Gopalpur was nothing more than a few huts spread across a small valley. Cows grazed freely and sampled grass door to door. A huddle of goats was tethered to a crop barn. Lucy watched a young mother sweep the outside of her house while balancing a baby against her hip. Lucy waved to her but received only a wary nod in return.
“We’ve set up a small audition area where the football field used to be,” the professor explained. “Just watch for the pockets of dung.” He directed her through a zigzag of manure she had to lift her dress to navigate. It was hot in chiffon, and she was cursing her choice of clothing when she spotted Jaryk in a field where the grass was just long enough to tickle her ankles.
He was hammering a plank onto the side of a structure whose purpose she could not immediately guess. His face was tanned darker than she’d ever seen him, and thinner, the cartography of his features more strikingly angular. She didn’t know how to introduce herself. Jaryk was far enough away that he hadn’t noticed her coming.
There were others helping him. Villagers, she guessed. Men in loincloths and a phalanx of children inspecting the progress. Among the kids, she recognized Neel, the tea bearer from the professor’s office.
She yelled, “Hey, you!”
Neel turned around to wave shyly, and Jaryk finally noticed. He set his hammer carefully on the grass. His approach was painfully slow. Every few steps, he paused, inspecting her from a new distance. When he was close enough that Lucy could smell the cinnamon on his breath, she thought he seemed profoundly serious, his expression that of a man taking a long, arduous examination. Did he want her here? she wondered again—before he took her hands in his and squeezed so tightly she was sure it would bruise. He had never believed in public affection. The pressure of his hands began his message of gratitude.
* * *
………………
“I was stupid to leave you in New York,” Jaryk said, on their way back to Shantiniketan. “I’m usually steady as a tree.”
She remembered how broken she felt standing alone in his apartment, reading his letter. She wouldn’t forgive him so easily, but neither would she deny herself this moment of sweetness. “Yes, you were stupid,” she finally said. “And tree, you have a lot of explaining to do.”
Jaryk was staying in a single-room carriage house on the professor’s property. “We’ll have dinner this evening,” the professor said, “after the catching up is done.”
The walls in Jaryk’s room were sky blue. Low ceilings: on tiptoes, he could reach the house’s single structural beam. A four-poster bed took up much of the floor space; termites had eaten from one of the sections, but it was nevertheless beautiful, old mahogany. Jaryk pulled down a mosquito net and draped it with a sheet so that the daylight making its way through the half-shut window met only darkness once they settled on the cool bed.
She felt the new calluses on his hands when he touched her. Maybe they had come from building what he’d explained was a stage. But the slope of his arms felt familiar, and so did the bridge of his nose and the way it met hers when they kissed. The hollow purses marking his waist. But above his brow, she could trace a scar. This, too, was new.
“Were you expecting me?” she said.
In their silence, she heard the melody of a cuckoo’s call.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said. “I was praying for you to come.”
He was hungry for her and she for him. “You’ve forgotten how to kiss me,” she said. She made him slow down. She made him come to her lips, the first time barely grazing, the second time touching only the bottom lip—“like that,” she said—and only when he had kissed just her bottom lip half a dozen times did she kiss him back. By then his warmth filled the room. His hands roved her skin awkwardly, hurriedly, but by then, she was beyond the rules of play.
The Dinner Party
He knew the smell of Lucy in sleep. There was the sweetness in the hollow of her neck, in the rub of wrist where she dabbed perfume. Her freshly washed hair was the dream smell of their home. But now there was the dirt slipped underneath her fingernails. How long had she been in this country? To believe the flesh of her, he rubbed his nose along her every meridian. Did they still belong to each other?
Soon, she would want to know why he’d left without a proper goodbye. She’d want to know when he was returning to New York. Questions he didn’t have answers for. Not yet, anyway.
He wanted to tell her about his life here, about the Pals, who now felt like family. Professor Bose had arranged for a twice-weekly teaching position for Mr. Pal in the local school, so they remained transplanted indefinitely, just like him. Each night, he ate dinner with the Pals, Rohan the butler, and the professor in the palatial Bose mansion, and every morning he accompanied the professor to the village of Gopalpur.
Lucy knew none of this. In the shuttered cabin, it felt like the darkest part of night, but when he heard the bells from the courtyard, he knew it was only an hour before sunset, the priest so punctual in his comings and goings that Jaryk had begun to synchronize his watch with the calling of the bells.
When he’d first come to Shantiniketan with the Pals, he’d known almost nothing of the professor’s plans, or of the sad story of Gopalpur, a story he’d now been inextricably linked with, whose next chapter he himself would act to shape. They were poor people; without the professor’s machinations, they’d never be in the papers. Except, they’d become his poor people, a month here just long enough for loyalty to grow in him like a desert plant. This was despite the fact that his relationship with the village had begun with a lie.
It was the professor who’d lied. Misha hadn’t died in his sleep. He’d died at Gopalpur, taking his last breath on the lap of Neel’s mother, who spoke no English at all and who, as she’d first met Jaryk and understood their history, had wailed as if Misha had been one of her own. The professor had shared the information slowly, or rather, Jaryk had discovered the story himself through what the professor let slip, the choice words he used to describe Misha’s time in the village. “A martyr,” the professor had said that first day, then corrected himself, but by then Jaryk already felt what he’d known of that other war: no one, not even those he loved, would ever tell him the whole truth.
Jaryk had pressed. “Why does everyone have a rifle?” he’d asked. “Why are all the children so skittish? Why did the woman cry when she saw me?”
Rudra Bose had told him that a week before Misha’s arrival a gang of mercenaries had come to Gopalpur. Their leader claimed they had no affiliation to the government, yet they were there to reclaim the land. Their clothes bore no official insignia, yet they spoke with purpose. “Land reclamation for the factory,” they said. This valley that no one had lived in until refugees arrived now had to be returned to the capitalists.
There had been notices and warnings delivered in batches over the course of several weeks, which the professor and the villagers had duly ignored. That’s when the mercenaries were dispatched. A car factory in place of a village, two- and four-wheelers powered by diesel and gasoline. Jobs to be had, if only the people of Gopalpur could find somewhere else to live.
The loudest of the protesters had been Neel’s father, or so the professor said, his own understanding a secondhand version of the truth, being that the professor was teaching a course that morning, nowhere near the village when the mercenaries arrived. “Bang, bang, bang,” he’d later hear from Neel when they’d play hide-and-seek; and he’d come to believe the boy had witnessed everything: the bullet that pierced his father’s skull, the blood that pooled near the well.
“I’ll tell you about the rifles,” the professor said to Jaryk over dinner that first night while chewing a piece of fried bread. He said it as if Jaryk had just asked the question, but Jaryk had grown quiet over his food, having gotten little out of the professor the whole day. He’d wanted to know about Misha’s death, then about the rifles, then about
the malaise of the village, which he’d recognized as a kind of fear no one talked about, emanating from deep in the well, mixed into the water that everyone drank, wedged into every conversation as nervous laughter or, worse, as silence.
“My friends in the black market had procured the rifles,” Professor Bose said. He winked at Rohan, who seemed uneasy with the conversation. “Now the government knows that they can’t send the same ragtag bunch of mercenaries. Every man, woman, and child of a certain age knows how to fire their weapon, but do you know what’s more valuable to them than any weapon?
“It’s you, of course,” the professor said, smiling at Jaryk. “As long as an American is holding fort in the village, no harm will come to them. Now do you understand why we need you here—why the play keeps them alive?”
“Yes,” he’d said. He understood all too well how a man with credentials could harbor a whole community. Pan Doktor had done the same, at least for a while.
Yesterday, he and Neel had spent hours in each other’s company. He had the day off from Gopalpur, and good thing—the calluses on his palms were on the verge of bleeding. He’d awoken late to find the house mostly deserted, the Pals and the professor off somewhere. Rohan was still asleep, making the den inhospitable with his snoring.
Neel was waiting in the courtyard, a stack of papers held close to his chest. “For Professor,” the boy said.
“He’s not here,” Jaryk said. “Did you come all the way from the village?”
Neel shrugged. Offering up the papers, he retreated to lean against the walnut tree. Jaryk had walked longer distances as a boy, but not so many had. More than the play connected them.
“Why don’t I make you breakfast?” Jaryk asked. “I’m hungry myself.”
“Fine, but how tall are you?” Neel asked.
“A hundred and ninety-two centimeters.”
“Good, you are the tallest person I have ever met,” Neel said. “Taller even than Misha.”
What did the boy remember of Misha? In time Jaryk would discover more. Now he set about to make breakfast for them. There were no refrigerators in the house. Food was kept atop cabinets balanced on bowls of water to discourage the ants. Whatever wasn’t used in a day or two would need to be thrown out. Jaryk didn’t recognize half of the vegetables, but Neel did. Each misshapen green Neel took from Jaryk’s hands and said either “This one” or “Not now.” In this way they mapped out a meal.
Neel gave precise instructions: “Add this one now…stir…step back…add spice…stir…step back…now taste.”
“How old are you again?”
“Almost twelve,” the boy said.
“Who taught you all this?”
“Mostly I teach myself. After Baba passed, Ma was too sad to cook. I listened to her long time before, so it was no problem. I learn fast.”
“Baba passed”—that’s how he’d been taught to talk about the killing. He knew enough about loss to know that when it was referenced, it was often in the simplest rituals.
After they’d had their first course, Neel asked, “May I teach how to make roti? I would like to teach at least one person.”
“I’d like to learn,” Jaryk said.
Neel found a rolling pin and a cutting board. From a ball of dough, he showed Jaryk how to make a perfect oval, which in a single motion could be tossed right on the burner, fifteen seconds to let the center rise.
“Because you have big arms,” Neel said. “Your rotis will come out better than ours.”
Jaryk got into a rhythm working the dough. Neel scarfed down each roti as if it were candy.
“We don’t waste any food,” Neel said.
“I know,” Jaryk had said. “Neither do I.”
The rest of the morning Neel watched Jaryk as if he were conducting a science experiment, following a few feet behind while Jaryk made the bed and rolled up the mosquito net, as he sat by the walnut tree and stared at nothing in particular. “Come on,” Jaryk finally said. “Let me teach you something.”
He knew countless ways of passing an afternoon from the orphanage: games involving running, or holding one’s breath, or climbing trees, or memorizing the most words. During the next few hours, he entertained the boy as best as he knew how, which was good enough, it seemed, Neel coming close to him after the last run around the walnut tree, looking for a good hug—the boy’s sweet coconut smell surprising him into a deeper embrace. At the end of the day, he even showed him Misha’s carving and watched with pride as Neel inspected it.
This was what belonging to a place meant. It was a courtship, a slow dance with the land and the people who lived on it. He didn’t know how he’d explain all of this to Lucy. The story of Gopalpur felt as if it’d spun out of his childhood, and he feared it was a world away from anything she’d understand. Still, when she awoke, he would try to tell her about the woes of the village, then about his old life. That world couldn’t be saved, but maybe something here could be redeemed.
Lucy turned in her sleep. She had a habit of clutching the sheets as she sank deeper into dreams, snoring a little between the tides. He would let her rest. When she was ready, he would explain everything. Now, he dressed quietly. Once in the courtyard, he kept his eye on the cabin door. He knew she’d want to see him when she awoke.
Inside the house, what he’d first thought was an ordinary piano was playing a waltz. It still seemed strange to see an instrument playing itself, but the pianola could do this perfectly. The professor would feed a roll into the device and out would come Chopin, the keys pressing themselves in time. Few locals knew how to play the piano, Professor Bose had explained, but this was close enough.
Tonight’s composition seemed more festive, danceable even. At first, Jaryk thought that it was his own mind celebrating Lucy’s arrival, but no, through the windows of the mansion he could see the hurriedness of many feet. Men in gray tunics were carrying cutlery from the hall to the kitchen. Rudra Bose was carrying a giant bowl and barking orders. When he saw Jaryk, the professor called, “Help, please!”
It was hard to say no. Whenever the professor smiled, as he did often, his mustache curled impishly, which made Jaryk feel like he was in on some harmless scheme. He took the clay pot the professor was carrying and muscled it into the kitchen, where he found the butler ordering the gang of men in gray tunics.
“What’s all the fuss?” Jaryk asked.
“A dinner party is all!” the professor exclaimed, a little spot of grease smeared on his chin. It was with that same look of relentless industry that the professor had asked him to help with the building of the amphitheater at Gopalpur. From the first week, the two of them had begun to attach sections of the stage, carrying planks of wood into the center of the field. Everyday Jaryk would return with mud in his hair and his nails, and when the professor came along, he’d get equally sullied; it was strange to now see the professor in fine attire.
“But what’s the occasion?” Jaryk asked.
“The occasion is you,” the professor said. “And, of course, our young cast from the village. Plus, I’ve invited the foreign guests to get early input on our direction. Half of the art is in the making, is it not? Now, won’t you help get something down? You are much taller than us.”
Directed by the professor, he brought down large earthenware pots from the top kitchen shelf and carried the containers into the courtyard, where a man in gray washed each one with increasing disdain. Jaryk kept looking back at the cabin, worrying Lucy might wake up alone. He refused to risk it.
* * *
………………
Lucy awoke with Jaryk beside her. The cabin door had been left ajar and a streak of light came through, illuminating the lines on his face. She thought he’d been watching her sleep, which felt oddly comforting.
“I could use a good coffee,” she said.
“I make no promises, but let me s
ee what I can do,” he said.
Wrapped in a bedsheet, as Jaryk left to search for coffee, Lucy peered outside. Sunset was unfolding in the professor’s courtyard, lighting the tops of the mango trees in a thickening flame. Workers were laying a trail of candles from the grand walnut tree to the door of the house. One of them spotted her and yelled a “Hullo”; in no mood for conversation, she retreated behind the cabin door.
A minute later, the same worker came by with a set of Indian clothes. “Madam,” he said, “Dr. Bose sends finery for dinner, presently.”
“Presently?” Lucy said. The worker only smirked in response. She wrapped her sheet tighter and bade him goodbye.
When Jaryk returned with a overly sweetened coffee, Lucy was trying to understand the complexities of a sari. She’d seen a few different arrangements: the body entirely covered with the sari as a kind of shawl, or the midriff entirely exposed, or the shawl hung on either the left or the right shoulder; and from a few of the village women, she’d even seen the garment worn without a blouse. She didn’t know which style she was going for; really, anything would do, except that the geometry of the problem confused her. Long spools of green silk lay by Jaryk’s feet.
“You listen, buddy, no way am I wearing this,” she said.
“Makes two of us,” Jaryk said.
Lucy was wearing just the sari’s undergarment, what he’d learned was called a petticoat. He stepped forward and moved to touch her neck before drawing back, feeling her breath on his. Sometimes after they’d made love he’d think about the frames of their movement, the way she stretched her body toward him or the way he squeezed her thigh and felt the heat in his core. He moved his hand up the curve of her spine, slowly, until he took a chance and gripped the hair at the nape of her neck the way he knew she liked.
Lucy drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “Not till you give me a full report.” They’d been apart a month and a half. She had so much to tell him, and surely he had as much to tell her. The comfort by which he navigated this place made her think he wasn’t just a foreigner anymore.
A Play for the End of the World Page 16