The Vine of Desire: A Novel

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  He isn’t all right. But Trideep knows that. His father closes his eyes because he can’t stand to be here. In this bed, in this house, in this country, all of which is alien to him. He tolerates me because I’m the hired help, just doing my job. But he hates them because they’re his captors.

  “He’s sad,” I say.

  “How can we make him happy?” they ask. But I, struggling under my own sadness, don’t know the answer to that.

  This Sunday, Lalit wants to take me up to Grizzly Peak, to see the sunset across the bay.

  “Go, go,” Myra says. “I’ll keep Dayita. She’s good therapy for me. She keeps me from obsessing.”

  Up in the park, the cold wind stings my face, but it’s clean and strong and salty. It clears my head a little. Thanks to Lalit, I’m beginning to recognize some of the trees around us—the bent black cypress, the peeled silver bark of the eucalyptus, the brittle crackly needles of ponderosa pine. Feathery yarrows, near our feet.

  A small comfort, this.

  “Look,” Lalit says. “There’s the campanile at Cal, there’s the Bay bridge, backed up as usual, there’s Angel Island, where at one time deer and immigrants were quarantined. That’s the ferry to Sausalito, where all the decadent artists live. Did you know that Marin County is the home of the hot tub? Did you know that Coit Tower was built by San Francisco firemen in the shape of firehose nozzle? That’s Alcatraz, from which no prisoners ever escaped alive.”

  There’s such fondness in his voice. I’m racked by jealousy. To belong to a place fully, to know it so well that you believe it belongs to you. Does he even guess how lucky he is?

  “Look that way,” he says. “There’s Mount Tam. See the Indian Maiden, sleeping? Once you get beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, you’re on the Pacific Ocean. In November the whales start migrating south. The blues, the orcas. You can go out on a boat and watch them, spouting water up to fifty feet. It’s like nothing else in the world. In February they come back up with babies.”

  “I’d like to see that,” I say, though February, or November, or even next week seems distant and unreal, a fog-wrapped shore I might never reach.

  “I’ll take you and Dayita both,” he says. “I’ll take you to Point Lobos, to see the cormorants on Bird Island. And to Año Nuevo, that’s where elephant seals come in December to have their babies. Did you know there’s an island out there, a ruined lighthouse that’s been taken over by the sea lions?” Then he says, “You never did tell me what happened.”

  I tried. Last Sunday, and the Sunday before, when he came to see me. But each time I’d feel dizzy, sick to my stomach. I didn’t have the right phrases to make him see beyond what happened into the why. I was afraid he, too, would despise me?

  “Do you believe in falling stars?” I say.

  “Another brilliant prevarication, I see.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t talk about it.”

  “Try. Don’t worry about shocking me. I come across a lot of terrible things at work. Some of them so bad you can’t even imagine …”

  I fiddle with the zipper of my jacket.

  “Oh, very well,” he says, “what about the stars?”

  I tell him about our terrace in Calcutta, the old bricks edged with moss. How Anju and I would steal away at night to look for falling stars to wish on.

  “And did any of the wishes come true?”

  “None of Anju’s did. But she never really believed in it. She’d say things like, For my next birthday, I want my very own pet elephant. Or, I want to become the most successful female spy in the world, more famous than Mata Hari.”

  “What about you?”

  “My wishes got all twisted around. I don’t think I really knew what I wanted. My brain was so filled with old stories, and what society defined as happiness. One time, just before Anju and I got married, I was so sad to think that we’d be separated, that I wished we could love the same man, like women did in the Mahabharata, that we could all live together….”

  Stars are opening in the night’s blackness, like startled eyes. Against them, a bird wheels across the sky, elegant and purposeful. A red-tailed hawk, perhaps, returning to his nest in some crag. Wild things always know where their home is. In India, kingfishers are bringing food to fledglings in their morning nests. In my quilt I will stitch in hawks and kingfishers.

  I’d forgotten that old, foolish wish all these years. Until now, until I spoke of it. And, in speaking, saw it newly, in all its insidiousness.

  “Your wish came true, didn’t it?” Lalit says. The wind has died. The cypresses are icicles of dark. The clouds clap their hands over the moon’s mouth. I cannot feel his eyes. I cannot read his voice. And so I cannot tell him, It’s not what you think. It’s not like that at all.

  It’s dark when I unlock the door. In my mind I’m busy repeating the code of the burglar alarm, in case they turned it on, so I don’t see him until he moves. Trideep. He’s sitting on the white couch by himself, not doing anything.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” His words sound slurred.

  My heart gives a fearful leap. Why should he be here, waiting?

  Pishi used to say, Do you know why street dogs attack certain people and not others? It’s because they smell the fear. I wonder if it’s the same with men, this pattern in my life repeated over. I try to edge by, intent on getting past him as quickly as possible.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  I massage the back of my neck with trembling fingers. I don’t want to talk to him. All I want is to get to my room, shut the door, and push the dresser against it. Tomorrow I’ll insist on Myra installing a lock.

  Trideep slides his fingers in under his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Excuse me.” He yawns, his glasses askew. I see that he’d been asleep.

  A hot flash of shame hits me. The world doesn’t rotate around you, Sudha. Not every man has designs on your virtue.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. “Where’s Myra?”

  “Myra’s in bed with a terrible headache.”

  I know about Myra’s migraines, blinding shafts of pain that make her sick to her stomach. She hasn’t had one since the old man started eating. “What happened?”

  “After you went out, we gave Dad his dinner—what you’d kept ready for him on his plate in the oven. He wouldn’t eat while we were in the room, so we left. I’m waiting in the passage outside his room, then I hear these horrible retching sounds, and when I rush in, he’s throwing up—except there’s almost nothing in his stomach, so he’s just heaving and shaking. I hold him as best as I can, and he doesn’t even fight me, he’s that exhausted. He’s messed himself up, so I try to change his clothes—and he’s emaciated, I didn’t realize how thin he’d gotten. Then Myra comes in and sees him and gets all hysterical. She keeps saying, Oh my God, he’s going to die. And I’m thinking the same thing. If only I hadn’t asked him to come here….” He buries his face in his hands. “If only I’d let him be.”

  I have no patience for his litany of guilt. “What happened then?”

  “I called my friend Mihir, he’s a doctor, and he came over right away and gave him some shots that stopped the retching. I ran out and bought some Pedialyte, and Dad was able to keep it down. But …” He shakes his head.

  “What did the doctor say was wrong with him?”

  “Mihir says the problem is primarily mental, compounded by malnutrition. He’s suffering from severe depression, and Mihir doubts whether he can recover by himself. He prescribed an antidepressant but told us we’ll have to hospitalize him within the next couple of days unless there’s an improvement”—he looks up so suddenly that his glasses clatter to the floor—“and I know that’ll kill him, I know it will.”

  The old man’s room is filled with the synthetic lemon smell of a deodorizer and, under that, the lingering odor of vomit and distress. I feel my way through darkness to the bed, stubbing my toe on an unexpected chair they must have brought in for the doctor. I put out my hand. Nothing but bedcl
othes. For a moment I think, with a strange elation, He’s disappeared. But, no. Here’s a knobby knee that twitches under my touch. I pull back—I don’t want to wake him—but I’m too late. His breathing has changed, grown uneven and wary.

  I’m thinking with sorrow of my father, whom I never knew. As Singhji the chauffeur, I’d always taken his devotion for granted. Tossed him the careless affection one gives to servants in India. Before my marriage, he took all his savings and mailed them to me—in an unmarked envelope so I wouldn’t know who sent them. And I—I never did anything for him that a daughter should. Neither in his life nor at his lonely death.

  But perhaps it isn’t too late. What I couldn’t do for my father, perhaps I can do for the old man. Perhaps I can prevent him from dying in an impersonal hospital bed, in a room filled with the fumes of antiseptic and dread.

  “Help me to help you,” I whisper.

  There are shadows around the bed, jagged silhouettes like pieces broken off some larger slab of darkness. Pishi used to say, When a person is about to die, the souls of dead people that were close to him come to help him across. Maybe the old man’s wife is here, maybe even his parents, come to take him home.

  I yank at the curtains, slide open a window. “Leave,” I whisper, “give him another chance at life.” A long time ago, was there someone else dying, another room in which I performed a similar homemade exorcism? Frosty night air, fog, starlight tumbling onto the carpet. The shadows have turned into ordinary objects: TV, bedside lamp, the food trolley which Myra forgot to remove. The old man lets out a breath like a cough. On the trolley, a vase with an iris. Myra must have put it there. Does he know what I was trying to do? Does he think I shouldn’t have interfered? There’s an untouched bowl of something melted into a puddle. It looks like ice cream, Myra’s failure to tempt him. Death is the only dish he’s interested in tasting anymore.

  “Don’t give up,” I whisper. “Help me to help you.”

  He gives no sign that he has heard.

  In bed, I press my cheek against Dayita’s back. Calm me down, kid. Someone I once knew had said that. The rhythm of her breath washes over me like night waves. In my quilt I must find a place for the ocean, though where I don’t know yet. This is why we have children, so that in their sleep they might redeem us.

  Today Lupe called to check on how things were going.

  “Not too good,” I said, explaining about the old man. “Do you have a number where I can reach Sara? An address?”

  “Nope.” Lupe sounded annoyed. “She quit the job I got her and went off somewhere. Didn’t even call me. I have no idea where she is.”

  “I’m worried about her,” I said. Though I couldn’t have explained why.

  “Save your worries for yourself. Maybe I should start looking for another job for you—”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I don’t want to leave him until I absolutely have to.”

  “Don’t get attached,” Lupe said. “That’s the recipe for trouble. Remember, it’s just a job. They could put him in the hospital tomorrow and fire you. Then what?”

  Dayita smells different, too sweet. It takes me a moment to recognize Myra’s perfume, Natural Freesia. She must have held Dayita for a long time. I wait for the pang of jealousy to hit me, the way it would with Anju. Nothing. It is easy to be kind to strangers. Is Anju sleeping? When we slept together as children—a rare treat allowed us only during the holidays—she was a terrible bedmate. She kicked me all night in her sleep, stole my pillow. But we’d talk late into the night. I remember the excitement of those whispered conversations, the suppressed giggles, though I’ve forgotten what we spoke of. I will her to dream of me, to call me in the morning. Tomorrow I must talk to the old man. But what will I say? I slip my finger into Dayita’s fist, feel the sleeping fingers tighten over mine. Thanks, kid.

  Earlier this evening, Lalit asked, What did one psychic say to the other when they met?

  The answer: You’re doing great, how am I doing?

  I laughed, then stopped abruptly. In all his jokes now, I look for hidden meanings.

  (How am I doing? How am I doing?)

  In my quilt, the waves will be the color of laughter, orange like balloons, like the sugar candy they sell on trains in India, like a parrot’s beak. I will call it The Quilt for Lost Souls. In which company I include myself.

  Tomorrow I’ll tell the old man all the jokes I know.

  Eight

  Lalit

  what I said

  How about some coffee before I drop you home? Does the Café Monaco sound good to you?

  what I didn’t say

  All right, since you won’t tell me what happened, you leave me no choice but to imagine my own scenarios.

  One: You guys had a fight, they (maybe he) said something related to how much they’re doing for you, you left, insulted. Possibility: 35 percent.

  Two: Your cousin and her husband had a fight, something to do with you, maybe related to money, maybe just the tension, too many people in too small a place. You felt you were causing a problem. You left. Possibility: 45 percent.

  Three: Your cousin suspected something going on between you and her husband. She confronted you, you left in shame. Possibility: 55 percent.

  Four: Your cousin’s husband made a pass at you, maybe suggested an affair, you left, outraged. Possibility: 65 percent.

  Five: You fell in love with him. You left so you wouldn’t ruin their marriage. Possibility: 75 percent.

  Six: You both fell in love with each other. You left to give him time and space to work out a divorce. Then you’ll get back together. Possibility: 80 percent.

  Seven: He made a pass at you. It made you realize that I was the one you really loved. You left, and are waiting for the right opportunity to tell me this. Possibility: 0 percent.

  Never let it be said that I’m a romantic.

  what you said

  It’s just where I live, it’s not home.

  what I said

  What’s home, then?

  what I wanted you to say

  Home is where the heart is.

  (Sorry about the cliché. I can’t think too creatively with you sitting in front of me with your windswept troublemaker face, the problems you won’t tell me about tangled in your hair, so stubborn in your silence that I want to shake you.)

  what I wanted to say

  Could you make your home with me, then?

  (More clichés. Thus passion doth make idiots of us all.)

  what I wanted you to say next (with a demure, downcast blush)

  Yes, dearest.

  what you said

  Could I have some hot milk with honey, instead of coffee?

  (Later I took your fingers in mine. They were warm from holding the mug of milk. Your nails were like mother-of-pearl. I pretended to read your palm. I predicted that a dark and handsome stranger was about to become very important in your life. I added that he wore an ear stud. You laughed and then caught one of my hands in yours.)

  what I wanted you to say

  Lalit, you’re already very important in my life.

  what you said

  mLalit, you’re already very important in my life.

  (I choked on the last of my coffee. You were tracing the lines on my palm with the tip of a nail. I knew what they mean when they say an exquisite shiver went through him, because that’s exactly what went through me. I wanted to throw a twenty onto the table, take you where we could be alone and)

  then you said

  You’re the only one I can turn to as a friend. All my life, men have wanted me. It’s always been the wrong man, or the wrong time, or the wrong reason. And then I never wanted to see them again. Please don’t let that happen between us. Please?

  what I wanted to say

  Shit shit shit shit shit

  what you said

  I can’t be anything else to you, I’m sorry, I just don’t have it in me right now. There’s a lot of things I need to flush out of my system. I d
on’t know if I’ll ever manage to do it. But I really need a friend—and I’ll try to be a good friend to you. That much I can promise.

  what I said when I regained a bit of control

  Friends don’t keep secrets from each other. So are you ready to tell me why you left home?

  what you said

  Don’t keep using that word! Haven’t you realized yet that I’m homeless. That I’ve never had a home, only delusions of belonging which the world was quick to squish. And about secrets: they’re what make friendships possible. If you knew everything about me, you wouldn’t want to be my friend. But there are some things that friends don’t do. One of them is, they don’t pressure each other.

  (A lamp hanging over our table threw a small shining over your face. Everything else was dim, only your face rising out of that fog of gray, the ordinary, dreary world. And your face glowed like a live coal, like a fire flower—are these clichés, too?—you glowed with your misfortune. I looked into my life and saw that it was merely a mechanical ticking. Even when I saved a life—or failed to save one—there was no meaning in it, because there was no heart. Instead, in my chest, a pendulum swung back and forth, going nowhere and so …)

  I said

  All right. (And when you slipped past my next inquiry, why you left your cousin, whom you obviously loved so much), all right. (And to whatever you asked me to do after that), all right, all right. (You raised my hand to your grateful cheek, it was cool and moist like a shell lifted from seawater, though I could not see any tears. No, the flesh of your face was soft and ripe as fruit, so sweet that it seemed to have nothing to do with sorrow, yours or mine. I thought of all the things I would never tell you now, I thought of blood, the woman they brought in last night to Emergency with a knife gash as long as her arm across her chest and stomach. I think she was Indian, but I had no way of finding out. She had no ID, only toenails painted the color of tropical birds. How the breath sounds when it’s drawn into a torn lung. Sometimes in dreams I hear it. Once another woman came in with a broken jaw, she was holding it in place with her hand, when she could talk she said, I fell, I fell. I closed my eyes to hold in this one moment of brightness, my fingers on your cheek, each soft, separate downy hair, the faint, deceptive smell of lotus dust, all I would ever get [possibility: 100 percent] from you. I kept my eyes shut because your words were like a gate closing.)