family life at last.

  By the time Ambrosia was five, her parents were embroiled in their marital problems to the exclusion of all else, including their child. They hardly noticed that their daughter was transforming herself into their son. Ambrose slept right through the month, undisturbed until the first Saturday of the next, and Elsie, hungry for a male in the house, went along with his (her) strong belief that he (she) was really and truly meant to be a boy. Elsie fully expected that he (she) would outgrow the foolishness soon enough. But the child walked and ran and dressed and talked and tumbled and all but relieved himself so much like an authentic boy that Elsie soon apparently forgot she had ever given birth to a girl. And the father, in his few waking episodes, seemed not to remember that he had once fathered one.