சித்திரப்பேழை

Translated from the original Tamil short story cittirappēḻai (சித்திரப்பேழை) by Shobasakthi. The original story is available at his website. If you have any questions or feedback, please contact ez.iniyavan@gmail.com.

Thirty years ago, Yasōthā married Amarēsaṉ in a civil ceremony after seeing a matrimonial advertisement that said, ‘Maoist Tamil Eelam supporter seeks bride.’ Amarēsaṉ was then thirty-four, Yasōthā twenty-eight.

Last year, in the midst of the tortuous winter, Amarēsaṉ was admitted to hospital with cancer. The little tube inserted through his throat prevented him from speaking. The doctors had given strict orders that he should not even try to speak. Even in this situation, Amarēsaṉ managed to mumble a few words haltingly to Yasōthā, his face contorted in pain.

“Yasō.. my wish is to have my ashes dissolved into the sea in some communist country.”

These turned out to be Amarēsaṉ’s last words. Yasōthā looked into her husband’s eyes as she placed her index finger softly on his thin lips to close them. Amarēsaṉ struggled to part his lips to smile. His parched lips kissed Yasōthā’s finger and closed themselves. He died two days later.

The funeral home where Amarēsaṉ’s small body was cremated, handed Yasōthā a decorative urn containing a fistful of ashes. The urn was the size and shape of an ostrich egg. It was black with its top and bottom adorned with artwork printed in silver. Tiny little white begonia flowers dotted intervening black space here and there.

Yasōthā lived alone in her home with the decorative urn. The two-roomed apartment with a living room stood on the outskirts of the village which itself occupied a lonely spot sixty kilometers to the south of Paris. It was a community built to house huge factories and those who worked in them.

The decorative urn was Yasōthā’s sole companion once she returned home after work from the industrial laundry. The urn stood in front of Amarēsaṉ’s portrait on the table. Once she returned home, she would place the urn on her lap as she settled back on the recliner. When her back started to ache, she would walk around the apartment for a couple of minutes while holding the urn and then return to the recliner. The weight of her slightly overweight frame would make the recliner sag. Although she suffered from all the routine health complaints of a 58-year-old, she would need to work for at least another six years, as a machine among machines. at the industrial laundry. There were seventy monthly installments left in their mortgage. After Amarēsaṉ’s passing, she was reduced to paying them all by herself.

Her only daughter Mēthiṉi had left home already at nineteen years of age, to live with friends in the city of Paris. Yasōthā knew only that she was part of some problematic band. All members of the band always wore black clothes and thick boots. They had tattoos all over their bodies. The little space that was not already taken over by tattoos were adorned by metal rings. Mēthiṉi was no exception. She even had a metal piercing on her tongue. Yasōthā could never comprehend how Mēthiṉi could sing with that pierced tongue.

Mēthiṉi would show up unannounced at her parents’ house from time to time. She had her own house key. When she did visit, she was not in the habit of staying longer than a day. The loneliness that was consuming Yasōthā turned into irritation with Mēthiṉi and hung heavily around the house.

After Amarēsaṉ’s death, Mēthiṉi took her own sweet time and showed up at the house only two months later. Her first question was, “Why do you have this funerary urn inside the house, ammā?”

I wanted to talk to you about it Mēthiṉi … your father’s last wish to me before he died was to dissolve his ashes in the sea of a communist country.”

Mēthiṉi’s large eyes widened even further. She shrugged her shoulders on her slender body and regarded her mother quizzically, saying “Ammā, there is no such thing as a communist country in the world today.” She paused, and continued, “There has never been one.”

Yasōthā was irritated by Mēthiṉi’s tone. Mēthiṉi was self-centered by nature. She had never cared about her parents’ thoughts or wishes. Yasōthā retorted angrily, “Your father wouldn’t have asked for something that does not exist, Mēthiṉi.”

“You do remember what appā was like in his final days, don’t you? He was confused about everything. His brain was dying before his body did…”

“Shut up Mēthiṉi! When you visit next time, this decorative urn will not be here,” shot back Yasōthā as she got up from the recliner and walked into the bedroom carrying the decorative urn.

2

Every day and night of the thirty years Yasōthā spent with Amarēsaṉ was etched in her mind like frescoes painted with natural colors on a fresh limestone coating. There was not a moment that gave her any cause for regret. Yasōthā had never seen Amarēsaṉ tell a lie or become angry. She racked her brain to remember if they had ever had a difference in opinion. The fact that she could not recall any such instance was a great solace to her. As he lay dead, she saw that he had the same warm smile with which he greeted her when they first met. She thought no one would ever guess that he was sixty-four years old. His appearance did not change even one bit in all the years she had known him. Perhaps one could say that, for him, time stood still.

They first met in the summer of 1993. She was living in a worker’s hostel in this town. On Sundays, she would catch the train to go to the Tamil quarter in Paris to buy a week’s worth of groceries. Without fail, she also rented seven video cassettes of Tamil movies. She would watch one Tamil movie each day. Her life was filled with work, cooking, watching a Tamil movie, sleep, tears for the rest of the time, and nothing else. She did not even like to call her family in Jaffna on the phone. For Yasōthā, talking with them was torture and a source of grief.

The Tamil quarter was filled with movie advertisements, temple advertisements, and posters from the Tamil Tiger militant movement. She loved to pause in front of each and take her time to read it thoroughly. That was the extent of her connection to the Tamil community. It was during one such poster-reading session that she saw Amarēsaṉ’s ‘Bride wanted’ poster. It was written in ink on a piece of white paper the size of one’s palm. Copies of it were glued well on all the lamp posts in the area. Someone had tried to remove them from most lamp posts. On one, someone had even spat out betel juice.

When Yasōthā saw the announcement, ‘Maoist Tamil Eelam supporter seeks bride,’ she really thought ‘Maoist’ was a profession like ‘pharmacist’ or ‘receptionist.’ She was attracted by the groom announcing himself as a supporter of Tamil Eelam. She concluded that he was brave and honest. She looked around to see if anyone was watching her and tore off a piece of the poster that had the groom’s contact number.

Yasōthā was born with four sisters and a younger brother. Having grown up playing with so many siblings the loneliness of her life in France consumed her from within. In every letter from home, her father told her to either get married right away, or to return to Sri Lanka. She kept replying, ‘I am getting married soon.’ But she did not know who she would marry or how. She did not have any relatives or friends in France. She did receive a proposition or two in the industrial laundry where she worked. But the propositions were only for romance. Yasōthā’s suitors were not ready to marry her. But for her, marriage was more important than romance. One could say that it was a firm resolve. The resolve was burned into her heart deeply with a red-hot nail.

Yasōthā is certainly not the impetuous type. She took decisions only after careful thought. More importantly, she did not have the habit of postponing decisions after pretending to ponder them deeply and confusing oneself in the process. She could come to a decision in five minutes. When she returned to her room from the Tamil quarter, she closed her eyes and deliberated for five minutes. On the sixth minute, she dialed the number in the ‘Bride Wanted’ ad.

As she waited for a warm greeting of “Hello” from the other end of the phone line, she heard a calm voice say, “Amarēsaṉ.”

“Vaṇakkam. My name is Yasōthā Rāsaiyā… I saw your ad seeking a bride…”

They spoke only for five minutes. They agreed to meet in person the following Saturday at a cafe in the town where Yasōthā lived.

Yasōthā still remembered that Amarēsaṉ showed up at their meeting wearing black pants and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt. Amarēsaṉ was short, standing at just five feet tall. He had a slight build, like a baby. Given Yasōthā’s sturdy physique she could easily lift Amarēsaṉ and carry him on her hip. He had big round eyes. His hair was unkempt. He sported a bushy mustache.

She liked it when he looked up straight into her eyes as he shook hands to introduce himself. She had rarely met someone who met her eyes while shaking hands. Amarēsaṉ started the conversation softly and fluently. His fluency was infectious.

“Yasōthā, I have been living in France for ten years. I work as a mechanic.”

“I came here just two years ago… I have a ten-year visa.”

“I left Sri Lanka after the Eighty-Three riots.”

“I was sent here from Sri Lanka to get married,” said Yasōthā. She had resolved to be completely open with Amarēsaṉ without hiding anything.

3

Since he had four other daughters of marriageable age right after Yasōthā, her father ‘Tree’ Rāsaiyā had started looking for a groom early on. He was a stubborn man, hence his nickname ‘Tree.’ There was no chance for any of the daughters to question their father’s decisions. In fact, they did not even speak to him. That was their custom.

Two or three years of searching for a groom did not bear fruit even though many people came on ‘bride visits’ to see Yasōthā. Rāsaiyā was wealthy. He had ample wealth and property. He was ready to give a sizable dowry. But it was Yasōthā’s appearance that stood as the biggest impediment. Even ‘Tree” Rāsaiyā, with his firm belief that money could solve anything, was shaken.

Some who came on bride visits referred to her as the ‘sick woman’ even within her earshot. Those words hurt her. She cried a lot in those days. Just as a whale’s intestinal waste coalesced into ambergris, her tears turned into resolve. It was her resolve to show everyone that she would ‘get married, give birth to a child, and live a life,’ that made her endure the pain of childbirth when she gave birth to Mēthiṉi. Even the maternity nurses marveled that they had never seen such a resolute woman.

Yasōthā’s body started to transform itself only when she reached the cusp of adulthood. She shed hair on her forehead, and it began to recede. The wrinkles that started to appear around her neck gradually spread to the rest of her body. Her skin dried up and little white spots that looked like fish scales started to appear. All the doctors in Jaffna threw up their hands and said they could not cure her. Her parents took her to see doctors in Colombo, but to no avail. But someone there gave them a piece of advice: they said if Yasōthā went to live in a cold country, then this affliction would disappear. One doctor told them that the former Indian prime minister Indira Gandhi suffered from the same illness, and her father Nehru sent her to live in Switzerland. On hearing this, Yasōthā’s father started to look for a groom who lived abroad.

The very first such proposal he explored, succeeded. The groom’s name was Chandran. He worked as a manager at a firm in France. Because he was a groom abroad, his family demanded a somewhat excessive dowry. But Yasōthā’s father agreed to it. He explained to the groom’s family that his daughter’s skin ailment would disappear once she moved to a cold climate, citing the story about Indira Gandhi as evidence. He asked the groom’s family repeatedly whether they had sent Yasōthā’s photo to the groom. But the family did not seem too concerned about Yasōthā’s appearance. They said they were very satisfied that Yasōthā’s horoscope was an excellent fit to the groom’s horoscope. The prevailing situation in the country ruled out the possibility of the groom visiting Sri Lanka. Therefore ‘Tree’ Rāsaiyā agreed to foot the bill for hiring an agent to arrange to send Yasōthā to France.

Yasōthā crossed the border from Italy to France on a wintry day in the middle of a heavy snowstorm. Chandran was waiting for her at a Paris railway station. When he saw her get off the train, wrapped up in woolen coats but still shivering, all he offered was a dry smile. The groom’s father had told her that the groom is shy by nature. Yasōthā liked her first impression of Chandran’s appearance. He was dressed smartly. The wriggly lines on his forehead made him look like an intellectual.

As Chandran drove Yasōthā home from the railway station, they only exchanged some pleasantries:

“Where did you go to school?” asked Chandran.

“Holy Family Convent.”

“Do you have any brothers living here?” Chandran asked without turning his head to face her. ‘Tree’ Rāsaiyā had clearly explained their family details to the groom’s family. Yasōthā wondered whether they neglected to convey all those details to Chandran.

When Yasōthā responded, “I had a younger brother. He was in a Tamil militant movement. He was martyred during the battle for the Jaffna Fort,” Chandran softly exclaimed, “aiyō,” and shook his head repeatedly.

Yasōthā noticed that Chandran’s awkward body language conveyed more than the words he spoke. He was unable to keep his face still even momentarily. She expected him to touch her. She had rehearsed several times how she would react when he touched her. But Chandran’s gaze was fixed on the road and did not turn towards her.

When they reached Chandran’s apartment, Yasōthā began removing her winter outer clothes, Chandran stared at her hands, and neck, and forehead, and feet. He held the bathroom door open and said, “You go wash up; I will call my appā to let him know that you have arrived safely.”

Yasōthā entered the bathroom and started to ponder the various controls, wondering which knob to turn which way. She could hear Chandran talking in a subdued voice. At one point, Chandran raised his voice to yell:

“You think you can send me a buffalo because you were greedy for a fat dowry! Wasn’t it enough that you received all the money I made by struggling day and night for so many years in this cold land? Return the dowry to the girl’s family right away. Don’t call me on the phone until you do that. I am scared to even look at her. Her skin is scaly like a snake’s. While I was driving back, I noticed a repugnant stink coming from her skin. Now the stink has pervaded my entire apartment. I cannot be with her for even one more instant.”

Yasōthā pouted her lips to blow on her palm and held it up to her nose. Her entire body was shaking. She opened the bathroom door abruptly and came out to sit on a chair in the living room. She felt as if she was going to faint.

“Let’s go,” said Chandran as he lifted Yasōthā’s bags. Yasōthā’s heart was frozen. Her brain woke up intermittently. When her brain told her that he was going to send her back to Sri Lanka, she jolted herself up from the chair and sat down on the floor. Her eyes dimmed and drooped when she thought about the prospect of returning to Sri Lanka. How could her family face the disgrace if a girl who went abroad to get married returned home a few days later? How would she face the neighbors? She would never be able to get married.

“Let’s go,” Chandran repeated. Yasōthā gently lifted her head and asked, “Where?”. “To the place where you will be staying,” Chandran responded softly.

A little while later, Chandran dropped Yasōthā off at the doorstep of a volunteer organization that assists refugees. Yasōthā thought he smiled dryly. So, she parted her lips in an attempt to smile. It seemed like a smile of resolve.

4

When Yasōthā said, “There was no truth in what that Colombo doctor said. The move to a cold country brought no changes to my body,” Amarēsaṉ reached out with his right hand and took hold of Yasōthā’s left. Exactly six weeks later, they registered their marriage.

The industrial laundry where Yasōthā worked was very large. Hospitals, research labs, and hotels sent their clothes there to be washed. Yasōthā worked in the washing division. The facility employed over a hundred people. Amarēsaṉ found a job in the same facility as a mechanic, They rented a small house near it. Amarēsaṉ’s hundreds of English books filled half the space in their house. It was there that Mēthiṉi was conceived.

One Saturday, Amarēsaṉ returned from a visit to Paris all bloodied up. His left eye was swollen, and his lower lip torn. “What happened,” asked Yasōthā with alarm. Amarēsaṉ murmured, “Half fascists mugged me.” He was very afraid. His body did not stop shaking. All night, he was babbling in English as he slept restlessly.

After this incident, Amarēsaṉ was afraid to go to Paris. Whenever he was compelled to go, he always took Yasōthā with him. He followed her like a shadow, hiding behind her. Even when they sat down at a cafe for a cup of coffee, his eyes darted hither and thither.

5

Yasōthā was sitting in the bedroom holding the decorative urn. She heard the front door open and close. She thought, ‘Wouldn’t my daughter have inherited half my resolve?’ as she came into the living room and peeped outside through the curtain. She saw Mēthiṉi walking away on the street below. She went back to the recliner and sat down, holding the urn. A sudden inspiration came over her. She took out her smartphone and searched for ‘communist countries today’ on Google.

Google responded with China, Cuba, Laos, Vietnam and so on. Yasōthā stared at the names of those countries thinking, ‘Only lies spout when Mēthiṉi opens her mouth.’ She then examined the world map. All of those countries were far away from France. Laos did not have a seashore. Yasōthā memorized the names of the other three. She would go to a seashore on one of these three countries to dissolve Amarēsaṉ’s ashes. But she had no idea how she was going to such a distant land all alone. At the same time, she also resolved not to ask Mēthiṉi for help. Yasōthā did not know if this tendency for resorting to resolutions at the drop of a hat was beneficial or not. However, it was her nature to live with a definite resolve rather than struggle with indecision.

Yasōthā was used to patiently listening quietly when Mēthiṉi discussed many matters at length with her father. During those conversations, Mēthiṉi would contend, ‘Everything in life is an accident.” Yasōthā encountered such a coincidence soon.

That day Yasōthā went into the little grocery store on her way back from work. Caroline, the Frenchwoman running the store by herself, was about sixty years old. Yasōthā had known her for about thirty years. Caroline was a cat lover. There were always at least ten cats sleeping in her store. Caroline’s clothes featured pictures of cats. Her hat was imprinted with a picture of a cat. A piece of white paper cut in the shape of a cat’s silhouette was stuck on the door of the store. It said, ‘The store will be closed for ten days starting from the first of the month.’

As she collected the groceries she needed, Yasōthā asked, “Caroline, why are you closing the store?”

“Yasō, don’t I deserve rest and joy? I am going on vacation for ten days. I will leave these cats at my sister’s and catch the plane to Cuba.”

“Where? Cuba?” Yasōthā asked with excitement. Caroline nodded her head to say ‘yes’ and did a little impromptu dance swaying her hips.

Yasōthā went around the aisles for five minutes. In the sixth minute, she asked Caroline, “Can I also come with you?”

Caroline’s opened her sunken blue eyes wide in surprise. “Lovely, my girl, lovely! Teacher Eline is coming with me. You have never been there, have you… come with us! We will show you wonders,” Caroline could not contain her excitement.

Yasōthā knew Teacher Eline as well. Eline was a black woman hailing from Côte d’Ivoire. She was about the same age as Yasōthā. When Mēthiṉi was little, she came home to tutor her in French. Eline was a great fan of Yasōthā’s red rice and fish gravy.

“Will you go to the beach in Cuba?” asked Yasōthā. Caroline spread her arms wide with excessive excitement and said, “Cuba is surrounded by the sea on all four sides.”

When Yasōthā returned home, she called the travel agent whose number Caroline had given her. Flight tickets plus six nights and seven days at a beachfront hotel with full board came to one thousand two hundred euros, the agent said. They agreed that the fare would be paid in ten installments.

Yasōthā took the decorative urn in her hands, lifted them up to her eye level and looked at it for long. Then she put the urn in its cardboard box and closed it. She heard the door open. “Bonjour ammā,” called out Mēthiṉi as she entered.

6

The plane took off from Paris and flew over the Atlantic ocean. After ten hours, it would cross the Bermuda Triangle known as the Devil’s Triangle and land in Cuba’s José Martí international Airport. Yasōthā, Caroline, and Eline had arrived at the airport two hours before their flight departed. A little later, Mēthiṉi rushed into the airport. She was carrying a small travel bag on her shoulder.

Mēthiṉi hugged her mother and kissed her on the cheeks. She also kissed Caroline and Eline. Then, she took off the travel bag from her shoulders, handed it to Yasōthā and requested her to take it to Cuba.

“What is in the bag, Mēthiṉi?”

“Some clothes for children, some pens, and some colored pencils. Give them to the children over there ammā,” Mēthiṉi responded, and left right away. She did not have the patience to wait for a while to give her mother a sendoff.

The three of them had seats on the same row on the plane. Carine had let Yasōthā sit on her window seat. Yasōthā thought Caroline had noticed that Yasōthā was tightly clutching a cardboard box with both hands and was wondering if she should ask what it was. “It is my husband’s ashes. I am coming to Cuba to dissolve them in the sea,” She said.

Caroline smiled and said, “Eline and I are also coming to dissolve our ashes.”

7

It was six in the evening when the plane landed at José Martí international Airport. The tiny airport was filled with tourists in summer clothes, straw hats, and rubber slippers. The luxury bus arranged by the travel agent was waiting outside. Eline and Caroline sat together on one side while Yasōthā took the window seat across the aisle. An old Frenchman with a beautiful walking stick sat down beside her. On the front yard of the airport, a statue of Che Guevara stood majestically.

They were going to the tourist hotel on the island of Varadero, a two-hour drive away. Along the way, they saw clusters of people standing by the roadside from time to time. Occasionally they saw wooden houses. The roadside was decorated with red banners the entire way. In those banners, Che Guevara, Fidel Castro, and Raoul Castro were walking under the stars. At a distance, mountains and plains alternated.

When the bus crossed the bridge and entered the island of Varadero, the scene changed from what they saw along the way. Colored lights glittered along the roads. Rows of tourist hotels stood tall. Tourists sat in the taverns along the road drinking. When Yasōthā got off the bus, lively Spanish music wafted from the dance halls in all directions and made her ears reverberate.

Her hotel room was on the second floor, facing the sea. Yasōthā went out onto the balcony and looked at the sea. The mild waves emanating from the Mexican bay elegantly embraced the shore and retreated gently. She heard the doorbell ring. Yasōthā went into the room, rooted around in her handbag to find her eyeglasses and put them on. Outside Caroline and Eline stood, in glittering dresses, all made up.

8

Yasōthā woke up already at five in the morning. She showered and put on a sari. The last time she wore a sari was when they got married. As soon as she decided to travel to Cuba, she went to the Tamil quarter in Paris to buy a new sari. It was a black sari with a yellow border. Having dressed up, she took the decorative urn out of its cardboard box and sat on the bed for five minutes. On the sixth minute, she left the room and started walking towards the sea, barefoot.

The beach was deserted save for two uniformed guards. The sea was still. Yasōthā waded into the water until the water was knee-deep. She opened the lid of the urn and poured the ashes into the water that looked like pale blue glass. The ashes spread out like flowers over the water. Yasōthā closed her eyes tightly. She closed the lid of the urn and tossed it into the water as well. Then she walked back to the shore and sat with her back to the sea, facing the hotel. The previous night, Eline and Caroline had told her that they would meet up on the beach in the morning.

The hotel was designed in the shape of a herring gull. The central part of the building was flanked by three stories of luxury rooms on either side. They looked like gigantic bird wings. Yasōthā’s room was at the tip of the western wing. Caroline’s and Eline’s rooms were opposite hers. There were two taverns on the beach. There was also a fancy goods store. Between them a curved swimming pool lay like a twisting blue snake.

The denizens of the hotel’s wings started coming towards the beach in swimsuits. A bevy of bare breasted young women emerged from the eastern wing and started running towards Yasōthā, wearing only bikini bottoms. Yasōthā averted her eyes and slowly turned so that she faced the sea. She noticed that hordes of people were now walking from the sea towards the beach. Yasōthā could not understand how this crowd of people suddenly appeared in the sea.

There were people of all ages in that crowd, from toddlers to old people. They spanned the entire color spectrum, black, yellow, and white. But they did not come all the way to the shore. They stood in the water and waited. When tourists waded into the water, they swarmed towards them. A black woman carrying a naked child on her hip beckoned to Yasōthā. Yasōthā waved back. The woman smiled and signaled again asking Yasōthā to come into the water. Yasōthā stood up and walked to the edge of the water.

The black woman said in English, “Welcome to our country, lady. Your dress is very beautiful. Please give me some money to buy clothes for my child. She doesn’t have even a single frock.” Yasōthā told her to wait and walked back to her room. The travel bag that Mēthiṉi gave her was in the room.

Yasōthā brought the travel bag back to the beach and signaled the woman to come to the shore to pick it up. The woman signaled back asking Yasōthā to bring the bag into the water. When Yasōthā stepped into the water with the bag, the woman rushed to her, received the bag and said, “Lady, we are not allowed to step on to the beach.”

“Why are you not allowed?” asked Yasōthā, surprised.

“It is against the rules. Look at the guards over there! They are watching us. Even if our toenails touch the shore, they will chase us away.” The woman balanced the bag on her head with one hand and hurried away into the sea carrying the child in the other arm.

Yasōthā really could not understand what was going on. She could not spot Caroline or Eline on the beach. So she went back to her room, showered, and changed clothes again. She went to the hotel restaurant to have breakfast and went back to the beach to sit down. As the sun climbed higher, people thronged to the beach as if it was thirththam festival at a temple. Yasōthā enjoyed being among the crowd.

Then she saw Caroline and Eline walking towards her on the sand, waving to her. Both wore swimsuits. There were two young men with them. They, too, were in swimming trunks. One was black. The other was of a pale-yellow complexion. As the two men walked towards the fancy goods store, Caroline and Eline sat next to Yasōthā on the sand.

“Did you sleep well at night Yasō?” inquired Eline.

Nodding ‘yes’, Yasōthā asked, “You two still look sleepy.. When did you return to your rooms?

“It was past four when we returned to our rooms. With these fine young men with us, how could we sleep? Did we come all this way to sleep?” said Caroline as she took the long white towel from her shoulder, laid it out on the sand, and lay down on it on her stomach. Eline did the same. The two men returned, each carrying a massage oil vial. The black man climbed on top of Caroline’s back as if he was mounting a horse, barely touching her. The other man climbed on to Eline’s back. They started oil massaging the women’s backs. The one on Eline’s back looked at Yasōthā and said something in Spanish to Eline. Eline turned her head towards Yasōthā with difficulty and said, “He is asking if my friend also needs a lover.”

Yasōthā was startled. Eline reached out and held Yasōthā’s hand.

“Yasō! We found these men at the dance hall yesterday. They are not only handsome but are kindhearted. This is the gift that god gave to the men of this country. Every one of them is like a seahorse.”

“Are they Cubans? A woman told me that they are not allowed on the beach?”

“Yes… it is a little confusing. This beach belongs to the hotel. Cubans are not allowed here. But a tourist staying at the hotel is free to bring a Cuban as their own responsibility…”

Yasōthā was walking back towards her hotel room. Everything happening around her seemed new and dreamlike. For the next two days, she came out of her room only for meals. Her consternation did not subside. But it was not as if she was pining to return to France either. The thought of her home in France lying in complete silence twenty-four hours a day was upsetting.

9

On the third day in the evening, Yasōthā was overwhelmed by the heat and was sweating profusely. Even in that expansive hotel room, she felt suffocated. For a moment, she even wondered if she was going to die. She left her room and slowly walked towards the sea. There was no one in the sea. The sun was descending into the sea on the western horizon. Some tourists were raucously playing volleyball on the beach. She walked away from them towards the west along the shore. Some distance away, she spotted a dwarf coconut tree. Its head was covered with yellow flowers. Yasōthā sat down on the sand under the tree, facing the sea, and stretched her legs. It was then that she noticed a new change on her ankles. A white pigment had enveloped her ankles like socks. While she was examining her ankles a noise startled her. She looked up to see a young man standing in the sea. He grinned so that his white teeth shone, and said, “Hi Lady Boss.”

He was about twenty-five. He wore only a pair of shorts. He was slim but well-built, standing over six feet tall, with brown skin and thick curly locks. His face was clean shaven.

Yasōthā smiled back. Now the young man took a step forward enthusiastically. With a smile, he asked in English, “Lady Boss, which country do you come from?”

“France,” replied Yasōthā, somewhat aloud.

He switched to French immediately. “Did you come alone, Lady Boss?”

Yasōthā squinted at him. The young man took another step forward. “If you hang around on this beach, you pick up all languages. I can speak seven or eight languages, Lady Boss,” he said.

“I am not Lady Boss. My name is Yasōthā Amarēsaṉ.”

“That is an excellent name, Lady Boss. But it is a tad too long, difficult for me to pronounce. My name is Edmundo. I walked a long way through the sea. If you invite me, I can come closer to you and talk more. The sea has started to turn cold.”

He was now at the edge of the water. His next step forward would have to be on the shore. Yasōthā stood up hurriedly and started walking back towards the hotel.

“Lady Boss, if you want to go to a dance hall, come with me. I will take you to the best dance hall on this island. If I go alone, I will not be allowed inside. But if I go with you, I can dance the salsa this evening.”

Yasōthā returned to her room without replying. She didn’t even go outside her room that evening for dinner. The next day, she ordered room service. The next evening, as the sun was setting, she went out onto the balcony on a sudden intuition and looked at the sea. The dwarf coconut tree was barely visible. At a distance, a tall figure walked through the sea and disappeared from sight.

The next morning, Yasōthā put on a white gown, and wore a white bead necklace. Her shoes were white, too.

When she went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, she saw Caroline and her black lover. They were in a daze, alternating between taking a bite of the food and kissing. Yasōthā went near them and wished them good morning as if to shake them off their daze. Caroline looked up at Yasōthā with inebriated eyes and invited her to join them for breakfast.

“We have to leave early in the morning tomorrow to the airport… have you done enough sightseeing? How do you like Cuba? This is all heaven, is it not…?”

Yasōthā responded somewhat shyly, “I have not been outside.”

“Here in Varadero, you only see swarms of tourists. Yasō. Shouldn’t you go out to see real Cuban people? Go to Santa Marta. It is nearby. You can see the real Cuba there.”

Varadero was a narrow island shaped like the neck of a giraffe. It has been given over to tourists. A bridge lies between the island and the Cuban mainland. When one crossed the bridge, one would be in Santa Marta.

Yasōthā got the hotel to arrange a car for rent. Until then, she had not spent a cent in Cuba. She exchanged some Euros into Pesos. There were no vehicles on the road. The rental car glided along speedily down the road. But once she crossed the bridge, the situation turned on its head. The roads were full of potholes. Emaciated horses dragged carts along the roads.

After a twenty-five minute drive, the rental car entered the town of Santa Marta. A statue of Che Guevara stood majestically on the town square. Yasōthā alighted there, asked the driver to return to the same spot at noon to pick her up, and started walking along the road.

That was a small town. But it lay in ruins as it had been ravaged by a war. There was dust everywhere. In front of the one or two shops that dotted the landscape, there were long queues of people. Yasōthā turned into a side alley, and walked along it, taking in the sights. The residences in the alley crowded against one another. She made a mental note of the path she took and turned into the next alley. It was then she saw the tall young man Edmundo walking towards her. When he saw her, he opened his eyes wide, and flapped his right hand. Then he started running towards her, shouting, “Lady Boss!” He wore the same pair of shorts as before. But now he also donned a beautiful hat. The hat straps were brought together under his chin and knotted like a flower.

“Lady Boss… you have appeared before me like an angel! My home is here. Please make us happy by visiting our house and having a cup of tea,” Edmundo said, as he took hold of Yasōthā’s hands and led her along the street. Yasōthā did not try to disengage from his grip. In fact, the invitation made her happy.

He stopped in front of a dirty two-storey building and said, “Lady Boss.. my house is on the first floor. There are no lights on the stairs. So, hold my hand tightly,” and tightened his grip. Yasōthā climbed the stairs unsteadily. People were sitting on each step, despite the darkness.

Edmundo’s house was a small room. In fact, it was just a dark hole. Even during the day, the room was engulfed in darkness. In the middle of the room, under a weak light bulb, an old woman was lying on a recliner, reading a bible. She looked at Yasōthā for an instant as she entered and went back to her bible. Edmundo made black tea for Yasōthā. Yasōthā kept looking at the old woman as she sipped the tea. When Yasōthā prepared to leave, the woman said something in Spanish. “Lady Boss.. it seems your bead necklace is beautiful. My mother is asking if you’d be willing to give it to her,” Edmundo said, hesitantly. Yasōthā took off the necklace from her neck, went close to Edmundo’s mother, and put it around her neck.

When they were walking towards the Che Guevara statue, Edmundo whispered in her ears, “Lady Boss.. you didn’t come to the beach last evening.” Yasōthā did not respond but kept walking. The rental car was waiting by the Che Guevara statue.

That evening, Yasōthā stood on the balcony and watched the sun set into the sea. She stood there for a long time. When it was completely dark and the sea disappeared from her view, she went into the bathroom, and took a bath, sitting in the tub for a long time. When she climbed out of the bathtub, she saw her fully naked body in the bathroom mirror. Steam emanated like smoke from her reflection.

Under the lamps, her fully grayed hair shone like silver. It seemed like her head was small and neck long. Below the neck her body widened. The area around her belly appeared bloated. Below the knees, her legs looked like sticks. The white patches around her ankles glittered. The white spots on her dark skin looked like begonia flowers. She thought her body had taken the shape of an ostrich egg, just like the decorative urn.

10

The plane sat on the tarmac of José Martí international Airport, ready to depart for Paris. Caroline, sitting on the window seat, was looking outside. Eline sat next to her, looking desolate. Yasōthā sat on the next seat.

When the plane started to climb, Caroline suddenly started to weep. Teardrops formed in Eline’s eyes, too. Yasōthā put her hands on Eline’s shoulder. Eline leaned slightly and mumbled into Yasōthā’s ears.

“Whether it is a one-week romance or one-day romance, parting always brings out these damned tears Yasō…”

Yasōthā looked up at the plane’s roof. She had resolved already the previous night that she would not cry.

January 2024