An American Brat (13 page)

“I guess so,” Feroza said. She was close to tears.

The man called the police on his cellular phone.

Almost instantly two patrol cars rolled up, one behind the other, their blue-and-yellow lights blinking in the eerie Salem dusk.

The guard went up to the first car to explain the situation. The policeman from the other car sauntered up to join them and held the front door open for Feroza. He was very young, tough, and mean-looking. He shut the door and got into the back.

The museum guard looked in the window at Feroza. “You'll be all right now.” He indicated the policeman in the driver's seat. “Ben'll look after you.”

They cruised around the parking lot several times and then drove up and down the narrow, run-down streets leading from the mall.

There were no signs of a 1970 Ford.

The night was darker here than in Cambridge, probably because Salem was a small town and had fewer lights, Feroza reflected. Perhaps the witches preferred to do whatever it was they did in the dark.

“Where do you live?” the policeman in the driver's seat, whom the guard had called Ben, asked, jolting Feroza out of her reverie. He was a little older than the officer in the back. Feroza's heart skipped a beat. He was handsome.

“In Gulberg, in Lahore.”

“What's that again?”

“In Pakistan.”

“In Pack-iss-tan!” Ben pronounced the word the American way, obviously surprised and hugely amused. “Did you hear that,
Jack?” He looked at his colleague in the rearview mirror. “This young lady here says she lives in Pack-iss-tan!”

Feroza liked the way he said it. She glanced at him when they stopped at a traffic light. He had a high-arched nose, an elegant sweep to his cheeks, and a wide chin that jutted at a commanding angle beneath his cap. The friendly, cheerful officer made her feel less afraid.

“I mean, where do you live in America?” Ben asked.

“In Somerville.”

“That's in Massachusetts!” Again he sounded surprised, though less so. “We can get you there if we hav'ta, but we sure can't get you back to Pack-iss-tan!” The man laughed and raising an eyebrow, glanced at Feroza flirtatiously. He was really quite young. “D'you have the address in Somerville?”

“I think so,” Feroza said.

Her vaulting, susceptible heart distracting her, Feroza rummaged in her leather sling-bag for the white card Manek had given her. The cop switched on the light. Feroza tipped the bag and emptied its entire contents on the seat. She could not find the card with the address.

“Sorry, I think I've lost it,” she said.

“Is that all the money you have?” Ben looked inquisitively at the few crumpled dollar bills among the strewn contents of her bag.

Feroza nodded.

“Do you know anyone near here?”

“No.”

“Any close relatives in the United States?”

“Only my uncle.”

“Do you have any phone numbers at all?”

“No.”

“Do you have your passport or ticket or anything?”

“No.”

Although Feroza felt utterly foolish and was scarlet with embarrassment and shyness, still it occurred to her how different this interrogation was from the grilling she had been put through
at Kennedy Airport.

“Do you know where the nearest Pack-iss-tan Consulate is?”

“No.”

They once again drove slowly up and down the narrow streets. Ben pointed out the famous house with the seven gables and the Witches Museum where, he explained, innocent women were burned at the stake only a few hundred years earlier.

The policeman turned into a narrow street and parked the car alongside the curb. He turned his face to Feroza. The light inside was still on.

“Lemme get this straight. You have no money, no passport. You don't know where you're going, and you have no address. You have an uncle who appears to have abandoned you, and no phone numbers. What're we to do with you?”

He looked at Feroza for a long, disconcerting moment and, as if drawing inspiration from her bewildered, nervous, and apologetic face, announced, “We'll cruise around the parking lot again, and if your uncle isn't there, we'll go to the police station.”

Feroza turned helpless eyes to Ben and nodded her agreement.

The officer in the back, Jack, had not said a word all this while.

Ben drove slowly up the narrow streets and once more entered the shopping center parking lot. They cruised up and down the lanes and drove up to the museum.

Feroza spotted the old Ford almost at once. Even in the dark, it was unmistakable. It rolled up from the opposite direction and came to a stop at the driver's window. Feroza saw Manek's face turned to them in the flashing light.

Speaking as if nothing had transpired in the interval he had been away and as if it was quite normal for him to locate Feroza in strange police cars, Manek said, “Come on. Get into the car.”

The mean-looking young cop in the back got out. Moving with the aggressive, thick-muscled gait of American police officers, he swaggered over to Manek. “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing, officer,” Manek said matter-of-factly. “My niece is
very stubborn. I was only teaching her a lesson.”

The policeman was incredulous. He placed his hands on the car's open window and, leaning forward, brought his face on a level with Manek's.

“Teaching her a lesson? In a strange city, with no money, no passport, and no address?”

“I wasn't going to lose her, officer.”

In the driver's seat, Ben turned his pale and shocked face to Feroza. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and asked, “Do you want to go with him?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The policeman was looking at her in a way that made her blush. She quickly lowered her eyes and, turning her face away, fiddled with the handle. Ben leaned across her to open the door.

She was quite out of breath. She thanked him. The other policeman escorted her to the Ford. Feroza got in and pulled in her coat.

“You sure you're gonna be all right?” the young officer asked. He sounded doubtful.

“Yes, of course, officer,” Feroza said. Jack shut the door and said, “Now, you take care.” He gave Manek a long, intense, warning look.

They drove along the dark highway silently. The headlights were not as bright as they should have been, and Manek needed to concentrate on the winding roads. The lights swept past the trees, lighting up the front ranks and making the area behind appear dark and densely forested.

Manek was the first to speak. “So, boochimai, you lost the address. Typical Third World carelessness.”

Silence.

Five minutes later: “You did quite well, you know. You didn't lose your head.”

“Really?”

Manek chose to ignore the sarcasm implicit in her tone. “Yes, you did all the right things. You didn't panic, you didn't approach
strangers for help, and you got the cops to help you. You also seemed to be getting along with them quite well. That's pretty good.”

“You bastard! You left me alone in a strange city, in a strange country, at the mercy of strange people. You knew I had no money. I didn't even know the name of the state. Anything could have happened to me. Anything!” Feroza was by now screaming. “Wait till Granny hears about this! Wait till Mummy and Daddy hear about this! Wait till Rohinton kaka and Jeroo kaki hear about it. They'll never speak to you. I don't believe you did this. I can't believe —”

“Stop making such a song and dance about nothing. I was keeping my eye on you …”

“My left foot! If this had happened to you … Oh, don't speak to me. Don't say one more word! And you had the brazenness to tell your sister, all goody-goody and sweetie-sweetie, ‘Don't worry,'” Feroza made a face, savagely impersonating a grotesquely simpering Manek, “ ‘I'll look after Feroza.”

“Some looking after! And you've the nerve to say I'm doing a song and dance? Granny will show you what a song and dance really is! She'll straighten you out. She'll cut you off without a paisa. She'll kick you out of her house!”

“You'll thank me for this one day.” Manek's voice carried a becalmed, syrupy inflection that thickened it. Feroza felt a chill creep into her body. Her recollection of the incident was vivid.

Manek had helped her up a tree. She couldn't have been more than three or four. She had found herself straddling a scratchy branch sixteen feet from the ground, and, terrified, she had shut her eyes. The limb she clung to was not very thick, and it dipped slightly with her weight.

“Just hang on,” Manek said, slowly backing away from her. “Come on, open your eyes, don't be frightened,” he said. “See? You can look into everybody's houses. I'll be back very soon. I'll show you a trick.”

An unaccustomed calm and sweetness had washed his voice, soothing her, inducing a feeling of affection and trust. Unable to
handle her terror after Manek disappeared, Feroza had frozen into some kind of a trance.

Manek had reappeared at the fork of her branch with a hand-saw.

“I want to get down. Get me down,” Feroza bawled, feeling the ground sway and fall away from her.

“Don't cry.” Again that tranquilizing voice quieting her. “I'll get you down in just two minutes if you stop making noise.”

Manek began sawing off the branch she was sitting on.

The cook, on his way to the servants' quarters, heard Feroza whimper. “What're you doing up there?” he yelled.

Only then did he notice what Manek was up to.

Feroza's childish mind had absorbed only the logic of Manek's actions and his comforting voice. He'd said he'd get her down, and lopping off the branch was as quick a way of getting her down as any.

In the subsequent hullabaloo, Feroza had realized her danger.

For the first time, driving on the night road winding through a faraway country, viewing the incident from the perspective of her young adulthood, Feroza recognized the enormous treachery. How he must have hated her, she thought, suddenly confronting the issue.

Feroza had never, despite everything, acknowledged the darker side of Manek's nature. She had known it in her bones, but she had not allowed it the sanction of consciousness. To acknowledge it would be to accept that she was the cause, the irritant, the inducer of the evil.

“I've taught you a very important lesson: how to look out for yourself.” Manek's insinuating voice was superimposed on her thoughts. “You'll have to cope with all sorts of unexpected situations. This has taught you more about America than six months of pampering. You'll see, you'll gain confidence. You can't rely on anyone but yourself if you want to live in this country — not even on me!”

“Who wants to live in any country with you in it? Who wants you to teach me anything? I'd be better off with a goonda than
with you!”

“One day you'll thank me for this,” he said again. Still that ominous sweetness, that glacial calm.

Feroza became quite hysterical. And by the time they entered their driveway, so was Manek.

“Look, you fool,” he shouted as he got out of the car and waited for Feroza to slide out across his seat. “I'm only trying to prepare you for life!”

Manek slammed the door shut after her; the heavy car swayed with the impact. “You have to learn to listen to others — to be more considerate of their feelings and wishes. You can't keep people waiting. You can't have everything your way. If you don't understand that, you'll just have to learn to obey and respect your elders and betters.”

“Do you listen to your elders! Look — you can prepare yourself all you want, but let me live my life! I know you tried to kill me when I was a child! You bastard!”

They were climbing the stairs, and Manek had to skip out of reach of Feroza's sudden kick. He pinned her to the bannister and held her hands as Feroza furiously tried to pummel him.

Bruised and battered they went straight up to the attic. Neither switched on the light. They sat silent, brooding in the dark, Feroza on the stuffed chair and Manek on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Why did you try to kill me?”

It was that kind of a night for Feroza. She was surprised by how belatedly she had understood the past that Manek's voice had unexpectedly recalled. And almost simultaneously with the understanding had come the sorting out, the acceptance.

“You're a cat. You have nine lives.”

“You must really have hated me.”

“Yes.”

Feroza didn't ask why. Although the answer seemed to come to her only now, she sensed she had known it for as far back as she could remember.

Instead she asked, “Do you still hate me?”

“Of course not, silly,” Manek said.

Then he said, “My mother shouldn't have spoilt you like that. I was a child myself; I couldn't handle it. Don't worry, I got over it long ago. Those were childhood reactions.”

Feroza believed him. His voice was normal again.

At least, she thought after a while, the dying fish had distracted them from each other.

Manek's mailbox bulged with information from the colleges he had written to. After going through various brochures and catalogs, assessing the courses, and calculating the fees, Manek thought it would be best if Feroza went to Boston College. She could live in the dorms and visit him over the weekends. He would be near enough to assist and advise her.

Feroza studied the map of America and announced her preference for a college across the breadth of the map, in the vicinity of San Diego.

“But that's in California! You'll be too far away to keep an eye on,” Manek protested.

“Exactly. Do you want me to be independent, or not?”

Jamil suggested a compromise: Middlebury, a small college in Vermont, or if she preferred something larger, Dartmouth in New Hampshire. Bates would be a good choice in Maine, as would Colby. Feroza would be far enough away to feel independent and near enough for Manek to be on call in case of an emergency.

Jamil could not disclose how crushed he felt at the thought of Feroza's departure from the attic, but he spent as much time as he could with them, trying to be helpful.

The matter was resolved when Manek and Feroza received three letters apiece from Pakistan in response to their one.

Between them, the six letters expressed so many fears and doubts that Feroza and Manek were briefly swept with self-doubt and then concerned that the family would not permit Feroza to remain in America.

The letters also conveyed the news that Mr. Anwar, the prosecuting attorney in the Bhutto trial and a family friend, had died of a sudden heart attack. Feroza burst into tears and Manek's eyes were red the next day. They penned careful letters of condolence to the widow and their lively daughter Naveed, who had been
among the clingers and touchers seeing Feroza off at the airport.

Cyrus had tried to temper the sadness by relating the joke that was making the rounds. The angel Gabriel had summoned first a judge and then the attorney, so that Bhutto's case could continue and the cause of justice be served even after the hanging. Most catastrophes were converted into jokes. How else could ordinary people tolerate what was happening to the country and to them?

A couple of days later, the mail brought encouraging news from a junior college in Twin Falls, Idaho. They were willing to offer a stipend that would cover much of the tuition. Living expenses in a small town would be affordable, and Manek knew that Idaho was in Mormon territory.

To Manek, the timing of the letter's arrival appeared providential, and the clauses in the application form, although they were not as austere as he had expected, resolved the issue.

During his summer tour of the United States, Manek had visited Salt Lake City. He remembered the thirst he had not been able to abate with Coke or beer, both forbidden in the state governed by Mormon values. Twin Falls, like Salt Lake City, was in the secure and irreproachable heart of Mormon territory. Even Khutlibai would appreciate the sobriety of Mormon principles.

Feroza liked the name of the city and the distance between it and Boston on the map. Manek felt that the junior college and the size of the city would ease her assimilation into the American way of life.

Manek helped Feroza fill out the application form. “You're lucky I'm not sending you off to Brigham Young University in Salt Lake City,” he said severely. “Not only wouldn't you be allowed to drink or indulge in premarital sex, you'd have to pledge to abide by the college dress and conduct codes. Which means you wouldn't be allowed to wear shorts or bikinis. And if you were a boy, you'd be forbidden to grow a beard or keep your hair long.”

“I'm not going there,” Feroza said with a note of incipient rebellion, “so why are you telling me this?”

That disturbed Manek and deepened his regret. “Maybe you
should. It might be worth looking into it.”

“As if I'd ever wear shorts, let alone a bikini!” Feroza sounded scandalized, and Manek's doubts retreated.

Manek wrote a long letter, addressed jointly to Khutlibai, Zareen, and Cyrus. He described the Mormon faith in the light of his limited knowledge, and the puritanical laws supporting it in Idaho. The state, he wrote, did not permit the sale of liquor or allow striptease. It banned prostitution and discouraged discos and all forms of provocative dancing. Caffeine, even in its most innocuous forms like tea or coffee, was not served in most restaurants.

Manek was not one hundred percent certain of all this, but from his experiences in Salt Lake City, he was sure he was close to the mark. His letter would go a long way to assuage family fears and phobias. He left it to them to assume that a community that forbade even coffee was not likely to permit promiscuous sex.

Manek concluded the letter by reiterating that Twin Falls was a small, safe, conservative town that cultivated potatoes and that he would go with Feroza during the orientation to see her safely and comfortably settled.

The contents of Manek's letter were indeed soothing and had the desired effect. Touched by his consideration for their fears and feelings and by his concern for his niece's welfare, Zareen and Cyrus agreed to permit Feroza to study in America.

Khutlibai maintained a noncommittal and disquieting silence on the subject.

Since Feroza had applied late, she didn't get word of her admission until early July. The new term started in September, so at the very latest, they'd have to leave for Twin Falls by the third week of August. Feeling rushed, Manek worked out an itinerary. He'd have to prepare Feroza, cram her with worldly wisdom in the short time available to him. It was his responsibility to teach her to be less trusting and more alert before setting her loose in Idaho.

At least he had, through vigilant sniffs, taught her to use deodorant and, when she was in a pliant mood, succeeded in extracting an occasional apology when she interrupted.

Then there were the little things that had caused him an extraordinary amount of difficulty and embarrassment when he came to America, such as opening milk cartons, which, like Feroza, he had tried to pry open with a knife with the result that the milk had spilled everywhere. It gave him pleasure to show Feroza how easy it was to turn the top into a spout once you knew how.

When Feroza tugged at plastic wrappers and impatiently tore at them with her teeth, Manek said, “You'll only lose your teeth that way!” and showed her the marked place where the plastic tore easily.

And each time Manek saw Feroza wrestle with a jar or juice bottle or tamper-proof vial, he said, “Remember this: If you have to struggle to open something in America, you're doing it wrong. They've made everything easy. That's how a free economy works,” and he'd tap, press, pry, or bang the lid against the counter and effortlessly unscrew whatever it was.

Before long, the moment Manek would say, “Remember —,” Feroza would pipe up: “If you have to struggle, you're doing it wrong!”

If Feroza was impressed by the genius of the American free marketers, she never revealed it to Manek.

Manek made a private list of all that Feroza should know, experience, or do before going to Idaho.

Many items on the list were tackled through direct discussions and negotiation. Often he sat her down, face-to-face, and ladled out instructions and advice.

All this Feroza accepted with surprising docility and grace. It was the only way to be rid of an issue on her uncle's mind or on his agenda.

As the list shrank, Manek became less worried. And one Saturday afternoon, cheerfully rubbing his hands, he asked, “What do you say to a free steak dinner at a posh place?”

“Okay,” Feroza said.

In dealing with her uncle, Feroza had learned not to become overly enthusiastic. It gave Manek a perverse pleasure to disappoint her if she displayed her expectations. What made it worse were the homilies he'd tack on. Hence the dry “Okay.”

“Come on, then. We'll have lunch in Boston.”

The restaurant was decorous with candlelight, silver cutlery, and crisp white table linens. It was also quite full.

Manek developed lordly airs the moment they stepped inside the plush, thickly carpeted interior. He refused to sit at the table in a secluded nook they were directed to and chose instead to lead the captain to one in the center of a group of occupied tables. Other diners had to shift their chairs to make room.

They were served garlic bread and rolls. Feroza spread her starched white napkin on her lap. Manek ordered a beer for himself and an orange juice for Feroza.

They scanned the menu and, after discussion and dithering during which Manek remarked two or three times, “Don't worry about the prices — order what you like,” decided on T-bone steaks. Manek ordered medium for Feroza and medium rare for himself.

“If I see any pink in the meat, I won't eat it,” Feroza declared, and Manek accommodatingly changed the order of her steak to well done, contenting himself by remarking merely, “You'll kill the taste of the costly meat — but never mind.”

Feroza reached for a roll. “You saw the prices. How do you expect to get away without paying? I hope you're not going to embarrass me.”

“It doesn't take much to embarrass you when you see gorachittas, does it?”

“Look,” Feroza said, “don't try to palm off your complexes on me. If you're going to shame me, I'm going!” She picked up her handbag and raised her bottom an inch off her seat.

“Stop being childish,” Manek said quickly, reaching out to restrain her. Feroza could tell he was prepared to use force if necessary. “I'm not going to embarrass you; I have coupons. We pay for one dinner and get the other free.”

Feroza was by now accustomed to the special offers at McDonald's, Burger King, and Kentucky Fried Chicken that Manek assiduously kept track of. She was also used to the buyone-get-one-free meals advertised by the smaller Greek, Middle Eastern, and Mexican restaurants that abounded around Harvard Square.

Feroza buttered her roll with equanimity and absently made a mental calculation. The total she arrived at and the possible impact of the figure on their lives popped into her mind and sounded a warning.

“Just the one meal will cost more than you spend in two weeks on food,” she said thoughtfully. “Are we going to fast for the rest of the month?”

“Just eat and enjoy. Do you want a treat or not?”

“Not if we're going to live on dal and rice for the next two weeks.”

“Why do you argue about everything? I told you we're getting free meals. Trust me.”

“Oh God,” Feroza said, dropping her head on the heel of her palm. “Now I'm really nervous!”

They polished off all the rolls, butter, and garlic bread. Manek ordered another beer and, for Feroza, another juice.

The waiter set up a round-topped table on a tripod near them. Solemnly he served them the steaks and, as though bestowing jewels, small portions of glazed baby carrots, potatoes, and asparagus.

Feroza's mouth watered as she watched the unfolding drama of the banquet. She fell to eating the moment the waiter turned his immaculate back on them.

“Hey, take it easy. The T-bone won't run away.”

“I want to eat it while it's hot,” Feroza said.

“Listen, don't eat more than half your steak. It's bad manners.”

Feroza looked up from her plate, incredulous. Her parsimonious uncle, who considered it his sacred duty to get his paid-for pound of flesh and preached her a sermon on starving Ethiopians and Bangladeshis every time she rinsed a grain of rice from her
plate, was asking her to waste half her steak?

“Just a minute,” Manek said, leaning purposefully towards her, fork and knife in hand. And, as Feroza confusedly lifted her hands clear, he neatly sawed off the charred edges of her well-done steak.

Manek pushed the severed pieces to one side and instructed, “Don't touch that.”

Feroza looked at his face again and decided it would be politic to relinquish the segregated portions of her steak unprotested.

She noted with curiosity that Manek did the very opposite with his. He ate round the edges of his T-bone and left a reddish stump in the center uneaten.

“Finish up the vegetables,” Manek directed.

When Feroza had eaten the vegetables and her allotted portion of steak, Manek raised his hand and snapped his fingers to catch their waiter's attention.

Looking faintly startled and irritated by the uncouth behavior of his customer, the waiter glided forward. Managing to look both servile and supercilious at the same time, he leaned forward:

“Yes?”

“I would like to have a word with the head waiter. Please call him.”

Manek had assumed the air and authority of a man used to having his way and paying well for good service.

The man's disdainful demeanor underwent a subtle change: he appeared uncertain. “Yes, sir,” he said and quietly slid away.

In a little while an urbane, distinguished-looking man with gray sideburns and shrewd, blue Scandinavian eyes stood before them.

“What can I do for you, sir? I'm the manager.”

“Your restaurant was highly recommended to us. I must admit I'm disappointed. The steaks are useless. Look at that,” Manek pointed at the charred remains of Feroza's well-done steak. “Burnt. “And this,” Manek's finger hovered accusingly above the bloody stump on his plate. “I asked for a medium-rare steak, not raw cow.”

“We'll get you fresh steaks, sir.” The manager was polite but firm. “You'll have no complaints, I'm sure, sir.”

He signaled the waiter to pick up their plates.

“I'm afraid, after looking at this, my appetite's gone,” Manek said. “I came here to celebrate my fiancé's birthday, not to feel sick. I won't pay the bill. The happy occasion is ruined.”

Feroza wanted to sink through the floor.

The distinguished-looking manager's Scandinavian eyes turned into glacial chips of Arctic ice. They appeared to know exactly what Manek was up to.