Malathi drew herself up, ready to debate the issue. But just then Cameron said, “Hush. Listen.” In the silence carved out by his imperative, they heard a creaking, yawing sound-like an abandoned ship rolling back and forth on a misty sea, Uma thought. The sound filled her with an eerie melancholy.
“What is it?” Mr. Pritchett asked, his voice sharp with distrust.
“The ceiling on the other side of the room; you can’t see it because of the partition,” Cameron said. “A part of it-hopefully not a very big one-is getting ready to come down. Don’t panic-the portion above our heads”-here he swung the flashlight up-“seems stable enough. But we must have a plan ready in case that ceiling, too, starts breaking apart. Under normal circumstances, I would tell you to get under the tables-not that we’d all fit. But the water’s risen too high. It’ll soak your clothes. It’s too cold in here to remain in wet clothes.”
He pointed down with the flashlight and Uma saw that the water had reached halfway up the first drawer. It was very dark. Looking at it made her shiver. And Cameron was right-it had grown very cold in the room.
Cameron said, “Keep your pants rolled up and your skirts tucked high, so you can jump down at a moment’s notice. Our best bet is to stand in the doorways. We can’t use the door leading into the passage-it’s too close to the damaged ceiling. That leaves us the two doorways into Mangalam’s office and the bathroom entrance. We should be able to squeeze everyone into them. But there’s no point sitting here waiting for that to happen. Let’s listen to our next story.”
Mr. Pritchett had not taken part in the discussion about Ravi and Nirmala. When he had finished telling his tale, a great lightness had taken over his being. But that high had faded. Now he felt more depressed than ever. He had been hoping for a comment from his wife, a validation for the suffering of the boy he had been. She had said nothing. Disappointment increased his craving for a cigarette. Within his body, things were beginning to shake. Soon they might start coming apart. He was almost certain there weren’t any broken gas lines nearby. A few puffs, with the bathroom door tightly shut, couldn’t harm anyone. He would spray the bathroom with the deodorizer afterward. No one would even know. As soon as this tiresome discussion ended, he was going to head for the bathroom.
“Tell us why you picked this story,” Uma said.
“It was the only time in my life I did something brave,” Malathi said, “even though it was a big cost for me. I don’t think I can do that again. I am too selfish. So it is special to me.”
At the mention of selfishness, Mangalam’s head jerked up as though he had not expected her to confess to such a vice.
“Does anyone need a bathroom break?” Cameron asked. People looked down at the water, weighing their need against its darkness. Mr. Pritchett waited, trying not to fidget. He didn’t want to go if there were other trekkers to the bathroom. There was only one flashlight allowed for such errands, and they would have to wait around to walk back together. They might smell the smoke.
“Well, then,” Cameron said, “let’s start a story.”
“I want Tariq to be next,” Lily said. Tariq looked startled and not particularly pleased. Uma was sure he would say no. But he nodded at Lily and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Pritchett said, jumping down before Tariq could begin. “Back in a moment.” He took the pencil light-very dim by now-that Cameron handed him. He was glad he hadn’t had to tell a lie about the purpose of his trip. He did not like lying. He sensed Mrs. Pritchett’s eyes on his back as he made his way through the icy water. Did she guess? When he thought he was out of the range of Cameron’s big flashlight, he put his hand into his pants pocket and caressed his lighter. He had almost reached the door to Mangalam’s office when he heard a splash. He turned and saw that Mangalam, too, had climbed down. “Wait for me,” he called as he hurried toward Mr. Pritchett.
Mr. Pritchett felt a futile fury surge through him. He rubbed his thumb against the serrated wheel of the lighter as though it were a magic lamp and tried to come up with another plan. Failing, he offered the pencil light to Mangalam. “You go first.”
But Mangalam, who had plans of his own, gestured solicitously and said, “No, no. After you, please.”
Mr. Pritchett walked into the bathroom and pushed the door through the water until it closed. He had to use all his self-control to keep from slamming a fist into the wall. He grabbed the edge of the sink in both his hands and held it tightly, trying to decide what to do. Could he take the chance that Mangalam wouldn’t smell his cigarette when he walked in here? No. No amount of deodorizing spray could disguise the odor of burned tobacco that quickly. Would Mangalam report him to Cameron? Very possibly. The visa officer seemed to hold the sergeant in some awe. What could the sergeant do to him, though? What could any of them do?
Nothing, Mr. Pritchett said to his sallow reflection. At most, they would confiscate his cigarettes, but he had already hidden a few. If they took the lighter, he could sneak a book of matches. He took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips, his hands trembling from anticipation. He could already taste the smoke.
A knocking on the door made him jump. Voices. Mangalam-and someone else. Their words were unclear but insistent. One of them jiggled the handle.
Mr. Pritchett cursed under his breath and stuffed the cigarette back into its packet, hoping he hadn’t injured it. He splashed his face with water, gasping at its coldness, and pulled the door through the water.
Cameron was standing there, his hand on the doorknob. “Are you okay? Mangalam said he called you a couple of times, but you didn’t answer.”
“I’m fine,” Mr. Pritchett said. He knew he sounded snappish, but he couldn’t help it. How much time had he spent in there? Cameron stared at Mr. Pritchett’s dripping face. Mr. Pritchett pushed past the two men into the dark. Behind him, he could hear Cameron telling Mangalam, “We’ll have to insist that people not lock the door when they go to the bathroom.” Hah, thought Mr. Pritchett. Insist away, Sarge. I’ll do what I need to. The smell of bourbon seemed to be all around him. Was nicotine withdrawal messing with his senses? In his hurry he banged his hip into something hard and metallic. Pain shot through him. He stumbled and felt one of the men grab his arm.
“Careful, buddy!” Cameron said. “The world has handed us enough problems already.”
Hadn’t he said almost the same thing to his wife a while ago? Mortified, Mr. Pritchett trudged to his table. But he wasn’t too mortified to decide that while everyone was eating, he would try his luck again.
11
When Ammi called on my cell phone, I was sitting out on the quad with Ali and Jehangir, watching the girls walk by in skimpy outfits. It was the first warm day in weeks, with the sun out, and the girls were making the most of it. We were, too. Truth to tell, I didn’t enjoy girl-watching as much since Farah and I had become close. But I didn’t say this. Already my buddies teased me about her, though it was gentle compared to the things they would have said if I had been going with a girl who was non-Muslim and non-desi.
Farah? She’s my mother’s best friend’s daughter from India. She spent a semester with us last year. More about her later.
Out on the quad, we were ranking the girls one to ten, with ten for the hottest. For us, “hottest” meant the ones that we thought would end up in the hottest circle of Islamic hell. The things we considered were: how much of their bodies they exposed, how much makeup they wore, how loudly they laughed, and how much public display of affection they allowed. I felt guilty about this, too. If Farah knew what we were doing, she would have been mad. Though she was serious about her religion, she believed in live and let live, and she didn’t appreciate crude comments about women. I consoled myself with the thought that the white guys I used to party with earlier would have said cruder things.