Arid Dreams Page 4

  “Are you thinking of possibly adopting him?” Mala asked.

  “No, no. I just think he’s cute, and I thought it might be nice for you to have some company, that’s all,” Prakorb said. “I told his mother I’d take him home this evening. Go ahead, get to know him. He really is adorable. I’ll take this stuff in and lay everything out.” Then he went inside the house, leaving Mala and the boy alone.

  From the window, Prakorb covertly watched them. Mala seemed overjoyed. She was bonding with the child quickly, and the two played together in the yard for ages. He could faintly hear Mala’s laughter from time to time. Until today, he had never seen her laugh so hard, or look so cheerful. Ultimately Prakorb wanted Mala to be happy. This scenario seemed more realistic and closer to her dream than being cooped up with those distorted, lifeless wood children. He couldn’t predict how his decision to bring the boy over might affect their relationship down the road, but he believed in that instant, seeing how happy Mala was spending time with the child, that her joy was, in part, his doing. Mala would continue to be with him, stay close to him. The misshapen wood children had caused her to pull away and cling to that table, but he was going to lure her back—back to the real world, to real happiness.

  Right then Prakorb went upstairs to their bedroom. He eyed those wood children with contempt, a contempt that extended even to the knife, the chisels, the raw wood, the table, the stool—all the way to the crate that Mala kept under the table for scraps. He desperately wanted to banish these things from their lives that very moment, but he knew he had to refrain for now; he had to stay cool. All of it would be gently erased from Mala’s mind, without her even realizing it. But in truth he was eager to discover the outcome: Between the wood children and the bundle of joy he had brought her, which would she find more important?

  Prakorb considered each item on the table in turn. He grabbed one of the wood children but then changed his mind and quickly put it down. He felt so nervous that he had to console himself: He wasn’t a child misbehaving, but an adult fixing a problem. What he was about to do, he was simply making things right, not doing anything wrong. He chose again—this time the knife. He hurried to the window and pushed it open. Their bedroom was on the second floor; beyond the fence, he could see the little canal, its surface covered with water lettuce and duckweeds. He threw the knife out the window with all his strength. As it flew through the air, something deep inside him told him no, and he was tempted to snatch it back. Prakorb quickly suppressed the feeling. In any case, it was too late. He saw the green carpet of duckweed ripple slightly, and the knife disappeared. The leaves smoothed back together, serene as though they’d never been disturbed. He closed the window and left the room, and as his nerves settled back down, he felt calm, like he hadn’t done a thing.

  Prakorb arranged a variety of dishes on the dining room table. It was too early for dinner, but he wanted to have the boy eat with them, and to do so early enough that he could drop him off in the evening and still return home before it got dark—before Mala would have a chance to go into the bedroom.

  Mala led the boy inside the house by the hand. Her face was flushed; she was catching her breath from laughing. Gleaming beads of sweat cropped up along her hairline and dripped down the sides of her face. Prakorb was spellbound watching her. Seeing her this way made him indescribably happy. Mala said that she was going to take the boy upstairs to see the wood children.

  Prakorb rushed over and picked up the boy. “Look at you, you’re tired and hot,” he told Mala. “Go wash up and get yourself something to drink. I’ll take him to see them. I’ve already set the table. Let’s eat a bit early today, so I can drop him off before it gets dark. You can wait for us down here. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Mala complied. For her, it was a day of novelty and joy—joy that only children could bring about. She was amused as her mind recalled her earlier interactions with the boy: how he had wedged himself into the farthest recesses of his mind, then looked back out at the world with a perspective that adults could never divine. When he tried to convey the images he saw, reality was bent into something curiously warped. These new perspectives fascinated her endlessly.

  Dinner was something of an experiment for each participant, and everyone was happy to see it play out. They treated one another like family: the parents each tending to their little child, never taking their eyes off him. Watching them, the boy felt like he was a part of this home; he even touched and picked up everything as if he were the owner. Mala watched the boy until she felt he was really hers; Prakorb watched Mala as she took pleasure in what he had played a part in giving her.

  Prakorb drove the boy home and turned right around, not wasting any time. He sped back, worried that Mala had gone up to the bedroom and realized the knife was gone. He had to admit that he felt afraid without being able to pinpoint why, and it shook him that he was so terrified.

  By the time he got back, it was almost sundown. He was relieved to see Mala at the dinner table. She had cleaned up and done the dishes, and was now leaning back in one of the chairs, her arms outstretched on the table, her eyes unfocused, lost in thought. When she saw him out of the corner of her eye, a smile appeared immediately. She called him over to sit down next to her and began enthusiastically talking about the boy.

  “He’s such a wondrous little human being! He has these ideas that are so strange, yet fascinating. You might find them funny at first, but once you really think about them, they blow you away. For example—oh, what was it? Oh yes, he asked me, ‘Can sharks live in sugar water?’ See? Look at his question! You know why he asked that? Because someone had told him that sharks live in salt water, so he was wondering why they’d choose to live in salt water when sugar water’s tastier.”

  Mala laughed as she told the story. Prakorb nodded and laughed along, making sure not to interrupt the flow.

  “And another time, he asked me, ‘When the sun’s down, would something bad happen if someone steps on it?’

  “I told him, ‘No, the sun’s very far away. People can’t walk that far.’

  “Then he asked, ‘What if someone walks that far and steps on it, would something bad happen?’

  “I told him, ‘The sun’s really big. People can’t step on it like that.’

  “Then he asked, ‘What about elephants? Elephants are big. If an elephant steps on it, would something bad happen?’

  “I told him, ‘It can’t. The sun’s big and also very hot. If an elephant got too close, it would get hot.’

  “Then he asked, ‘What if the elephant doesn’t get hot? An elephant’s big, too. If an elephant steps on the sun, would the sun break?’

  “I told him, ‘No, the sun wouldn’t break,’ and you know what he asked me next? He said, ‘Why not? Is it because the sun’s squishy like a pillow so when you step on it, it doesn’t break?’ Listen to him! He was so quick I could barely keep up. His mind went to places I didn’t even know existed. But ultimately where he was going was right here, right around us. It made me realize that if you want to have a conversation with a child and be able to keep up with him, you first have to learn to cast reality aside and try to view everything in a new light.”

  “Seeing you this happy takes a load off my mind,” Prakorb told her. “I’ll bring the boy over more often so you won’t get lonely. Why don’t you go take a shower. I’ll wash your hair for you today. After that, I have something to tell you.”

  Curious, Mala looked at him. “Can you tell me now? What is it?”

  Prakorb smiled at her. “Let’s shower first. I’ll shower with you, okay? I’ll wash your hair. Wait for me in the bathroom. I’ll go get us towels, and I’ll pick out a nightgown for you, too.”

  Mala blushed, smiling bashfully at the implication. Her eyes full of tenderness, she watched him walk off.

  Later, as they made their way from the bathroom to the bedroom, Prakorb clung to Mala like a pet protective of its owner. Before she even had a chance to put on the nightgown tha
t he had laid out for her, he led her to the bed, keeping her in his constant embrace.

  “This morning, I went to the doctor’s for a checkup,” Prakorb whispered into her ear. “She said everything’s still working. I’m in good shape to have children, no problem. I hope you don’t think I’m too old.”

  Mala looked at him compassionately, and she suddenly started crying out of love for him. Nuzzling up to him, she said, “Not at all, you’re not old at all. I’ve never seen you as old. Honestly. To me, you’ve never been old.”

  MALA WOKE AT daybreak. Prakorb was already dressed and about to leave for work. He was leaving unusually early, but Mala didn’t question it. As soon as she opened her eyes, her mind, now fresh, began working immediately. One image of the boy stood out: he was throwing a tantrum and being a little devil while she was trying to get him to warm up to her. His expression was impish and full of rebellion, but the more he tried to show what he was made of, the more his pureness and innocence came to the fore. This mood of his captivated her. Its contradiction seemed to blend into one harmonized whole. If she … if she tried to carve it, would she be able to? Would she be able to create a wood child that somehow both resisted and endeared itself to the viewer?

  Mala shivered from excitement. She had already started working on an eleventh wood child, the new-born—also thrilling, and a challenge to carve. From the very beginning, she had planned to carve each piece to completion, one at a time, so that none would be left in limbo at any given point. But this case was an exception because her latest inspiration came from flesh and blood—the life and mind of a real child. She was too impassioned to hold off. She would finish the newborn, but only after she was through with the endearingly moody wood child.

  Mala practically jumped out of bed. She showered and hurriedly took care of some things around the house. Within an hour, she was seated on the round stool in front of her carving table. Right away, she noticed that the knife was missing. It left her puzzled. The burst of inspiration propelling her to create that wooden sculpture couldn’t be extinguished; instead it morphed into pure rage. Mala heatedly racked her brain for the cause of the knife’s disappearance. The boy was her first and only suspect. She stopped thinking about the knife; after all, it could easily be replaced, and she was bound to have other rushes of inspiration. But what of that image of the boy that had taken such a concrete shape in her mind? That picture was now blurred, and she was unable to form it anew; only the boy could do that.

  Convinced that the child had stolen the knife, Mala trembled with fury. That thief of a child had completely ruined her vision. His purity and innocence were gone. The wickedness within him had revealed itself and could no longer be brought back into harmony.

  Mala sat still, trying to rein in her seething emotions. Perhaps she was being too rash: what was inside a little human being was often hard to comprehend. She had to be generous and leave all doors of possibilities open. If she could find a way out, the image of the boy that she thought had collapsed might still stand. Mala wanted to save it. She was going to do everything to keep it alive.

  She decided to take action. She went to Prakorb’s desk, took out his log book, and flipped to the most recent entries. The newest construction site was for a hotel on the main road in town; the foundation was just being laid. Mala closed the book and rushed out of the house.

  Three hours later she came home. Her face bore an expression of coldness and contempt, at times that of someone suffering the pain of betrayal. She climbed into bed and lay still. After some time, she fell asleep and didn’t stir until evening.

  PRAKORB WAS SURPRISED to find Mala in bed. He had never seen her napping in the evening. His heart skipped a beat when he looked over at her carving table. Mala had probably realized that the knife was missing. He woke her up, wanting to see how she was doing. After yesterday, he knew in his bones that those wood children would be defeated. But when Mala awoke, she scared him with the first comment she uttered: she said that klepto kid had stolen her knife. The second frightened him even more: she said she had gone to the construction site to ask for it back, but the child had refused. Prakorb was rattled. He’d never imagined things would turn out this way. Was the knife really so important to Mala that she felt the need to go and reclaim it? He had been at the site that day, yet he hadn’t heard a thing about the ordeal. She’d merely wanted that knife and had given no thought to stopping by to see him. And what about him? He’d brought the kleptomaniac child here to steal the knife from her—was that what this had turned into?

  Prakorb froze in shock. When his eyes wandered to the collection of wood children, he saw some of them sneering at him, others mocking him with peculiar gestures. He gathered himself and looked away, sinking down to sit next to Mala on the bed. He had to defend the boy.

  “Mala,” he said, “you’ve got it all wrong. You shouldn’t have been so hasty. The boy didn’t take the knife.”

  Mala looked up at him immediately, her eyes confused.

  “I did. I mean, I didn’t take the knife on purpose. I accidentally broke it this morning so I threw it away. I forgot to tell you. I’ll buy you a new one, all right?” Prakorb paused and studied his wife.

  Mala’s heart pounded as she replayed her actions in her mind. She had accused the child of being a thief. Worse, she had pressured him into confessing. The boy’s mother had stood there stock-still, staring at the ground, refusing to utter a single word. Mala burst into tears, detailing to Prakorb how she had wronged the child by falsely accusing him.

  “All I could think was that he was refusing to own up to it. But, you know? The truth is, he’s perfectly innocent! He didn’t even know if he’d taken it. I pressed and pressed him until he admitted to it. But when I asked him where he’d put the knife, he just said that he didn’t know, he didn’t know. His mother looked so embarrassed and angry. It was unnerving how still and quiet she was the entire time. I have no idea how she’s going to punish him.” Mala was sobbing.

  Prakorb hugged her tenderly.

  “What do I do?” Mala continued, still distressed. “What should I do? I’m scared to go and tell his mother that it was all a misunderstanding. I’m scared to face her. That woman is so intimidating, one of those silent types. If she found out the truth, she’d despise me for making her punish her child. How much pain did he have to suffer for being called a thief? I’m sure he was severely punished.”

  “It’s all right, Mala. It’s all right,” Prakorb consoled her. “If you’re afraid, you don’t have to go. It’s really not a big deal. The kid’s young. If he didn’t even know if he took the knife or not, he’s going to forget about all this in no time. As for his mother, don’t worry. A mother’s always going to love her child. She won’t love him any less even if she thinks he’s a thief. Rest easy, Mala. There’s no problem here. It’s just a trivial matter.”

  His words soothed her, and her crying tapered off. “Children are so lucky. They switch emotions at the drop of a hat—happy, sad, mad—and they forget just as easily. Me, on the other hand, I’m going to have to live with this for the rest of my life.”

  “Don’t worry, Mala. If you feel like you mistreated him, you can make it up to him. I’ll bring him over again, and this time you have to be more loving and more caring toward him than before, you understand? You have to show your love even more, okay?”

  Mala smiled at him, all trace of worry gone from her face. Prakorb tightened his embrace around her. He glanced at the wood children and smirked victoriously as he told Mala that he would bring the boy over first thing tomorrow.

  PRAKORB NUDGED THE boy on the back to get him to approach Mala. Once he stood within about five feet of her, he refused to go any closer. Prakorb let Mala know that he was heading back to work and flashed her a smile on his way out. He was in high spirits; he no longer had a care in the world. Mala hadn’t mentioned the knife to him again. She felt terribly guilty about the boy, and Prakorb was happy she felt that way: it meant from now on M
ala would focus her attention and energy on the living instead of those ghastly wood children—and perhaps soon he and Mala would have a child of their own.

  The boy still wouldn’t budge. He had his chin tucked and his eyes pitched upward, staring at Mala, obviously afraid. The look in his eyes made it abundantly clear that he didn’t trust her.

  Mala observed him in silence. She had spent much of last night tossing and turning, the child constantly on her mind. Prakorb had told her that if she was afraid to come clean to the boy’s mother, she should make amends in other ways. Uncertain, Mala wondered: If she was affectionate with the boy, would it make up for the fact that she had called him a thief?

  She stood face-to-face with the boy for some time, taking in his blatant fear. Then, without warning, Mala was gripped by a certain feeling that had reawakened. She trembled with excitement and, suddenly, had the scared little boy trapped inside a piece of wood outlined in his form. She was enraptured; the picture was so vivid. His upcast eyes communicated that this was a child frightened of someone who towered over him. A little human being terrified of a bigger one.

  Mala’s eyes lit up. This time, she would use wood with a softer flesh. The knife would have to be pointier and sharper than before so that this wood child could express itself with nuance. She could see every little detail, anticipate every little step.

  But she would have to be very careful with this one: the wood would be softer, the knife sharper. One slip and the blade could easily plunge into the child’s flesh.

  THE ATTENDANT

  THREE MORE HOURS REMAIN BEFORE I’LL BE LET OUT. I fear I won’t be able to wait until then. My body might fail in the minutes to come. Other than my eyes, which glance up and down, and my right arm and hand, I haven’t moved any other part of my body for over two hours. I should honestly show up for work with just my head and my right arm, leaving the rest of my body to go and do as it pleases in the outside world—do these things intensely, freely, to the best of its ability.