by CK Collins
“Chowgule. G-U-L-E, I think. I’m probably butchering it, sorry.”
Pashi tries to place the name. “Not in real estate is he then, her father?”
“Yeah I don’t know. Maybe. Something to do with construction for sure. I mean, we’re driving around, in Sagaro and some of those kind of resorty places on the way to Jaya, and Suapartni’s always pointing out buildings. Saying they were her dad’s, but I was never sure — that girl, god she talked fast.”
“So you’ve arrived in Masalay then, with Suapartni, and decided to stay on?”
“Yeah, basically. Which you’re not supposed to do normally. With the flight nurse thing, I mean. But her family, they were totally, I mean totally, convinced I saved her life. I kept telling them, you know, ‘It’s no big deal, honestly — she’d’ve been fine without me.’ But Suapartni really laid it on thick with the I was dying thing, so . . . Just how she is. Anyway, so they kept saying I should stay an extra week, and I just figured why not?”
“You’ve found it beautiful in the south?”
“Yeah, totally. Amazing.”
“How have you spent your time with them, then?”
“We did lots of stuff. Never a dull moment. We went to some parties. Some casinos and stuff in Jaya. There was this town, kind of between Sagaro and Jaya, I forget what it was called . . .”
“Emerald Cove?”
“Um . . .”
“India Pointe? Parias Bay?”
“Parias Bay, that’s it.”
“Lovely place.”
“Yeah, it was beautiful. We did all kinds of stuff. Jet skiing. I’ve never been on a jet ski before. Wind surfing, all kinds of stuff. It was fun.”
“When was this?”
“August, end of August. God, what is it now? I don’t even know.”
“Twelfth October.”
“Seriously?” I try to think back. “Okay, wow, so it’s been like seven weeks, almost seven weeks. That’s . . . wow.”
I can see her getting ready to ask what she really wants to know — how I got from playing slots in Jaya to shacking up with her brother-in-law a week later — but Essio comes in and saves me by pissing her off. About what I don’t know, just that they start arguing in Masalayan. After a while, she tells me they need to go. They’ve got dinner plans. Some friends who’ve got the bad luck to be living in Patchil-Kinaat.
She promises they’re going to be back first thing tomorrow to get me checked out of here. Seems a little early to me, but I guess I feel good enough. And they’re counting the hours. She says if we hit the road before nine we should be able to make it to Jaya by midnight.
I thank her for everything. The water, the fan, the toothbrush — everything. She says it’s no trouble and touches my forehead with two fingertips. It’s nothing special, just something Masalayans do, but it warms me all the same.
Evening
Far Karsk, Masalay
They’ve come to what passes for a village. Animal pens and meagre dwellings scattered about the vicinity of a temple and meeting-well. It defies belief that there could be a place beyond this one in remoteness, but Brother Carodai insists that Rith Idiiye lies much farther along the rock-strewn and darkening road. They’ll have a meal and night here.
“Have we even a clue what here is? I’ve not seen a sign, have you?”
“Yes without a sign they must always be forgetting where they live.”
Pleased with his joke, Carodai opens the door and climbs out, leaving Tchori no choice but to switch off the ignition and join him. Her muscles are stiff. The air is moist, a mist that might condense at any moment into drizzle. She begins to lock the doors, but Brother shakes his head.
“Well I’m getting my bag then.” He protests that it’s unnecessary to lug her possessions all about, but she’s no intention of leaving her valuables in an unlocked car.
Some forty metres on, they come upon a squat, shirtless man tinkering with the splintered handle of a rake — stunned to see a Brother of Liashe approaching him in full gown and ashamed to be shirtless on the occasion.
Before Carodai can put forth his question, there’s first a long bridge of courtesy to cross. The unfamiliar idioms and irregular declensions make it difficult to follow what’s being said — Brother has slipped in to the rural rhythms with amazing aplomb — and Tchori allows her thoughts to drift.
She’s always had the habit of mentally fingering words the way that some people doodle or play with beads. Arms behind her back, eyeing the horizon, she turns the word twilight over in her mind. A lovely word in English, but the Masalayan language has no equivalent. Here on the equator, night and day don’t ease slowly in to one another but pass with the glancing brusqueness of rival lovers. Her year in Scotland it was forever unsettling that so much of every day was spent in a state of ebb. Gloaming, they call it in winter, a word that conveys the dreary ambiguity of the hour. Tchori’s sister the psychology student said she should take it as growth opportunity. A way of coming to terms with shades of grey. But she never did come to terms, not with grey and not with Scotland. A fine country. But she prefers a nation where day and night know their places.
This sunset feels wrong, gloamingly wrong — it shouldn’t, but reason seems an unreliable ally here — and she’s anxious at the rain-heavy air. At last Carodai completes a final round of compliments — the man’s great hospitality, his great wit, his great broken rake — and they bow their goodbyes.
“Lovely lad,” Carodai comments in English as they proceed. “Were you able to follow? It seems our best accommodations are to be found at a home just up the way. We’re to look for a pair of red miskal that have grown into one another.”
“Should we not bring the car?”
“No, no. We’re quite close.”
“Well . . .”
“The car will do well without us.”
It’s a struggle not to feel self-conscious as they walk. Tchori’s robe, made for performance stages and paved plazas, drags heavy in the dirt. She had been dubious of wearing regalia, but Carodai was right to insist. At every security stop on the Trans-Mas, the MDF waved them through — so deferential to a Brother of Liashe. Beyond stupid, of course, as if Hilm Hivaa lack the advanced technology to sew fake robes. And the deference here is similar, though far from stupid. Every villager they pass stops to remove his cauwal and bow, eyes on the ground until they’ve passed. Say what you will about the Karsk, you’ll not find such piety elsewhere in Masalay. Tchori feels pride and a pang of unworthiness, aware that they’re taking her for a Sister of Liashe, not a mere clerk with diploma.
The conjoined miskal trees are indeed impossible to miss, and the path leads to a colonial-style house that is easily the village’s finest. Tchori’s knock is answered swiftly by a widow in her sixties who appears to be expecting them. Tchori stands a step behind whilst Carodai and the woman meander through their courtesies until it’s been established, several times over, that it will be her everlasting honour to host a Brother of Liashe and that payment would be kind but is out of the question.
Introducing herself as Mashin, she shows them to a small parlour where they promise to wait whilst she prepares their rooms. For supper, there’s a promise of something called shin pie. Carodai’s hands are folded in the manner that indicates he’s trying to stifle a tremor.
“Brother, you should sit,” says Tchori and helps him into the one chair. A warm, savoury aroma, and she tries to reckon how long it’s been since she finished the last sandwich. Too long, and being pre-menstrual doesn’t help. She wishes there were a chair for her.
“Dove,” he says, pale, “I don’t know that this will be important . . .”
“Yes Brother?”
“When I first visited Rith Idiiye those decades ago, I was not alone. I don’t recall coming through this village, but we must have done. We went so many places, they do blend.”
“We should get you some water, Brother.”
His voice carries a hint of confession, bringing a thought to Tchori
’s mind that she tries to quash. There have always been rumours about Carodai — that as a student decades ago, he had a special bond, a kind of partnership, with Aarum Sidaarik. That they went on expeditions together. And she’s always said it was preposterous, one more slander against Carodai. He knew Sidaarik of course. They matriculated together — but that was years before Sidaarik abandoned Ashma and the Church for race hatred and bullets.
The University, ashamed at being duped by the future monster of Hilm Hivaa, has striven to expunge all record of Sidaarik. But her second year, Tchori went to the Chapel of Baradisu and requested access to the Books of Assignment. (For a report to her class, she explained.) As she hoped, the chapel warden provided a key that opened the entire case. Volumes going back centuries. She went to the red leather volumes of the post-independence period and was ten minutes before coming to May of 1954. The script disarmingly elegant: Aarum Sidaarik. And on the line above, Charles Risayidule.
She paged forward and found the same for five years running: their names ever adjacent, as if it was their custom to witness assignment together. But what of it? Sidaarik was the first Talid in a generation to be admitted to the University, brilliant and charming by every account. And Charles Risayidule — even younger than Sidaarik and the only other scholar to win entry without first graduating a traditional college. They shared an exceptionalism, but that’s not proof that they shared anything more.
“There was such scant archaeology and scholarship in Masalay then. Certainly in the west, Masalay has never gone out of vogue amongst hedonists and mystics. But amongst the academics and historians, we were so neglected until Selwyn made his Anarthaka announcement in ’63. And then Fred Keyes and his Cambridge lads in ’65 finding the Kinaat Stele with such flamboyance. Enter the film crews and tour buses, and of course they’ve not left. All for the best, we’ve learned so much, but try to imagine how it was before all the attention. It was possible, difficult to believe now, for penniless students to make the most marvellous discoveries with no assets but ingenuity and luck. Imagine being able to acquire a Second Empire codex for a few guineas, for whatever was jingling in your pocket.”
Dishes clatter in the kitchen. Sizzling onions and the aroma of clove. Clammy, Tchori tugs at her robe, fearful of knowing things she shouldn’t. But longing for more. “Is that what brought you here, then, Brother? After a manuscript, were you?”
Carodai hesitates, squeezing those tremorous hands, uncertain what to reveal. Then, with surprising vigour: “You see, dove, I had discovered something. Three years before. Blind luck, although I ascribed it to virtue — that being bright and ambitious entitled us to accomplish great things.”
“Brother, I should check to see if our lady needs help.”
“There were three of us, but Aarum was the one who really understood. He was the one who saw what we could do with such a discovery.”
Aarum Sidaarik — he’s gone and said it, and she looks out the window to avoid his face.
“We used that first discovery to make another. And then another. Luck, as I said, tremendous luck. But also, to be fair, we were quite resourceful. I haven’t the time to explain it all, of course.”
“And Brother, we . . .”
“There were threads that we traced to Rith Idiiye. Stories. Aarum was convinced that we could come here and discover great truths about Ashma — hidden truths, historical truths — great revelations about God on earth. I was dubious. For one, I lacked his faith in the existence of an historical truth. They were only stories. We argued, nothing new, but the arguments were becoming more heated. And I pointed to two things: That one couldn’t imagine a worse environment for the preservation of artefacts. And that one can’t expect accuracy in oral tradition. Stories that are centuries or millennia old — even if we were to come upon them, they could scarcely be trusted as the ‘true record’ of some forgotten event. Memories are liquid, they have the shape of how they’re held.
“We stayed a week. Lovely place, lovely people. But we found nothing, and he took it hard. What I didn’t know is that he evidently left instruction that we should be contacted if anything were to be discovered. Or if certain events were ever to occur. The irony is that over the years they seem to have forgotten his name but remembered mine.”
“What were the ‘certain events’? What———”
But their hostess has come to the parlour door with a warm smile and a flagon of iirik. “Padistu,” she declares with gusto.
Brother grins as if they’ve only been discussing the weather. “Tchori dear, have you had the pleasure of shin pie?”
“I’ve not.”
“Well then, dove, you are in for a rare treat.”
Evening
Patchil-Kinaat, Masalay
It’s hot in here and stuffy, but I’m good. Pashi left food so that I wouldn’t need to eat the hospital junk. But I’ve already polished off her stuff and two helpings of what they serve (which is actually not so bad), and I’m still hungry. Oh Lord, what I would give right now for a chocolate milkshake.
The one doctor who speaks English still can’t get over how I’m not a skeleton after going so long with no food. The baby was nourishing me, is what I tell him. He says that’s not how it works. I tell him you never know.
Back at Lankenau, there’s always this background of electronic noise — TVs and ventilators and pumps and pages. There’s none of that here, it’s just voices. One thing about Masalayans: they are not quiet talkers. I switch the fan to the highest setting. I close my eyes. It reminds me of the train — Suapartni and her brothers playing cards and drinking iirik, me flipping through a Vanity Fair, the brown hills and whatnot rolling by.
I can’t remember the name of the place we were going. It was this annual family trip to some colonial-type resort in the way-up northern end of the island. They liked going there, I think, for the entertainment value of listening to Suapartni bitch about it.
First there was this dinky little plane to Patchil-Kinaat. The pilot, I guess this is common, he had a superstition about flying over the Central Karsk, so we had to veer way out to the ocean and then back again. She loved that. Then there was a cruddy van to the train station. Forty-five minutes fighting traffic, her brother’s cola bubblegum six inches from my face, engine fumes through the gaps in the filthy windows. Deep breaths and “uh-huhs” while Suapartni went on about how there’s nothing in North Masalay worth pissing on, including some crap-Epcot fake England. They should just split the island already. Runais and good Talids can keep building the south into a decent country. And the Talid malcontents and goons can have the whole north to wreck in whatever way they want. That kicked off a whole big discussion about Hilm Hivaa and what was going on at Ghaatasira. The first time I ever heard those names, but all that political talk just made me want to go to sleep.
We got to the train finally, and it was comfortable. A private compartment and air conditioning. This stocked dining cart came around as the sun went down, which happens so fast here — close your eyes and all of a sudden it’s night. Which is what happened to me. I woke up and there was Mrs. Chowgule doing some knitting and the rest of them playing hearts. House music coming from Suapartni’s iPod. Chocolate cake and the second iirik bottle. I rolled up my shirt and propped my head against the window, only a little drunk, listening to the chatter and metal clack-a-clack.
* * *
The train was stopped.
I remember waking up and there was this commotion in the corridor. The compartment door slid open. In came a couple Essio-types with clubs and flashlights.
Suapartni and her family woke up enough to show their ID cards. I pulled out my passport and visa. Apparently that didn’t count — like I’m trying to be difficult, they tell me to come with them. “Bureaucracy, Cal,” Suapartni said, all groggy, “it’s rubbish. When they ask if you’re in Hilm Hivaa tell them no.”
Going from our air-conditioned compartment to the humid hall took my breath away. The platform was breezy.
There were about a dozen of us riff-raff. The guards made us go down some stairs to this stuffy cinderblock room. We all lined up in front of this one window, me at the back.
Aside from whispers here and there, everybody kept quiet. Up above, I could hear the rumble of the train, and I kept being afraid it would leave. I kept my eye on the window. Every time somebody came up with their documents, the guy would chuckle and shake his head, like they were trying to pull something on him. It always seemed to end with them passing some cash, which was kind of a worry since I didn’t have any.
My turn came. No chuckles as he looked at my passport. I didn’t have any reason to feel guilty, but I felt guilty. Three times he compared my picture to my face — and then pointed all accusing at my hair. I lifted up a bunch of my Walgreens red and pointed to the roots. “Dyed,” I said. He shook his head kind of disappointed. Like he’d caught me trying to alter my identity in a really incompetent way. Which wasn’t completely wrong.