Free Valmiki's Daughter by Shani Mootoo Page A

testosterone-enriched sweat on his sticky body, a combination that might have appealed to a different woman but certainly not to her, and she would not want him near her — just as he had hoped, as he did not want to contaminate the thrill of an excursion where his friends all reeked similarly, as if this were the mark of an unusual affinity.
    SO IT WAS THAT AT THE TABLE THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE TENSION caused by Viveka’s relentless desire to play volleyball was at anall-time high. Still, there might have been more discussion, but Viveka had given that laugh of incredulity, one she had been honing for months now and that she knew would irk Devika and himself. Devika shoved her chair backwards, and the screech might as well have come from within her. With that, Valmiki knew she intended to bring an end to the subject. Viveka began to say something, but barely had sound come out of her mouth when Devika shouted, “NO! I don’t want to hear another word. I said no. Don’t you understand? NO!”
    Valmiki and his younger daughter, Vashti, shared a weakness for cherry cheesecake, particularly Miss Myrtle and Miss Mary’s. The sticky yet tart topping of carmine-coloured Bing cherries. The deep middle section of sweetened Philadelphia cream cheese that had a consistency right on the nameless line of texture between velvety and a cheese that had been baked. And then there was the shell with its contrasting texture — the scratchiness of buttery, sugary, graham crackers crumbled fine. No part was complete without the other. Valmiki and Vashti would usually make a show of their enjoyment of this particular dessert that would delight Devika and irritate Viveka.
    As Vashti watched her family spar, she was, Valmiki could see, aware of the growing possibility of a dessert-curtailing blow-up ahead. And so she quickly ushered into her mouth one spoonful after another, cut from the top through to the bottom of the pie, mushing all three layers at once, intending to finish up the wide wedge she had cut for herself before the meal was destroyed, as it was bound to be, by Viveka. Valmiki, on the other hand, didn’t even bother to cut himself a piece. He leaned back in his chair and held his breath because a snickering laugh from his elder daughter told him that Viveka had no intention of leaving the matter alone, regardless of Devika’s outburst.
    Viveka, they all knew, had her strategies. The next round would surely come. Valmiki wasn’t sure when, and it exhausted him, the thought of waiting, of not knowing what would happen next. When Viveka and Devika quarrelled the air went out of the house. Vashti would watch as if taking lessons, and her father only hoped it was in how
not
to behave. He would usually make his way to the bedroom if the fight had not already travelled there, and turn on the air-conditioning, which blocked out the shouting and the pleading and the crying and the harsh words flung so carelessly between two people he loved — one because she was his own flesh and blood; the other because he had first grown used to her, then to appreciate all she had done to run the house and keep the family, and then, finally, to love, at least like one might love one’s sister — but neither of whom he understood. If the altercation had travelled to the bedroom, he would find a chore somewhere in another part of the large and sprawling house, and retreat there.
    In spite of the evening’s unpleasantness, that morning when Valmiki stirred in half wakefulness he had not at first remembered the quarrel. He had been awakened by the distant rumble of thunder, thinking of Tony. No, not thinking of him, but with a feeling of him in his belly, in the muscles of his thighs, and an ache in his early-morning sleep-hardened penis. It had been twenty plus years since he had last seen Tony, and still this. So often, still this. He opened and shut his eyes. The light through the windows of the room was