My Lady of the Bog by Peter Hayes

hesitation in applying whatever measures are needed to get your way.”
    “It’s called hardball, Jai—as opposed to cricket.”
    “Yes? Well, don’t be fooled by Sir August’s manner. He didn’t become a Knight of the Realm by being a wuss.” Jai pressed on. “Then there’s the matter of a fourteenth-century manuscript that you so blithely dropped into the post—without anyone’s prior knowledge or consent. You’re a bleedin’ Yank , Xan! What makes you think you can dispose of England’s archeological treasures as you deem fit? Did you know it took me the whole of two mornings, a barrister’s counsel, and all my powers of eloquence and persuasion to prevent the Yard’s antiquities squad from clapping you in jail?”
    I hadn’t. No. Jai held up a hand.
    “Happy to do it. After all, you’re my son . I love you, Xan. And that’s my point. When you love someone, you don’t count the cost. You do for them whatever you have to do.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Love is sacrifice , Xan. That’s the whole of the Vedas—and the Bible to boot.”
    I rolled my eyes, but Jai only pushed back coldly and said, “Of course, that’s something you don’t understand because you’ve never sacrificed anything for anyone, have you? And you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because you lack greatness, kingship, largesse . And if you stay that way, it’s going to be your ruin!”
    I looked up. I had no idea what to say. Jai had never, ever spoken to me this way before.
    “I thought you were . . . compassionate, Jai.”
    “This is my compassion,” Jai hissed back, ramming the volley back down my throat.
    I was too stunned to even feel hurt. I thought for a moment. “What can I do?”
    Jai sat back and smiled for the first time. “Well,” he said, “you can change.”

Chapter 12
    I won’t pretend that what Jai said that evening hadn’t been said to me before. I will say this time I could not so readily dismiss it. For Jai was one of the few people I loved. In fact, when I was younger, I’d worshipped him. It was not just his brilliance, but his personal style—a zest and an elegance that had set him apart. Even in his poorest days as an instructor, he had managed to drive a Mercedes coupe, and he’d sometimes worn an ascot (or “foulard” as he called it, the only man I’d ever seen on whom it didn’t look asinine). And as marvelous as Jai was with people, equally marvelous was the way he handled things .
    Once, he went shopping and returned with a single, forty-dollar silver teaspoon. It was all he could afford, but it was beautiful, lustrous and heavy as a trowel. He would take it from his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief, and use it to eat his institutional meal. When he was done, he would dip it in his water glass, wipe it dry and replace it in his pocket. Jai claimed that next he would buy a fork, and then a knife, until he had acquired the entire eighty-piece set.
    His superb library was ordered—not anal-compulsively, but in a most natural, logical way—and he didn’t, therefore, spend hours, like me, looking for lost and misplaced texts. Though we were equally poor, Jai wore clothes of the finest fabric, and they were always clean and always mended, even if they were old.
    He neglected nothing. Once when I remarked on this, he said, “I was taught that if something’s yours, it’s your duty to preserve it.” And he went back to whatever it was he was doing, something I would never do in a million years: oiling the toaster or polishing a bowl.
    Later he told me, “My family worships Vishnu. Vishnu is the preserver of the universe. He’s not its creator or destroyer, but its sustainer. There’s something wonderful about taking care of things, don’t you think?”
    “You mean maintenance ?” I cried, in disbelief. “You mean getting your shoes shined, cleaning the refrigerator and washing the goddamn eighth-story windows? Are you mad ?”
    He smiled at me kindly. “I mean . .