Kaya Days Read online

  Santee saw a new face materialize: pale white, almost as light as Li Chen’s. It floated atop her long brown neck in the bathroom’s dimness. Santee felt the thick layer of foundation straining the skin of her cheekbones and she tasted the lipstick. The labor was broken up by Li Chen’s satisfied chuckling and incomprehensible scolding. Li Chen had her stand up as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. She moved right back in and pursed her lips at Santee’s pink taffeta dress. Li Chen was right. There was no use in transforming her face only for Ram to see her in the same old dress. Li Chen began unbuttoning it. Santee helped her and watched as her clothes fell piece by piece to the ground. She saw her dark body emerging from that pink taffeta dress, her arms slowly unfurling, her torso stretching for her breasts to bloom. They rested on her slightly protruding ribcage, she pulled her shoulders up the better to support them. Behind that dark young woman with heavy breasts and a white mask in the mirror, Santee saw Li Chen rush to the armoire. Santee didn’t hear any of the Chinese woman’s muttering; all she saw were her lips fluttering, and she waited for her to talk to the tall girl with a body like a palm tree. Li Chen came right back with a garnet dress and alarmingly high heels. Faster, Ram here soon. Santee saw the guy from the bar silhouetted in the doorway and yelled. Li Chen ran to shut the door. Curses rang out from the other side as Li Chen urged Santee to hurry. Shyam had been saying she’d be wise not to keep Ram waiting. Santee didn’t have any time to take in her new look; she had to trust Li Chen, who was already dragging her back into the billiard room. The baby had stopped crying and the only noise was from a television Shyam had turned on. Two men were at the bar talking to Shyam as the women arrived. The Chinese women were getting ready to leave with them. Stay here, Shyam told Santee, Ram’s coming soon. Then, disappointedly, to the men: She’s Ram’s sister. They digested this detail and left the room. Li Chen took one last look at Santee and walked off after the men.

  I wonder how Ram got it in his head to tell you to come here. Santee rushed to explain: He’s always had a mind of his own. This seemed to satisfy Shyam, who turned his attention back to the TV. After the rebroadcast of the weather was a report on the crisis in Kosovo. Santee took a seat on a barstool, unsurprised that Ram commanded respect here. In the village, at Ma’s, Ram was the center of the universe. Even when he was a newborn, back when Santee was five, everybody had crowded around his cradle. Pa, who was still alive then, had taken Santee in his arms so she could watch Ma breastfeed Ram. That’s your little brother, Santee, take good care of him, help your mommy look after him. It wasn’t hard to look after Ram, it was nothing at all; he was gifted and his babble quickly turned to words that everybody discussed at family get-togethers, convinced he had a bright future. They kept saying he got the knack of things faster than anyone else, without even trying. When Pa died, Ma started working at the sweater factory to pay for Ram’s school, and so Santee finished primary school only to replace Ma at home. She, too, was convinced Ram was a genius, and the hours each day before Ram came home from school were lifeless.

  There was a commotion at the bottom of the stairs; Santee could pick out the whine of a diesel engine, it must be a big car, maybe an Albion, and some voices. It’s Ram. Shyam got up and ran down the stairs, only to come right back up, yelling to Santee: Gogot! Goddamn it! Ram’s dead!

  Santee stayed, motionless on her stool. Creole men were pouring into the room, pushing aside chairs and tables. The younger ones walked in backward, carrying a man’s body. She could tell from their unsteadiness that he was fairly heavy, but she couldn’t see him well amid the scrum. There was some rapid-fire bickering with Shyam, and then the men heaved the body onto the billiard table as Shyam turned on the light above it. The man’s face was peaceful, with a chinstrap beard and thick lips covering a toothless jaw. She could see a bit of the whites of his eyes and his breaths came in muted growls. What she had taken for a pillow was in fact his mess of hair stuffed into a wool hat. She was surprised by the strange color of his shirt, and then realized, upon seeing a small puddle on the plastic tarp, that it was drenched in blood. Someone was saying he should go straight to the hospital, but Shyam rejected that idiotic idea with an onslaught of profanity, followed by more curses for having dragged this corpse-to-be here. The men kept their mouths shut and their heads bowed: they knew what Shyam was risking if the man was found here. His voice kept rising as he paced and waved his hands in disbelief, but he hadn’t looked at the dying man. He finally took a breath and fixed his eyes on him.

  You kouyon son of a bitch.

  Tell me you’re happy now, go on, say it. You baise-ou-maman Creole pilon, spitting up blood, dying on me? Look at this pile of bez you got me in… Who here’s gonna bury your puant corpse now? Didn’t nobody tell you all Creoles are good for is fann kaka? For once me and you finally got our bez done with, everything nice and easy, but this Black man here still ain’t kontan? Has to go and sit his fess on a hundred red ants! Anybody bent on getting hisself killed, be my guest! How many times I got to say it? Don’t you get no ideas, you’re nothing more than a kou Creole, that’s what you are! We’re finally getting some tourists in here, there was some guy from Réunion yesterday, but now you, you…

  What the guy bleeding to death had done was so serious that Shyam had run out of swears. One of the men who’d carried him in started yelling back, got louder, threatened to kill Shyam if he didn’t stop shit-talking Creoles, but some of the other men stepped in and pulled him away. Santee heard their footsteps going downstairs, heard more expletives followed by pleas to calm down, then it all faded away.

  Now Shyam had finally found a few more choice words. At some point, he had to stop to catch his breath. His eyes ran over the billiard room defiled by this bloody body. The machines gleamed and screeched louder and louder, as if there were only a few more minutes until some horrific tragedy, as if they were begging Shyam for protection, as if he understood, as if he could do something. Santee glimpsed Shyam’s eyes tearing up behind his sunglasses, he waved affectionately, impotently at the slot machines. There was nothing to be done at moments like this. He stepped back, took in the bar, the bottles of whiskey, the statue, the fan. And then he aimed his words at Santee:

  Your brother is the worst liki sorma that ever lived.

  He let that sink in. He could have been working here like me, but he’s been out in the streets. Getting himself into all sorts of lamerdma like it’s pussy. Santee nodded: Yes, Ram would have done better to be here than to leave Shyam high and dry. But Shyam was really getting carried away. The machines might be able to be saved, he just had to tell the police that this man had been brought in by his friends, that Shyam had nothing to do with it, that it was all just a misunderstanding.

  Look at this! He leaned over to let her get an eyeful of his outfit. Santee thought he looked quite elegant in his leopard-print suit. I’ve got it nice here… This spot really is something, you know. Just guess how much kas I been offered for the Négus. Go on, name a number…

  Santee had no idea, it had to be a lot. Shyam wasn’t wrong, she really did like the twinkling of the machines, the heaps of fake flowers. The Négus was the kind of place that made everyone who came in smile, and all Li Chen’s efforts had her feeling beautiful here in Shyam’s casino. He had made a good life for himself; there was no point trawling the streets if you had a place like this. An explosion even louder than the others shook the walls and Santee could see a fire through the curtains. And now what am I gonna do with your body, Ram? Listen. You think I want to let you rot here? On my nice billiard table? The prone man groaned. Your friends cleared out, any second now they’ll be getting in bagar with the police. Setting the whole town on fire, and I’m stuck here with you. Kaka liki. Shyam’s voice cracked in a sob. He dragged his stool over and muttered things she couldn’t hear to the figure lying there. She could tell they weren’t sweet nothings, and decided that what Shyam was confiding to the Creole man was between the two of them, and that she ought to go find her
little brother—but where? She tried to walk quietly, but her high heels clacked on the floorboards. Where are you going? Santee wasn’t sure what to tell him. Now you’re fucking off, too? You see me in this bez and all you can think is to run, you pitin? You’re exactly like your kouyonad brother, you filthy pitin. A lump rose in Santee’s throat as she stammered that she didn’t mean to leave him all alone with a dying man but she absolutely had to find her brother Ram, and she would come back right away, no question. With Ram, of course, if Shyam would just be patient. Shyam got up and grabbed her wrist. His tears had traced long, salty streaks down his cheeks from under his sunglasses. Rambo’s right here and he’s dead. Fini. Sek. Don’t you understand? There’s no other Ram, the only one I know is this one, your brother an kouyonad Rambo who’s dead and now there’s just you and me. Help me, I’m begging you, help me. His other hand was in Santee’s hair, undoing her chignon. He pressed his face to her belly and started bawling: Ram’s dead. Santee tried to pull away but Shyam’s hand clutched her wrist even tighter. She started struggling; she didn’t try to yell, maybe because it wasn’t worth the effort—the machines were on Shyam’s side, shrieking madly, and the TV joined in. Without rain, the humidity in Médine was sixty-five percent, the first tractor convoys were leaving Kosovo, and even if she tried, no sound would come out, Shyam would choke her and leave her next to the man on the billiard table; she felt his hand groping beneath her dress as he pushed her against the bar. Her head sank into a cluster of silk forget-me-nots and even through the garnet velvet dress she could feel Shyam’s hot breath on her breasts. On the shelf above, the bearded Creole statue watched Shyam’s assault with its saintly smile while the fan whirred. Santee saw a fireball blaze across the room from the shard of a shattered windowpane, the plastic chandeliers revealed unruly reflections, and the ball crashed into one of the pinball machines with a fiery splatter. The saint’s face reddened. She grabbed the fan’s power cord, yanked, and watched the blades tilt toward her and scrape the statue, tearing the tinsel off. It became a jumbled mess and the saint fell toward them, the fan his halo. It was coming for her to punish her as she lay amid the flowers on the bar with Shyam’s face in her neck as his hands unbuttoned his pants—once you got on the wrong side of these sorts of saints you were done for. But she had time enough to decide that she hadn’t done anything to deserve this fate; that this random saint should have given the matter more thought, and seen that Ram had abandoned her. She saw the bust go sailing past, just an inch or two from her face, flashing his smile in that last second as if to say that saints always do exactly as they please.

  Spread-eagle next to the stool, Shyam gaped at her. He groggily brought his hand to his head, then gawked at his fingers covered in plaster dust and a reddish liquid. Santee hurtled toward the door, her high heels clip-clopping. She kept her eyes on Shyam; he pulled himself up unsteadily, screeched something that was half obscenity and half cry of pain. His penis hung out of his pants. She scrambled down the steps with a howl. The heat rising from the street softened her screams, slowed her steps. And maybe it did for Shyam too, although she didn’t want to look back to see. It took her some time to reach the main street. A cab drifting past pulled up next to her, its brights on. A yellow cab rather like a tank—a model Santee didn’t recognize. The door opened, she heard or thought she heard a gruff voice saying get in, and she threw herself headlong onto the seat. She felt the car speeding up, pressing her deeper into the seat as she lay there, her ear flat against the cool imitation leather. She pulled her knees up and curled into a fetal position; the garnet dress split along its full length with a ripping sound that she thought was her whole body tearing apart. The driver’s head was shaved, and all she could see was a white bulge scored by folds of skin on his nape. He was a big man with a drawling, somewhat hoarse voice. She noticed his fingers on the steering wheel were holding an odd-looking cigarette, and he spat the smoke out the window in the middle of his sentences. She didn’t absorb what he was saying as she lay there, burrowed into the seat, all she took in was the smell of the sickly-sweet smoke, the smell of Ram’s world that seeped into every crevice of the car. She didn’t want to sit up, she’d end up Shyam’s prey again, he’d track her, see her through the rear window; she didn’t want to see the trickle of blood mixed with the Creole saint’s plaster, she didn’t want to see Shyam’s erection. What she wanted was to stay put, her nostrils taking in the white driver’s smoke without inhaling, her ear pressed down above the huge cab’s well-oiled transmission. But she shouldn’t lie there like a baby, she should sit up straight, properly, the way one should in a car driven by a white man. This simply wasn’t done, she had to sit up like Ma when she went to visit Uncle Vijay, she shouldn’t curl up like this in front of a stranger, or even in front of people she knew—Ma always insisted on her being ladylike.

  She had to be able to see Ram walking in the dark if they happened to drive past him.

  Don’t lie down like that, Shakuntala, the white man’s deep, hoarse voice rumbled, you won’t be able to enjoy the scenery, and you’re not going to get a second chance, tonight is a special night. Santee pushed herself up with her elbows, straightened her back, smoothed out her dress. She dared to look back. Shyam hadn’t followed the car, he was standing in the street and watching the Négus burn. The sidewalk teemed with onlookers drawn like moths to the light. She wanted the cab driver to slow down so they could watch the inferno for a bit as well. Maybe Shyam would actually listen now; maybe she could explain that the fire wasn’t her or Ram’s doing, tell him she’d heard yells on the street, and it had to be the man’s friends who had thrown the Molotov cocktails, who were still doing so, even though the Négus was now wholly ablaze and Shyam could see it all. The cab was bearing her farther and farther away from the Négus; she wouldn’t get to see that sweet Chinese woman again, or when she did, it would be in front of the Négus with all its flowers reduced to an ash heap roped off by the police. Now, if nothing else, she wanted to at least see the face of the cab driver with his shiny shaved head, but it was nowhere near the review mirror; he was driving with his forehead almost pressed to the window as if to inhale the night air. Maybe he had no face and if he happened to turn his head, what she would see would be as smooth as a globe. The man turned on the radio, unleashing Bob Marley’s reedy voice, I got to have kaya now, got to have kaya now… Multicolored lights on the dashboard mirrored the singer’s weary tones. On the rear window, other lights flared with the slightest tap on the brakes, strobing with green glimmers. You’ll never have another night like this one, Shakuntala, it’s one of those nights that pulls you outside. I’m not the one telling you not to lie down—the night’s what needs you. It needs people to keep it company; after all, they’re starting fires here and there and everywhere. Santee had never experienced the city at night. In fact, she had never experienced night at all. Night always locked them in the Bienvenue house, where she’d hear Ram moving around in the other room. He never went to bed right away. What he actually did after sundown was a mystery, she’d fall asleep first and never wake up until the night was gone. Ma always came back from weddings early, blaming her age and her health. One time, she’d taken Santee and Ram along to a funeral vigil in Vallée des Prêtres, and they’d stayed until ten listening to the mourners. The highway back home went right past Port-Louis, nearing but not touching it. Santee still remembered the din of factories despite seeing barely any people—who worked so late at night?—and floodlit, empty parking lots. At the end of the Place d’Armes was the old, sinister government building, and facing it had been a Chinese trawler moored all by itself in the port. She had shaken Ram, asleep with his head on her knees, so he could see. Their uncle had slowed down and she’d been able to read the boat’s name: Ming Sing. Ram had gotten up, looked around as if he knew where they were, groaned, and with deep breaths, laid back down, his small hot cheek pressed against Santee’s leg.

  You’re my first tonight, Shakuntala. The others already left to me
et their johns all the way up in Grand-Baie. But they always try to make short work of it so they can come back and sleep, they stare at me if I suggest a little outing, they insist on being paid. He let out a guffaw and a few more puffs of smoke. Santee would never have dreamed of asking a white driver for money.

  I knew the day would come when someone good would come down the stairs of the Négus. I waited every night, I practiced what I’d say in my head—sometimes I was so pleased with my spiel, I’d stay parked by the steps for just a bit longer. I’d say: Get in quick, my love, I’ve been waiting for you. Or maybe I’d just say: Buongiorno Principessa! and those would be the magic words for everything else to happen. I’d rev the motor and we’d be off. I’d show her around town, I’d run all the stoplights so she’d know there was nothing she couldn’t ask for, but in the end the only thing she’d ask me, just to be polite, would be: How much do I owe you for the fare? and we’d have ourselves a good laugh. She wouldn’t even ask, actually, because she’d know, she’d just whisper: What if we stopped here? And I don’t know what exactly we’d do next, I haven’t thought that far… But we’re off and away, aren’t we, Shakuntala? Yes, we’re in the dream already… I didn’t expect you at all, no, not at all, I hadn’t been expecting a Malbar tonight, not when the girls I drive to Grand-Baie and back are all Madras. I’ve only seen one of you in an Indian film, and that was by accident, I was at the Scala up in Plaines des Papayes to see a porno, but I got the times wrong. So I had to settle for one of your duds where the men all roll around like gorillas in heat. But the women… I watched that movie over and over, I don’t know how many times, until they began showing Titanic instead. Shakuntala. And he started laughing and coughing. It was a smoker’s raspy laugh, a conspiratorial laugh meant to remind her that they were off and away, that they were going to go around the world, or at least around what they could conceive of the world. The laugh she tried to let out in return fell flat; all she could muster in the wake of the Négus was a wan smile.