Exiles (12 page)

Peter turned to the window. “Is it true, what she says about these places?” he asked. “Are they that bad?”

“Some are better than others, but none of them are great.”

To the east, a dozen ravens spiraled in a thermal as he watched. “You know that karma purification Lama Padma mentioned?”

“What about it?”

“I’m wondering if maybe it’s finished now.”

Mina sighed. “I hate to tell you, but I have a feeling you’ve just made a very worthy adversary,” she said. “This may be just the beginning.”

Devi led them on an expedition, the nature of which she would not disclose. It was the festival of Dasain, when thousands of animals—mainly chickens and goats—were herded into the temples of the Hindu goddess Durga and sacrificed, slaughtered with the ubiquitous Nepali
khukuri
knives.

A half hour after leaving the house, Peter and Alex found themselves ankle-deep in gore outside one of the temples. Lungs and livers and shiny serpentine intestines, all laced with crimson veins, littered the blood-soaked ground, and an assortment of amputated goat legs lay intertwined. Over by the temple, compact, muscular men skinned and butchered the carcasses with businesslike efficiency. The air reeked of thick, drying blood, a smell so viscous Peter could taste it deep in the back of his throat. Swirling, iridescent clouds of flies filled the air.

“As surprises go, I’m not liking this one very much,” said Alex, who was slightly green.

“Just wait,” Devi replied.

“I thought you were a Buddhist. You want to
sacrifice
something?”

Devi had spotted a young, pretty goat. She went over to the owner and started bargaining. Peter and Alex hung back, not wanting to spoil the haggle, because if the seller knew American money was available, the price would quintuple.

Alex leaned into her father, but he was a little woozy himself.

“You and your goddamn wall map,” she said.

“You threw the fucking dart.”

In one way, he reflected, it made sense to placate death by offering life, feeding the beast so it wouldn’t come after you. Sacrifice was as old as humanity, or at least as old as religion, and these people were models of gentility compared to, say, the Aztecs. But that didn’t make it any less brutal. Just when he was starting to feel a bit more at ease in Nepal, to sense how to navigate and function, the situation jolted him into outsider status again. He looked around, wondering how long this would take.

Soon Devi handed the man a wad of rupees, then tied a rope around the goat’s neck and pulled it over to them. The goat was panicked; its eyes darted back and forth, and its legs shook.

“Come on,” Devi said. “Let’s get out of here.”

She led the goat away from the killing ground, and Peter and Alex followed. People were collecting rich, dark blood and splattering it on cars and buses, even bicycles, for good luck. The goat shivered with fear until they put some distance between themselves and the temple.

“My father is still sick,” Devi said at last. “It’s good to save the life of an animal to remove such obstacles.”

“You have a place for it at home?” Alex asked. Devi just looked at her.

“Oh, no,” said Peter. “No, no, no. Our yard is too small, and I don’t want goat shit everywhere.”

Alex looped her arm through his and put her head on his shoulder. “What a generous man you are,” she said. “So kind and accommodating.”

“Also too smart for this crap,” he said. “Don’t forget that part.”

“Of course,” said Alex. “Of course you are.”

|   |   |

“Look at how she smiles,” said Alex, as she brushed the goat in the backyard.

“Goats always smile,” said Peter, unenthusiastically watching the hair pile up. “It’s an anatomical accident, not an expression of mirth.”

“What will we call it?” asked Devi.

“We’ll call it Dad,” said Alex.

“There’s only room for one goat named Dad in the house,” said Peter.

“How about George Bush?” offered Devi. “There’s a name I want to hear fifty times a day. Third try’s the charm, ladies.”

Alex thought about it, then looked at her father and grinned. “It’s obvious, it’s perfect,” she said. “Wayne Lee.”

Oh, yeah, Peter thought—
this
is going to fly. “Are you forgetting she’s a girl?”

“It’s not like she’ll know.”

Peter did his best to think of the possible advantages of naming a little nanny goat after the giant meth-head biker who’d run off with his wife, but he couldn’t come up with any. While he was pondering, the decision was made for him.

“Come on, Wayne Lee,” said Alex, rubbing the goat’s neck. “Let’s feed you some nice rotten cabbage from the compost bin.” Wayne Lee smiled up at her with what seemed marvelous ungulate gratitude.

Well, Peter realized, they
would
be feeding her a ton of garbage that would ordinarily have gone to compost and helped stink up the yard. And of course from a psychological point of view, it offered Alex the chance to literally domesticate one of the great demon-fears of her childhood.

The whole idea was actually pretty twisted, which was what finally won him over.

|   |   |

The next day Peter came into the yard and found Alex and Wayne Lee facing each other.

“You trying to prove you’re more stubborn than a goat?” Peter asked. “I could have told you that.”

Alex had planted her feet and was leaning in, pushing on Wayne Lee’s forehead; Wayne Lee was pushing back. It was goat versus goat, and no one was budging. Devi was lounging in the sun in a T-shirt and shorts, reading a Bollywood fan magazine. Peter asked her how long this had been going on; she checked her watch.

“Thirty-five minutes,” she said.

“You seriously think you’ll outlast her, Alex?”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“Butting is what goats do for a
living
, honey. She’s a professional; she’s an athlete. She has a contract with Nike, and they’re going to brand a little swoosh on her flank.”

“Nobody is gonna brand my little baby Wayne Lee, are they, baby darling?” Alex said, making goo-goo noises. Wayne Lee stood unmoved, pushing back and smiling her little goat smile.

“Drill her on some vocab, at least, Devi. She needs it for the clinic. I want to hear body parts.”

“Head,” said Devi.

“Tauuko,”
replied Alex.

“Nose, lips, hair.”

“Nak, othaa, kapaal.”

Peter was on his way inside.

“Legs, feet, fingers, hand, stomach.”

“Khuttaa, paitala, aula, haath, peta.”

When he was safely out of sight and almost out of earshot he was pretty sure he heard, “Clit, pussy, tits, cunt,” then Alex collapsing in laughter.

|   |   |

He was confused about too many things. There was the situation with Alex and Devi. There was the situation with Mina. There was the question of whether he could really do any good in Nepal, for his patients or his daughter or anyone else. He wanted another grown-up to talk to about it all, and he didn’t know who that person might be.

Lama Padma had expressed an interest in Western science and had asked Peter to write him about it. It occurred to him that the lama might be able to shed a little light on his own problems, and that the correspondence could be a way to open that door.

But although he was glad for the old man’s informality and good humor, he didn’t know how honest he could be about his own views without offending him. Nor, for that matter, was he sure how candid he could be about the personal issues; for one thing, Devi would be translating the letters.

Even so, it was an intriguing opportunity. If the lama was annoyed, he figured, they didn’t have to continue.