THE NEXT DAY, I went out to stretch my legs. I took a long walk down Hawthorne Avenue. It was a fine autumn day, the leaves hung suspended in golds and reds on the forest trees. This was a newer part of the community, in an old New England town. You can find thousands of such streets from the East End of Long Island up to the New Brunswick border. There were typical suburban houses here, all of them probably constructed in the 1970s or 1980s. Some were imitation saltboxes, others were ranches. There were some tall pines in between them and old wood fences. But, as I walked along the street, I began to notice a sinking sensation. The street, it turned out, was made of quicksand and I was rapidly sinking. I quickly began to dig my way out. I noticed a bulldog watching me from between two of the houses. The dog rushed down the hill to me barking, but then also began to disappear into the quicksand.
I managed to pull myself free from the suburban quicksand and make my way out to a main thoroughfare that was on higher ground. The dog was still there, sniffing around, searching for a way out. I walked for a long while, until I was back in Malaysia, or Bali, or India. Some warm and wonderfully rundown place like that. It was here that I came to our apartment, which was on a street across from a Hindu temple. I went inside and began to prepare myself some food, some pasta with chickpeas, but the stove top broke and then the oven broke too. Then my wife came in and began to admonish me. A lamp was also in need of repair, as well as a bed that had been constructed from plastic. Later, we went into an underground cavern, where an alternative school was gathered for a meeting. A group of folk musicians came in and began to play, with one of whom I had been carrying on a secret tryst for some time. The sight of her there, coinciding with the appearance of my children and a disappointed wife, confused me.
I ran up the steps and was gone.
A car came by and an old Indian man asked me if I needed a ride. I told him I did, and he took me to his home. In his back yard stood a row of green canisters that he used for preparing various chemicals. He told me he was in the green chemicals business and that his name was Mr. Singh. He even gave me a business card. Mr. Singh asked me if he could take me anywhere else, and I said, yes, the main market. We drove along in Mr. Singh’s vehicle until we reached the place, where spices and colorful dresses were on sale. Celeste was there with her younger sister Anita. They were shopping for gold saris and khussa shoes. Celeste was annoyed that I happened to run into her. “No woman will ever take you seriously, you know,” Celeste said. The seller was a young Indian woman with a colorful sari. She watched my blue mood turn black.
I turned to Celeste and said, “How could a woman I have loved with all of my heart and so consistently, for so many years, treat me in such a way?” It was true. I had loved her forever. Maybe I still did. Then I began to cry. I sobbed and walked down the street. The Indian seller just shook her head at her bold-tongued Estonian clients and then decided to chase after me. Later, the seller said that there was something about me that had really worried her. The seller’s name was Prisha. We drank chai and ate samosas and I tried to forget everything.
north! 