America for Beginners

by Leah Franqui

  Sensing Rebecca’s combustibility, Satya wisely declined to answer her question. Rebecca nodded, and smiled again, even more dazzlingly, and then let the expression drop, her face a neutral mask. She started walking, her head down, her body taut, her face smooth with resignation. Like a prisoner walking to the gallows, Pival thought, as if the worst is over, and now it is just death.

  Upon reaching the hotel, Pival decided she ought to send a brief message to Mr. Munshi, as he had implored her many times to “keep in touch.” She wrote out an email in the formal language she had been taught at St. Claire’s School for Girls, including the obligatory questions about Mr. Munshi’s own life, despite having no interest in the answers. She wrote very few letters, so it seemed safest to keep it to the format she knew. She hadn’t written letters to anyone except Rahi for years.

  She wondered if Rebecca’s mother wrote her letters. And if Rebecca read them. She wondered what she should wear to dinner with Americans.

  At seven that evening Pival stood in front of the neat and well-maintained house watching Rebecca fumble with her keys. She had decided to dress herself in something simple, a white embroidered kurta with soft comfortable trousers in a white printed silk. She supposed a sari would have been appropriate, but she couldn’t face winding herself up in all those layers. For years she had worn a sari daily without complaint, but here it had begun to feel suffocating. There was no one around to judge her anyway, except for Satya, and somehow she knew he wouldn’t care.

  “Is this where you always lived?” This came from Satya. She saw that he had dressed himself up, in his way. His plaid shirt and khaki pants had been carefully pressed. His hair had been slicked back with scented pomade and he had taken advantage of the hotel’s complimentary cologne by liberally dousing himself with it before leaving his room. If Satya got lost at some point this evening they could follow his scent trail to find him.

  Rebecca nodded in response to Satya’s question. She found the key and inserted it into the lock, but it was stiff, and she could barely turn it. Before she could fight with the door it swung open, and a pleasant-looking man in a sweater and slacks beamed with delight and opened his arms to hug Rebecca tightly.

  “Hello, Papa,” Pival heard Rebecca murmur as she was closely hugged, but whatever else the girl might have said was lost in her father’s chest. The hug lasted a long time. It made Pival uncomfortable to see this display of affection between parent and child.

  She couldn’t remember Ram hugging Rahi at any point past the boy’s fifth birthday. Perhaps it would have been different with a girl, although Pival couldn’t imagine Ram hugging anyone, really, including her. He had told her once it was unseemly, the way her family hugged her so much, the way they touched each other. She had taken care to be more circumspect when Ram was with her when she visited her parents, and soon after that, once her parents and Arjun had passed, there was no one left to hug but Rahi, and she never hugged him in front of Ram. Ram would have accused her of babying Rahi, of making him effeminate. Not that it made any difference, in the end.

  Now, as she watched Rebecca’s father hold her close in front of two perfect strangers, she couldn’t help looking around to see who might be watching them from among the neighbors. Finally the man let Rebecca go, but he kept his hands on her shoulders, looking at her like she was something precious. Pival gave a polite smile as the man introduced himself as Morris Elliot and asked their names.

  “Please, come in! It’s such an unexpected pleasure to meet you.”

  The three of them were ushered into the house. Pival was struck by the change in Rebecca in the presence of her parents, the way her poise was gone, replaced by a childlike defensiveness. On the other hand, she seemed to fit perfectly into this elegant house well decorated with tasteful furniture and art on the walls. Everywhere else Rebecca had seemed like a cat, ready to spring away at any moment. Here she seemed a part of the scenery, and that did not seem to make her happy in the least.

  Pival understood that, she thought. She had fit into her life in Kolkata, because she had made herself fit, but it was the last place she would want to be now, and she thanked the gods again that she would never have to return. It was not always a good thing, she realized, to fit in somewhere.

  Ram had always scoffed at those Indians who had emigrated and on visits back talked about how wonderful it was in Australia or England or America. They had traded home for something else and they had lost their roots. But now she understood them, and hated herself for it. She had expected herself not to fit into this place, and she didn’t. But neither, it seemed, did anyone else. This was a world in which you could not-fit-in and still survive. No wonder Rahi liked it.

  As they sat down to dinner she thought of the many meals she had eaten in other people’s houses, and how she had been brought up by her parents and further trained by Ram. Now she was eating in the childhood home of an American girl she had hired for reasons of modesty and curiosity, and watching her Bangladeshi tour guide try to navigate pasta, a dish she herself was extremely unsure of. She never could have imagined this experience even last month.

  Pival watched as Rebecca dug into the pasta with vigor, filling her mouth and avoiding answering any of her parents’ many questions about her life. They were asking the sort of things any parent would ask, though as the wine in their glasses disappeared the questions did become more pointed, more suggestions than questions.

  “Of course, we are very happy that you’re so, so creative,” Cynthia said, leaning back in her chair, “but don’t you ever want stability?”

  Rebecca put down her fork deliberately and met her mother’s eyes.

  “Mom. Don’t you want to talk to Mrs. Sengupta about her travels?” Rebecca’s tone, while perfectly pleasant, held a warning. Cynthia narrowed her eyes and then, much to Pival’s surprise, seemed to shift all at once, from parent to stranger, turning to Pival brightly.

  “This is such an interesting trip, Mrs. Sengupta. Have you traveled much before?” Pival blinked. It was like watching a play and being in it at the same time. Was this the way she and Ram had been to Rahi?

  “I have never been outside of Kolkata before now only.” She responded carefully and attempted another bite of the strange gummy food. Pasta was unusual. It stuck to her mouth in a strange way, and the cheese liberally sprinkling the dish prickled her tongue. Satya did not seem to be having more luck than she was. She reached for the salad. Salads here had many leaves in them, which was new to her, but the essential contents, the onions and cucumbers and carrots, were familiar, and at least she knew how to eat it. The pasta kept slipping from her fork. The atmosphere felt as gummy as the food. She looked at Rebecca, who was drinking her wine with single-minded determination.

  “That’s so interesting, that you would take this trip. Have you always wanted to see America?” Cynthia was continuing with her inquiries. Was this being a good hostess here? Ram had always told her not to ask anyone questions about anything.

  “No. I wanted to come because my son lived here.”

  “Oh, are you visiting him? That’s nice!”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore.” Rebecca and Satya both glanced at Pival quickly and then looked away.

  Morris poured some wine into Pival’s empty glass. She hadn’t minded the wine Rebecca had given her in New York, but she had thought it would set a bad example, her drinking it. This had not seemed to matter to Rebecca, so she was prepared to try again. She still felt a twinge when she sipped, as if she was doing something bad, but according to whom? So she drank her wine in silence, grateful for it, as the children ate and Cynthia and Morris, parents themselves, sat with her in the quiet.

  “What do you think of the country so far? I know that’s a ridiculous question, but I have to ask.”

  Pival considered her words carefully.

  “It’s so much bigger than I thought it would be.”

  Morris smiled at her and nodded. “It does feel enormous, doesn’t it?”
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br />   “Or maybe it is only that my home felt very small.”

  Cynthia looked confused but recovered quickly. “Well. At least you’re doing some traveling. I hope Becky’s been a good companion. Although I think it’s hilarious that she’s traveling with you; she never leaves New York.”

  “You never have to leave New York. It has everything.”

  “I hope she hasn’t been a diva,” Cynthia continued, as if Rebecca hadn’t spoken. She was addressing Satya this time. “Making everything a scene. She doesn’t get to act much so I think she makes drama where she can, if you know what I mean, which may be fine but not when you’ve got a plane to catch!”

  Rebecca flushed deeply at her mother’s comment and bit her lip, refusing to participate. Pival’s heart swung toward the girl. She understood Rebecca’s parents, yes, but she saw the heated look in her eyes and thought of her own rebellions, of the argument that had occurred when she had declared she wanted to marry Ram. She did not know what Rebecca’s jobs were like in New York. She had not considered Rebecca’s life beyond what she was doing now. She had inhabited more of Ram’s worst qualities than she had thought, and she had taken on none of his better parts.

  “I don’t know why you don’t have your own show by now, Becky.” This came from her father, who was smiling broadly, though he was sweating, Pival observed, perhaps from the tension. “You should!”

  “Sure. I’ll let someone know.” Satya looked up and caught Rebecca’s eye as she murmured this over her wine. He smiled at her reassuringly. Rebecca looked away.

  “It is just such a nice change for Becky, though, isn’t it, Morris? Traveling? Getting out, seeing the world. I’ve always wanted her to do more of that, haven’t I always said that? Of course, she can’t afford it. You know, it’s amazing, you raise your kids hoping they’ll have a better life than yours. You certainly don’t think they’re going to have a worse one. But I think it’s all this Internet stuff, the smartphones—god knows I love mine, but it makes people forget about the future, you know? This is all fine for Becky now but I’m just waiting for her to get a real job, you know? Tour guide, well, it isn’t what I would have expected but maybe it’s something. Maybe like historic tours? Then she could be in costume. What do you think?”

  Cynthia was, Pival realized, a bit drunk. Rebecca herself had refilled her own glass many times, her face red and her throat working with condensed humiliation.

  “She’s always been such a bright girl, I don’t know why she doesn’t use that.”

  “She’s right here, Mom. I’m in the room.”

  “Is it so bad to want more for your child? To want them to be successful? In something, you know, substantial?”

  “I can’t have this conversation with you right now. I don’t know why you brought this up.”

  “Because nothing in your life ever changes!”

  “Well, now it has! You see? See all the changes I’m making? I’m traveling the country as a companion. That’s a change. And when I get back to New York, I’ll find something terrible to do so I can be just as happy as you are, right now. Won’t that be great? Maybe I’ll have kids, too, so I can teach them to be miserable because nothing they want is worth anything. Won’t that make you happy, Mom? When I become just like you?”

  Cynthia looked stricken as she gazed at Rebecca over her empty wineglass. Rebecca looked at her, her own eyes shining with furious tears. Pival felt faint. Rebecca was wearing the same expression she’d seen on Rahi’s face so often. Ram had always said his actions were for the boy’s own good, but Pival had seen, as she saw now, this sense of deep injury and pain. It was easier to see from the outside. Cynthia, whose fear had driven her to hurt her child, and Rebecca, whose pain at her mother’s judgment had driven her to insult her mother. She wished she could reach into this moment and stop it, soothe them both, but she couldn’t. This was not her family. If she had not been able to help her own son, how could she hope to help these strangers? She sat in the freezing-cold moment with the rest of them, watching tears die in Rebecca’s eyes.

  “None of this is about my happiness, Rebecca. I hope you understand that.” Rebecca looked away, barely there anymore. Cynthia’s mouth tightened and it seemed that they were about to continue pushing through each other when Morris cleared his throat.

  “Your mother has missed you, Rebecca. That’s all she means.”

  Cynthia looked at Morris in protest, but something in his face must have stopped her, for she merely nodded, agreeing.

  “She shows it badly,” Rebecca said shortly, her voice choked.

  “Yes. She does.”

  There was such tenderness in Morris’s eyes as he agreed.

  Both women leaned back subtly, taking a breath, like cricketers on a rest after batting. The moment changed from chill to warmth as both women succumbed to the comfort of his moderating presence. Rebecca poured herself a glass of wine, and then one for her mother. Cynthia breathed deeply and thanked her. Time returned to its normal speed.

  This was this family, Pival realized. They were not happy, they were still in pain, but they were going on with dinner. She felt like an interloper, watching something she shouldn’t see.

  Next to her, Satya ate with gusto, having gotten the hang of pasta eventually and deciding to make up for lost time. He kept looking up at Rebecca and her parents, curious but unconcerned. Perhaps the English was moving too quickly for him. Or perhaps he didn’t care much beyond the meal.

  Pival wondered about his family. Whose son was he? What had his dinner table been like, who had argued with him there? She had not thought enough about her companions and now it was as if something had broken, some seal on their lives, and she was desperately curious. She drank her own wine, wondering if Rahi had liked wine here, if he had liked pasta, if he had missed fighting with Ram, if his lover had asked him about home and what he had said.

  Morris leaned forward, subtly breaking through the family sphere.

  “So, Satya, you’re from Bangladesh? But you’re Bengali, Mrs. Sengupta. So what’s the difference? I mean, I know there is a difference, but I just am not sure what it is, culturally that is, beyond the border. You’re both Bengali, right?”

  Pival looked around this lovely dining room and the expectant white faces waiting for her reply. She saw that Satya had looked down, his mouth tight, his body tense, as if waiting for a blow. The blow that would come from her, when she explained that his country was the trash her country had left behind.

  Ram would have told these people in no uncertain terms that Bangladeshis were not Bengalis at all, that they had no place in the proud and sophisticated world of Bengali culture, that the country of Bangladesh was a provincial, unstable backwater, a cesspool of poverty and ignorance, and no amount of common language could tie them to West Bengal. It was waiting there on the tip of her tongue. She had heard Ram’s views so many times that she could recite them by rote. She opened her mouth and replied.

  “We’re both Bengali.” She wondered, looking at Satya’s beaming face, how his tilted teeth had become handsome to her in such a short amount of time. For there was no denying, she’d rarely seen a better sight than his smiling at her now. This time it was Rebecca looking in on an intimacy she wasn’t a part of, and Pival found she didn’t mind one bit.

  Later, as their cab pulled up at the hotel, Rebecca roused herself from her solitary unhappiness, which had filled up the vehicle like smoke, and quietly thanked Pival and Satya for coming to her parents’ house for dinner. She seemed sad and small now. Pival wondered what it would have been like if things had been different with Rahi, if he had lived and come home to Kolkata and had a life that was encircled by the lives of his parents. Would he seem diminished, as Rebecca did now? Would he look so defeated by a meal with the people who loved him most? Was Rebecca spoiled and ungrateful, or a woman trapped in the expectations of her family? Pival supposed that she could be both.

  “I’m really sorry about that in there. All the heated talk. I hop
e you weren’t uncomfortable. I love my parents,” Rebecca said, surprising Pival, who, like Satya, looked away at this outpouring of private emotion. “And they love me. And I’m so lucky, I know, to have them. But what they want for me has nothing to do with what I want.”

  With that, Rebecca paid the cab and slid out, leaving Pival and Satya there, wondering what to do with their experience of someone else’s family. Satya turned to Pival. She wondered what he would say. Perhaps some apology from himself and the tour company, or some Mr. Munshi–coined phrase about Americans. As it turned out, he had neither to offer her. He said nothing, and it was she who spoke first.

  “Where are your parents?” she asked.

  “They are gone. Everyone is gone.” Pival nodded. She understood.

  Satya gestured for Pival to come and he opened the door of the cab. She slid her body inelegantly along the vinyl seat until she could descend. Satya waited until she was on solid ground again, and then, with great solemnity, he touched her feet. He had not done so since that first day in Manhattan. She wanted to cry, but instead she nodded, and together they walked into the hotel.

  Tomorrow they would be in a different city, and perhaps all of this, the untidy swirl of emotion, the amount that she was feeling for these two people who had nothing to do with why she was in America or what she planned to do with the rest of her short life, would be left behind. But for the first time since Ram had told her that Rahi was dead, she wanted to feel more, not less. She should, she thought, feel as much as she could before she could feel nothing at all. Shouldn’t she?

  25

  To: boss@americabestnumberonetours.com

  From: satyaroy57@yahoo.com

  Boss,