The Worlds Within Her

by Neil Bissoondath

  “Depended on the day,” Jim said, his discretion allowing her to set the agenda. “And on the bowler, of course.”

  Yasmin reached for a nut of kurma, crunched it, licked the sugar residue from her fingertips. The light from the window was encroaching on Jim and her mother, the brightness softening their contours, making their edges grow indistinct. Listening to their exchange of unfamiliar jargon, watching them lose their tensions in the light at the window, Yasmin had the sense that she was seeing the convergence of her past and her future, neither whole, each shapeless, both unseizable.

  “By the way, Mr. Summerhayes,” she heard her mother say slyly, “what in the world were you doing in a nightclub in Barbados?”

  Jim was taken aback for a moment. And then, with a smile, he said, “Recovering from the sun.”

  In the elevator on the way down, Jim said, “I’ve never seen anyone eat toast with a knife and fork before.”

  Yasmin thought of her mother’s manner of eating the single slice of toast she had permitted herself at tea: the careful slicing of the toast into nine equal squares; the delicate spearing of each piece; its almost thoughtful consumption. “Do you find it weird?” she said.

  “Say, eccentric.”

  “Eccentric …” Yasmin repeated the word to herself, weighing its implications. Her mother had always eaten toast that way, and the habit had never struck Yasmin as extraordinary.

  Jim said, “Don’t misunderstand me, Yas. I like her —”

  “She likes you, too, I can tell.”

  “It’s just that she isn’t what I expected.”

  “You expected a woman in a veil and sari, I suppose. Serving you hand and foot.”

  He laughed sheepishly. “Hardly.”

  She took his hand. “Don’t underestimate my mom. When I was young she wouldn’t let me eat an ice-cream cone in the street. Once she said, ‘I approve of masturbation, Yasmin’ — Can you imagine? — ‘but I wouldn’t recommend its practice in public either.”

  “She seems very … British,” he said.

  “Early in his career my father spent time in London, some kind of attaché at the High Commission or whatever it was called back then. He hated it, she loved it. He became an anglophobe, she became an anglophile. She watches Masterpiece Theatre religiously.”

  “That explains the tea,” he said. “But why’d she come here after your father died? Why not England?”

  “They wouldn’t have her. My father’s reputation. Guess they didn’t appreciate his calling them monsters.”

  “Did he mean it?”

  “I suppose. As much as any politician means anything.”

  “How old were you? You remember anything about London?”

  “Oh, I was born later. From what I gather, my father wasn’t in any hurry to have kids. He had too much to do. For his people.”

  “His people?”

  At that moment the elevator doors opened. Yasmin hurried out. By the time they got to the car, she had changed the subject.

  16

  THE GROUND IS hard and uneven, less lawn than mere land, cleared of wild grass. The upward grade is subtle, perceived in the distance ahead but only felt more immediately.

  Cyril says, “For a long time people aroun’ here call me the Manager. People still call me Manager, but is not a title anymore. Is just a name.” His is a gentle voice, and although he has spoken wistfully, as of something lost, his tone betrays no pain, no plea for consolation.

  “What would you like me to call you?” Yasmin says.

  He thinks for a moment. “You ask Penny the same question?”

  She nods.

  “And she say?”

  “Penny.”

  “Well, it’d be nice if you call me uncle, but I guess Cyril is probably the best idea. Or Manager.”

  “I prefer Cyril.”

  “Cyril, then.” He smiles shyly at her and runs his hand — a small, soft hand — along his bare pate, as if brushing flat his extinct hair. His eyes squint behind the thick lenses of his glasses, the right eyeball dancing briefly off-centre.

  Yasmin returns the smile but looks away from the unsettling eyeball: to the back of the house and its large second-floor balcony supported by two concrete pillars; to the roof of galvanized iron, red with rust; to the iron pole rusted bronze that rises from one corner of the roof in support of a television antenna. To the land sloping away to the fence — the only thing with the gleam of newness — and beyond it the sudden ending of the land at water.

  Yasmin says, “What are you manager of?”

  “Was. The estate, when there was one. And Ram’s campaigns.”

  “And now?”

  “Oh, I try to keep things together, make sure they don’t fall apart too much.” He pauses, as if in thought. “Is not too much, really. You play the hand you’re dealt. You know.”

  Yasmin lets her gaze wander across the bay. “It’s a lovely view.”

  “It is?” He laughs quietly, as if in embarrassment. “Guess when you see something every day you stop seeing it for what it is.” His gaze follows Yasmin’s, and after a moment he says, “Yes, is a lovely view. Shakti always liked it. Is too bad she never see it again. I was in two minds, you know, about you two leaving, back then.”

  “Mom always said she chose to leave because it would have been dangerous for us to stay.”

  “Some people thought so.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Was hard to tell. Maybe yes, maybe no. So I opt for prudence, nuh. The Canadians were very accommodating. More than the British. Hardly surprising. Things moved fast.”

  “I’ve always wondered why my mom didn’t seem to have much in the way of mementoes. Photos, stuff like that.”

  “I think she jus’ took a couple o’ little things with her. Couldn’ tell you what, though. After all, as you well know, it wasn’ suppose to be forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She didn’ tell you? You were suppose to stay in Canada for a few months, till things settled down, nuh. Then come back quietly. But when it was time, Shakti said she wasn’ ready, she needed a little more time, and a little more time. Always a little more time. And is only now she come back, with you.” He glances at her — in disbelief, in discomfort. “She never tell you any o’ this?”

  Yasmin shakes her head. “Not a word.” And the implication of possibility not chosen causes her heart to race in bewilderment.

  After a moment, he takes her by the arm, a touch as light as air. “Come, chil’,” he says. “Let’s go inside. Penny must be ready.”

  And it is only because of the gentleness of his manner that Yasmin allows herself to be led.

  Penny is sitting in the porch when they return. She gestures Yasmin to an easy chair. “You enjoy your little walk?”

  “It’s a lovely place. So peaceful.”

  On a round brass table, in the centre, is a silver platter heaped with Indian sweets both familiar and unfamiliar. Yasmin recognizes the kurma, the golden jilebi — which she has always thought of as honey-drenched pretzels — and the white rectangles of laddoo. But she doesn’t know the large yellow balls, or the smaller fried ones.

  Cyril, lowering himself into another easy chair, says, “She like the view, too.”

  “Of course she like the view. What is have not to like?”

  “I jus’ mean —”

  Penny turns towards the door. “They’re here, Amie,” she calls. “You can bring the drinks now.”

  Presently, the curtains at the door waft open and a short, elderly woman comes out with a platter on which are a coffee mug and two glasses of orange juice. She approaches Yasmin, holds the platter out. Yasmin helps herself to the coffee, whispers her thanks. Amie — in her sixties, and skeletal, with a face so pared it reveals the intimate contours of her skull — keeps her eyes lowered.

  Next she serves Penny, who wordlessly takes her orange juice.

  When she comes to Cyril, he shakes his head. “Amie,” he says, “i
s coffee I wanted.”

  “But m’um say —”

  “I ain’t care what m’um say, I —”

  “Thank you, Amie,” Penny says firmly.

  Amie quickly withdraws into the house.

  Cyril says, “Now look here, Penny —”

  “Yasmin, dear,” Penny says, gesturing at the plate of sweets. “Help yourself.”

  Cyril’s jaw clenches, his chest heaves to the rhythm of his breathing, now audible. He clenches the glass in his hand until it trembles. But he says nothing.

  Yasmin, embarrassed at the spectacle of Cyril’s anger so easily routed, looks for a way to busy herself. But what is she to do? She feels inept, graceless. Finally, she reaches for a piece of kurma and, nibbling at it, remarks on its freshness. Immediately, she sees Penny’s disappointment, realizes she has deprived her of a little victory.

  Penny says, “You know kurma?”

  At the question, Cyril laughs out loud, and he takes a gulp of juice with a sudden and obvious relish.

  Ignoring him, Penny says, “Well, wonders never cease.”

  Yasmin hears wandas nevacease: for a brief moment she is distracted by the distorting effect Penny’s accent has on her words.

  “I mean, Shakti wasn’ really one for cookin’.”

  “Oh, she didn’t make them, she bought them. And all kinds of other stuff, too.”

  “You eat spicy?”

  “Depends on what you mean by spicy.”

  “You know how your gran’mother use to eat? With her hands, of course, always with her hands — and not because she didn’t know how to use knife and fork, min’ you. But that was a lady who liked spicy. Always had next to her plate a bunch of what we call bird peppers — small-small and hot-hot — or a pepper as big as your finger —”

  “Like a big chili, nuh,” Cyril adds.

  “And she’d put some food in her mouth and toss in a bird pepper or take a bite out of the big one. I mean, she use to eat peppers the way people eat —” her hands dance in front of her, as if waiting for the simile to alight on her palms, “— peanuts.”

  “Taste the mango chutney,” Cyril says, pointing to a bowl sitting beside the fried balls. “Jus’ dip a pulowri in.”

  Yasmin complies. The fried balls — the pulowri — are greasy to the touch, and the chutney, when she tastes it, has less bite than the one her mother used to buy. But she plays along — “Oh, that is hot.” — for the sake of the family legend.

  Penny smiles.

  Cyril says, “And that was nothing for Ma. Nothing!” Nutten’. “She was one tough old lady.”

  Penny, seeing Yasmin’s greasy fingertips, calls to Amie to bring some napkins.

  Cyril, with merriment, suggests a fingerbowl instead.

  His comment elicits a laugh from Penny. “Shakti ever tell you the fingerbowl story?”

  Yasmin shakes her head, waits for the story.

  “When Vern was with the delegation in London — You know he was a member of the team negotiating independence, eh? — the Queen had a big dinner for some Commonwealth bigwig. When the dinner finish, they brought out the finger-bowls and Vern watch in amazement as Mr. Bigwig — who was sittin’ right next to the Queen, mind you — pick up his bowl and sip the water. Everybody went quiet-quiet.”

  The curtains part as Amie — so slight as to be almost insubstantial — returns with paper napkins, and then glides back inside without so much as a whisper.

  “And then, to help him out, nuh, Vern pick up his own bowl and take a sip. And right away her Majesty pick up her bowl and take a sip herself, imagine. Everybody breathe a sigh of relief, everybody take a sip from their fingerbowls, and everything was fine. Vern always say that is the day he learn what a real lady is, because she could o’ leave the two o’ them hanging there like two fools.” Penny sits back straight in her chair, nods primly.

  Yasmin, without thinking, says, “I’ve heard that story before.”

  “Really.”

  “Only it wasn’t about my father or the Queen of England. It was about some African head of state visiting the Netherlands. And the queen was Juliana. Same fingerbowl, though.” Hardly are the words out of her mouth than she realizes they are unwelcome. She forces a laugh, to make light of it. “Do you think maybe royals all over the world retell the same stories about how wonderful they are?”

  Penny, back stiffening further, says, “Yes, well … Vern was there, you know. He saw it.”

  Did he tell you the story himself? Yasmin wants to ask. Did anyone else see it happen? And how do you explain Queen Juliana … But the story, she realizes, is not about the Queen. It is about her father, about solidarity, about subtle shifts in allegiance. The story, true or not, is their offering to her, an offering she has managed to soil. She feels their annoyance, their embarrassment, regrets her own thoughtlessness. She realizes too, though, that anything she says to make amends will sound patronizing, so she says nothing.

  Cyril sits up in his chair with summoned alacrity. “Tea was Shakti’s drink, not so?” he says.

  Yasmin, uneasy, nods: she is fearful now of despoiling the sacred.

  “Did you know it was my Celia that taught her to like tea?”

  “No, I didn’t.” She is neither hungry nor particularly taken with the pulowri, yet she reaches for another: her own offering to Penny.

  Cyril says, “Ey, take it easy, girl. Don’t eat too much now, it still have lunch to come.”

  “Lunch,” Yasmin says without enthusiasm. She is looking forward to returning to the hotel, to sequestering herself in the silence of the room. “But I wasn’t planning —”

  Cyril will not hear of it. “Nonsense. Of course you staying for lunch.” He turns towards his sister. “Not so, Penny?”

  Penny gives a warm smile. “What Manager wants,” she says, “Manager does get.”

  17

  TEA? REALLY? BUT the box says it contains flowers. I enjoy flowers in a garden or a vase, my dear — but in my teacup?

  Healthy? Oh, I see. You’re still worried about the Moroccan tea and all that sugar, aren’t you? Well, I thank you, my dear, for your concern, but it truly isn’t necessary …

  But listen to me, will you? I must sound terribly ungrateful. Lack of practice, I imagine. So thank you for this rather unusual gift. Drinking flower-tea is not so bizarre, when you think about it. The human palate is a rather flexible organ, after all. Why should we count fish eggs a delicacy but look aghast at those who relish chicken feet? My mother-in-law, you know, had a particular taste for fried goat’s blood heavily spiced, accompanied by whole hot peppers.

  Tell me, my dear Mrs. Livingston, have you ever seen a battleaxe, at the museum perhaps? A curious implement, don’t you think? Honed and hardened, sharp-edged, designed for ease of use yet, if handled carelessly, capable of severing a member of the one wielding it. A kind of forbidding beauty, masculine, if you will. Battleaxe. It was with that term that people referred to my mother-in-law, you know, in whispers only, of course. It was meant to demean, but it was an appropriate term for her, peril and beauty finely balanced.

  She was not a tall woman — she was several inches shorter than I, and I, as you yourself have delighted in pointing out, have the physical stature of a turkey in a roomful of ostriches — but she appeared tall because she wore her authority well. She draped herself in it, if you see what I mean. It was part of her finery, like the gold jewellery she wore.

  She had the most extraordinary face. Like many women of her generation who grew from childhood poverty to the kind of ease that passed for wealth in those days, she acquired few wrinkles, so that her face reflected a kind of serenity, except when she was angry or upset — and then all you saw were two lines emerging to bracket her lips.

  Funny thing — it was delightful watching her eat. She was quite at ease with cutlery, but usually insisted on using her fingers in the traditional Indian manner, gathering the food into a shred of roti …

  A kind of bread, my dear …

&nb
sp; Like this, you see, with little swirls and circles. She would scoop up a small amount of rice and curried vegetables and eat it with the deliberation of ritual. Then she would select a fresh hot pepper from a saucer beside her and take a bite out of it — and that, believe you me, was always a remarkable sight. Understand what I’m saying, now. A whiff of these peppers was enough to bring tears to your eyes. A pinch seemed to sear the skin from your tongue. But she ate them as if they were dill pickles. It wasn’t so much that she took an evident pleasure in every mouthful. No. It was more that she seemed to take no mouthful for granted. And, you know, she did at times appear to be praying or meditating or, at the very least, lost in deep thought.

  She brought this deliberation to her life in general, and that was lost on no one. Her religion — the conversion to Christianity exerted no hold, you see, beyond a social usefulness — left her with no belief in accident. Everything had a reason, an explanation. Nothing ever simply happened. Blame, or perhaps, to be fair, explanation, could always be apportioned — and this gave her great strength. She could rarely be anticipated. I remember my brother-in-law Cyril saying that it was at mealtimes that his mother plotted her life, which prompted my husband to remark that it was at mealtimes that she plotted other people’s lives.

  I’m not certain that she actually tried to shape other people’s lives. I think she worried about her family in her own way, and tried to spare them heartache by perceiving, reflecting, understanding, nudging. I once said this to my husband, and his response was, You didn’t grow up with her. Cyril, who never felt he had his mother’s support for his law studies in England, believed it was because she didn’t want to let him out of her grasp, but I wonder whether there wasn’t some other reason, a reason a mother could see, considering how things turned out for him, I mean …