“I am Mrs. Silverine Atukorale,” she said.
Duncan introduced himself and began eating his salad, hoping that a long conversation would not ensue.
“Making a connection in Colombo? Or just going to Sri Lanka?” Mrs. Atukorale said, buttering her roll.
Duncan nodded, crunching the head of an asparagus. “Sri Lanka.”
“First visit?” she said, politely.
“Oh, no, no. I’ve been there several times. I lived there for a while. My wife is Sinhalese.”
Mrs. Atukorale’s demeanor underwent a sudden change. She set down her knife and leaned toward him with a look of marked interest.
“Really? What is her name?”
Duncan sighed inwardly, resigning himself to the long discussion of family connections that would now be inevitable. He knew how it was with Sri Lankans.
“Grace De Silva.”
“Ah, De Silva. And from where is she?”
“Her parents live in Colombo, but her father’s family is from Negombo and her mother’s family is from Kalutara.”
“Ah, I see,” Mrs. Atukorale said, but Duncan knew that she had only just begun her investigation.
“And her parents are . . .”
“Her father is Lionel De Silva. He’s a civil engineer. He used to be in government service, but now he works at LPT Engineering. Her mother is Nalini—her maiden name was Edirisinghe. She’s a geography lecturer at the University of Sri Jayewardenepura.”
“Ah, right, right,” Mrs. Atukorale said. “I have a cousin at the university—in mathematics—maybe he knows her.”
Duncan nodded, chewing a bite of peppery chicken and rice. He knew he should ask about Mrs. Atukorale’s family, so he said, “You are from Colombo?”
“Yes, yes. I’m coming back from visiting my children in the States. My son is in California, Mountain View. He is at Google.”
“A computer scientist?”
“Yes, that was always his passion. Also my daughter-in-law. Both at Google. And my daughter is in Georgia, working for an insurance company. Her husband is American also, a doctor, in emergency medicine at a hospital in Atlanta.”
“That must have been nice, visiting them,” Duncan said.
“Yes, but unfortunately still no grandchildren!” Mrs. Atukorale laughed. “I told them, they should come home and I will have a thovile done.” She glanced at him. “A thovile is . . .”
“I know what a thovile is,” Duncan said. “Actually, thovil were what I studied in Sri Lanka. I’m an anthropologist by training. I stayed near Galle when I lived in Sri Lanka. A village called Talgasgama.”
“Right, right. I was, of course, only joking about the thovile,” Mrs. Atukorale said, the words spilling out in a rush. “In the villages, these practices are very common. Not only for barren women. Any ailment, at the drop of a hat, these people will put a thovile. They trust the aduras more than the real doctors. Even more than the vedaralas.”
At her questioning look, he indicated his understanding of the term, saying, “The native medicine doctors, yes.”
“This is all because of the lack of education,” Mrs. Atukorale said. “That is why these are so popular with the laborers and villagers.” She dabbed her lip with the linen napkin on her tray, her bangles tinkling. “I myself, of course, don’t believe in all that. My husband studied in the UK—he got a postgraduate certificate from University of London. And my children, they were at Stanford and Berkeley.”
Duncan nodded, wondering what he could say to alleviate her obvious embarrassment at having seemed like a villager.
She removed an errant bit of lettuce from her tray and placed it back on her salad plate. Her nails were short and polished in a conservative pink shade. “My daughter and daughter-in-law—of course there is no question of barren. They are just not yet ready for children. Even though they are in their thirties now. Nowadays career consumes all the young people’s time.”
“I know how that is,” Duncan said. “My wife and I have been trying to have a baby for years now. So far, we haven’t been able to. Maybe a thovile wouldn’t be such a bad idea for us.”
Mrs. Atukorale turned to look at him. “You don’t think thovil are backward?”
“I know city people have a low opinion of thovil,” Duncan said. “But in Talgasgama and some of the other villages I visited, people were still doing them. Personally, I think they’re fascinating practices. I’m interested in what they mean to people.”
Mrs. Atukorale was silent. She dipped a piece of asparagus into her chicken curry and chewed thoughtfully. “Bali thovil, yak thovil, all these are not proper Buddhism.”
“I am not a Buddhist myself, but some of my Sri Lankan friends who are Buddhist seem to believe in things like yakas and spirits.”
“Well, of course, there are the usual rituals we all do,” Mrs. Atukorale conceded. “I have consulted an astrologer a few times myself to find auspicious times for my son’s wedding and so forth. And some of these things are traditions for us.”
“Do you know anyone who has had a thovile done? I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Duncan said.
“One or two, I know. Only small ones in the house for important matters.” She looked him over, and then leaned close, her voice lowered. “And I have to say that I have also heard of some people getting hooniyam done. You know hooniyam . . . ?”
“Sure, black magic, sorcery rituals,” Duncan said.
“Yes, you know, no? My cousin’s neighbor got paralyzed completely on one side, from here down.” Mrs. Atukorale swept her hand from her waist downward. “This happened just after her son got a big promotion, and she was talking about this to everyone. My cousin warned about asvaha—you know, evil eye. But the neighbor was not careful. Then the paralysis. Her husband got someone to come and look in the garden, and they found a charm hidden just near the house.”
“What kind of charm?”
“A small vial with some hair and nail clippings and ash. The kattadiya cut it . . .”
“You mean the hooniyam was returned to whoever put it there?”
“We don’t know who it was, but that person must have got the misfortune. That is how it is. It goes back to the source. My cousin’s neighbor got a yantra to protect her, and she wears that now. You know what a yantra is?”
Duncan nodded. Amulets to ward off malevolent spirits had been common in the village where he’d stayed. “Is she still paralyzed?”
“She is much better now, after the hooniyam was cut and she got the yantra. Almost fully back to normal.”
“Did she see any doctors? Western doctors?”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Atukorale said, starting on her coconut custard. “They are not village people, they got a good doctor. The doctor said it was a stroke and got her to do physical therapy. Who knows if the physical therapy did any good, but.”
“She got better . . . ?”
“But,” Mrs. Atukorale said, wagging her small dessert spoon at him conspiratorially, “without the hooniyam cutting and the yantra, who knows if any improvement would have come?”
“You don’t think it was a stroke then?”
“It might have been a stroke. Must have been a stroke. But question is why did she get a stroke?”
“Ah, I see. You mean without the evil eye, she might not have got it?”
“That is what I’m saying,” she said, raising her hand in a triumphant gesture. “You go telling the whole world how successful your son is, how much money, how happy, what can you expect? Someone is going to get envious. That is what my cousin was trying to warn her about.”
“Your cousin’s neighbor wasn’t worried about the evil eye?”
“She was worried, true, but that didn’t stop her from boasting. This is the thing.”
What about the stroke being the result of worrying, Duncan thought. But he didn’t want to seem skeptical after Mrs. Atukorale had opened herself up to him, revealing her penchant for practices that she claimed were beneath her
.
Mrs. Atukorale fumbled in her handbag and took out her iPhone. She leaned back in her seat in order to angle the camera and took a picture of the dessert on her tray. “Just a reminder,” she said. “Very tasty. I’m going to see if I can reproduce the taste. I am not too bad a cook.”
22
GRACE
Friday
Mo’s eyes had a bruised look, the skin dark around them. His hair looked thinner than it had in the humid air at the reunion, which might have been why she noticed more gray in it. His forehead, below his receding hairline, looked oily. He looked as though he’d had a long day.
“How did your meetings go?” Grace said, taking the bunch of yellow tulips he’d brought. He had said he’d been meeting about a property his company had leased to Novophil, a pharmaceutical giant that had recently begun a new project in Philadelphia.
His forehead furrowed, accentuating the fine wrinkles on his skin. They were all getting old, Grace thought.
“Not good. But I may be able to work something out.” He peered around at the spotless kitchen counters, the orange throw folded under the freshly plumped cushions in the living room, the magazines stacked tidily on the coffee table. “Duncan’s not here?”
“He had to go to Sri Lanka, with barely twelve hours’ notice. Pretty ridiculous.” She hauled the big ceramic vase out of the cupboard under the kitchen sink and filled it with water.
When she explained that Janie had gone along, Mo said, “Mariam and I wondered whether to send the girls to the KIS camp. Some time ago.” He reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and drew out a slender wallet made of buttery brown leather. He showed her a picture of his wife and three daughters, all in elegant ankle-length dresses and embroidered head scarves. The two teenagers were unsmiling, their arms linked, and the youngest was laughing, her arms wrapped around Mariam’s waist.
“Such a long way from home. You wouldn’t mind?” Grace said, arranging the flowers in the vase.
“Would have been a good experience. But now it may not happen. With the damn finances . . .” He drew a deep breath, rubbing at the bristly hair along his jawline.
He was eyeing the bottle of wine on the counter. She reached for it, then hesitated at his expression. He’d been alcohol-free for at least a decade and a half, until Angie’s death. She knew he did the obligatory prayers five times a day. “Juice instead? Water? Club soda?”
Mo dragged his gaze away from the bottle. “Club soda. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
Grace poured soda into his glass, and after a second’s reluctance, into her own. Mo sat down at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. Grace laid out plates and the plastic containers of Thai food.
“Are you doing okay?” Mo said. “You look . . . worried.”
“Just been a strange day.” Grace reached into a drawer for cutlery. “I spoke to that detective today. Mortensen. He called me. He wanted to know about Duncan’s whereabouts last night. Someone at Cinasat died.”
“What do you mean?” Mo stopped with the fizzing glass raised to his lips, his eyebrows drawn together. “A murder?”
“Why would you think that?” Grace studied him, but he only shrugged, still frowning. “He said there wasn’t evidence of foul play,” she said. “Just making routine calls was what he said. But do they do that if someone just dies naturally?”
“Maybe,” Mo said. “They asked us things when Angie died.”
“You know Mortensen asked about you,” Grace said.
“Today?”
“The day after Angie . . . on Sunday. He came here. He wanted to know how well we knew you and the others. And about guns.”
Mo pushed his glass along the counter, avoiding her eyes. “He and another cop came to see me. Made such a big damn deal about the guns. Like I had committed some crime.”
“He talked about deer hunting,” Grace said. “And the fact that you’d bought bullets in Ridgeville.”
Mo stood up to get a paper towel from the far end of the counter. He rubbed his forehead with it. “How is that a damn problem? I have licenses for my guns. I saw a gun shop, and I bought some ammo. Why does it matter if it was in Ridgeville?”
“Maybe they were wondering why you brought guns to the camp,” Grace said, watching him. “I didn’t even know you hunted.”
Mo twisted the paper towel in his hands. “I didn’t bring them to the camp,” he said. “They were just in my car. That’s not a crime.” He went over to the trash basket and flung the paper towel in. “Having guns while Muslim. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t think they were targeting you,” Grace said, although she wasn’t sure that was true. “Maybe they were just fishing. The same with Duncan. Why Mortensen was asking about him today. Apparently Duncan came up because he was ‘connected.’” Grace indicated her skepticism with air quotes. “To two deaths in a short period of time. It’s ridiculous to think Duncan’s connected. I told Mortensen Duncan didn’t even know Angie. He probably doesn’t know this person at Cinasat either. He’s been there less than a week. He hardly runs into anyone.”
“What about Bent? Bent was connected to Angie, and he probably knows this woman.”
“Mortensen said they were going to talk to him. But he also asked me about my whereabouts, even though I have no idea who this woman is. Because I’m ‘connected’ to the two deaths. Me?” She sipped her soda, feeling the bubbles popping against her lips as she watched Mo’s face. It was contorted with an expression of grief or worry. “What is it you have against Bent anyway? How come you’re so suspicious of him all of a sudden?” Did Mo know that Angie had been seeing Bent for a while? Was there jealousy involved here?
He shrugged, picking up a spring roll. “Sure this doesn’t have pork?”
“Only chicken, I checked,” Grace said. And then, after watching him for a minute longer, “You said . . .” She didn’t know how to ask him without seeming intrusive. “When did you and Angie . . . What I mean is, how come you and Angie didn’t get married in the end?” Then she wondered if she should not have asked. The question seemed tasteless, when she’d gone to his wedding. Mariam had come to their own wedding, with Mo and their two oldest girls.
“Not my choice,” he said, letting out his breath in a deep sigh. “My father didn’t approve, of course.”
“It’s not like you were religious back then.” Mo had been one of the wild ones, a long-haired hippie cutting classes and climbing over the gate to go into town, smoking pot behind the chemistry lab.
He shrugged again. “When I was in high school, he didn’t care as much who I dated. Wild oats and all that. He was like that even in his college days. But when it came to me, in college, he felt Angie was a bad influence.” He was gazing at the pad Thai he’d spooned onto his plate, poking at it with a fork. He had eaten very little of it. “But really, that wasn’t what stopped me. You know how she was.”
“A free spirit?” Grace said. She guessed Angie hadn’t wanted to commit. She’d probably wanted to travel, to write, to see the world. And other people.
“That she was. But in the end, it was Bent.”
Grace looked at him, not sure what to say.
“He had been after her, in college, even when we were together. She said nothing happened. But after we split up, she started seeing him. It was on and off for a long time. A very long time.”
Grace frowned. The noodles slithered off the fork she’d raised to her lips. “When did they start . . . ?”
“Not when you were with him,” Mo said. “After. Junior year of college. And for years after. It wasn’t exclusive. I think the only reason it went on was that Bent didn’t want to commit. Angie was like that. Wasn’t it Groucho Marx who said he wouldn’t want to be a member of a club that would accept him?”
The bitterness in his voice surprised Grace. “But you decided at some point to move on?”
Mo bowed his head, nodding over and over as if to convince himself. “After I met Mariam . . .
she reconnected me to the faith. My father approved, naturally. He knew her family. It wasn’t arranged exactly. But there were financial reasons for us to marry.” He raised his head. His eyes were wet, she saw. “Don’t get me wrong, Grace. I love Mariam, my children. But sometimes . . . I think it’s more lately, maybe age . . . I think about how life might have been. If Bent hadn’t . . . If I had waited . . . Sometimes I feel I might have missed the boat.”
“I’ve always worried that Duncan might feel that way,” she said, running her hand against the cold stone of the counter.
Mo glanced at her in surprise, and then nodded, realizing. “Ah, his career?”
Grace nodded. “With his background, his book . . . he could have found a great academic job somewhere if my job hadn’t stuck us here.”
“But he wanted you to take the job. His choice,” Mo said. He shook his head. “And it was my choice to not wait.” He stirred his noodles around, his lips twisted. “I don’t know if Bent stopped seeing Angie after he married. I could never tell. She stopped talking to me about him. We’ve barely seen each other the past few years. Maybe they continued on and off. About two years ago, I think she did stop seeing him completely. I think she got over him. That’s why I feel . . . if I had waited . . .”
“That’s why you seem like you have something against him,” Grace said. He was silent. She bit into a spring roll, leaning forward to let crispy shreds fall onto her plate.
“I think Angie had some suspicions about him,” Mo said.
“Like what?”
“When we were talking at the reunion . . . After she got there that night—it was late, maybe nine—Suki and Marla and I talked with her in the pavilion for a while, before we went to Marla’s cabin. Bent came by for a minute, just to say hi. After he left, someone said something about him. I don’t remember what it was. Some casual random thing. And Angie said he had a dark side, that he’s not what people think he is. I didn’t think anything of it. It was only in passing. But now with everything else, I just have a feeling . . .”
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