“Martha’s having a grand spell. Your dad’s good. He said to tell you they are looking forward to your visit.”
“That’s good, I’m looking forward to it too.”
Frank hesitates. “Apparently you’re bringing some friends.” Uh oh, she seeks escape in her glass, but the drink is going straight to her head. They have come to a group of wicker chairs in the middle of the hotel’s wide lawn. Ahead is the blue glow of the swimming pool and near it a tree hung with coloured bulbs.
“Your dad says you’re thinking of marrying an Indian guy. Is this true?”
“We’ve talked about it.”
“Are you serious?” Now his voice is a river of concern, as if she were a child about to do something stupid. Same old Frank, so reasonable, utterly lacking in imagination and adventure.
“He’s a singer,” she says, as if this explains everything.
“A singer? What is he, in a band?”
“He sings classical music.” How can she begin to describe Somraj? “Indian classical,” she adds, to stop him making a comment about opera or Pavarotti.
“Do you love him?”
This question pierces her. Don’t ask me that, she thinks, or I’ll cry. “No more questions,” she says, trying to smile. “I’m not on oath here.”
“The witness will answer,” he says in his light teasing manner.
“The answer is that you don’t consider marrying someone if you don’t love them. At least I don’t.”
“Ouch,” he says, making a face. It was the way he always used to end their quarrels, make a funny face, make her laugh.
“You used to love me.” He’s heading straight back into territory she wants to avoid. “You know I want you back.”
“I’m sure you’re better off without me.”
Frank begins to complain about his life in Pennsylvania, how it’s work, all work these days, no time for fun.
He’s stalling, she suddenly realises. He’s wondering why I am here.
“Frank,” she says, “I’ve come to talk to you about something important.”
She begins to tell him about the people she has met in Khaufpur. Of Hanif Ali, left blind for twenty years by the gases of that night, of the woman who poured her poisoned milk onto the ground. She tells him about me, the strange, half-mad boy who goes on all fours, and believes he’s an animal. She describes the horrifying things she sees every day, and tells how the Kampani’s refusal to share its knowledge of the poisons is hurting people.
“Elli, this is awful, but you know that people like me don’t have control over those kind of decisions. All I can do is my own job.”
“Why do I have to be your conscience?” she cries. “Make it your job. Can’t you see that hiding behind trade secrets is totally wicked? There are people back home who know exactly what those gases do to the lungs, to the eyes, to the uterus. Frank, I see young girls who bleed three times a month and others who have one period in five months. No one knows how to treat them.”
“When I get back home I can knock on some doors.”
“If they withhold information that could save lives, that’s murder.”
“Whoa Elli,” he says, “now calm down, I would like to help you if I can. I’d do most things for you. But there’s no point pretending I can do things I can’t.”
“You can try,” she says. “At least get the Kampani to clean the factory. Its poisons are in the wells, they’re in people’s blood, they’re in mother’s milk. Frank, if you came to my clinic I could show you. Specimens, I mean. Foetuses, babies that never made it. You wouldn’t want to see such things, even in your nightmares.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t.” He’s silent a moment, then asks in what ways specifically is the water affecting people’s health? What kind of illnesses are showing up? Has she seen the evidence with her own eyes? How can she be sure the chemicals in the factory are to blame?
Furiously, Elli cites names of chemicals, illnesses, people, her small hope is fading fast. Frank is here to do the Kampani’s bidding. Then again at least he’s listening and says he loves her. Suppose, just suppose, she can manage to touch Frank, to move him. All the Khaufpuris need is seven days.
“Elli I’m sorry,” Frank says. “I honestly wish I could help you.” They are approaching the tree, beneath which is a long table loaded with food. “You hungry? I can’t eat any of this stuff. I live on omelettes and fries.”
She says, “Frank I beg you. I’m pleading with you. You must stop this deal.” She clasps his arm. “Please listen to me, if you had spent any time among these people, you’d understand.”
He stands appraising her. “Elli, you are amazing,” he says. “Full of passion, infuriating, adorable.” He reaches out, unhappily she endures the touch of his hands on her shoulders. “I admire you,” he says. “I always have. No, admire isn’t a strong enough word. Elli, you know how I feel about you.”
“Then do this,” she says. “Do this for me. Please do it.”
“Can’t. It can’t be stopped.”
“Then delay it. Give these people their chance of justice. Delay it till after the hearing.”
“You want this real bad, don’t you?” he says. “There’s something I want every bit as bad. Can you guess what it is?” She shakes her head, not daring to think.
“It’s to hear you say you’re coming home.” He’s facing her, now he puts his hands on her shoulders. “Elli, you’ve done a great job here. Come home now. Hand over your work to local doctors and come home.”
“You know I can’t do that,” she says. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.”
“Now you’re sounding like me,” says Frank. “There’s no way you can do what I want, no way I can do what you want.” He bends his head and kisses her on the cheek. “Sounds like we should make a deal.”
“What deal?”
He thinks for a while. “What if I can find a way to delay the agreement, to put it off beyond the date you mentioned? Will you come home?”
“Can you really do it? How?” It’s impossible, she thought, he can’t mean it, he’s a lawyer. If he did this, Zafar and Farouq needn’t go on their fast, and the Khaufpuris would get their day before a sympathetic judge. “You’d be doing such a good thing for the people of this town.”
“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for you. And if I do it, you must come back to America. Promise.”
Sadness whelms up inside, as if the big lake under the hills has burst its bung and sent its waters rising swiftly and silently to drown her.
“I promise.”
TAPE TWENTY-ONE
There comes a banging at the clinic door. Outside is Bhoora’s auto, light on, engine’s ticking over. “Come,” he cries when he sees Elli, “there is no time, you must come right away.”
“What’s going on?” I ask. He says he has come to bring Elli doctress to the Nutcracker. Aliya is bad, her fever is worse, the old ones fear for her life.
“Let me come too,” says I, afraid for Aliya but also for Ma Franci.
“Quickly, madam,” says Bhoora. “Don’t worry about your clinic. Somraj Pandit has given orders it is not to be touched.”
Without another word she gets in and Bhoora guns the engine. Then we’re jolting along through night-time Khaufpur, with the auto’s narrow beam of light picking out a way. The road outside the factory is wrecked, it has been ripped to pieces, great stones and lumps of concrete lie in the middle, crowds are roaming around, inside and outside the factory, of police there is no sign, but a TV crew is outside the gates which are still lying flat, from the darkness inside the grounds come sounds of singing.
There’s a small group of neighbours gathered outside Huriya’s and Hanif’s house, from within comes the noises of weeping.