by CK Collins
The white woman — there is something I think I know. She is not like other women, I think, and her baby is not like other babies.
14 November
* * *
Nova Coast, Masalay
It shouldn’t have taken so long, but I think I’ve finally got the who’s who of this place worked out. The guy who sells me the fish is Alimi’s dad, and the two boys who are always hanging around, those are her brothers. That one skinny kid who keeps all to himself, him I can’t figure out, but maybe she’s related to him too. There’s a whole crew of women and girls working for her making spoons and bowls and stuff, and I think there’s an iirik distillery going in one of the houses on the other side of the road.
Alimi mentioned a couple days ago that there’s a shrine up the road from here, a few kilometers, for the people that died in the tsunami. I told her I’d like to go, but she kept saying the design is “most mediocre” and not worth my time. (Her opinion of my time and my taste is way overvalued.) I’m tempted to walk it sometime. Just so long as there’s no railroad tracks.
I keep trying to speak Masalayan, but the only thing I feel confident with is addi for hello, astim for please, and ayin milai for thank you. With the rest of what I try, they just look at me and nod. It’s okay, though, I like my routine. I stroll down every afternoon around three and get whatever I need for dinner. Plus a lot of what I don’t need — I am now very, very well stocked with spoons carved out of coconut shells.
Kind of weird, but the place this most reminds me of? The Exton Mall. Not much sand or fresh fish in the Exton Mall, but what feels similar is this way of being alone.
Eighth grade. Of all the sucky school transitions I ever had, that was the über suckiest. Transferred in at the very end of middle school. All these kids who’d been together since kindergarten — and then here comes gangly me. I got introduced as the kid from North Carolina, which automatically pegged me as a redneck. The big fun for them was talking to me in hayseed southern accents. The fact that I didn’t have an accent myself, you can’t let that get in the way of comedy. Them pretending I was illiterate, good laughs there too. And then the old favorites like saying I smelled bad, stealing my gym clothes, talking about my abortion, getting me to do the wrong homework assignment. That was all the first week.
There was one girl, Stacey Dinardo. I wonder how ol’ Stace is doing these days. She was cool, she called me on the phone, which was exciting because nobody ever called me. We talked about which boys were cute, which girls I thought were annoying. Of course (duh) she had her actual friend, Amber Whatshername, recording the whole thing. Major bonding after that.
And of course, yes, Deanna Tasker. Deanna who said she smoked a pack of Camels a day and liked talking about the tattoo her boyfriend paid for. Deanna who totally went for thrashcore and poking her pencil in my back all through social studies. She thought that me being so skinny and quiet meant I wouldn’t ever do anything besides tell her to quit it. Or that if I did do anything I’d fight like a girl.
Unknown to her was that I was raised by one József Voros of Debrecen, Hungary. Not an aggressive or violent person, this József, but he didn’t raise no goddamn sissy. He was maybe not so good at chaperoning field trips or coaching soccer, but he did hang a punching bag in the basement and teach his daughter how to throw a nasty left-right.
I showed restraint. I put up with Deanna’s shit and I put up with it. And then I turned around and broke that bitch’s pencil. We found out real quick then which one of us fought like a fucking girl.
And that’s how I got to miss the last month of eighth grade. And how I had the free time to become a true mall rat. Dad didn’t want me sitting around in the house all day long, so when he went to his job at the mall, I went with him. We did it that way through the summer too and on through my first year of high school.
It’s hard for me to believe that he was actually happy doing that job. But then Dad has this annoying habit of accommodating to whatever his situation is. If you sent him to hell, he wouldn’t waste time bitching, he’d get to work fixing that thermostat. Technically he was just there to fix watches. Young’s Jewelers, diagonal from the fountain, opposite Rite Aid, next to the caramel corn store — and attached to Young’s was a little stall for watch repair.
There were a couple trees of watch bands on the counter facing the fountain. The room itself was basically a closet cluttered with watch pieces and other stuff. And of course it wasn’t long before he was fixing more than watches. People would mention other broke stuff they had, and he’d say, “My friend, bring it in, I take a look.” The manager tried telling him he couldn’t do other jobs. But József ignored him, and soon he was fixing that guy’s stuff too.
I’d get dinner and bring it in there to eat. Chick-fil-A, Friendly’s, Burger King, Peking Palace — sounds disgusting now, but I dug it. After dinner, I’d return the little stool I borrowed and go read a book or do my homework by the fountain. If I got done everything I wanted, I’d reward myself with a pack of gummy bears or Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews and go walking. If my life was a TV show, I’d have gotten adopted by all the lovable eccentrics in the mall. But the real me enjoyed not talking to anybody and just watching the world go by.
* * *
Being pregnant is way different from what I expected. I always assumed I’d be the sort of chick that goes through nine months of morning sickness and zits and edema. And I do have side effects — it’s just that all of them are great.
Crazy energy for one. When I sleep, it’s more out of habit than need, and I’ve got a kind of mental sharpness that’s totally not me. There’s a ton of English-language books here, thank god, because I’m just voracious. My skin’s never been this clear, and I don’t even bother washing my face anymore. What’s maybe weirdest: It’s like the baby has solved my klutziness and brought my body into balance. Those insane steps down to the cove, every day I take them faster. I guess all I ever needed was more weight around the middle. I should’ve eaten more Häagen Däzs and been a ballerina.
Speaking of Häagen Däzs — I wish I had some. This kid has a mean appetite. What’s weird is that I’m eating like a moose but I don’t look like one. Not yet anyway, I’m just barely showing. The first day down in the village, I was so hungry I asked for two fish. You could feed a couple men with one of these, and here I am ordering two. Alimi’s dad didn’t believe me. Of course, Alimi’s looking at him like, Don’t be an idiot — the crazy American wants two fish, sell her two fish. And I did feel kind of ridiculous. But I ate them. Poached one, fried the other. The next day I come down and ordered two more. Maybe they’ve decided I’m just a sucky cook and I waste a lot. And I am a sucky cook, which I blame completely on the lack of decent tongs in this place. But I don’t waste anything — no matter how bad I mess it up, everything still tastes amazing.
Alimi’s always happy to hook me up with special food deals — just for me, of course, because we’re friends — on mangos or eggs or pickled whatever. I’m sure I’m paying too much, but it’s all been good so far. Yesterday it was Isaan cheese (which is amazing and lasted me about three minutes) and a quarter-kilo of crystallized ginger. Nuclear stuff, not like any ginger I’ve ever tasted. But that didn’t stop me from staying up till three a.m. snarfing it down and reading Wuthering Heights, which is one gloomy book but I like it.
Maybe I’m having triplets.
The Murais would be psyched about triplets. I’d introduce them to little Jethro and Cletus and Betty Sue, and they would be so in love with me.
Pashi left a message yesterday. Kind of cryptic — she’s not going to let Alimi know her business — telling me I should expect her on December 2nd. “Coming to their senses,” it said. I’m not convinced they’ve got senses to come to, but we’ll see. Maybe it’s true, maybe they’ve suddenly realized how grandly grand I am. Rika’s mom and sisters will show up with flowers and chocolates and apologies. I’ll be gracious. I mean, of course. We’ll laugh. That crazy misunderstan
ding, glad that’s over with. And when we get home — it’ll be a surprise for all of us — Rika will be there on the front steps. A lush song on the soundtrack, maybe Enya.
Or December 2nd is a trick and they’ve paid Alimi to drown me. Tough call, could go either way.
* * *
I float on my back. It’s nice. Me and the little one, we feel peaceful here. The air is calm and the water is calm. The sun is warm on us. We hear birds.
* * *
Cleaning up after dinner and I decide — still hoping I can find a cooking utensil not made from coconuts — to give that stuck drawer under the sink another tug. It breaks free of whatever was holding it (I’m becoming super-woman from all this fish). It’s utensil-free of course, empty except for a slip of scrap paper at the back. I lean against the wet sink, getting my butt wet, and unfold it — words traced from a book, thin pencil lines, super meticulous:
I fled Her, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Her, down the arches of the years;
I fled Her, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind
I say it soft to myself. Very nice, very poetic. But it doesn’t belong to me. I put it back and jam the stiff drawer shut.
19 November
* * *
Nova Coast, Masalay
This day is of worship and I climb the hill to Daadik’s house. Always here it is windy. But not today. The air, I think, is holding its breath.
Waiting at the door already is Daadik. We bow. I ask of his health and how he answers is that each day is Ashma’s gift.
The years of fishing have made him all the time bent. He says it is the fishes’ revenge that his body is a hook. Of else about Daadik I know that his wife and two children have all died before him. Because his son was MDF, Daadik gets a dole cheque on the month. If Daadik’s son was dead by an igmaki, he has not said it to me.
Inside is the smell of lamp oil, iirik, and salt fish. I help him sit on his dode at the shrine and then is his permission to sit. Fingertips Daadik touches to his forehead, his lips, his heart. I follow. About the footprints I am wanting to say something. About the sound and the white woman and her baby. But I do not want Daadik to think that I am falling back into evil.
His right hand he puts in mine and I remember it is my turn of speaking. The rite of Daadik is different from the rite of the Sisters. I am the making of mistakes, but always he is patient. Ashma, what he reads in the rite, some of the things, I worry they are not proper things. But Sister Imurna has said to me that true faith is more to You than true observance. And the faith of Daadik is I know true.
———Ashma in Jesus
———Jesus in Ashma
———May we live with love
———Lest we die before our bodies
In the pressing of hands, I worry of hurting Daadik. But the Sisters have said that we must squeeze with strength to show we are present. And always his grip meets mine. He says to me, “I thank you for sharing this worship with me.” I thank him the same and do not mumble.
The hymn he sings I do not know. It is short and lovely to me.
———It is in pain that we are born
———And in love that we become alive
To a page that he has marked with yarn, Daadik opens his Bible. Because of his eyes, he must hold the book to his face. The lines are saying of Your power to give shelter from the storm and deliver souls from the snare of the fowler.
———May Jesus be in you
———And in you also
Next is the dissolving of salt in water. Into the bowl Daadik dips his fingers and tastes. Into the bowl I dip my fingers and taste.
———As the salt becomes invisible but remains throughout
———So is Ashma hidden to the mind
———To taste the salt, we extend our tongues
———To know Ashma, we extend our faith
Ashma, Daadik has a book besides the Bible. It is different from the Bible and maybe not a right book. From a shelf under the shrine he takes the book. A thing Sister Imurna said is that I mustn’t believe everything I learned as a child.
The name of the Ashma belief I learned as a child is Que. How she said it is that Que was good and important for understanding Ashma in the age before Jesus delivered His Grace. After the good news of Jesus came across the sea, the priests of Liashe prayed and had between them debates for many generations. The Holy Creed is what they made, and it says the place of Jesus in Ashma. It is to Que what the adult is to the child.
What I learned as a child is not wicked. Because Que comes from the Av Udaan, and the Av Udaan is where the knowing of You was born. But some things of Que are mistaken. And my soul must not be distracted by trusting in imaginary things.
Sister Imurna asked did I learn about the Godling. To that I told her yes. What she helped me to know is that the Godling is a lovely story. But lovely and true are not the same.
Daadik’s other book, Ashma, is a book of the Godling. It is a book of Lirim and Khaadum and the evils of the Skythk. It tells of the future day when a new Godling will be born on earth. That child will be the one to teach us Your true language. I am trying not to believe all of what is said from that book.
A hymn. Away he puts the book and I am relief. Into a bowl, he pours milk and sips. From the bowl I sip.
———We drink milk to honour the passing of life to life
From a jar, he pinches sand and then blows it from his palm.
———Thoughts scatter
He raises his palm and I press his palm with mine.
———In Ashma we are whole
———Bless you, friend
———Thank you, friend, for sharing this worship with me
———May the mother bear the child
———And the child bear the world
Afternoon
Liashe, Masalay
Tchori holds Brother Carodai’s arm whilst he retakes his former seat.
“We’ve taken the route you suggested,” he informs Sule — short of breath, as if it’s he who’s done all the pushing — “I believe Tchori preferred it, did you not?”
“Fewer stones for catching the wheels. Many thanks.”
“One week more in the damned contraption. I thought I might leave it behind today, but Tchori set me to rights on that.”
She sits, flushed and perspiring. “You desire a relapse, do you?”
“Sule, how much time have we till Viv?”
“We’re to ring on at 2:30. Fifteen minutes.”
On the small table between them, Sule has set up a speaker phone connected via two wires to an austere metal box, which is itself plugged into a wall socket. Sule adjusts a dial on the side. “I’ve already swept for listening devices. We’ll need to do as well for your flat.”
“Yes, yes,” says Carodai in a manner suggesting it will be a task for Tchori.
“And on that subject, Brother — I’ve something for you.”
“A gift, how thoughtful. You know, the fault with your new route is that it’s taken us the wrong way from Tchori’s deirin bakery. So we’ve come empty handed, I’m afraid.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Sule is adherent to healthy eating, Tchori. The pair of you should discuss vegetarianism.”
Avoiding a reply, Sule presents Carodai with a purple Nokia mobile.
“Come, Sule, you’re not serious.”
“You’re well past time for it.”
“You’ve made it purple on purpose, haven’t you?”
“Not at all,” Sule replies with the hint of a grin. “I expect your novice can instruct you in the basic operation. I’ve prepared it with special encryption protocol. You’ll not notice an effect apart from the occasional delay, which can’t be helped. I’ve programmed the number to use. Star – then 7 – then star a second time.”
“You’ll remember that, won’t you, Miss Vidaayit?”
“Yes Brother.” She
takes it from Sule because Brother won’t. “Have I time to run to the CR?”
Sule nods, not overly concerned about her presence or absence.
“I remember the way.”
Inside the room, she splashes her face and drinks from cupped hand. She looks a fright. To counteract the odour of the flowers, she’s had to begin washing twice daily with harsh soap and shampoo. Her hair has lost all lustre and never has her skin been so itchy and dry.
She shuts the door and retakes her seat as Sule scrutinises page 110 of Journal of the Plague Year. Using the text as a guide, he enters a long code on the telephone number pad then slides a black switch. Rapid clicks followed by a long, low-octave tone. Sule adjusts the side dial and nods at Carodai.