The Sea Singer

by Shome Dasgupta

  ‘Really?’ March said.

  Mario nodded his head.

  ‘And what about humans?’

  ‘It’s a little different,’ Mario replied. ‘How so?’

  Mario explained. March listened, again, her face expressionless.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it fits perfectly, like the ocean and the sky. That will be forty-five.’

  The customer handed over some coins and rushed off.

  ‘Yes, I have seen it before,’ Mario said. ‘I helped my mother give birth three years ago, when I was eleven. There was liquid called placenta everywhere. It looked like the gel that Mr Jojere wears in his hair.’

  Mario pointed across the street, where Mr Jojere was standing. He was gelling his hair and slicking it back and then, as they watched, he moved on to his moustache. Some of the gel fell on the ground.

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ Mario said.

  When there were no customers, Mario drew diagrams on pieces of paper towels to help March understand.

  ‘So how long does the baby stay in the stomach?’

  ‘Roughly one to nine months. The mother’s stomach becomes as big as one of those hot-air balloons. The ones you see at the circus.’

  ‘Do you have any children?’ March asked.

  ‘No, I do not,’ Mario replied. ‘But I have dreamt about it.’

  March thanked Mario for his time, bought a few oranges and went back home. She told Sofi and Ons that she had learnt about creating babies from a friend.

  ‘And what do you think?’ Ons asked.

  Both Ons and Sofi looked at March, waiting for a response.

  ‘Funny,’ she said.

  ‘Who told you?’ Ons asked.

  ‘Mario,’ March said. ‘He calls reproduction “winter”.’

  ‘Mario, as in Mario the orange-seller?’ Sofi asked.

  March nodded.

  ‘He is a gentle young man and a very good orange- seller,’ Sofi said.

  ‘He is a kind boy,’ Ons said. ‘But why call it winter?’

  ‘Because,’ March explained, ‘he said in his dreams, he was born in snow.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Sofi said. ‘It never snows here.’

  ‘Maybe in his dreams, he is in another land, like Kolkaper.’

  Ons and Sofi were silent for a few seconds. They had never heard March mention Kolkaper before. They looked at each other and then Ons turned to March.

  ‘How do you know about Kolkaper?’ Ons asked.

  ‘We learnt about it at school,’ March said. ‘Ms Thibidia was talking about metals and she mentioned that Kolkaper is one of the leading cities for the study of metals and alchemy.’

  March bade them goodnight and went to her room. She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t sleep, but she thought about giraffes.

  12

  AS MARCH THOUGHT ABOUT GIRAFFES IN Koofay, Jonas was pouring water into a cup from a pitcher in his kitchen in Kolkaper. He walked into the room where Maria lay. She had been moved into the house from the hospital; it had now been twelve years since the knifing. The Faccinises had not been able to visit March in Koofay. Jonas could barely work because of his wife’s condition. When he did attend the Lab, Francesca would stay over to look after Maria.

  Eventually, Jonas forgot about his job and stopped going to the Lab, as his mind was too consumed by thoughts of Maria. For the first few years after March’s departure, he had kept up his contact with the Armers and his daughter through telephone and letters carried by ships. But gradually, his depression had led him to tune out the rest of the world. Only the Medallions kept in touch with the Armers. Only the Medallions kept in touch with the Faccinises. Francesca and Nirana became the unofficial parents of Jonas and Maria. The Medallions would talk about their future, like the two were their children.

  ‘When will March know about her true parents?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘That is uncertain,’ Nirana replied. ‘It has been so many years and March lives her own life now. Poor Jonas doesn’t even know where he is anymore. His room is his world and Maria is his life.’

  ‘Since that stabbing,’ Francesca said, ‘they have lived in an uneven universe.’

  ‘Fortune’s fools,’ Nirana replied.

  Francesca’s grey hair matched the greyness of her husband’s moustache, the only hair he had left. The wrinkles on Nirana’s forehead sagged, causing his eyebrows to droop. Francesca’s arthritis forced her to walk in a bent shape. When she walked up the stairs in her house, she would bend forward with a cane in one hand and look down on each step to maintain her balance. When she walked down the stairs, she would bend backward with a cane in hand and look at the ceiling to remain stable.

  ‘I now have a different view of the earth,’ Francesca would say to her friends.

  ‘I woke up one morning and saw an old man in the mirror,’ Nirana would say to his friends.

  Nirana had retired from his legal profession. He and his wife moved out of their mansion and bought a house next to the Faccinises. The Medallions were the only people Jonas found himself talking to, but his forgetfulness had caused problems there too. They visited him almost every day and each time they had to identify themselves to him afresh. He only knew one person – Maria – and she barely showed any signs of life. Her heart would beat once every thirty seconds. Every now and then, in the middle of the night, Maria would awaken from her sickness and tell Jonas to stop his snoring.

  ‘Your snore will cause a great earthquake,’ she would tell him and then fall back into her coma.

  Jonas, through stress and an unhealthy life, became old too soon. His bent back and stiff joints added to his age. His forgetfulness gave him no end of trouble, not least when he couldn’t find his glasses. His wife, however, did not age. The doctor gave her nutrition shots and they taught Jonas how to do this so that he could do it at home. It was the only task Jonas would not forget. All else were lost memories.

  13

  MARCH BECAME A LADY. SHE FINISHED her college years in Koofay. She studied biology and medicine. She wanted to become one of the best doctors in the area.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Ons said.

  ‘The life she does not know has led her to this field,’ Sofi said.

  March’s legs had tightly packed calves and her lungs were strong as they had been worked from the day she was born. The combination of her parents’ skin colour and the Koofay sun gave her a coffee-and-cream complexion. Her black hair, which matched the colour of her eyes, went down to her shoulders. Her eyes had yet to close – they were constantly looking around, studying and observing.

  When she was twenty-one, Ons and Sofi both passed away on the same day. They died in bed. Ons was snoring and Sofi slept quietly. A sudden loud gasp of breath capped by a loud snort marked Ons’s last breath. Sofi woke up in fright and the shock to her system caused her death. Neither of them knew that the other had died, though they were right next to each other.

  March found them in bed the next morning. She shook them to wake them up, then checked their pulses and realized that they were gone. She called the hospital and the funeral home right after. The service was held three days later at a nearby church. A small number of people attended. Though the Armers had many friends, most of them had already passed away. Their biological children, Fey and Fife, came from overseas to attend the service. The last time March had met them, she had been only a few years old.

  ‘They were beautiful people,’ March said.

  ‘They were extraordinary,’ Fey said. ‘I wish we had been home more often, but our lives kept us overseas.’

  None of them cried at the service.

  ‘My, you have grown into a beautiful young lady,’ Fife said. ‘The last time I saw you, the top of your head tickled my knees.’

  ‘I owe it to my parents,’ March said. ‘Through their guidance and love, I’ve become true.’

  Fey and Fife looked at each other for a second and then nodded. They wanted to tell her about her background and
her true parents. But they didn’t know whether it was right or wrong to give her such information, so they kept silent and watched the Armers being taken out from the crematorium to the graveyard. They were to be cremated, but neither their skin nor their bones would burn.

  ‘These bodies will not burn,’ the cremator said. ‘It must be something in their skin. They must be buried.’

  At the graveyard, the undertaker dug the earth for two hours until the land was ready for the Armers.

  ‘Their bones will enrich the soil,’ the undertaker said.

  He pointed to a little patch just next to the grave, where there were daffodils.

  ‘These have just sprouted,’ he said.

  On the last day of their stay, the siblings asked March about her relationship with their parents. They were in the kitchen of the Armers’ house, sipping tea and eating scones.

  ‘It was a close relationship,’ March said. ‘They taught me everything. They disciplined me when I needed to be and they loved me as well.’

  She looked at her teacup and ran her fingers along its rim.

  ‘I wish I could have done more for them,’ she said. ‘I had dreams of buying them a nice house near the Koofay harbour, where they could see the ocean talking to the banks of this land.’

  ‘They would have loved that,’ Fey said. ‘Especially Father.’

  ‘What do you plan on doing in the future?’ Fife asked.

  ‘I will have to see when the future comes,’ March said.

  She knew she wanted to be in love and she knew she would want to have a child.

  ‘Right now, I will be a doctor-in-training,’ March said.

  Fey made some more tea. Fife took some more scones out of the oven.

  ‘I’ve never been to the circus,’ March said. ‘I would also like to see the circus someday.’

  ‘I think they will come again during the spring,’ Fey said.

  They spent the rest of the night talking about their childhood and their work. Fife explained to March what her job in Switzerland as a ballroom-dancing teacher was like.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Fife said. ‘All I have to do is dance around the room until I become dizzy.’

  Fey lived in Hawaii.

  ‘You should see the volcanoes erupting,’ he said. ‘It is just like the circus. The birth of lava is a spectacle. It’s sparkling rain, furious and hot.’

  ‘I must see this someday,’ March replied. ‘I have yet to leave Koofay. But now that school is finished, I will travel and see the world.’

  Fey and Fife went to bed early that night because they had to be at the harbour early in the morning. March sat in her room and thought about the world and what she wanted to do with her life.

  While the siblings slept, March left the house and visited Mario at the café. He still sold oranges in the market, but at night, he also sold pastries and coffee at the Espresso Expresso café. The place wasn’t busy because there was a musical event at the Auditorium that night. Three tenors from Africa were on tour and the town had gone to the Auditorium to hear them sing. Mario was standing behind the counter, staring through the window, watching people walk by. He saw March walk in and tried to look busy. He pulled out a rag from his pocket and wiped the counters. He had cleaned them about a half-hour ago, but he didn’t want to look lazy on the job, especially in front of March.

  ‘If you clean the counter any more,’ March said. ‘It will begin to float.’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ Mario asked.

  ‘I came to bother you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mario said.

  ‘Do you plan on living here your whole life?’ March asked.

  ‘My condolences,’ he replied. ‘I heard about your parents and I never got a chance to see you after they passed away.’

  ‘Thank you. But do you think you are going to leave Koofay?’

  ‘Would you like anything to drink?’ he asked.

  He revved up the espresso machine.

  ‘It’s not like it will keep me up all night,’ March said.

  They stared at the machine as it rattled for twenty seconds. Mario poured her a drink and then one for himself.

  ‘So what were you asking?’ Mario said.

  March repeated the question. Mario looked out the window and told her he had never thought about it before.

  ‘All I know is oranges and coffee and that is all I need to know. I am happy with my life,’ Mario said.

  ‘If I leave, would you want to move with me?’ she asked. ‘I love this place and the people here, but I am curious about the world and what there is to find out there.’

  ‘I have no ties here,’ Mario replied. ‘My family have all died, bless their dead eyes, and I am the only remaining Baracha.’

  ‘We are mirrors,’ March replied. ‘Give me some time, I have to clean the house of my parents’ belongings, and then we can leave.’

  ‘No rush,’ Mario told her.

  They finished their espresso and talked about the three tenors who were in town.

  ‘They’re from Africa,’ Mario said. ‘I saw one of the singers here last night. He said he was two centuries old. He only looked about seventy or eighty.’

  ‘How so?’ March asked.

  ‘He told me that the sweetness of music keeps him young.’

  ‘Are they still singing?’ March asked.

  Mario nodded and told her they would be singing through the night. ‘They stop when the sun comes up, because that is when the morning birds begin to sing their own songs.’

  March asked Mario if he would like to go, but he declined, saying that he must work until morning.

  ‘If the boss catches me leaving work again,’ Mario said, ‘he will kill my cat.’

  March left for the Auditorium, which was a few blocks away. When she arrived, there was a crowd of people standing outside, drinking coffee and smoking cigars. March walked through the crowd and through the door of the Auditorium. She could faintly hear the voices of the tenors though the walls. An usher opened the door and let her in.

  ‘This music is not for the ears, but for the soul,’ he said.

  As the doors opened, the sound of three voices filled the air. She looked at the seated audience – their heads faced the ground and their eyes were closed, as if they were praying. She looked at the three singers on stage. Chandeliers and lamps on posts lit the room. When she asked the usher why the room was so bright, he replied that the lights were actually dim, but as the tenors sang, their voices caused the lights to burn brighter. The usher showed her to an empty seat in the last row and went back to the door.

  Their voices travelled from the stage and straight into her body. She could barely move or blink her eyes. As they kept singing, she felt her head wanting to droop and her eyes wanting to close, as if they were under some kind of magic spell. She understood why the others had their faces down. ‘Like the sirens,’ she whispered. March resisted the temptation of the voices’ magic and forced herself to look at the singers. They were standing, dressed in black tuxedos with shirts that had ruffled collars. They were slim and old-looking, but their eyes were strong and vibrant. She wondered which one was the 200-year-old man, and figured it was the one standing on the right with a marble cane in his hand. She sat there for hours. The performance went on till the early morning, which was about when the audience awoke from their trance and left with mournful looks on their faces.

  ‘One of the worst performances ever,’ one man said as he walked out the door, rubbing his eyes.

  Another old lady said that she would never listen to music again after such a bad performance. March couldn’t understand – she thought everyone was enjoying the performance. She looked behind her and saw the usher still standing at the door. He was the only other one who had not fallen under the tenors’ magic. March got up and walked to the usher.

  ‘Why are they mad with the performance?’

  ‘They all fell asleep.’

  ‘What about the lights?’ March ask
ed. ‘And I felt like putting my head down and closing my eyes, but not out of boredom, but as if I was under some kind of spell.’

  The usher opened the door to let out a few more people with scowling faces.

  ‘The aura from their voices did cause the chandeliers to brighten,’ he said. ‘But only because this room recognizes the beauty of their singing. The people, on the other hand, were listening to the music with only their ears and they became bored.’

  ‘And you?’ March asked.

  ‘I recognized it even without hearing them sing. As soon as they walked in, I felt the blood in my veins and arteries flow with clarity and ease. And the same happened to you. You are a beautiful person, inside and out, and the voices stuck to you like earth to the sun.’

  ‘Is it true that one of them is 200 years old?’ March asked.

  ‘His name is Blue – he is the one standing on the right with the cane.’ The usher pointed towards him. ‘But don’t let him fool you. He uses the cane not because of his age, but because of a fishing accident.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He accidentally caught a shark.’

  The two stood at the doorway and watched people leave. The sun was beginning to rise and the birds began to sing their own songs. The tenors stopped singing. They bowed their heads and began to walk down the steps of the stage.

  As they walked out, Blue looked at March.

  ‘Listen to the birds,’ he said. ‘They sing a sad song.’

  March looked into the tenor’s strong, vibrant blue eyes. He walked past her but after a few steps, stopped and turned around.

  ‘Your eyes,’ Blue said. ‘They sing the song of the sea.’