The Godling: A Novel of Masalay

by CK Collins

  “Astim, I’ve come for Brother Carodai,” she says as instructed.

  “Carodai?”

  “Brother Carodai. He gave me an order number.”

  The helpful fellow pushes a scrap of paper and pencil stub across the counter and she writes the number that Carodai instructed her to memorise. The man considers the number. Then considers her. Finally satisfied, he moves behind a curtain and returns with a black tin: Pure Virginia Cured and sealed with imprinted wax across the seam. “For the Brother.”

  “Thanks much. The price then?”

  The man licks his lips and answers with a shrug, as if making it up, “Four pounds thirty.”

  She hands him a fiver, takes the change, and surprises herself by bowing. “Ashma’s grace.”

  “Ashma’s grace,” he replies and his bow is humble indeed.

  * * *

  She paces the flat waiting for Kistulo. At the cinema according to the note he left hours ago.

  Uncomfortable bringing the tobacco tin home, she took it to the mending room and looked in on the flowers. Only there a minute but she still feels, hours later, warmly infiltrated by the smell. She drinks an ale, the local swill that Kistulo tries to defend, and stares at a documentary about typefaces until she hears his feet.

  “You’re up, brilliant.”

  A kiss. “You smell like whiskey?” A second kiss. “They’re serving whiskey at the cinema now?”

  “No, chaff all, the films — I’ve gone round Thom’s instead.” A kiss. “Heard about Carodai poor fellow, you shouldn’t work him so hard.”

  “Doing what at Thom’s then, Halo?”

  “Newest FIFA — mad game, that.”

  “Misilo there as well, was she?”

  “She dropped in.”

  “In tank top?”

  “Blessings are meant to be shared, it’s in the Creed. What’s that smell then?”

  “What smell?”

  He sniffs her shirt. “Wearing perfume?”

  “It’s not perfume.”

  He sniffs her hair. “I like it.”

  “You don’t truly.”

  “I do. What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Her hand is in his waistband and she’s cupping him the way he likes, stepping out of her skirt and feeling him grow and kissing his neck. A whisper tickling her ear. Too slow with the buttons, pants pulled over hips. He wets a finger and finds her. She moans and grips, loves him, and hurts him only a little.

  Evening

  West Anartha Autonomous District, Masalay

  Space for spreading.

  So dark.

  And hot.

  He’s not alone. Someone is here, waiting for him to wake. And he will, soon, but it’s very dark just yet. He’s patient, this boy.

  Rika will need to wake soon. Ikidris will not be patient forever.

  20 October

  * * *

  Jaya, Masalay

  Pashi picks me up at ten. She looks pissed. I tell her we don’t have to do the shopping if it’s a bad time. “No, we’ll have you looking brilliant for this,” and I get the definite idea that it’s the Murais she’s pissed at.

  We park by the Harbour and walk along the outdoor mall that connects the main hotels and casinos. Hot sun glinting off the glass and steel, making me squint. I walked through all of this with Suapartni, but I remember having a hard time believing that anybody actually lives in Jaya. I keep thinking I might run into her. And really hoping I don’t.

  We walk into the Imperial Jade. In addition to the mirror surfaces and slinky hostesses that they all have, this one’s got a two-story green fountain, gold coins embedded in the floor, and a life-size elephant made from polished amethyst and jade. Pashi tells me under her breath that most Jayans prefer the older, more tasteful hotels. But the boutiques here can’t be topped, so we take a glass elevator to the twentieth floor. Incredible view, but I don’t have time to gawk because this elegant woman is right away sashaying over to kiss Pashi’s cheek. I’m introduced and Pashi tells her to spare nothing on my behalf.

  An hour later, there I am in matching blouse and skirt, silk underwear, and a pair of Manolo Blahniks (me and Carrie Bradshaw). We agree it’s good. Pashi asks if a small bracelet wouldn’t finish the look perfectly, and Silis says she has just the item. While she’s getting it, I tell Pashi that I really appreciate everything but she doesn’t need to spend so much. She’s browsing the silky dresses with her fingertips and says, “Mustn’t worry the cost, Callie.”

  The bracelet is gorgeous. Of course. Silis brings me two extra sets of panties and bras and throws in a “light, casual” blouse. I get a farewell kiss, and Pashi doesn’t let me see the register receipt.

  Last stop is a salon. It’s on the top floor of the Masalayan Pearl, the 32nd story, and the whole city is laid out below us. The best manicure I’ll find east of Hong Kong, Pashi promises me. And the facials are superb. Champagne on the couch by the window, and I allow myself a couple sips. Pashi’s stylist appears, and she’s a cheek-kisser too. My drugstore dye job is a source of grave concern. I’ve gotten used to people’s sideways glances, but this lady seems to think it’s a threat to hair everywhere. Pashi slips into Masalayan for an explanation, and when she’s finished I get a very sympathetic look.

  “We will fix everything,” the woman says.

  A minute later, I’m leaning back and shutting my eyes for the shampoo.

  I decide to believe her.

  Afternoon

  Liashe, Masalay

  Carodai’s flat is infuriating. A mortuary of paper and not enough light — myriad lamps but only a couple that work — and no proper place to sit. His efficiency smells of scorched meals, the counters are stained, crumbs are under foot. Baffling how a man of such meticulous mind could be so graceless at the simple business of living.

  “You ought to have a maid, Brother.” She considers adding that it won’t be her but takes pity. The medication they’ve administered may have calmed his tremors but at what cost? The man’s movements, alternating from sluggish to jerky, suggest a marionette with faulty strings. A scandal, the state of medicine in this country.

  “I did have . . . some years ago.” He speech has turned worse since yesterday — sloppy and thick. “Lovely girl.”

  “Right, well, it’s time for another. Can I steep you some tea then?”

  “Lovely. You’ll have some as well?”

  “No thank you. It’s in one of these cabinets then?”

  “Do you know what else would be lovely?”

  “Tell me,” she says, trying different cupboards. “Right, here we are. What leaves are you wanting? We’ve an Assam, brilliant, looks old enough to have been picked by Gandhi’s mother.”

  A hazy laugh from Carodai. “I don’t think Gandhi’s mother picked tea.”

  “Right then, Assam it is.”

  “What would be lovely are some of those deirin buns.”

  “One thing at a time, don’t you think?” She fills the kettle and puts a match to the front burner. “I’ve collected your tobacco tin,” she reminds him, coming round to her bag, which she tucked in the undercarriage of his wheelchair. It’s amused Kistulo to no end that in a week’s time she’s gone from driving Carodai in a car to pushing him in a wheelchair. He’s predicting next a rickshaw. “Shall I be opening it for you then?”

  “Please. It requires a twist to break that wax.”

  She ought to tell him about the internet, the responses she’s received to her flower posting. But she’s agitated as it is without having to explain jpegs and messaging etiquette. The reaction on the boards was so far from what she’d expected — a tsunami of invective. Spinsters and repressed homosexuals the world over accusing her of attempting a hoax by Photoshopping what all agreed was an “impossible species.” She was accused of not living anywhere in the tropics, as she’d claimed, and of being a horticultural ignoramus on top of a charlatan. She started on responses but abandoned them a
ll. What could be the use?

  She brushes fragments of the broken seal into the bin and lays the lid on one of the many towers of paper.

  “Now, if you would dig your finger under the tobacco.”

  “Underneath it?”

  “There should be something there.”

  She wiggles a finger through the dense pack of leaves and finds a folded sheet of paper. “A note?” she says, holding it up and feeling foolish for not having surmised as much.

  “Yes, if you could bring it to me with pencil and paper. Try the desk.”

  She delivers everything as the kettle comes to boil.

  “Lovely, thank you. We’ve a complex cypher, you see.”

  “I do see.” Crossing to the efficiency, she feels irked — he might have told her what the errand was about. And might not have kept her in the dark about this mysterious correspondent. The leaves steeping, she watches him work the cypher whilst contending with incompliant muscles. She brings over his cup and finds a spot on the table beside his chair and sets it down. “I believe I’ve some biscuits as well,” he says distractedly, “if you’d care for some.”

  “I’m well, thank you.” She hadn’t wanted tea but needs to occupy herself — otherwise she’ll have nothing to do but start cleaning up for him — so she prepares a cup of her own and perches on the edge of the one remaining chair. Her back against a stack of periodicals from the 1970s.

  “Right then,” he announces after a quarter hour’s effort, his overtaxed left hand finally allowed to relax.

  “Good news?”

  “Yes, yes, good news,” he murmurs. Noticing the cup: “Oh bless you.”

  “I can make you another if that’s gone cold.”

  He smiles. She sips her own. They’re in silence a moment before it occurs to him to provide explanation. “I’ve left you in the dark, haven’t I?”

  A raised eyebrow seems the most tactful response.

  “Well, it’s most probable this will turn out to be nothing, you understand. Random curiosities.”

  “Of course.”

  “But it can’t be ignored. Evidence of this nature.” His tongue has become looser, nearly his normal voice, but his hands appear entirely spent. “Before my unfortunate incident, I’ve sent word to a friend. Requesting assistance. He’s been kind enough to reply.”

  “And you communicate by tobacco?”

  “An old habit. Antiquated, do you think?”

  “Perhaps a wee bit.”

  “In any case, we’re quite fortunate: Sule has agreed to help.”

  “In what way, may I ask?”

  He looks at the transcribed note and wipes away the tea that dribbled on it. “The date today is . . .?”

  “The twentieth.”

  “Ah. That will make it longer than I would like. But he has responsibilities to attend to before undertaking the trip.”

  “Trip where, Brother?”

  “Rith Idiiye. I’ve a growing fear that we left too hastily.”

  “Fear of what?”

  “Several things. You’d like to know more, would you?”

  “Whatever you care to share, Brother.”

  “Or perhaps you’re wishing that you knew less.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been told that I’ve a tendency to presume too much. This is rather above your pay grade, as they say. I shouldn’t blame you in the least, if you prefer to withdraw.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said previously. It’s not necessarily a matter of being ‘afraid.’ You may feel it’s simply not prudent. We could pretend this has all been a play.”

  “You can ask my lad, I don’t right care for plays. Nor films. Nor games. Don’t care much for pretending of any kind. So if it’s alright with you, Brother, whatever there is to know I’d like to know it.”

  A grin that says he expected her answer. “Splendid. First thing, there’s a book, I wonder if you might fetch it for me?”

  “As long as I haven’t got to buy more tobacco.”

  “No, it’s right here with us.”

  She stands, surveying the dark forest of stacks. “The next time I come here it will be with light bulbs.”

  “Bless you, I can never remember to bring them myself. You’ll want to go to your left, that stack by the plant.”

  “Ah, this was a plant, I see. Here?”

  “The stack with Bunyan on top, Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  “Found it,” she says, placing her hand on the stack as if planting a flag. “Where am I looking next?”

  “There should be a volume toward the middle. Journal of the Plague Years, Dafoe.” Stooping, she scans the spines and the poor light doesn’t help.

  “Have you read it?”

  “Journal of the Plague Years? No, I’ve not.”

  “An undervalued work. Beige volume, you’ll see it.”

  “Actually no — red.” Accessing the book requires relocating the many volumes piled on top.

  “Hold onto it for me, won’t you? It’s for Sule when we see him. Now, if you’d like to have a seat, I shall attempt to fill in some details.” She sits, the book in her lap, wishing she’d straightened the periodicals jabbing her back. “I told you about my discovery, yes, the palimpsest? And I’ve told you already about the Av Udaan. Well, it then got more interesting.”

  Afternoon

  Jaya, Masalay

  I cross my legs and position my hand over the smudge on my skirt. My beautiful skirt — I can’t be trusted with nice things — deep breath. The Murais’ maid brings a cloth napkin and club soda. I don’t want the family walking in while I’m cleaning myself, but it’s nice of her. So I say, “Thanks, ayin milai,” and wait till she’s gone then I tuck the bottle behind my chair leg. Fold the napkin neatly and tuck it in my purse. Not my purse, Pashi’s purse. I feel like I’m wearing a costume right down to my underwear.

  The door opens. Two middle-aged women walk in, slinky and beautiful, then an older woman who must be Mrs. Murai. I’m not sure what the right manners are. So I stand up. There’s one of those ceremonial basins at the door — they wash their hands and pat them dry on a special towel before saying hello.

  “Good afternoon,” says Mrs. Murai.

  “Good afternoon.”

  I don’t know if I’m supposed to, but I bow.

  “Good afternoon,” say the sisters. They don’t bow back.

  “Hi.”

  “You prefer English?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  They sit on the couch across from me. I sit too. I lay my hands so that one of them’s covering the smudge, and I smile like I’m honored to be there. They smile back, but honored isn’t the vibe. A minute later, Essio comes in with his dad. I’m trying to be open-minded about the Colonel but he does look like an A-1 jerk. They wash their hands then take seats on opposite chairs. It feels like a military maneuver, something to cut off my routes of escape.

  We say hello, and the maid brings tea. I don’t really want any. I’m burning up as it is, and what are the odds I won’t dribble it on my blouse. But I say ayin milai and we all sit in silence while we stir our milk. The door opens again (is there anybody left?) and an old guy in a business suit comes in and actually looks at me before washing his hands. He sits in the back, like he’s here to record everything.

  I’m so used to the weird silence that when Mrs. Murai finally speaks it feels violent. “Miss Voros has asked us to speak in English.”

  “Thanks, yes.”

  “It’s quite all right,” she says. “To your liking, the tea?”

  “Yes. Thank you, it’s very good.”

  “Now, dear, what is ‘Voros’?”

  What it is, bitch, is my name. “It’s Hungarian. My dad was born in Hungary. He came to America when he was seventeen.”

  “And why was that, dear?”

  “Why’d he leave Hungary, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t, you know, he didn’t like it much. It
was communist then. Obviously. And he wanted to be in America instead. Freedom.”