by Nicole Seitz
“Oh, nothin’. None of my business.”
“Come on, Vesey, you know I have no boundaries when it comes to other people’s business.” We laugh at this sad truth and finally he opens his mouth to speak.
“Well, I cain’t help but notice how you got all these gods everywhere. You got a god for this and a god for that. And what’s that, an elephant?”
“Ganesha, god of knowledge and reflection.”
“I see. Well, I’m just wondering, now, out loud really, does it do you any good? I mean, do these folks give you any peace, these pieces of stone?”
I stare into his big brown eyes, unable to move. Peace. Peaceful. I haven’t felt that way in, well, in forever. “There was a place once,” I tell him, my mind drifting far away and my gaze out over Spanish moss hanging from trees. “There was a very special garden with statues of gods and elephants. The Garden of Dreams, it was called. It’s the last time I was happy. It’s the last time I—”
“Now, now,” says Vesey, putting an arm around me. “I ain’t meant to be pushy. I know how you feel. I’ve lost . . . Well, I’ve lost too. But listen, honest truth, you ever decide it’s too crowded over here with all these statues, you come on over to my side of the river. It’s simpler over there. See that? See right yonder?” He points toward his house.
“What? What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“See that clothesline? Looks like a . . . What does it look like from here?”
“A cross?” I say.
“It sure do.”
“You’re telling me you worship a clothesline, Vesey Washington?”
He smiles and sips his water again. “Somethin’ like that, Miss Ally. Somethin’ like that.”
I look around at my stone garden and think of what it will look like when I get some flowers planted, maybe a walkway. It will feel peaceful then. It will. “To each his own, Vesey. Now, how ’bout we get you that pot roast? You’ve worked harder than a, than a—”
“A slave?” says Vesey.
“I wasn’t going to say that, Vesey, and you know it. Now, what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me, I reckon.” As we step in the doorway, I glance at the clothesline across the river, and for half a second a crow roosts on it. Then it seems to notice my gaze and flies off into the clouds. Flies away in a blur as if I’d only imagined it.
TWENTY-FOUR
Thieves
Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila
I AM IMAGINING THINGS, A BOWL OF RICE AND RED lentils. The pigeons are scattered like white ashes in Durbar Square now that the rain has stopped. They are hoping to find food. As am I. The pigeons scavenge while the monkeys roost like kings on their temple. I keep my umbrella above me. It helps to hide my face. I am soaked through, my clothes, my spirit. I see a cow lying on the sidewalk, hoping for sunshine to dry its coat. The cows, the pigeons, the monkeys . . . they have a better life than me and Amaa and Buba. They need not work for their food. They need not always slave away in dust. They are not shunned by those high-caste people who pass by in silk saris and jewels and fancy cars.
I continue to walk for miles, stumbling, struggling for breath.
I can see a long compound across the street. If I were not so tired and hungry, my blood would stir at the sight. Instead, my stomach growls and reminds me I am nothing. Who am I to think I am anything special? Who am I to think I can possibly escape my fate? They may spit on me if I try to set foot inside. Perhaps I should not have come. I should not have come! I turn and clench my fists around the umbrella. I feel the jagged edge of the book in my sore ribs and remember the faces, remember the gods, the rivers, the pictures. I feel calm again and know I have not come all this way for nothing. For Amaa said it was so. She said I must come here.
“The cruel man is dead, Amaa! He has fallen and is no more. His cold, hard heart has finally killed him!” Amaa does not stir. She stares down at her hands, rough and swollen from smashing rocks so many years.
“He is dead and can no longer keep us!” I say.
“His brother will take over his affairs,” says Amaa. “Or his son. We will always be in debt. It will never end. Never.”
“I stole the book, Amaa. I took it. The Book of the Gods. I have it here in my hands.”
I pull the book out from behind me and hold it reverently out to her. “Do you remember I told you about this? I feel it has secrets about the gods, about me. Look, Amaa. Do you see? There are words here, but I cannot read them. And here? Do you see this face?” I flip through the pages. “This goddess, Amaa. Does she . . . does she not resemble me? Is it not as you always told me, that I am descended from the gods? That I do not belong here? But a great white bird—”
“Sunila.” Amaa’s words are barely a whisper.
“Yes, what is it?”
She looks at me dry-eyed with a faraway stare. “He thought you would bring us good luck. That you would fetch us a large fortune. That we would finally find favor with the gods and escape this life.” She wrings her hands. “You were there, outside a café . . . with a woman.”
Time slows and my hair stands on end. I pull the book back and press it to my chest, desperate to keep my feet from floating off the ground.
“Buba was passing by and saw your white skin, saw the woman with her head turned the other way.”
“No. Please.”
“You must go now, Sunila, while you can. Go.”
“How? How could you do it, Amaa?”
She is quiet and then she looks at me. She whispers, “I wanted a child. He wanted to sell you, but I insisted on keeping you as my own. I begged him. I only wanted a daughter, Sunila—you must believe me. I saved you from being sold away.”
I look at Amaa and see the lines around her eyes, webs of lies covering her, spreading out on the hard soil at her feet. She has fallen, no longer looking at me. I do not know this woman. I do not know my mother.
“Amaa.” The cry escapes my lips.
“It was a mistake. I know this. But I loved you the moment I saw you. And besides, there was no way to return you to her. Buba bargained with the cruel man and gave him the book that was tucked in beside you. It was all to pay down our debt, but then his foot was crushed. We had hospital bills. He always blamed you, said you were the reason we would never be free. I think he was right. You can hate me if you want. Take the book, Sunila. You have always known, haven’t you? Just go. Please. Don’t look at me in this way.”
As I stand, I am risking turning to stone. I see her there, but I cannot go to Amaa. I am unable to feel any love for her at this moment, nor hatred for Buba. I am turning to stone and must leave here quickly. As my feet trample the dust, I shake it from me and swear I will never return here. I clutch the book in my hands and promise to die before I ever return to this quarry.
I wipe the wetness from my brow and fold down my umbrella. I see myself in the windows of the US Embassy, and in the right light I catch a glimpse of her there before me—the face of the goddess drawn in the Book of the Gods. She tells me to open the door. So I do.
TWENTY-FIVE
Escape
Mount Pleasant
Ally
I OPEN THE BACK DOOR AND MOVE TO STEP OUT. I LONG for fresh air and feel the need to visit my new stone garden, but the cord just won’t reach.
“Ronnie, don’t harp on me. I’m dizzy with it all as it is.” I twist the cord around my fingers and look down toward the dock. I’m getting claustrophobic. I’ve got to get out.
“Because I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome, that’s why. Vesey has no use for me. Every time I speak to him, I stick my foot in my mouth. I’m thinking Bermuda beaches are calling my name. Maybe a little sun, a little relaxation—how about you and Marlene, you feel like joining me? Can you get off of work? We could take a cruise. They have a new ship that leaves the Charleston port, if you can believe that. You wouldn’t even have to fly a lick.”
“Oh, come on, Ronnie. Don’t tell me you and Marlene can’t
use a vacation . . . You’re having what? Dental surgery? Wow, that sounds positively atrocious. Well, I guess if you have to have it, you have to have it, but you really should take better care of your teeth. You never did floss when we were married . . . Well, it’s gross, Ronnie. All right. All right, honey. Listen, I’ll stick around for a few more days, maybe, but I can’t make any promises. Daddy obviously didn’t know me very well. Imagine thinking I could actually be still long enough to live here. Okay, honey. Love you too.”
I unwind and put the phone back in the cradle. It’s still Daddy’s old white phone, now faded and butter colored. I think of his ear at this very place. How did Daddy feel when he was tethered to the phone and I called him from afar? He was probably busting at the seams to get out of the house like I am.
I escape and enter the sanctuary beside the house. The soil is still dug up in a few places, but the grass seed will cover that up nicely. Pretty soon this garden will be lush and I can bring out a glass of wine and watch the sunset, stare at the statues and think about things, or nothing at all. I lower myself onto a little stone bench with two bunny rabbits holding it up on the sides. Nice bunny rabbits. I can see the water from here and my soul rumbles from construction going on somewhere down the road. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I hear the pound, pound, pounding of the hammers and open my eyes again. Peaceful. It’s supposed to be peaceful out here. I look to the god of wine, Dionysius, spouting water out of his mouth. Is he spitting at me? Is he laughing at my meditation spot? I’ll show him. I close my eyes again and touch my thumbs and middle fingers together. “Ohhmm . . .”
No, it’s impossible. I cannot sit still. I have to do something, go somewhere. No, do something. I see the boxes and tools still propped up on the side of the house and decide to move them into Mama’s old room. Yes, I’m going to set up a batik-making station. A studio. I’m going to learn how to make batiks once and for all. How many years has it been? I can almost smell the wax in that little storefront in Bali. I long to have the dye in my fingers. I’m going to get inspired again and keep my hands busy like they used to be when I had my sketchbook. Back before the Great Sadness.
Forget it all. I’m going to draw again and rewind time.
I bend over to lift up a heavy box and pray to God or the gods or anybody who might be listening. Oh, please don’t let me wrench my hip again. Please just let me do something on my own without having to depend on Vesey or anyone else. Ever again. Let me get this box inside and escape into the wax, the colors, the birds, the mountains, and the rivers I’ll paint. Just let me do this one thing, please.
I need an escape.
Gritting my teeth, I open the door and hold it open with my hip as I pass on through. The gods must have been listening. My hip is okay. I walk by Daddy’s La-Z-Boy chair, by the Guatemalan rug and flat-screen TV leaning up against the wall. As if in a dream, I head to Mama’s old room to turn it into the studio I’ve always wanted. I picture notes from heaven falling on me when I open the door, but nothing but empty memories greet me. Mama and Daddy are gone. It’s up to me now to create something new in here. I can do it. And I won’t feel alone. I refuse to feel alone anymore.
TWENTY-SIX
How It Will End
US Embassy, Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila
I SEE MY REFLECTION IN THE HEAVY GLASS DOORS AS I pull one to me. I am filthy and cover my face with my scarf. I step into a foyer, a large rectangular room with marble floors. There are statues of lions flanking either side of the hall, and I can tell by the style of them which family has carved them in Swayambhu. They pass down their secrets from father to son. But me? I could carve these lions better than what I see before me. A strange and foreign sense of pride comes over me. I shudder and shake it off. I am a Dalit. I am a woman. I am nothing. I turn to go.
Then I stop and turn back around. You have come too far.
Slowly, I approach a lone woman sitting behind a wall. She has long black hair and a fitted green dress. She is of caste. I am afraid to speak. “Namaste,” I manage.
“Yes? What do you want?”
I pull out the rumpled old card and set it down before her. “Please,” I say, looking at the card and not in her eyes. “I am here to see this person. Mr. Davidson Monroe.” I say it just the way I repeated it back to him many years ago, the way I have rehearsed it in my mind. My stomach churns as I await her reply. My knees tremble beneath me.
She hands the card back to me and says, “I’m sorry, but there is no one here by that name.”
I look at the card. I look at her fingers. They are soft and have never broken gravel. “Please. Please. Are you sure? I—”
“Where did you get this card?” she asks. “I can double-check the roster.” She looks to her computer and puts her fingers on the keys. I leave the card sitting on the desk.
“Forgive me. I got this from Mr. Monroe himself, a long time ago. Perhaps twenty-five years.”
The lady raises her eyebrows. Then she stops typing and folds her hands under her chin. “I see. And you are an American citizen?” She looks at me with pity.
“No. I am not.” I am filled with shame for standing here.
“Then why are you at the US Embassy?”
“I—” I shake my head. “I do not know. I am sorry.” I turn to walk away.
“Miss,” the woman says, “if you’d like to see another consulate officer, you may make an appointment.”
“An appointment.”
“Yes. Let’s see . . . I have next Wednesday at . . . mmmm . . . 1:30?”
She is mocking me. I look toward the door. Next Wednesday. That is five days from now. Five days with no food. I cannot go home; I have nowhere to stay.
“Miss?”
I look at the lady.
“Did you hear what I said? A consulate officer can see you on Wednesday. Shall I put you down for 1:30?”
I feel a draft from my wet clothes and shiver. Then, uncontrollably. “No. Thank you. Namaste.”
I move as quickly as my legs will take me to the door and back into the street where I belong. I am unclean. So it is, and so it will always be. But I must survive. I will search for twigs or straw. I will make a broom and sweep the streets of their filth and excrement in the morning with the other Dalit women. But I cannot go back to the quarry. They will kill me if I do.
The rain pours on my umbrella and suddenly it is being ripped from my hands, yet I will not let go. A car has stopped. Two high-caste men tell me to get in the car. I struggle to stand. I have seen what happens to Dalit women who struggle. They are stripped in public and humiliated. They are beaten and burned. And the police do nothing.
This is how it will end. Here on Maharajgunj Road.
I open my mouth to scream, and a man falls to the ground. There is a fight before my eyes. The rain is coming down hard and a third man is here, fighting the other two. They get up and run to their car and speed away.
I fall to my knees, a stone on the sidewalk.
Someone puts hands on my arms and walks with me back to where I came.
“Are you okay?” the man asks.
I cannot speak. I am trembling.
We enter the embassy doors again, but this time I am too stunned to be afraid.
“My goodness, you’re freezing. Are you ill, miss? Did they hurt you?” He turns to the secretary and speaks in English. “Marta, please, a towel. And some hot tea for the lady.”
The man wrenches the umbrella from my hands and sets it up against the wall. I have never been called a lady before in any language. The towel and tea warm me and I begin to focus once more on my surroundings. I touch my breast to make sure the book is still there. It is. I look straight ahead and see the man’s legs. He is sitting on the edge of a desk, arms folded.
“Better?” he says, returning to Nepali.
I nod slightly with the warm cup in my hands. The woman who brought the tea whispers in the man’s ear. He is bald and wearing a wet brown suit.
&nbs
p; “Really? I see,” he says. He studies me. I try to drink my tea. I may not have any for a very long time. “You speak Nepali. I understand you were just here looking for a consulate officer. Yet you are obviously not American, are you? I have to wonder what brings you here. Tell me, how long have you traveled to get here?”
My eyes shift and I recount the days.
“You do speak?”
I count the times I found an overhang or trash bin to rest my eyes. “Four days,” I say.
His eyes open. “In the rain? No wonder you’re cold. It is too dangerous for you to be on the street.” Silence sits between us as I sip my milked tea. The steam wafts up into my face.
“Tell me, why did you come all this way to the US Embassy? It must have been a very important trip for you to make. Do you have matters with the US?”
I am afraid to speak. I bite my cracked lips.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” The man unfolds his arms and puts a gentle hand out to me. “My name is Theodore Assai. I’m with the US Consulate. And your name? Please. Look at me.”
I look at him and say, “M-My name is Sunila Kunari. I came to see a consulate officer I met many years ago. Mr. Davidson Monroe.”
“Ah, I see. And you’ve come all this way to find out he is no longer here?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm. Pity. Tell me, what sort of business would a woman like you—a Dalit, no?—have with the consulate of the US Embassy?”
“I—” I press to stand. “I have taken up too much of your time. I am sorry.”
“Let me explain,” he says. “I am an American. I was born in America to Nepalese parents. So I have returned to Nepal but I do not believe in the caste system. I do not believe I am any better than you. Do you understand this?” The man looks at his watch. “I am on a break, so it is my time to take up. So tell me, would you like to have lunch? I am hungry and I’ve nearly forty-five minutes left.”
The thought of food makes my mouth quiver, but I am wary of this man. No one eats with a Dalit.
“Good. Marta, I’ll be taking tea and lunch in my office today. Please bring enough for two of us. Dal bhat. Oh, and a cold compress for my hand. There was some trouble on the street today.” The man helps me get to my feet, holds my rainbow-colored umbrella, and with a curious voice says, “Right this way, Ms. Kunari. Right this way.” The feel of his hands on mine, Dalit hands, untouchable in my society, makes my head swoon. I feel far away from home. The book burns in my chest, and I wonder if this has all been a terrible mistake.