Free Problems with People by David Guterson

on a constitution. They wanted Maoists equitably distributed among the ranks of the military, where right now they had “tons of foot soldiers,” as she put it, “but zero officers.” One more thing: they wanted not to share power, as they sometimes claimed, but to have it all, to get rich and live high while stepping on the throats of other people. This last point, she emphasized, was her take on things, arrived at from her perspective as a journalist who’d covered the Maoists for seven months. In other words, since they’d separated.
    Then it was time for him to broach the subject he’d come there to broach. What about transferring to Delhi for proper treatment? “Proper treatment meaning what?” she asked.
    “Treatment on a par with treatment in the West. The treatment you’d get at home—good treatment.”
    “No,” she answered. “I don’t want that.”
    She was compromised by meds, he told himself again, irrational because of pain pills and a sedative. And, given this fact, it was his job to think straight, act on her behalf, advocate for her, and make the right things happen. “You need to go to Delhi,” he insisted. “And then you need to come home for a while. Rest, rehab, physical therapy. Take stock, retrench, reload, all of that. That’s just how things turned out.”
    “No, they didn’t.”
    “Yes, they did.”
    “I’m not insured to go to Delhi,” she said. “I can’t afford to go to Delhi.”
    He shrugged at this, looking at her skeptically. “You know as well as I do—right?—that I’ve totally and completely got you covered,” he said. “Money shouldn’t be a deal breaker.”
    “I don’t want your money,” she replied.
    He went on trying, but she wouldn’t take his largesse. No matter what he tried, no matter how he argued it. She wasn’t going to convalesce in Delhi, or rehab at home, where he lived, in Bellevue. Finally, a nurse came and gave her another sedative, and gradually his ex-wife receded from conversation. For a while he watched the strike on television. The Maoists were demonstrating in Durbar Square and outside the Narayanhiti Royal Palace. They were burning tires and setting up barricades. Banging their staves against the palace gates. Chanting and throwing rocks at the police. He mulled these images of chaos for a while, and when he turned to look at his ex-wife again, her eyes were closed and her tongue was lolling. Maybe it was time for him to leave.
    It was a long return walk to the Hyatt Regency, but hemade it without confrontation or difficulty. The trouble had moved to the north and west, leaving him a clear path to Boudhanath, which was good, because he really couldn’t deal with one more exasperating, frustrating hassle of the sort that was inevitable in Nepal. He made it to his room and turned on the air conditioning. Then he showered, ordered a hamburger and fries, and dined in privacy, where no one could bother him. The fries, he thought, were seasoned with something interesting. That, he supposed, was the Third World trade-off. You put up with shit for a taste of the exotic. But the truth was that the fries didn’t taste good, because nothing did when you ate by yourself. Solitude having undercut his appetite, he opened his door and set his tray down in the hallway. His pile of fries and half a burger were discovered by a bellboy, who ate them in a service elevator, pondering, not for the first time since he’d gained this coup of a job, why guests didn’t finish meals. What sort of people were these hotel guests? the bellboy wondered. What was in their hearts and minds? He was fascinated by Westerners, especially Western women, who made him feel self-conscious and embarrassed. In his fantasy life he made love to them, and they showered him with—what else?—money. At ten thousand rupees per kiss.

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    Her older daughter was doing clinical training in music therapy at the University of Minnesota, and her younger daughter worked in