by Leah Franqui
Satya found himself a small nook in the corner of the massive and crowded gift shop, and, after a lifetime of being able to sleep anywhere, he soon was dozing off with his cheek against the side of a display case. Sometime later his dream of carving his own glass tools in a glass world as Kali watched him was interrupted by a shadow falling over him. He cracked open his eyes to see John the driver scowling down at him.
“Twenty minutes until we go.”
“I have to wait for them to shop—”
“Twenty minutes. We go, I go. I not care. Philadelphia before night. Okay?” And with that, the driver was gone, disappearing out of the store and off into the parking lot. As he rose from his bench, Satya’s limbs protested, cramped from their uncomfortable resting position, but he had no time for that as his chest constricted with panic. Where were they? They had promised not to get lost, they had said they would be back there in time for—
“There you are.” Satya turned around to find Mrs. Sengupta and Rebecca looking at him.
“We couldn’t find you in any of the galleries. You must have looked at them quickly,” Rebecca said. She seemed happy, shining as brightly as the glass around them. “This place is amazing, don’t you think? I loved it!”
“Very nice,” said Mrs. Sengupta in her quiet way. “Are there many places like this?”
Satya didn’t know the answer. Did Mrs. Sengupta mean glass museums?
“Do you mean glass museums?” Rebecca asked. Satya scowled.
“Places where things can be studied like this. Things like glass, or, or the sea.”
“Oh, yeah. Tons. My dad always said growing up he learned more in museums and libraries than anywhere else.”
Satya stared at Rebecca. He supposed it was true; in all the guidebooks he had read there were so many museums mentioned, but he had always skipped them, never thinking anyone would want to go to one when there was so much to see outside. “Have you looked around the shop, madam?” he asked. They were running out of time. If he didn’t get her to buy something there was no telling what Boss would do.
“We did our shopping, although I did warn Mrs. Sengupta about the insanity of taking glass objects on a cross-country tour.” Rebecca held up a small shopping bag.
Mrs. Sengupta frowned, her brow wrinkling with worry. “He said he would wrap them securely. He insisted—”
“Hey, if glass can survive the fall of Rome, it can clearly survive America. Satya, that cashier said if we had a guide he would like to speak to you.” Rebecca pointed toward the counter. “I’m just going to run to the restroom and then we’ll meet you in the car? Can’t wait to get in a van again, it’s been, what, two hours? Oh, how I missed it.” And Rebecca was gone. She was like a hurricane, leaving him stunned with her energy. It wasn’t only him that Rebecca overwhelmed, Satya realized, seeing his own dazed face reflected in Mrs. Sengupta’s slightly shell-shocked expression.
It was so easy for the American girl to be excited about things, strange things.
He wondered at Rebecca, suddenly bubbling with happiness. It confused him. How did it come so easily? He felt a bit disgusted by her. But hadn’t he left home to be happy, too? So why was he annoyed by her pleasure?
Picking up Mrs. Sengupta’s bag, he took his cut from the cashier, collected Rebecca at the restroom, and led the group to the car.
Sitting in the front seat, Satya opened the window and hung his head out like big dogs he had seen in other cars. As the air hit his face, he enjoyed its chill. It felt like something cutting his face, like glass. He closed his eyes and imagined it was the dark glass of the Stone Age, cutting away the things he loathed about himself. But when he opened his eyes, he was still there, all of him.
They had made good time reaching Philadelphia, pulling into the historic district of the city just as the first stars were blinking above Independence Hall. Rebecca was relieved; she hated being in a van.
The city around her was familiar. When she was growing up in DC, they had taken trips to Philadelphia and Richmond, Virginia, after all the local monuments were exhausted. Rebecca had always preferred going north rather than south. It was closer to New York. Washington’s theater scene had only just begun to grow during Rebecca’s childhood, and her parents had also taken her on trips to Philadelphia for plays and dance performances. Although it was nothing compared to Broadway, thirteen-year-old Rebecca had announced haughtily after a production of Hairspray. Though she had disdained the city as a child, she liked it now, with its cobblestone streets and quaint comfort and cheap drinks. And she’d have killed now to be in a regional production of Hairspray.
Ronnie had told her that his tours used to stop in Harrisburg, not Philadelphia, because it was the state capital and closer to Niagara Falls, but too many people had complained about the subpar Indian dining options, so now he routed through Philadelphia. Rebecca was grateful for the change. She had a friend, Stephanie, in a production at a local theater, and she planned to meet her that night for a drink. Now it seemed with their early arrival and Mrs. Sengupta’s clear exhaustion, she might be able to sneak away and make the show itself. She dreaded seeing friends in regional productions that paled in comparison to what they had dreamed of in New York, but she could pretend it had been wonderful for a few hours, and besides, it would be an opportunity to dictate her own time.
The trip was already trying, and it was only their second day on the road together. She shouldn’t have been annoyed, really. Her duties as companion were minimal. She had to report to Ronnie daily, which she had done so far, sending out emails she was sure he wouldn’t actually read. She described the activities and added anecdotes that made her and Satya look good, but there wasn’t much to tell, really. All she did was provide female supervision and clarify some American customs as needed.
Her charge, at least, was intelligent and adapted quickly. Once told something, Mrs. Sengupta would close her eyes and mumble it under her breath, and then, in moments of brief confusion, she would do the same thing again, searching back through her mental files, Rebecca supposed, to find the pertinent piece of information. It was like watching someone pray, the way she focused on remembering something. Sometimes Mrs. Sengupta asked things—what was this city like or that one, how many Indians were there, what was it like living there—and Rebecca answered as best she could, but whatever the widow was looking for, she hadn’t found it yet, because she always seemed disappointed in the answers. Maybe she hadn’t found the right question to ask yet, Rebecca thought.
In the glass museum she had watched Mrs. Sengupta in one of the contemporary glass rooms. Some pieces she had barely glanced at and some had mesmerized her. She had read none of the descriptions.
She had asked Mrs. Sengupta, at one of the moments when they had been in the same gallery, whether she was okay alone. Mrs. Sengupta had smiled at that.
“I love being alone. And I never am. At home, no one ever chooses to be alone, especially not women. It is so nice here, being alone. And so strange.”
Rebecca had been shocked. What did that mean, no one was ever alone? Being with people for even an hour could drive Rebecca insane sometimes. How could anyone live that way?
She would have liked to ask Mrs. Sengupta more about her thoughts during her time in the museum, but as soon as they got into the car, the widow had closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap, a sign that she was trying to sleep. She was content to be dictated to, which disturbed Rebecca, who could not imagine wanting to be told what to do except by a director onstage. She supposed this was the appeal of a tour; you didn’t have to think about anything at all.
Satya, too, was unlike anyone else she knew, and Rebecca could not understand him. She was used to sizing up men quickly, but Satya had eluded her usually astute intuition. He did not ogle her, which was good, but he also did not listen when she spoke, which was infuriating. She had found herself speculating on whether this was a cultural handicap—perhaps Satya hadn’t been raised to listen to women—but the th
ought made her feel patronizing and imperialist, so she brushed it aside in search of another explanation. Maybe she had offended him in some way? It shouldn’t have mattered anymore, but she was still angry about his fabrication on the Circle Line tour, and now she listened to him attentively, alert to more misinformation.
Rebecca barely noticed when they pulled into the hotel parking lot. This time it was a Comfort Inn on the Delaware River, and she helped Satya with the bags.
The hotel room was as soulless as the others. Rebecca was already tired of these budget hotels, although she nodded her head when Satya praised them. He showed the hotel suites off with the presentational skill of a talk-show host, Rebecca thought, as if he had anything to do with how they looked or their level of cleanliness.
Mrs. Sengupta barely seemed to notice Satya’s talking. She looked dead on her feet. Perhaps the jet lag had finally caught up with her. She stumbled a bit as she walked on the carpeted floor into her room, Rebecca and Satya dragging her bags behind them. She sat on the bed carefully, as if afraid she might fall down.
Satya and Rebecca exchanged a worried glance.
“Madam? Are you feeling tired only? Is some kind of sickness there?”
“When was the last time you had some water?” Rebecca asked. Mrs. Sengupta shrugged listlessly. Rebecca quickly filled a glass in the bathroom and set it in front of the widow, urging her to drink.
“It is from the bathroom?” Mrs. Sengupta asked doubtfully.
“Just drink, please,” Rebecca said firmly, ignoring Satya’s immediate offer to find bottled water. Compelled by Rebecca’s authoritative tone, Mrs. Sengupta drank all her water. Rebecca refilled the glass, and it was dutifully swallowed as Satya glared.
“Are you having hunger, madam?”
Mrs. Sengupta shook her head. Lunch had been pizza at a rest stop and Mrs. Sengupta had managed to eat four entire slices by herself. “I am still tasting lunch. I want to rest now, only.” Both of them said the word only more than was necessary, Rebecca observed. Perhaps it made more sense in Bengali. Mrs. Sengupta was making small shooing motions now with her hands.
“Go, go. I want to bathe and rest. I am perfectly safe and sound, I can assure you. Go. We are here two nights. Please, enjoy the city only. You are young, nah? Breakfast can be late tomorrow. We can start at eight.” Satya seemed about to protest when Mrs. Sengupta shot him a look. “It is my trip or isn’t it?” Apparently the water had done its task. She was herself again, the color restored to her face and her aristocratic tone firm.
Satya bowed his head and nodded as he backed out of the room. Rebecca followed him. Turning from the door as they closed it behind them, Rebecca looked at Satya. She wondered if some of her concerns were ringing in his mind.
“Do you think she’s okay?”
Satya shrugged. “She said she wanted resting. So here it is. She will rest.”
“She looked sick, didn’t she?”
To her surprise, Satya almost snorted at this.
“Sick is different.”
Rebecca instantly resented his superior tone.
“Maybe we should have some broth sent up to her.”
Satya shrugged. “Why? Bengali women are like this. Weak.”
“She doesn’t seem that weak to me—”
“Sick is sick. I have seen sick. She is fine.”
Rebecca looked at Satya, who was agitated by the conversation. She decided to end it. He knew Indians better than she did, didn’t he? Or Bengalis, or whatever. She knew that they were from different parts of the world, but to her, everything they did looked and felt so similar. She wondered if she was just blinded by the accent.
“Okay, well, I’m heading out. Bye, Satya.” She looked back and realized Satya was hesitating outside of his own suite. Though he should have been thrilled at the evening off, he seemed a bit lost.
“Listen, you can still have the Indian dinner, Satya—in fact, you can have three.”
The boy scowled.
“And what will she eat? You want to get me in trouble? Tell me to eat it all and then run to Ronnie, crying hunger? You want to fire me so you can guide?”
“I’m not going to call Ronnie. That’s not what I was saying at all. I don’t want your job. It’s going to go to waste if you don’t . . . you know what? I don’t care.” Rebecca started to walk back toward her room.
“Please. I did not mean that. I am sorry.” Rebecca turned back to see Satya standing in the badly lit hallway, looking miserable.
“It’s fine.”
“I could not have the meal in anyways. I don’t know where it is.”
Rebecca sighed. The longing in Satya’s voice concerned her. He ate ravenously at every meal, piling on plate after plate of rice and patting his nonexistent stomach after the waiters politely told him, as they had at each place, that he couldn’t have any more of the buffet, because he had exceeded what they had imagined “all you can eat” could possibly mean. More than that, though, he looked lonely. She checked her phone. It was seven. She should be able to call a cab, drop him at whatever Taj Mahal or Bombay Grill was tonight’s destination, and make it to the play in time to pick up the ticket her friend had put aside for her.
“I’ll take you. I’m going out anyway. Come on. Let’s go.” She waited for him to catch up with her and pressed the elevator button going down.
Fifteen minutes later they were in a cab, another car, Rebecca thought, another backseat, and another opportunity for Satya to be carsick. She thought about suggesting that he take the subway back to the hotel once he had gorged himself on curry after curry, but Philadelphia’s terrible public transportation system was one of her least favorite things about visiting. Besides, she didn’t know if she could trust him to make it back from the downtown restaurant without his guidebook in hand. Her musings made her grimace. Perhaps she was trying to be the guide. Satya was the professional. Shouldn’t she let him figure it out on his own?
“Where are you going? Not to the meal?” Satya’s question interrupted the ones she was asking of herself. She shook her head to clear it.
“Does your head itch? Is it lice? I know a cure.” They amazed her, these questions. Ronnie had asked her several in the same vein, things she would consider highly inappropriate. He had inquired about the timing of her menstrual cycle, as it might affect her moods on the trip, and when she had mentioned her birth control he had probed into how that worked with a fascinated expression and a troubling lack of knowledge of the female reproductive system. Yet when they had passed by a Victoria’s Secret in Manhattan both Satya and Ronnie had reddened, coughed, and apologized profusely to Mrs. Sengupta for the wicked, shameless nature of the West. She didn’t understand it.
“I don’t have lice, Satya. I’m going to a play.” Satya frowned. Rebecca had realized that Satya frowned when he was thinking, so she wasn’t offended.
“A friend of mine is in it, so, I didn’t think I would get to see it, but. Yeah. A play. I act, so. It’s nice to see stuff. When I can. In New York, usually, but. Yeah.” God, she was babbling. What did she care if he approved? Had he ever even seen a play?
“I have not ever seen play.” Rebecca started. Had she asked the question out loud or had Satya volunteered the information? She looked at his face, frowning again, and before she knew it she asked:
“Do you want to?”
He wouldn’t say yes. He couldn’t possibly give up an Indian buffet for a night at the theater, could he?
“Is there food there?”
They were early for the show, which was good, because it allowed Rebecca to purchase the extra ticket for Satya, rebuffing his attempt to pay. She was sure he would hate it. Or not understand it. Or be mad at her for bringing him to it. Or his lack of interest would anger her. Something bad would happen, she knew. After all, what else could occur when she brought her Bangladeshi tour guide to a production of Three Sisters? What could the lives of wealthy Russians in the late 1800s mean to Satya? The play had been translated int
o English, but Rebecca was certain that it might as well be in Russian for all he would understand.
She settled him in with an array of candies, cookies, and chips, the only food available at the theater, and then returned to the concession stand herself, thanking god fervently that this was a modern theater that had adopted the civilized practice of letting its patrons order wine. She conned them into selling her a whole bottle, promising she would keep it discreetly under her chair and only refill her glass in the blackouts between scenes. Rushing back to her seat before the show began, she saw that Satya was almost halfway through the snacks, and she checked her program to make sure there were enough intermissions to keep him fed.
“It’s a long play,” Rebecca told him worriedly.
He nodded, his mouth smeared lightly with chocolate. “That’s good, no? Like two shows for one.”
“It’s three hours long, at least. Sorry.”
Satya just shrugged. Long stories didn’t bother him. “Is there a break? To be using the facilities?”
“Yes, three, actually.”
“Huh. The actors must get tired, running around up there.” Here Satya gestured to the stage and whistled softly between his two front teeth. “In movies all the work has already been done, yes? But here they have to run run run. Phew.”
“Maybe they like it,” Rebecca said a little bitterly. She would have killed to be up there. She remembered her horrible Anya audition and shuddered.
She opened her playbill and looked at the tiny black-and-white photos of smiling and serious headshots. There was Stephanie; she’d chosen a serious shot for Chekhov, of course. Her eyes looked huge in her face and her slight frown recalled long Russian winters. Rebecca felt a stab of jealousy. It might have been a Philadelphia production but Stephanie was doing it, going onstage and being Irina.