by Leah Franqui
Bhim caught up to him just as he was inhaling the last puff of a burned-down cigarette. Bhim’s eyes widened, and Jake realized Bhim had never seen him smoke before. Bhim sat down next to him on the pavement and reached for the pack, taking a cigarette for himself and lighting it up with matches taken from Jake’s limp fingers.
“I’ve never seen you smoke before,” Jake said.
“I’m sorry,” Bhim said.
“Why?” Jake was curious. Would Bhim be sorry for the right thing?
“For the way I am.” Bhim said it simply, shrugging. Jake looked at him.
“I love who you are,” Jake said, his voice cracking slightly.
Bhim smiled again, sadly. “I was not raised watching people touch. I was not raised watching men love each other. Some things are for public and some things aren’t. My parents—”
“I don’t want to hear about your parents,” Jake said calmly. “They are not here. I am.”
Bhim looked at him, his eyes dark and glistening with tears. “I know.” And then he began to cry in earnest, finally unrestrained in a public space. Jake held him. Bhim was stiff in Jake’s arms, but Jake didn’t care. It was better than nothing.
Jake knew that Bhim might never be as physical as he wanted him to be. But something had shifted, and he knew that the charade of public denial was done. Perhaps this had been how Bhim mourned, and after the mourning was the moving on.
Jake lay in bed that night, watching Bhim, who was a deeper sleeper, snore, and wondered if he could stand to be with someone who might never be okay with his own life, who would always feel that what they were doing and what they wanted from each other was wrong. He loved Bhim completely, with a force that often terrified him, but he also loved himself. How long could both loves survive?
Jake closed his eyes, but all he could think about was smoking a cigarette.
19
Although it was unusual for him, Ronnie had decided that he would accompany Satya and Rebecca on their first day with Mrs. Sengupta. As it was Satya’s first tour, and Rebecca’s first experience with the company, he told himself that he was being a responsible boss, but in reality he was excited to be back on the Circle Line. It was the one tourist activity he actually enjoyed. Looking at himself in the bathroom that morning, he giggled in anticipation as he combed his thinning hair. It was six thirty but he had to leave soon if he was to be there at eight forty-five, his customary fifteen minutes early for clients.
Getting out of the train, Ronnie followed a slim but round pair of buttocks up the subway stairs and out into the sea of people that was Times Square. He liked following women up the stairs, especially when the weather was nice and their bodies weren’t restricted by bulky coats. He enjoyed the denim-clad view for a full two minutes before realizing that the person he was following was none other than his newest employee, Rebecca. She struggled to roll her two suitcases down the crowded sidewalks of Times Square, and Ronnie rushed up to help her, almost receiving a smack in the face with her purse as thanks for his pains.
“Mr. Munshi! I’m so sorry, I thought someone was trying to steal my stuff.”
Ronnie reeled back, hurt. He recovered quickly.
“You’re right on time, I see,” he said approvingly.
Rebecca knew she was in fact early, but she felt it wise not to argue the point. Instead she smiled and nodded. “I like to be prompt. Is Satya with you?”
Ronnie shook his head. They arrived at the hotel and stepped into the lobby. Ronnie didn’t see Satya anywhere. He had repeated his injunction that the guide be early at least five times when they had spoken the previous day, and he had also mentioned that he himself would be accompanying them on their first day of excursions, which should have been an indicator that the boy should be on his best behavior. As he looked around the lobby there was no sign of Satya, no one who appeared to be remotely Bangladeshi, just a few Mexican people cleaning.
“I know it’s too early for me to check in, but do you have a place where I can store my luggage?” Ronnie opened his mouth to respond but realized that Rebecca was talking to the person at reception, who helped her lock up her bags and place them in their luggage room. Ronnie checked his watch. It was 8:50. By his calculations, Mrs. Sengupta would have finished her breakfast by now and was, presumably, checking on her appearance before making her first entrance in front of her awaiting audience. For all their claims to modesty and simplicity, he found these Indian aunties by and large to be a vain lot, always conscious of their need to make an entrance, of their gold jewelry and their fine purses, and he felt it part of his job to accommodate them, exclaiming over their smooth skin and dark hair, which he knew owed more to dye than to youth.
“Mr. Munshi?”
A quiet voice behind them made both Rebecca and Ronnie turn, catching their first glimpse of Mrs. Sengupta. The plainly dressed Indian woman in a simple white sari, no jewelry and no makeup, surprised Ronnie, but he had no time to register his surprise because he was too upset that Satya himself had yet to appear. It was unconscionable for the guest to have arrived before the guide. If he could, he would have wanted to give the impression that Satya had been waiting in the lobby since the previous evening, standing at attention in anticipation of Mrs. Sengupta’s every whim. This was not a good start, not a good start at all. Ronnie fumed, internally, while presenting Mrs. Sengupta with a slightly oily smile and bending over to touch her feet respectfully. He then stepped back, indicating Rebecca as if he were a game-show host.
“Your companion!”
“Hello. I’m Rebecca Elliot. It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Sengupta,” Rebecca said, formally but with a nice degree of warmth. She held out her hand to be shaken. Mrs. Sengupta seemed surprised but happy. She opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by Ronnie.
“Greetings, distinguished auntie and wonderful madam, and welcome yourself to America! I trust you have had a night of extreme comfort and luxury here in the very heart and center of the great city of New York, the biggest of apples, though I of course prefer the highly superior Alphonso mango. I am Ronnie Munshi, you are recognizing my voice from the phone, I am sure and certain. Guide has been delayed by life-threatening illness, very serious but I am sure completely fine very soon, so we will start the tour together, as of course planned, in approximately and exactly four minutes, which should give you this time to use the WC, as it is called, water closet or loo, of course, should you need to do so at any time in this time. Guide will of course be here quite soon but in the meantime you will be pleased to accept personal attention from myself—”
“But the guide is here, Mr. Munshi.” Mrs. Sengupta’s voice was as soft in person as it had been on the phone. Ronnie and Rebecca had to lean forward a bit to hear her, which made the woman shrink back.
“What is this, madam?” Ronnie looked around for Satya again, wondering if Mrs. Sengupta was one of those spiritualists who had been speaking in a religious sense, that is, the presence of all people was always around and that sort of nonsense. Ronnie hated that kind of thinking but he would adapt, of course, to the needs of his client, and perhaps they could stop by a psychic reading along the way to the boat or after, really, because of the timing—
“Here it is, Mrs. Sengupta.” Satya ran up and handed Mrs. Sengupta a purse.
“I forgot my purse in the breakfast room. Mr. Roy very kindly went back to get it for me. He arrived here at eight, and accompanied me at breakfast. He doesn’t look sick, Mr. Munshi.” Ronnie’s face reddened to the shade of a ripe cherry at Mrs. Sengupta’s faintly curious tone. She didn’t appear to be mocking him but Ronnie wasn’t sure. He had to regain control of the situation, fast.
“No, yes, no, not him, another guide, I am very sorry, all apologies, forgot which one I was speaking to, business is doing so well I have too many guides now! All apologies.” Ronnie glared at Satya. A full hour early? He would have admired it if it hadn’t been so presumptuous.
“Shall we go then?” Mrs. Sengupta inquired.
/>
Ronnie nodded, all smiles. “Your adventure awaits!”
Mrs. Sengupta paused as she passed Ronnie, making sure Satya was well on his way out.
“He doesn’t look sick at all, Mr. Munshi. He doesn’t look Indian, either.”
This was not a good start. The boat ride, which he had been anticipating with such joy, now seemed like a prison sentence. He would remind Satya to be as Indian as possible when he got a moment alone with him, and reprimand him for this one-hour-early trick. And, he thought, make it mandatory for all his guides from now on.
Looking out over the side of the boat onto the rippling waters of the Hudson River, Satya felt his insides twist like candy floss. He hadn’t been on many boats in his life, and something about watching the Circle Line boat, a large ungainly thing slugging through the dark oily water, made him feel dizzy.
He had been early to pick up Mrs. Sengupta, as instructed over and over again by his employer. He had been polite and watched his Bengali diction carefully, trying to smoothly erase any geographical markers from his inflection and accent. He had bowed, touched her feet, explained that he was honored, debased himself completely in deference to her age and social status—in short, he did everything Ronnie had ever told him to do and then some. But Boss was refusing to look at him now, and though he was jovial and enthusiastic, this was, to Satya’s eye, for Mrs. Sengupta’s benefit.
“Boats leave right on time, here, you see, madam? Neither too early nor too late. It is an excellent rule for life, as well, is it not, Satya?” Ronnie’s voice had a strange edge as he continued speaking. “Too early can be as bad as too late, can it not, madam?”
“Can it, Mr. Munshi? How?”
The widow’s calm response stumped Ronnie, who opened his mouth like a fish and sputtered, gasping for air.
“Well, it is an obvious fact, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Rebecca broke in. Satya didn’t know what was happening but he resented Rebecca’s intrusion. Rebecca shrank under Ronnie and Satya’s dark looks, but she kept her eyes on them, unblinking. The staring contest seemed to progress for ages, until Ronnie finally pretended that some spot of water from the ocean had irritated his eye, and he ducked his head.
“People can die too soon.”
Mrs. Sengupta pronounced this as calmly as if she were stating the price of onions. Everything froze, and exactly ten seconds after she had said it Ronnie began nodding his head, smiling, frowning, almost crying, apologizing for her recent loss with a fervor that amazed Rebecca, Satya could see. He himself was used to this sort of thing from his boss, but he always enjoyed the performance. Ronnie took on the mantle of mourning this stranger as if he were Ronnie’s own father, praying to Mrs. Sengupta’s husband, asking for his blessing. Satya looked around and saw Rebecca’s eyes, round and yet somehow skeptical, and despite his own understanding of the doubt in her gaze, he felt the need to defend his boss, and so he joined in, sobbing and sighing for a man he would never know. Really he should thank the man, he knew, for allowing the widow her trip, which let him be her guide. Still, he felt a loyalty to Ronnie, so he moaned and groaned along with him as the widow watched, her face a blank slate.
“Isn’t that nice?” It was Rebecca’s voice again, and Satya cracked open one eye, ready to scream at her for her lack of proper respect for the important mourning rituals of the widow’s world, when he realized that she was pointing out Ellis Island, an important sight on the tour and a vital part of Understanding America, which was one of Ronnie’s major points of guiding. Have Fun, Stay Safe, Buy Gifts, and Understand America. Satya realized he was falling behind in his guiding duties and rushed to catch up.
“It’s where people used to have to stop and be examined before they entered the USA,” Satya remarked helpfully.
“Yes. I know. My grandparents came through there.” Rebecca said the words absently, but they left Satya amazed. This was something he had read about. To meet someone who actually had been a part of this was astounding. Bangladesh only dated back to 1971. Rebecca’s family had come to Ellis Island before his country had even existed.
“They used to change people’s names,” Rebecca explained, “to make them more American. You would come in a Scarolla and leave a Smith.”
“Just like that?”
Rebecca nodded. Satya gritted his teeth. He should have been explaining that fact, and if he had known it, he would have. But the widow seemed interested.
“Do they still do that?”
“I don’t think so. Not if the immigrants don’t want to,” Rebecca replied. The widow nodded and looked at the island until it was too far behind them to see.
After Ellis Island floated away into the distance, the group quieted, each retreating to their thoughts as the boat guide droned on endlessly about the 9/11 Memorial and why New Jersey wasn’t as bad as people might think.
As the tour continued, Satya observed his little group from the corner of his eye as he breathed deeply to calm his churning stomach. The day was cool and mildly drizzling, but Mrs. Sengupta didn’t seem to mind. She sat with a scarf around her head, observing the cityscape as it slowly drifted past. Unlike so many of the tourists on the boat, she didn’t take a single photo. Her abstinence was more than compensated for by the small Japanese tour group sitting in front of her, who hadn’t stopped recording the journey with phones and video cameras since the moment they stepped onto the boat. They weren’t alone. Everyone on board was obsessed with documentation except them. Teenagers took selfies, constantly comparing them, while a couple had a friend take endless photos of the two of them, the girl’s large engagement ring prominently displayed. Even Ronnie had snapped a few shots.
Sitting beside Satya, Rebecca read from a tour book. This surprised Satya; she had lived in New York for a long time, why would she need a book about it? But she was absorbed, ducking her head over the pages to protect them from the moisture in the air. Satya hoped she didn’t have aspirations of guiding the tour herself; with Boss being as oddly angry as he was, she might supplant Satya, and then where would he be?
Satya yawned deeply. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. He was nervous about guiding, and it felt strange to be leaving New York without knowing where Ravi was. What if Mrs. Hafiz sent him another letter? He had stopped by his first apartment just to check, but there had been neither mail nor news of his friend. When he wrote to her he had sent a new address, but the letter had gone out only the day before; it would take weeks to arrive and weeks for a return letter, if there even was one. And Ravi was nowhere to be found, although Satya had pretended in the letter that they had been together. By the time the lie reached Mrs. Hafiz, he hoped it would be true.
As the ship plowed through the waters, it reminded him of the trip over, of watching the ocean with Ravi and looking for fish in the grimy depths. He felt suddenly fragile as the boat listed heavily in the water, and grew even dizzier, almost faint. Satya scowled at his physical weakness. He knew he had been the one in the wrong, stealing something that wasn’t his, but wasn’t that what they had always done? When they were children they had had a tradition of stealing the food off each other’s plates. And then there had been the real things, the actual thefts, the money stolen from Satya’s grandmother to pay for Ravi’s fancy sneakers, leaving the Roys without milk for the whole month, or the pilfering of one of Ravi’s mother’s bangles to pawn in exchange for movie money. Theirs had been a friendship based on robbery, running out of food stalls together to avoid paying for steaming plates of fish curry and rice, or stealing girls’ underwear off the washing lines to sniff them in their beds at night. Was this so different?
The boat guide on the loudspeaker tore through his reverie, alerting the passengers for the tenth time at least to the 9/11 Memorial, which was, at this point, approximately 1.5 miles away. Satya frowned, wondering if this man was so adamant because he saw a small group of brown people on board. Looking around, he saw Rebecca rolling her eyes and Mrs. Sengupta looking confus
ed. Only Ronnie seemed happy about the constant repetition of the information, smiling and nodding as if this man was doing a magnificent job, giving constant updates as to their proximity to the site of the tragedy.
“Never, never, never, never, never forget. If you haven’t been, as soon as you leave this boat today, I want you to make your way down there. It’s just a short five-block-and-two-avenue walk to the train, right there at Times Square, yes, with the lights, and then you just take the E train right on down. Discounts are available at our Circle Line ticket booths but really, for something like this, can’t you splurge? September eleventh. If you remember nothing else in your life, remember that day.”
Mrs. Sengupta was looking increasingly puzzled. Was the widow so out of touch? Even in Bangladesh he had heard about the event, though admittedly, some members of his class had cheered when they saw the news, thinking it was a publicity stunt for a movie. That had seemed very funny at the time, he remembered.
Satya leaned forward, ready to impart his limited knowledge about the subject, which included planes, Arab terrorism, firefighters, and a movie with his personal American hero, Nicolas Cage.
“Madam, September eleventh was—”
“I know what he is talking about, Mr. Roy, I simply don’t know what it has to do with the United Nations. We are passing it on our left, aren’t we? I have seen pictures of it, but I don’t know if they are the same building.”
Satya looked over. It did indeed seem to be that building, although he couldn’t be sure; just like the photos Mrs. Sengupta had mentioned, the photos from his guidebook had shown only the front, not the rear. Ronnie was watching him, however, and he remembered that the first rule of guiding was that you always know the answer, even when you don’t. He nodded, smiling brightly.