“Now if you’ll kindly hold this for me,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said, handing Estha his penis through his soft white muslin dhoti, “I’ll get you your drink. Orange? Lemon?”
Estha held it because he had to.
“Orange? Lemon?” the Man said. “Lemonorange?”
“Lemon, please,” Estha said politely.
He got a cold bottle and a straw. So he held a bottle in one hand and a penis in the other. Hard, hot, veiny. Not a moonbeam.
The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man’s hand closed over Estha’s. His thumbnail was long like a woman’s. He moved Estha’s hand up and down. First slowly. Then fastly.
The lemondrink was cold and sweet. The penis hot and hard.
The piano keys were watching.
“So your grandmother runs a factory?” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said. “What kind of factory?”
“Many products,” Estha said, not looking, with the straw in his mouth. “Squashes, pickles, jams, curry powders. Pineapple slices.”
“Good,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said. “Excellent.”
His hand closed tighter over Estha’s. Tight and sweaty. And faster still.
Fast faster fest
Never let it rest
Until the fast is faster,
And the faster’s fest.
Through the soggy paper straw (almost flattened with spit and fear), the liquid lemon sweetness rose. Blowing through the straw (while his other hand moved), Estha blew bubbles into the bottle. Stickysweet lemon bubbles of the drink he couldn’t drink. In his head he listed his grandmother’s produce.
PICKLES SQUASHES JAMS
Mango Orange Banana
Green pepper Grape Mixed fruit
Bitter gourd Pineapple Grapefruit marmalade
Garlic Mango
Salted lime
Then the gristly-bristly face contorted, and Estha’s hand was wet and hot and sticky. It had egg white on it White egg white. Quarter-boiled.
The lemondrink was cold and sweet. The penis was soft and shriveled like an empty leather change purse. With his dirtcolored rag, the man wiped Estha’s other hand.
“Now finish your drink,” he said, and affectionately squished a cheek of Estha’s bottom. Tight plums in drainpipes. And beige and pointy shoes. “You mustn’t waste it,” he said. “Think of all the poor people who have nothing to eat or drink. You’re a lucky rich boy, with porketmunny and a grandmother’s factory to inherit. You should Thank God that you have no worries. Now finish your drink.”
And so, behind the Refreshments Counter, in the Abhilash Talkies Princess Circle lobby, in the hall with Kerala’s first 70mm CinemaScope screen, Esthappen Yako finished his free bottle of fizzed, lemon-flavored fear. His lemontoolemon, too cold. Too sweet. The fizz came up his nose. He would be given another bottle soon (free, fizzed fear). But he didn’t know that yet. He held his sticky Other Hand away from his body.
It wasn’t supposed to touch anything.
When Estha finished his drink, the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said, “Finished? Goodboy.”
He took the empty bottle and the flattened straw, and sent Estha back into The Sound of Music.
Back inside the hairoil darkness, Estha held his Other Hand carefully (upwards, as though he was holding an imagined orange). He slid past the Audience (their legs moving thiswayandthat), past Baby Kochamma, past Rahel (still tilted back), past Ammu (still annoyed). Estha sat down, still holding his sticky orange.
And there was Baron von Clapp-Trapp. Christopher Plummer. Arrogant. Hardhearted. With a mouth like a slit And a steelshrill police whistle. A captain with seven children. Clean children, like a packet of peppermints. He pretended not to love them, but he did. He loved them. He loved her (Julie Andrews), she loved him, they loved the children, the children loved them. They all loved each other. They were clean, white children, and their beds were soft with Ei. Der. Downs.
The house they lived in had a lake and gardens, a wide staircase, white doors and windows, and curtains with flowers.
The clean white children, even the big ones, were scared of the thunder. To comfort them, Julie Andrews put them all into her clean bed, and sang them a clean song about a few of her favorite things. These were a few of her favorite things:
(1) Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.
(2) Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
(3) Bright copper kettles.
(4) Doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles.
(5) Etc.
And then, in the minds of certain two-egg twin members of the audience in Abhilash Talkies, some questions arose that needed answers:
(a) Did Baron von Clapp-Trapp shiver his leg?
He did not.
(b) Did Baron von Clapp-Trapp blow spit bubbles? Did he?
He did most certainly not.
(c) Did he gobble?
He did not.
Oh Baron von Trapp, Baron von Trapp, could you love the little fellow with the orange in the smelly auditorium?
He’s just held the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man’s soo-soo in his hand, but could you love him still?
And his twin sister? Tilting upwards with her fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo? Could you love her too?
Baron von Trapp had some questions of his own.
(a) Are they clean white children?
No. (But Sophie Mol is.)
(b) Do they blow spit bubbles?
Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)
(c) Do they shiver their legs? Like clerks?
Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)
(d) Have they, either or both, ever held strangers’ soo-soos?
N … Nyes. (But Sophie Mol hasn’t.)
“Then I’m sorry,” Baron von Clapp-Trapp said. “It’s out of the question. I cannot love them. I cannot be their Baba. Oh no.”
Baron von Clapp-Trapp couldn’t
Estha put his head in his lap.
“What’s the matter?” Ammu said. “If you’re sulking again, I’m taking you straight home. Sit up please. And watch. That’s what you’ve been brought here for.”
Finish the drink.
Watch the picture.
Think of all the poor people.
Lucky rich boy with porketmunny. No worries.
Estha sat up and watched. His stomach heaved. He had a green-wavy, thick-watery, lumpy, seaweedy, floaty, bottomless-bottomful feeling.
“Ammu?” he said.
“Now WHAT?” The WHAT snapped, barked, spat out.
“Feeling vomity,” Estha said.
“Just feeling or d’you want to?” Ammu’s voice was worried.
“Don’t know.”
“Shall we go and try?” Ammu said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Estha said.
Okay? Okay.
“Where’re you going?” Baby Kochamma wanted to know.
“Estha’s going to try and vomit,” Ammu said.
“Where’re you going?” Rahel asked.
“Feeling vomity,” Estha said.
“Can I come and watch?”
“No,” Ammu said.
Past the Audience again (legs thiswayandthat). Last time to sing. This time to try and vomit. Exit through the EXIT. Outside in the marble lobby, the Orangedrink Lemondrink man was eating a sweet. His cheek was bulging with a moving sweet. He made soft, sucking sounds like water draining from a basin. There was a green Parry’s wrapper on the counter. Sweets were free for this man. He had a row of free sweets in dim bottles. He wiped the marble counter with his dirtcolored rag that he held in his hairy watch hand. When he saw the luminous woman with polished shoulders and the little boy, a shadow slipped across his face. Then he smiled his portable piano smile.
“Out again sosoon?” he said.
Estha was already retching, Ammu moonwalked him to the Princess Circle bathroom. HERS.
He was held up, wedged between the notclean basin and Ammu’s body. Legs dangling. The basin had steel ta
ps, and rust stains. And a brownwebbed mesh of hairline cracks, like the road map of some great, intricate city.
Estha convulsed, but nothing came. Just thoughts. And they floated out and floated back in. Ammu couldn’t see them. They hovered like storm clouds over the Basin City. But the basin men and basin women went about their usual basin business. Basin cars, and basin buses still whizzed around. Basin Life went on.
“No?” Ammu said.
“No,” Estha said.
No? No.
“Then wash your face,” Ammu said. “Water always helps. Wash your face and let’s go and have a fizzy lemondrink.”
Estha washed his face and hands and face and hands. His eyelashes were wet and bunched together.
The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man folded the green sweet wrapper and fixed the fold with his painted thumbnail He stunned a fly with a rolled magazine. Delicately, he flicked it over the edge of the counter onto the floor. It lay on its back and waved its feeble legs.
“Sweetboy this,” he said to Ammu. “Sings nicely”
“He’s my son,” Ammu said.
“Really?” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said, and looked at Ammu with his teeth. “Really? You don’t look old enough!”
“He’s not feeling well,” Ammu said. “I thought a cold drink would make him feel better.”
“Of course,” the Man said. “Ofcourseofcourse. Orangelemon?” “Lemonorange?” Dreadful, dreaded question.
“No. Thank you.” Estha looked at Ammu. Greenwavy, seaweedy, bottomless-bottomful.
“What about you?” The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man asked Ammu. “Coca-ColaFanta? IcecreamRosemilk?”
“No. Not for me. Thank you,” Ammu said. Deep dimpled, luminous woman.
“Here,” the Man said, with a fistful of sweets, like a generous Air Hostess. “These are for your little Mon.”
“No thank you,” Estha said, looking at Ammu.
“Take them, Estha,” Ammu said. “Don’t be rude.”
Estha took them.
“Say thank you,” Ammu said.
“Thank you,” Estha said. (For the sweets, for the white egg white.)
“No mention,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said in English.
“So!” he said. “Mon says you’re from Ayemenem?”
“Yes,” Ammu said.
“I come there often,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink man said. “My wife’s people are Ayemenem people. I know where your factory is. Paradise Pickles, isn’t it? He told me. Your Mon.”
He knew where to find Estha. That was what he was trying to say. It was a warning.
Ammu saw her son’s bright feverbutton eyes.
“We must go,” she said. “Mustn’t risk a fever. Their cousin is coming tomorrow.” She explained to Uncle. And then, added casually, “From London.”
“From London?” A new respect gleamed in Uncle’s eyes. For a family with London connections.
“Estha, you stay here with Uncle. I’ll get Baby Kochamma and Rahel,” Ammu said.
“Come,” Uncle said. “Come and sit with me on a high stool.”
“No, Ammu! No, Ammu, no! I want to come with you!”
Ammu, surprised at the unusually shrill insistence from her usually quiet son, apologized to the Orangedrink Lemondrink Uncle.
“He’s not usually like this. Come on then, Esthappen.”
The back-inside smell. Fan shadows. Backs of heads. Necks. Collars. Hair. Buns. Plaits. Ponytails.
A fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo. A little girl and an ex-nun.
Baron von Trapp’s seven peppermint children had had their peppermint baths, and were standing in a peppermint line with their hair slicked down, singing in obedient peppermint voices to the woman the Baron nearly married. The blonde Baroness who shone like a diamond.
The hills are alive with the sound of music
“We have to go,” Ammu said to Baby Kochamma and Rahel.
“But Ammu!” Rahel said. “The Main Things haven’t even happened yet! He hasn’t even kissed her! He hasn’t even torn down the Hitler flag yet! They haven’t even been betrayed by Rolf the Postman!”
“Estha’s sick,” Ammu said. “Come on!”
“The Nazi soldiers haven’t even come!”
“Come on,” Ammu said. “Get up!”
“They haven’t even done ‘High on a hill lived a lonely goatherd’!”
“Estha has to be well for Sophie Mol, doesn’t he?” Baby Kochamma said.
“He doesn’t,” Rahel said, but mostly to herself.
“What did you say?” Baby Kochamma said, getting the general drift, but not what was actually said.
“Nothing,” Rahel said.
“I heard you,” Baby Kochamma said.
Outside, Uncle was reorganizing his dim bottles. Wiping with his dirtcolored rag the ring-shaped water stains they had left on his marble Refreshments Counter. Preparing for the Interval. He was a Clean Orangedrink Lemondrink Uncle. He had an air hostess’s heart trapped in a bear’s body.
“Going then?” he said.
“Yes,” Ammu said. “Where can we get a taxi?”
“Out the gate, up the road, on your left,” he said, looking at Rahel. “You never told me you had a little Mol too.” And holding out another sweet “Here, Mol—for you.”
“Take mine!” Estha said quickly, not wanting Rahel to go near the man.
But Rahel had already started towards him. As she approached him, he smiled at her and something about that portable piano smile, something about the steady gaze in which he held her, made her shrink from him. It was the most hideous thing she had ever seen. She spun around to look at Estha.
She backed away from the hairy man.
Estha pressed his Parry’s sweets into her hand and she felt his fever-hot fingers whose tips were as cold as death.
“’Bye, Mon,” Uncle said to Estha. “I’ll see you in Ayemenem sometime.”
So, the redsteps once again. This time Rahel lagging. Slow. No I don’t want to go. A ton of bricks on a leash.
“Sweet chap, that Orangedrink Lemondrink fellow,” Ammu said.
“Chhi!” Baby Kochamma said.
“He doesn’t look it, but he was surprisingly sweet with Estha,” Ammu said.
“So why don’t you marry him then?” Rahel said petulantly.
Time stopped on the red staircase. Estha stopped. Baby Kochamma stopped.
“Rahel,” Ammu said.
Rahel froze. She was desperately sorry for what she had said. She didn’t know where those words had come from. She didn’t know that she’d had them in her. But they were out now, and wouldn’t go back in. They hung about that red staircase like clerks in a government office. Some stood, some sat and shivered their legs.
“Rahel,” Ammu said, “do you realize what you have just done?”
Frightened eyes and a fountain looked back at Ammu.
“It’s all right. Don’t be scared,” Ammu said. “Just answer me. Do you?”
“What?” Rahel said in the smallest voice she had.
“Realize what you’ve just done?” Ammu said.
Frightened eyes and a fountain looked back at Ammu.
“D’you know what happens when you hurt people?” Ammu said. “When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.”
A cold moth with unusually dense dorsal tufts landed lightly on Rahel’s heart. Where its icy legs touched her, she got goosebumps. Six goosebumps on her careless heart.
A little less her Ammu loved her.
And so, out the gate, up the road, and to the left. The taxi stand. A hurt mother, an ex-nun, a hot child and a cold one. Six goosebumps and a moth.
The taxi smelled of sleep. Old clothes rolled up. Damp towels. Armpits. It was, after all, the taxi driver’s home. He lived in it. It was the only place he had to store his smells. The seats had been killed. Ripped. A swathe of dirty yellow sponge spilled out and shivered on the backseat like an immens
e jaundiced liver. The driver had the ferrety alertness of a small rodent. He had a hooked Roman nose and a Little Richard mustache. He was so small that he watched the road through the steering wheel. To passing traffic it looked like a taxi with passengers but no driver. He drove fast, pugnaciously, darting into empty spaces, nudging other cars out of their lanes. Accelerating at zebra crossings. Jumping lights.
“Why not use a cushion or a pillow or something?” Baby Kochamma suggested in her friendly voice. “You’ll be able to see better.”
“Why not mind your own business, sister?” the driver suggested in his unfriendly one.
Driving past the inky sea, Estha put his head out of the window. He could taste the hot, salt breeze on his mouth. He could feel it lift his hair. He knew that if Ammu found out about what he had done with the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man, she’d love him less as well. Very much less. He felt the shaming churning heaving turning sickness in his stomach. He longed for the river. Because water always helps.
The sticky neon night rushed past the taxi window. It was hot inside the taxi, and quiet Baby Kochamma looked flushed and excited. She loved not being the cause of ill-feeling. Every time a pye-dog strayed onto the road, the driver made a sincere effort to kill it.
The moth on Rahel’s heart spread its velvet wings, and the chill crept into her bones.
In the Hotel Sea Queen car park, the skyblue Plymouth gossiped with other, smaller cars. Hslip Hslip Hsnooh-snah. A big lady at a small ladies’ party. Tailfins aflutter.
“Room numbers 313 and 327,” The man at the reception desk said. “Non-airconditioned. Twin beds. Lift is closed for repair.”
The bellboy who took them up wasn’t a boy and hadn’t a bell. He had dim eyes and two buttons missing on his frayed maroon coat. His grayed undershirt showed. He had to wear his silly bellhop’s cap tilted sideways, its tight plastic strap sunk into his sagging dewlap. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to make an old man wear a cap sideways like that and arbitrarily re-order the way in which age chose to hang from his chin.
The God of Small Things Page 11