The Meagre Tarmac by Clark Blaise Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m content. Life finds ways of working out, doesn’t it? That’s probably too much to remember, let alone say.”
    Is it a question to me? I don’t know. Why does she come to me, or am I an unwanted surprise? I think of making lemonade from lemons, something they say that seems a little shallow in its thinking.
    â€œDoes it?” I ask. “It seems to me that many lives do not work out as well as yours has. For many reasons, I’m sure.”
    â€œTrust me,” she says. Then almost immediately, “I must be going. Tell Vivek hello, and I’m sure he’ll make the right decision.”
    She gets into a big car parked in front of our house. Pramila comes sweeping in from the kitchen to pick up the juice glass. Obviously she’s been listening. “What do you suppose that was?” she asks.
    â€œIt is what it is,” I answer. Another of those clever, hollow sayings.
    She tsks-tsks under her breath, and I can imagine her little smirk. “We’re running low on fresh fruit,” she says. “Next time you go.” And when I catch up with her in the kitchen she turns and says, “You should know one thing. If Baba tries to keep me out of Stanford, I’ll kill myself. Just sayin’.”
    This next fruit-run goes uneventfully. Mr. Wally was not out front, arranging the fruit. I ask Sammy, “Where’s Wally?” and he smiles but chooses not to answer. So maybe it is eventful. I don’t want to ask a second time, or ask a different cousin. I don’t want anyone’s suspicions confirmed.

DEAR ABHI
    I WATCHED HIM this morning juicing a grapefruit, guava, blood orange, mango, plums and grapes and pouring the elixir into a giant glass pitcher. Beads of condensation rolled down the sides, like an ad for California freshness. Chhoto kaku , my late father’s youngest brother, is vegetarian; the warring juices are the equivialent of eggs and bacon, buttered toast and coffee. He will take tea and toast, but never coffee, which is known to inflame the passions. Life, or the vagaries of the Calcutta marriage market, did not bless him with a wife. Arousal, he believed, would be wasted on him and he has taken traditional measures against it.
    Ten years ago this was all farmland, but for the big house and the shingled cottage behind it. No lights spill from the cottage, yet Chhoto kaku makes his way across the rocks and cacti to her door. Don’t go, I breathe, but the door opens. Devorah was alone last night. Usually she comes out around eight o’clock with a mug of coffee and a cigarette, sometimes joined by one of her stay-overs. On our first visit she produced a tray of wild boar sausage that a friend had slaughtered, spiced, cooked and cased, after shooting.
    Her hair changes colour. I’ve seen it green and purple. Today, there are no Mercedes or motorcycles in the yard, she was alone last night. She wears blue jeans and blue work shirts and she smells richly resinous, reminding me of mangoes. Her normal hair is loose and graying.
    She told me the day after we’d moved in, “your uncle is a hoot.” She calls me Abby, my uncle, Bushy. His name is Kishore Bhushan Ganguly. We call her Devvie, which in our language approximates the word for goddess. “He looked at my paintings and he said, ‘you have the eyes of god.’ Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” I count myself a man of science, so I must rely on microscopes and telescopes and X-rays to glimpse the world beyond. “He said I see the full range of existence. He said, ‘I tremble before you.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”
    When I reported her assessment, Uncle said, “I think she is an advanced soul.” I asked how he knew. “She offered me a plate of cold meats. I told her meats inflame the passions.” Youngest Uncle is a Brahmin of the old school. “So, she’s giving up meats, is that it?” I asked. He said,