The Worlds Within Her by Neil Bissoondath Page B

lowering himself into another easy chair, says, “She like the view, too.”
    â€œOf course she like the view. What is have not to like?”
    â€œI jus’ mean —”
    Penny turns towards the door. “They’re here, Amie,” she calls. “You can bring the drinks now.”
    Presently, the curtains at the door waft open and a short, elderly woman comes out with a platter on which are a coffee mug and two glasses of orange juice. She approaches Yasmin, holds the platter out. Yasmin helps herself to the coffee, whispers her thanks. Amie — in her sixties, and skeletal, with a face so pared it reveals the intimate contours of her skull — keeps her eyes lowered.
    Next she serves Penny, who wordlessly takes her orange juice.
    When she comes to Cyril, he shakes his head. “Amie,” he says, “is coffee I wanted.”
    â€œBut m’um say —”
    â€œI ain’t care what m’um say, I —”
    â€œThank you, Amie,” Penny says firmly.
    Amie quickly withdraws into the house.
    Cyril says, “Now look here, Penny —”
    â€œYasmin, dear,” Penny says, gesturing at the plate of sweets. “Help yourself.”
    Cyril’s jaw clenches, his chest heaves to the rhythm of his breathing, now audible. He clenches the glass in his hand until it trembles. But he says nothing.
    Yasmin, embarrassed at the spectacle of Cyril’s anger so easily routed, looks for a way to busy herself. But what is she to do? She feels inept, graceless. Finally, she reaches for a piece of
kurma
and, nibbling at it, remarks on its freshness. Immediately, she sees Penny’s disappointment, realizes she has deprived her of a little victory.
    Penny says, “You know
kurma?”
    At the question, Cyril laughs out loud, and he takes a gulp of juice with a sudden and obvious relish.
    Ignoring him, Penny says, “Well, wonders never cease.”
    Yasmin hears
wandas nevacease:
for a brief moment she is distracted by the distorting effect Penny’s accent has on her words.
    â€œI mean, Shakti wasn’ really one for cookin’.”
    â€œOh, she didn’t make them, she bought them. And all kinds of other stuff, too.”
    â€œYou eat spicy?”
    â€œDepends on what you mean by spicy.”
    â€œYou know how your gran’mother use to eat? With her hands, of course, always with her hands — and not because she didn’t know how to use knife and fork, min’ you. But that was a lady who liked spicy. Always had next to her plate a bunch of what we call bird peppers — small-small and hot-hot — or a pepper as big as your finger —”
    â€œLike a big chili, nuh,” Cyril adds.
    â€œAnd she’d put some food in her mouth and toss in a bird pepper or take a bite out of the big one. I mean, she use to eat peppers the way people eat —” her hands dance in front of her, as if waiting for the simile to alight on her palms, “— peanuts.”
    â€œTaste the mango chutney,” Cyril says, pointing to a bowl sitting beside the fried balls. “Jus’ dip a
pulowri
in.”
    Yasmin complies. The fried balls — the
pulowri
— are greasy to the touch, and the chutney, when she tastes it, has less bite than the one her mother used to buy. But she plays along — “Oh, that
is
hot.” — for the sake of the family legend.
    Penny smiles.
    Cyril says, “And that was nothing for Ma. Nothing!”
Nutten’.
“She was one tough old lady.”
    Penny, seeing Yasmin’s greasy fingertips, calls to Amie to bring some napkins.
    Cyril, with merriment, suggests a fingerbowl instead.
    His comment elicits a laugh from Penny. “Shakti ever tell you the fingerbowl story?”
    Yasmin shakes her head, waits for the story.
    â€œWhen Vern was with the delegation in London — You know he was a member of the team negotiating independence, eh? — the Queen