Faces Meera Meera Johna knew from television bounced about on bodies the TV seldom showed: There was, at her parents’ party, the mayor of the city (whose legs were, it seemed to her, too short for his body), the minister of health (whose feet were very small), the minister of security (whose belly strained against his white shirt), other politicians, entertainment celebrities, various neighbors, some close friends, a handful of relatives, and the president of the country, Sir Oswald Jones (whose legs were long and whose shoes were very shiny) and his wife, Lady Oswald Jones (whose calves were muscular). And yes, that was her — the Tatiana woman whom Meera Meera Johna congratulated herself for recognizing as she had only before seen her once, and she was then in a reclining position, her hair held tightly in one of John Lucknow Mansing’s hands. Meera Meera Johna stared at the Tatiana woman. Matilda Jasodhra put a stiff and warning hand on her daughter’s back and shoved her toward Their Excellencies. Meera Meera Johna moved forward, Isabella Tatiana trapped in her peripheral vision. Where is my father? she wondered. Still in the study? Why isn’t he here to meet the guests? And then Meera Meera Johna pondered: She, Isabella Tatiana, known in one part of our house as That Tatiana Woman, is what must be called beautiful. She must be more beautiful than my mother or me. Isabella Tatiana moved from Meera Meera Johna’s peripheral vision to its forefront. They locked eyes. Tatiana’s were greenish-gray. Her hair was dark brown. Open, it was long. Wavy. She was tall, she was slim and her skin pale. She smiled incessantly. She wore a black dress with no straps. Meera Meera Johna wondered how such a dress stayed up. Isabella Tatiana wore only one speck of jewelry, a silver ring on a finger, and from it flashed beams of iridescent blue, turquoise, black. She smiled still. Her lips were bright but, if Meera Meera were not mistaken, they were naturally so, no lipstick that is, and they seemed soft. She wore shiny black high-heeled shoes that showed her toes. Her toes were—
Matilda Jasodhra caught her daughter’s distraction and dug her fingers into her daughter’s shoulders. Meera Meera Johna winced. Isabella Tatiana’s smile broadened, but only, Meera Meera Johna thought, for Meera Meera Johna herself to see, and... and. And she winked. That was a wink, wasn’t it? All of this, but Meera Meera Johna, nevertheless, drew to her mother’s attention.
A man, whose face was unknown to her, instructed her in a jovial, mischievous, and booming voice that she should ask the nation’s president for absolutely-absolutely anything her little heart desired, and surely-surely it would be granted. The other guests laughed, raucously. Her Excellency Lady Oswald Jones, wearing around her neck a heavy silver chain (that drew attention to itself and away from her bony neck) from which hung a silver pendant inlaid with dazzling blue patterns, managed a stony smile. Meera Meera Johna’s eyes grew big. As much as she was tempted to bring notice to the unfortunate fashion faux pas, Meera Meera Johna kept to herself this queerness. By drawing on knowledge garnered from watching and listening to the main woman in her life, her mother that is, she intuitively conjectured that mentioning the faux pas would surely embarrass the two women, and without any hint of her distraction she simply looked up into the president’s eyes and said, “Really?”
His Excellency laughed and told her to whisper in his ear and he would do his utmost to please her. A squawking chortle erupted on the patio again. His Excellency stooped and Meera Meera Johna whispered away. The president’s face stiffened and he turned gray. He pulled Meera Meera Johna to his chest, pressed her head against him, then whispered back to her, but at least one person heard him say, “I don’t know why he was perched on her. I don’t think that is what was happening. Are you sure you weren’t seeing things?”
Meera Meera Johna understood in an instant, and tried again, “Can I ask another question then?” The president, hesitant this time but bending to the pressure of the audience around him, moved his ear to Meera Meera Johna’s lips. He heard her question and pulled away as if she had spat. He peered across to the far room at his host John Lucknow Mansing, cavorting some distance away. He glanced up quickly at Matilda Jasodhra. He looked at his own wife, and then he looked back at Meera Meera Johna. He shoved his lips in her ear. They tickled her.
“But of course they love each other,” he was heard to say. “How else would you have come into this world? Look at them. Just look at this lovely evening, all these lovely people. They must love each other to be able to create this sort of enjoyable occasion. Now, young lady,” the president continued, “who would you like to be like when you grow up? Have you any heroes?”
Meera Meera Johna thought for a moment and then said, “My father.” The guests clapped their hands in giddy agreement.
The president said, “Well, that is assured. That I can grant you. The sins of the father, et al. But a note of caution, my child. Take care of what you wish for. You may, to your delight — or horror — get it!”
The man with the booming voice said, “Your Excellency, par excellence!” There was laughter, and then John Lucknow Mansing finally arrived on his patio, a good few minutes after his guests. All attention turned to him.
Meera Meera Johna extracted herself from the president’s grip. She inhaled until her chest was as taut as the skin of a balloon, and forced herself to give brave answers to questions like, So, what class are you in now, and, Who made that lovely dress for you, and, What are you eating, child, that is making you grow so tall and so pretty? She took happy note: She was a capable child, capable of all of this, and her chest, still full of air, did not split, nor did a single strand of hair escape the elastic that was now like the fastener on a bag in which her heavy brain pulsed.
Meera Meera Johna had to endure an eternity of ten minutes of adults talking to her as if she were a trick puppy, throughout which she distracted herself by watching her mother. She was impressed by her mother’s administration, the way, like a concert director using the barest nod or a concentrated look, she conducted the servants. Her mother did more with the yardman though. He had been standing still with a tray of empty cocktail plates and scrunched napkins held up shoulder height in one hand (his jumbie-bead eyes indiscreetly jumped about the room, from her mother to the various guests to her father to Isabella Tatiana back on to her mother). Matilda Jasodhra Mansing went over to him and whispered briskly, orders no doubt, for he busied himself. He walked back and forth now, but with the same tray of empty cocktail plates and scrunched napkins. Then, with an equal briskness, she turned to Meera Meera Johna and ushered her back into the depths of the house. On the way, far from the presence of the guests, and outside of earshot of the household staff, Matilda Jasodhra Mansing tightened her grip on her daughter’s shoulders and sternly demanded, “What did you ask Sir Oswald?”
To which Meera Meera Johna whispered, “Nothing. Honest, Mummy. Nothing.”
Matilda Jasodhra, although she had not heard her daughter’s questions nor the president’s answers, knew her daughter well enough to reply, “What is wrong with you? Why are you always asking those horrific questions? Why can’t you simply behave yourself, Meera Meera Johna Mansing? Change into your pajamas and get into your bed this instant. I don’t want to hear another peep from you.”
Long after she was supposed to have been asleep in her bed, Meera Meera Johna got out, crept in the shadows down to the front of the house, into the living room. The three-tiered crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling cast dancing prisms of color on the wood floor. The smell of the polish the yardman had applied that morning still lingered. The room had been vacated of almost all furniture except for some chairs pulled up against one part of the wall. In the low light she moved against the wall and slipped into a corner behind a tall blue-and-white-patterned Chinese vase out of which a Monstera deliciosa grew. She crouched down and was well-hidden. The guests had eaten dinner, and dancing and drinking in earnest were just beginning.