The Limits of the World

by Jennifer Acker

  He watched Sunil watch his wife as she strolled across the lawn, away from the house. When they all went out together, Amy looked like a lemon among potatoes. She now reached an outbuilding and pulled at the padlocked door, peeked in the shuttered window. Nosy.

  “So, what’s new with you and Mom? You seem busy, as usual. Mom has hit her stride with the store. That’s great.”

  Premchand stepped closer, stood beside his son so they took in the same sights. “Yes,” he said. Then he thought, no, he should tell the truth. No more secrets. “Well. I should tell you, the store is subsidized.”

  “What?” Sunil turned to face him.

  “From my salary.”

  “How much?”

  “Four thousand dollars per month.”

  Sunil began to pace, around and around the antique dining table. The European family glanced at them and shuffled quickly into the next room.

  “Four thousand? That’s almost fifty thousand a year. That’s a pretty costly hobby, Dad.”

  Outside, the clouds thickened. Gray light filtered into the room, and the romantic warmth of the colonial wood and rugs and paneled walls cooled.

  “It’s been good for your mother. What other options does she have?”

  “What if something happens and you don’t have enough to retire? I won’t be able to help you guys out for a long time.”

  Sunil’s face was tight, eyes pinched and nostrils flared. A delicate porcelain vase was positioned carefully on a stand just inches away.

  “Son, I have a pension. We have savings. We are not going to go broke.”

  “I guess I don’t understand. If Mom was so desperate for something to do all those years I was in school, why didn’t she come to my soccer games, talk to the other moms, pick me up after classes? I just mean that, well, that bus ride was an hour and a half each way. You never drove me either.” This was a sore spot, but Premchand had promised himself he would be quiet and listen. “Then Mom wanted to take me out of Pick, just when I was getting used to it. Remember?”

  “Your mother was too focused on grades. She did not give you enough time to adjust, I agree.”

  Sunil shook his head. “We fought so much and you never stepped in. You could have been there more, Dad.” His arms burst open then, like furious wings, and the porcelain vase shattered.

  Sunil stared at the wreckage. “Fuck,” he said. “I’m so stupid. I am so sorry,” he said to a horrified-looking attendant who, upon hearing the crash, had hurried into the room. Then both he and Premchand were down on their knees.

  Premchand reached over and grasped his son’s jaw. Felt the bristle that proved that Sunil was grown up now, which made his heart contract. “Son,” he said. “We are going to be fine. Your job is your studies, your new life. Your good life, your wife, as you told me yourself. Let us worry about the rest. Go—” He gestured to the lawn, where Amy’s lens pointed toward the window shedding light on the mess they had made. “Go to her.”

  Sunil dropped the shard he was holding, nodded, and left Premchand with the pieces.

  Despite reports of recent muggings, since arriving in Nairobi Premchand had begun taking walks for the exercise and to get out of the house. He couldn’t endure more snacking, more gossipy chats. The sidewalks were narrow, sometimes not more than a dirt path, but it was better than walking at the Oshwal Centre, where he failed to remember the names of the boyhood friends who tacked across the lawn to talk to him—the man who’d gone to America.

  Lacing up his shoes, Premchand told Urmila that they’d had a pleasant morning sightseeing in the Highlands. She had complained of a headache and stayed behind. He kept the more troubling details to himself. Amy was a nice, smart girl, he said. She was good for their son.

  Urmila was doubtful. She’d heard Amy asking Sarada about email; she was too busy connecting to home and doing her personal things. “An Indian girl would not go in for all the sightseeing.”

  “The sightseeing is set up by your sister.”

  “I am telling you, an Indian girl would do the right thing. Especially in a time of crisis.”

  “She’s not your competition, darling. They are happy together. And there is no crisis.”

  Urmila ignored him. “You know what would make me happy? A promise not to take away the money for the shop. Now I am starting a mentorship with this American woman, how would it look if I suddenly closed?” Her face was bare of makeup, her dyed hair showed gray at the roots. Glasses bloomed her eyelashes into thick, dark feathers.

  “What will you do to keep expenses down?”

  “This is the reason I’m having all these meetings. To find a new supplier and cut costs.”

  “If you reduce like you say, then you can have the money.”

  Premchand wanted her to keep the shop, but especially after Sunil’s reasonable point about savings, he knew it was time to be more careful. He should start sending larger sums to help Sunil and Amy, and if he was honest with himself, he knew this was a better investment. Being able to give them something extravagant, like the safari, had felt good.

  Premchand decided to head toward the ring road with the Westgate shopping center in mind as a destination. Yesterday he’d bought a new watch battery there. But after a few blocks he tired of the route and took another. The late-afternoon heat was drying the roads. He’d been away for many years, but he had never really forgotten the rhythms of his childhood: the cycles of light and dark, hot and cold, wet and dry. Red dust sprayed up under his feet. His shoes would be ruined, but he didn’t care.

  A spotless black Mercedes cruised by. Then students in blue-and-white uniforms, women in printed dresses, men in suits and pointy shoes, young boys hawking bundles of newspapers, all of them accumulating a layer of fine red clay on their skin.

  Premchand felt for the plastic knight in his pocket, pressed it against his thigh, then rubbed the worn nose with his thumb. He turned again, onto a narrower, residential street. If he could drive here, he might have gone to a park to feel a little more open space, grass under his feet. When he was a boy, Jeevanjee Gardens had seemed huge, so many shrubs for hide-and-seek. He and his brothers used to gather nuts from the ground and throw them at the statue of Queen Victoria, seeing who could hit her square in the forehead.

  In his new state of heightened perception, Premchand had felt something worrisomely tense between Sunil and Amy during the drive home from the Blixen house. Sunil had appeared to be urging something on Amy, and she was shaking her head, not ready or willing to accept. At one point she squeezed her eyes shut, and balled her fists on her thighs. Sunil had kept talking in his low, soothing, persuasive tone, until finally her head snapped toward him and she said, “Stop it! You’re not helping. I can barely think.” Sunil had flopped back into his seat, disappointed and defeated, and Premchand had silently vowed to urge them on, whatever they needed. Because even in this disagreement he had seen that there was love and good faith in both of them; when they had separated into their frustrated silos, their hands had reached for each other, unable to stay apart. The touch calmed them so that they appeared healed by the time they arrived back at the house. He couldn’t remember ever having that effect on his wife. When Premchand told Sunil about the wedding gift, he had apologized for pretending to know about the marriage. He’d tried to apologize for Urmila, too, but Sunil had brushed it off. Just that morning he had asked his mother when they would talk about Bimal, about why they had kept it a secret from him for so many years, and Urmila had said, “He was never a secret! He was always there but you never wanted to talk to him.” This was foolish and untrue, and Premchand told her so, in front of Sunil. Then Urmila had capitulated and said, “Okay, we will talk. Let us find some time when we can have some quiet and put our heads on straight.”

  “And I want to see my grandfather,” Sunil said.

  To which Urmila had gruffly said, “Fine, fine.”

>   They needed more time, Premchand thought. But would they have it? The safari was drawing close. He saw landmines littered across the days ahead. Each skirmish that passed between mother and son was another small explosion that weakened the bridges.

  So much healing to do.

  Premchand felt responsible for the state of discord between his wife and son. He knew how much he’d left them alone when Sunil was young. Maybe each took their anger of feeling abandoned and turned it against one another. And so, when Urmila had been determined to find something of her own, Premchand had encouraged it. He and Urmila both had believed that private schooling would take care of Sunil—give him not just an education but a surrogate American family. Jon Samuel and his wife had told them that busy American children did not have time to get into trouble, so Premchand had encouraged Sunil to take up sports and Boy Scouts. They didn’t want to be overbearing parents like the others in their set. And Premchand had to admit that he never could muster enthusiasm for those school events, thick with loud-mouthed kids and the other parents who eyed him warily.

  They could not wait any longer to talk about Bimal. Premchand suddenly could not understand why they had kept it to themselves for so long.

  After an hour of walking, Premchand knew he was lost. At the last corner he should have turned. But when he retraced his steps, he was not at all sure. There were no street signs, and he realized he didn’t even know the address of his sister-in-law’s house, though he couldn’t be far because there were not so many streets in the area. A hundred yards ahead was an intersection with a busy road, but when he reached it, he still did not know which way to turn, so he stopped a taxi and asked for directions to the Oshwal Centre, but the driver’s English wasn’t good and Premchand’s Swahili worse.

  He did not recognize this pharmacy, this row of greasy shoeshine stands. Old men in rubber-tire chappals sat on overturned buckets on the sidewalk. Premchand was tired and would have taken a seat if one had been vacant. The city was so huge and sprawling now. When he and Urmila had left, the New Stanley Hotel was one of the most significant buildings on Delamere Avenue. Now the avenue was Kenyatta and had grown three times as many lanes, countless carparks, bus depots, and gas stations. In Columbus it would be easy to find a bench to collect his thoughts, rest his legs. Why had he not been more careful in selecting landmarks?

  His underarms were damp and his chest seized. He must not lose his head.

  Another group of schoolgirls, with sky-blue collars, passed him, giggling and laughing. Hello mister! Hello friend! One two three … nine teneleventwelve …

  Premchand stood still, absorbing the dust flung by car tires, the horns and bicycle bells, the pulsing pop radio flying out store windows. Avoiding eye contact with the double amputees and the child beggar veering toward him.

  Finally, he remembered Sarada’s phone number, though it took him a long time to figure out how to buy a phone card from a man whose eye was twisted shut, and then to find a functioning public phone.

  When Ajay turned up in his smart European car, Amy was in the front seat. “We were worried about you,” she said. Her brow was creased and she held out a pale hand to pat his arm—really she was too blond to be Jewish, he thought.

  “No need to be concerned,” he said. He was embarrassed and touched. “Here I am, safe and sound.”

  They stopped at a small copy center. Amy was led to a computer where she could check her email. Premchand half listened to Ajay talk with the owner, a friend, about the man’s plans to turn the shop into something called a “cyber café.” “In London they are springing up like mushrooms!”

  Then Premchand saw Amy’s head fall into her hands. At first, he held himself back. Don’t pry. He picked up a newspaper, going first to the international news where he saw Gore still slipping in the polls.

  When she lifted her face and it showed tears, he went to her. He said, “Everything is okay?”

  She shook her head. “They wrote three days ago. They called, too, and when they didn’t hear back, they gave my job away.”

  “The Welcomers?”

  She nodded and looked up at him. “Don’t tell Sunil, okay? He’ll take it too hard. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “I thought there were no secrets in modern marriages.”

  She laughed and bit her lip, but the soft flesh sprang back up. “Not a secret, just delayed information.”

  “Jews are resilient, are you not?”

  She cracked a smile. “You know they call Indians the Jews of Africa?”

  Though he ordinarily would never be so forward, Premchand reached out and pulled Amy toward him.

  Releasing her, Premchand then did something else he never did in company—he sang a line from Taj Mahal, the film he and Urmila had seen on their first date. It had been in his mind for days. Jo baat tujh mein hai/ taree tasweer mein nahein, he quavered, completely out of tune. “I am no Mohammed Rafi,” Premchand told her, “but he says here ‘the substance of you is missing from your picture,’ or something to that effect. You are a little bit like a picture sometimes. You can be more flesh and blood. You understand what I am saying?”

  Amy looked at him, appearing astonished. “You are a hopeless romantic at heart, aren’t you?”

  “Hopeless, in any case.”

  “More to the point,” she said, “I think that lyric could also be applied to you.”

  “Me?” He raised his eyebrows. “No, I am an open book. Let us now go back to those people who love us and eat yet another meal with them.”

  By the time they reached the house, the sun was setting, and Amy’s unease had returned. During the quiet car ride, her fingers had worked roughly through her hair to her scalp, leaving pink scratches on her temples and loose blond hair in her fingers. But there was nothing more Premchand could do.

  14.

  [02 h: 50 m]

  We used to walk everywhere without fear. Barefoot, like mice, we ran around pulling coconuts off palms and slashing off the tops. Drinking right there in the street. We ate wild blackberries until juice ran down our necks. Our pockets were empty and we lived on top of each other, but we still made something of ourselves.

  That was before Mau Mau.

  When the terror began, some of the Asians chose sides. Some were angry at the British and fought against them; others joined the Brits to put the rebellion down. But most of us, our family, we were squeezed again between the Blacks and the Whites. It is a surprise we are still Brown and not Gray!

  First there were the rumors—secret, bloody oaths. Animal sacrifices, they said. Every Kikuyu man—and some of the women!—they had to make these pledges to kill. The settlers shook in their boots, in those pith helmets we sold them. And for good reason. The Mau Mau began a campaign of slaughter.

  But here is the truth. The problem is not that the African was held back by the English, but that he’d been brought forward too quickly. They could not handle such rapid progression, so they turned back to their old primitive ways.

  Then came Operation Jock Scott: October 21, 1952. The Mau Mau masterminds, including Kenyatta, were rounded up in the middle of the night. Locked up, every one. Soldiers and big steel vehicles everywhere in the streets.

  I kept your mother and all the other children home at night. No one allowed to leave. During the day I still worked in the bazaar. What else to do? We needed the money. And if you close for even one day the competition gets an edge. I banned newspapers from the house, but I know your grandmother managed to find accounts. Stories of bodies hacked to pieces in their homes.

  You know Aberdares outside the city? Finally the free Mau Mau escaped there, to the forests. Where they plotted to kill even more. I wrote all my friends along the frontier: Come to Nairobi! At least send your women and children. Some did come, but the situation, it was ongoing. Not clearly getting better or worse for a while. And so they went home. I know of t
hree who had their throats cut.

  Those months it was so clear that Asians have no place in Kenya’s heart or mind. The Africans hate us as much as the whites. And they have the population advantage. The slums are exploding.

  Who eats the bones of children? Mau Mau are the flesh eaters! Can you believe I heard this shouted from the jails?

  They demanded Kenyatta be released from prison—this man who became our first president. But to release the leader is to give the snake back its head. He was dangerous.

  The British were even crueler. They came down like anything, such force you have never seen. But what choice did they have? By this time it is two years later. Springtime. The city was searched section by section. From loudspeakers, they shouted, Pack one bag, leave the rest behind, exit into the streets peacefully. They knocked down doors, beat women with rifles. I heard they modeled this raid on one they did years before in Palestine. Africans taken and imprisoned behind barbed wire. Separated by tribe: Kikuyu, Embu, Meru. Twenty thousand, thirty thousand sent to camps. We lost track.

  What about us? Well, many of the men were our employees. Our houseboy was taken. He did come back after six months, eager to work, but how was I to know if we could trust him? He had been in prison with criminals, and I was supposed to let him stay alone at home with my wife and daughters? Not at all. He disappeared, like so many others.

  15.

  The rooms were narrow and dark, the rugs and furniture worn. Their footsteps echoed on the tile floors.

  When his aunt flipped on the lights, Sunil saw that his grandfather was a wood-colored man crumpled in on himself. Eyes like peach pits, sucking in light. Sarada Aunty had introduced Sunil with a Gujarati phrase he knew well: You remember this one, the American.

  The old man, whose jaw betrayed a tremor, grew momentarily still, his eyes wide. “Amerikana?” Suddenly Sunil’s face was between two surprisingly tensile hands, reminding him of the hard face cradle used during eye exams. And then his eyes were examined, from very close up, by the dark and wrinkled sockets, the near-black irises within. Breath sharpened by betel nut shot over Sunil’s startled face.