by Leah Franqui
Before he knew what had happened, the walk was over, and Satya realized that he and his charges had followed the other tour through its entirety. Rebecca stepped forward and offered the man a small folded piece of paper, which Satya realized was money. As they walked away he scowled at her.
“Why did you do that?” He was angry at himself, furious, in fact. He had been so lost in his thoughts, in his admiration of the city and in his revelation of the expansion of his own mind, that he had forgotten to do his job. He decided it was Rebecca who had dragged them into this. But she was already pointing at a sign that said free new orleans walking tours, pay what you wish.
“You can give something, if you want. Why not? It was interesting.”
Mrs. Sengupta seemed struck by the sign. “Pay what you wish? What is this?”
“It is a foolish American custom.” Satya cut Rebecca off before she could say anything. “Imagine, madam, all paying what they wish, who would wish to pay at all? It is a way to get nothing for something.” But in fact, people were lining up to pay the guide. He smiled and nodded to them as they deposited small and large handfuls of paper money into his hand, and they thanked him for his guiding, looking straight into his eyes and smiling. Those who did not pay were also the recipients of smiles and nods, with none of the shaming Satya would have expected from the group or from the guide.
“I think it’s nice. This guy loves his city,” Rebecca said.
“Actually, it’s not my city,” said the guide, who’d overheard them. “I just love it here. I’m from Los Angeles originally, but I couldn’t stay. I needed a place with some history, you know?” Satya found himself nodding along, his indignation receding. He could understand completely. He had come from a place with a history that felt worthless.
As they walked back to the hotel, he realized something the guide had said had affected Mrs. Sengupta, but what, he could not tell. She stood apart from them, quiet and still as they moved through the city. Satya felt that he knew the streets now, and that gave him some comfort, where he had been lost before. But Mrs. Sengupta seemed the opposite of comforted. She moved as if walking pained her and clutched her scarf around her despite the heat. Rebecca caught his eye and shrugged. He looked away. She shifted closer to him as they walked.
“It’s a nice city, right? New Orleans. I’ve only been here once before, I don’t remember liking it so much. New York is great and I love it more than anything, but it’s nice to be somewhere that feels like it’s the product of people, not companies. You know what I mean?”
Satya didn’t know what she meant, really, but he wanted to. He felt that by liking it here as they walked through the warm, gooey air of Louisiana smelling the salt and water in the wind, he was starting to.
“What do you think of New Orleans?” This was Rebecca again, addressing their withdrawn widow. The woman flinched as Rebecca spoke, and Rebecca drew back carefully. She looked at Satya again. When Mrs. Sengupta had been so tired in Philadelphia they had managed to work together to help her, to keep her comfortable and healthy. But now she did not seem unwell, just distant.
“It is a very nice place. Very colorful. It seems old, like being in a museum, but one that is alive.”
“That’s beautiful,” Rebecca said.
Pival looked at her strangely. “If you will excuse me, I am feeling tired only. I will not eat tonight. I simply want rest.”
“Are you sure—”
“I know my own self,” the widow snapped sharply at Rebecca. “I do not need you to give me certainty. You are here to accompany me, not to tell me how to feel.”
Rebecca nodded quickly, clutching her arms around herself like she was giving herself a hug. Satya watched them both, worried. He never would have challenged Mrs. Sengupta the way Rebecca did, and he understood her anger at Rebecca’s presumption, but he also understood now that the girl was just concerned. He saw tears gleaming at the edges of her eyes as she walked slowly behind Mrs. Sengupta. It surprised him that this reproach from a stranger bothered her to the point of pain. What a strange person, to be so affected by the actions of those she didn’t know.
Together they silently seemed to agree on a pace behind Mrs. Sengupta, and though Satya and Rebecca walked together they looked in opposite directions as they returned to the hotel. Mrs. Sengupta had made her clothing into a kind of cocoon, wrapping her voluminous shawl around her body and keeping herself protected from the world. They stepped into the elevator together, and Satya pressed the button for their floor without a word. They all looked up together to watch the numbers light up as they ascended, exited as quietly as they had entered, walked to their rooms carefully, and stood in front of their doors all together, like a scene from a movie. Mrs. Sengupta lingered outside of her room and Satya and Rebecca waited politely for her to let herself in before they opened their own doors. Satya looked at her and hesitated. He knew he was not supposed to interfere but something about the day, the city, it made him bold.
“The restaurant for tonight—”
“I am not hungry.”
“It will deliver.” Satya looked at Mrs. Sengupta, who stared at him. He was not surprised at her arrested expression. This was the boldest he had ever been with someone like her, someone so beyond him in class. But since he had thrown his authority as a guide away on the walking tour of New Orleans, he might as well throw away his subservience, as well. He wasn’t in Bangladesh anymore, and neither was she. Their trip would only last a handful of days more. Perhaps taking care of the widow, who was frail and growing frailer as they traveled, would be better than bowing to her every whim.
“I, I suppose—” She was hesitating. He took out his phone to call.
“I’ll buy some wine.” This came from Rebecca, of course. They both turned to Mrs. Sengupta, who was still dithering, drawn back into herself, standing on the edge of agreeing.
“That would be nice. Thank you,” she said, and opened up her door, sliding in, her silk garments moving around her like snakes. Rebecca nodded to Satya and set off down the hall again, leaving him to get the food while she hunted for beverages. He wanted a soda from her, a Coke, if possible, but he would let her purchase what she wanted. After all, he would not be consulting her on the food.
Within an hour they met at Mrs. Sengupta’s door. Rebecca, a plastic bag reading wines and spirits from the big easy in her hands, knocked on the door, while Satya juggled his bag of food. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then Mrs. Sengupta, her clothing rumpled and her hair loosening from its nighttime braid, answered the door.
“I apologize for myself, I was asleep only.”
“It’s been a long day,” Rebecca agreed, gently nudging past her and into the room. Satya wondered if the widow had changed her mind, and then, as he saw Rebecca preparing the room’s small table for dining, dragging it close to the bed, realized that Rebecca suspected this, too, and was not about to let her do so. Rebecca made things happen for herself. Why had he disliked this quality about her that he most needed in himself?
He watched Rebecca’s body contort itself to spread out the food, which she had taken from him after setting up the drinks, including a Coke. Some part of him felt cared for in the same way he had when his grandmother made his favorite meal. He popped the can open and sipped, enjoying Rebecca’s movements and the soda in equal measure.
“Dinner is served!” Rebecca sat back, announcing it proudly. Mrs. Sengupta was still hovering over her, anxiously clutching her hands together.
“I got many things,” Satya mentioned, “but all of this was included, I promise.”
Mrs. Sengupta’s mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. She finally lowered herself, carefully, onto the bed, and gestured to one of the many containers of thick brown substances. “This is dal?” Rebecca shrugged while Satya nodded. Mrs. Sengupta asked Rebecca to serve her the lentil dish with rice, and Rebecca carefully loaded a paper plate with both and handed it to Mrs. Sengupta. The widow looked around for something, and Satya handed h
er the foil-wrapped packet of roti wordlessly. She smiled at him again, a real smile of gratitude this time. Satya turned to his own meal but then realized he had not thanked Rebecca for the Coke. He held up his soda with a faint smile.
“I’ve noticed you like them. You get one at every meal.” He was startled. He had not realized she had noticed. It had been a treat at home, and here where it was everywhere, he was indulging. “Wine?” Both Satya and Mrs. Sengupta shook their heads no, but Rebecca sighed heavily and poured them both a measure. “We’re in New Orleans. If you don’t get drunk here, you’re not doing it right.”
“The man did not mention such things on the walking tour,” Mrs. Sengupta replied stiffly.
“He didn’t have to!” Rebecca drank her wine. “This place has more bars per capita than, I don’t know, it’s some absurd amount.”
“Have you been here before?” Mrs. Sengupta asked, curious, hoping to hear about wild adventures.
Rebecca nodded. “With an ex. Nice to be back.” Mrs. Sengupta waited for her to go on, but instead of digging into some of the salacious details Pival half dreaded, half longed for, Rebecca just continued eating.
“It was a nice tour,” said Mrs. Sengupta, dipping her roti delicately in the dal and trying it. She made a face.
“Don’t you like the food?” Rebecca asked, curious. Mrs. Sengupta ate less with each meal, she’d realized. She hadn’t thought about it, but now she wondered if perhaps this wasn’t what the widow was used to eating.
“Always Punjabi, these chefs are. Too much of everything and so heavy with the ghee.” Satya nodded along. Much of the food was different for him, too, and most of it was heavy, nothing like the fish curries and rice he’d eaten so often at home. Still, he liked it.
“What is the difference?” Rebecca asked, her mouth full of a samosa.
“Class,” replied Mrs. Sengupta dryly. “No, this is unfair. I say it because it is what my husband always said only.” Rebecca swallowed her samosa and poured everyone more wine, although she had been the only one to try hers.
“You must miss him.”
“No.” Mrs. Sengupta said it with the gentleness of a falling feather and the finality of a bag of lead. “I should, I know. I hope he will forgive me. He was a good man. He was the kind of father he knew how to be, the kind of husband he was supposed to be, but I don’t miss him. My son was here.”
Satya looked at the widow as she talked. He had never had a father. He had never had anyone but his grandmother, really. What would it have been like to have all that, and then lose it? “Here in New Orleans?” Satya asked.
“Perhaps. I don’t know. Here, I meant America. He came here. I do know he went to California.” Rebecca’s brow furrowed. She seemed to be tucking some piece of information away in her head. Satya wanted to ask more about Mrs. Sengupta’s son, like why she was traveling with a guide and not him, but he didn’t.
“This is a nice place. I like the way the city feels. It is so open, people are so friendly. It is strange. Everyone is so many different colors, it is nice. It is so old, and it feels like it is haunted, but the ghosts seem friendly,” Mrs. Sengupta continued. “Although I don’t approve of these things, this kind of drinking, drinking, drinking. It is not good.”
“I suppose that depends what you are drinking, doesn’t it?” The widow looked at Rebecca, frowning, not understanding the joke.
Rebecca merely smiled and drained her wine, pouring herself more.
“This isn’t bad, really. I’ve had worse. And sometimes, it helps.”
“But for how long?” Mrs. Sengupta said the words so quietly, Satya would have thought that they were in his head, only they weren’t, he knew, because Rebecca looked up at them as well. She shrugged and sipped.
“I didn’t know the food was so different, place to place. I sort of thought it was all the same. So you don’t eat this stuff at home?”
“It’s not that we don’t eat it, it’s that, well, the way it tastes is different from region to region. At home, we ate in the Bengali style, different vegetables, bitter gourds and banana flowers, and mustard in everything. That’s what my husband and I liked. In general in Kolkata we eat a lot of fish. Although I don’t, anymore. Widows are supposed to be vegetarians.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. We just are.” Satya didn’t know either. It was a relief that Mrs. Sengupta was equally clueless.
“So you just go along with this, even though you don’t know why? That’s . . . wow. I couldn’t do that.”
“If you lived somewhere where it was hard to do otherwise, you might,” Mrs. Sengupta said. Rebecca looked at her, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. She drank her wine.
They spent the rest of the meal in silence, eating quickly. Rebecca looked up from time to time, and Satya wondered if the silence of the meal bothered her. He had observed that her family talked throughout their meal, a practice that confused him. How could you possibly eat that way?
Mrs. Sengupta delicately wiped her mouth, signaling that she was done. Satya himself was on his third plate of food and could have eaten more, but the widow’s frequent yawns indicated that she needed sleep, and because the food had been a part of her tour package he didn’t feel it would be right to request to take it with him. Well, maybe just a plateful, she wouldn’t mind, would she? Surely she wouldn’t eat it all. He was, he realized, acting like he would have to split his food with Ravi. The habit hadn’t left him, despite the absence of his friend.
Rebecca busied herself cleaning and setting the room to rights, and before he had a chance to broach the subject of leftovers all the food was neatly packed away and they were bidding Mrs. Sengupta a good night. Rebecca practically dragged Satya out of the room, while holding the wine bottle, mostly finished, in the other hand. Once out, she put the bottle to her lips and drank up the remaining liquid. It should have looked disgusting, but some part of it was arousing to Satya, her lips curled around the wine bottle opening, her hair flung back. She put the bottle down and looked at him, a glint in her eye that was dangerous.
“You want to get out of here? It’s a good drinking town, I told you.” She didn’t wait for an answer, she just turned and started walking out of the hotel, the wine bottle in her hand swaying in time with her rear. Satya watched her walk. He wasn’t supposed to do this, he knew. Ronnie would kill him. Whatever it was Rebecca wanted tonight, it wouldn’t be good for the tour, and wasn’t that the most important thing right now? The only thing he was certain of was that he absolutely shouldn’t go.
He followed her out the door and into the city.
New Orleans was a different world at night. The sun-drenched lazy pond he had seen that day had transformed into a brightly lit sea of open doors, of bars and drunken people rejoicing in the streets. Around them signs proclaimed the discounts of their respective establishments. Five shots for ten dollars, proudly boasted one, while another promised the world’s best margarita for $5.99 plus tax. There was so much alcohol, more than he’d ever seen in his life. In Bangladesh drinking was covert, careful, ill-advised for most, and when people like Satya did drink, spending the night soaked in cheap country liquor, it was discreetly. Here, people were stumbling, walking fast, spilling out of bars and sending lush vapors down the streets around them. He’d never seen anything like it. He had thought New York was a wild place, but this, it overwhelmed his senses. He felt drunk on the smell alone. It repulsed him, but he wanted to be a part of it, somehow. Rebecca looked around, grinning.
“I told you it was a fun town. You pick the place.” There was something reckless about her now, something dangerous, which had been simmering since that dinner with her family and was now on the verge of erupting. He wondered what would happen when it did. He pointed to a bar nearby that didn’t look overly crowded and had music spilling out of it like water. He knew being around too many people would make him self-conscious, drinking with a woman in public. Rebecca looked impressed.
“A div
e! Excellent choice, totally in keeping with the expert tour guide you are. Come on.” They entered the bar together. Satya was struck by the fact that no one here seemed surprised to see a white woman with a Bangladeshi man. Not many people had raised their eyebrows at them wherever they had gone in New Orleans, unlike on the road and in the airport.
“Congratulations, Satya, in a world of crap I think you’ve actually found the one decent local bar. Let’s get hammered.” Rebecca leaned over the bar, the skin on the small of her back showing as her blouse rose up with the movement, and motioned for the bartender to serve them. He walked over slowly, smiling. Satya saw it out of the corner of his eye; his gaze was glued magnetically to Rebecca’s back, to that creamy strip of flesh and the twisting body that revealed it. He wished deeply that he was not a virgin. At least if he had seen a woman naked before, a real one, even slightly naked, he would not be staring like an idiot. He tore his gaze up toward the bartender.
“What can I do you for?” the bartender asked.
“Whiskey, please. One on the rocks and, do you like ice?” This was to Satya. He shook his head no. Ice in every drink was still a strange concept for him and he could not get used to it. He avoided it when he could.
“And one neat. Thank you!” The bartender tipped an imaginary hat and Rebecca laughed, a little too loud, but it made people look at her. As they got their drinks, which Rebecca paid for, claiming she owed him one for coming to the play with her back in Philadelphia, a tall man with a scruffy beard walked up to the bar, sitting on the other side of Rebecca. He didn’t look at her once, but Satya watched as her body changed, growing aware of the man beside her. The stranger bought himself a drink but didn’t return to his seat. Rebecca drank her whiskey quickly. Satya tried his hesitantly. He hadn’t had much whiskey, and besides, you could only get a few brands in Bangladesh, and they had all tasted the same to him. This was different, smoky but sweet.