Chapter 1 #16
Strangely, his speech lagged behind the movement of his lips, which seemed to be speaking a different language than the one we were hearing—i.e., his speech was, by some method unknown, being spontaneously translated into English.
You may note that I am wearing the traditional angrakha of Churu, in Rajasthan, he said to me.
Talk to the fellow in the bed, not to her, please, said the Frenchman. He is the source of your misery.
Mr. Bhuti turned to face my charge, retaining, even in light of this new information, his gentle mien.
We were, there at the end, extremely irritable, he said.
My wife, my mother, and I. We three, who had lived together for many years, never once speaking unkindly to one another, began, there at the end, to speak most unkindly to one another indeed.
Also, the skin of our faces became shriveled like the skins of old apples.
Also, the color of our urine went from yellow to black as coal.
Sounds of suffering came from all over the village.
Men fought at the well for the right to lick the bucket.
The Frenchman came to the bed, leaned over my charge.
Aarhus, he hissed. Aarhus is the thread that connects you and this unfortunate.
You talk just buttloads of crap, you know that? said my charge.
A person makes a reckless speech here, the Frenchman said. Its fatal consequences are felt there.
Sheer buttloads of senseless crap, said my charge.
Millions of dollars are spent propagating a falsehood, said the Frenchman. That falsehood goes out into the world and alters it.
That’s quite a stretch, Henri, quite a goddamned stretch, said my charge.
Mr. Bhuti cleared his throat and continued.
It had not rained in over a year, he said.
To graze against a metal door was to be burned.
Graves could not be dug for the heat. I had not defecated in eleven days.
We three sat on the floor, hearts racing, snapping at one another as if possessed.
In the last half hour, we seemed, all at once, to shrivel, become skeletal, look identically ghoulish; it would have been difficult to say who was the youngest, who the oldest. One by one, we succumbed.
First Mother. Then Charvi. Then me. That is to say, I had to watch as they succumbed.
Quelle horreur! the Frenchman thundered down at my charge. Behold the vile criminal!
I’d eat your ass, Frog! my charge thundered. I’d eat your ass whole, you pathetic, limp-dicked, troublemaking—
You’ll eat my ass? the Frenchman said.
For lunch, fucker, said my charge.
He’ll eat my ass, the Frenchman said. For lunch. Did you hear that, Mr. Bhuti? Did you hear that, madame? Is this something of which a person should be proud? This, in the end, is who we are dealing with: a bully, a ruiner, an unrepentant world-wrecker, a self-centered—
Out in the hallway, my charge’s wife was speaking consolingly to someone.
It’s all right, dear, she was saying. There’s still time. Deep breaths. Cab’s best. Quicker. Otherwise you have to take a shuttle. To this, uh, pickup area. A cab’s quicker. And quick—quicker’s good, baby. At this point.
She stepped back into the bedroom, sat defeatedly on the love seat. Something seeming to give way in her, she brought a fist to her forehead, and held it there with some force, as if, by the intensity of the pressure, she might reverse time and restore her husband to health.
This earnest indication of love had the effect of causing the three of us to fall silent.
—
There within the orb of my charge’s thoughts, I felt him roll over to face away from us, the way one will turn from one’s lover in the midst of a disagreement.
Ah, nous avons échoué, the Frenchman sighed. He remains unmoved.
Damn straight, mumbled my charge.
Mr. Bhuti, the Frenchman said, I am sorry to have brought you so far. And with so little result.
Now I must go back to that room, I suppose, said Mr. Bhuti.
I’m afraid so, said the Frenchman.
May I rest a moment? Mr. Bhuti said and sat on the edge of the bed.
No chairs there, he explained. In that room where no one is content.
Where my wife and mother wait, still wait, for even a single sip of water.
However, in that room? No water. For us.
Therein lies the torment: what one wants, one may not have.
For some there is, yes, water. But whatever it is that they most desire?
Is denied them. One fellow desires his violin.
But: no violin. For him. Anyone who does not desire a violin may get one quite easily.
One woman wishes to apologize to her son, for some offense: for her, that room is full of telephones that do not work.
Well, here, look, the Frenchman said.
And brought out, from behind his back, a tumbler of chilled water, down the sides of which ran fat beads of moisture.
Mr. Bhuti drank perhaps a third of it, then stopped himself with what seemed an act of tremendous willpower.
May I be permitted to take this with me? he said.
Of course, said the Frenchman.
From behind his back the Frenchman produced a large pitcher with a painted rooster on it.
Take this as well, he said. With my best wishes. For having come all this way.
I know they will be most grateful, said Mr. Bhuti.
He rose and, taking along the tumbler and the pitcher, left the room slowly, so as not to spill a single drop.
A second or two later, however, he stepped back in.
One must do one’s best, yes? he said. Having watched one’s loved ones suffer so, then being brought face-to-face with the individual alleged to have been a principal cause of that suffering, one must exert oneself to the utmost, I think.
Well, I said.
Yes, he said.
Placing the tumbler and pitcher carefully on the bedside table, Mr. Bhuti climbed up onto the bed, then lowered himself onto, and into, my charge.
Fuck, my charge shouted.
Sir, my dear sir, the Frenchman cried.
As quickly as he’d entered, Mr. Bhuti rolled out of my charge and stumbled away from the bed.
Now he knows, he said. Now he truly knows.
Disoriented from the transfer, he came directly toward me like a careening drunk.
And inadvertently passed through me.
And I knew too.
The shock of it knocked me down. I struggled to the love seat, pulled myself up beside the (oblivious) wife.
I had seen Mr. Bhuti’s village, yes. But had also grasped that it was not exceptional, not at all; the entire region thereabouts frequently burst into flames, and vast tracts of it, once peopled and prosperous, now stood abandoned, marked by black-burned trees and a web of brackish former rivers from which every trace of life had been extinguished.
And that wasn’t all.
Mr. Bhuti, a lawyer, had, before a certain financial reversal, traveled widely all around his country, and his region was far from being the only region so damaged; other regions, damaged in different ways, exhibited different symptoms. It was all there in his mind: a beetle-ruined birch grove in Kalimpong, a flooded Haryana valley in which peaked roofs appeared to the eye as thousands of toy boats; here the ocean had risen to the second floor of the Kolkata library, leaving, when it receded, the books on those two floors rank with mold; at Shivrajpur, three dolphins, disoriented by the unusual heat of the ocean, had grounded themselves during a beach wedding, leaving the guests, including Mr. Bhuti and his wife, Charvi, at a loss as to what to do.
And it wasn’t only in his country.
It was happening everywhere.
Mr. Bhuti, that is, seemed to feel that it was happening everywhere.
I found it hard to accept.
And yet, per Mr. Bhuti, it was all true. It all seemed, that is, there in his mind, quite real, and he had even begun to take it somewhat for granted and had, as had many others, begun to make accommodation with it.
Until, that is, it had killed him.
I’m sorry to have upset you, madam, he said.
Picking up the tumbler and pitcher, he left.
Stay out, my charge said. Stay out of me.
Nevertheless I entered the orb of his thoughts.
And found that he was not shocked. At all.
By any of it. He knew about it, about all of it.
Knew the extent of it, was aware of many examples of it, knew he was often called out for some imagined part he’d supposedly played in it, but he—now, hang on a minute—he just had a bit of a quarrel with the damn logic.
There’d always been droughts, yes? Were heat waves a new thing in the world?
Some other fellow (ghost, ghoul, whatever) might just as easily have shown up here with a headful of grass-covered hillsides, serene mountain lakes, forests not on fire, unflooded towns, completely dry libraries, meadows teeming with life, thousands of non-dolphin-interrupted weddings, a field of, uh, perfectly great wheat or whatever.
Yes? Tonight, here in Dallas, did things seem especially apocalyptic?
Or was it just a lovely summer evening? With what sounded like a pretty good party going on next door?
No great wailing and gnashing of teeth happening over there, far as he could tell, and in fact, wait, listen: What was that?
Just now? They were doing the goddamn Macarena or whatever that crap was called.
Enough, I said.
Without intending to, I rose slightly into the air.
Madame? the Frenchman said.
I rose a little higher, began floating across the floor.
Where are you going? the Frenchman said.
Away, I said. I’ve had it.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, said my charge.
Have a nice death, I said.
And shot out through the wall.
—
What a refreshment, to be out of that falsity-filled death chamber.
Over at the wedding, the dancing was in full swing.