Raji, Book Three. Charley BrindleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
I said. “Where will you go?”
“Cornell University. I’m going to study ortho-pedics.” She looked through some papers on her desk. “I’ve prepared a list of ten schools where I want both of you to apply. I’ve mailed letters of recommendation, along with your transcripts, to all of them. I have no idea what the scholarship situation is, but you have to try.”
“Dr. Pompeii,” Fuse said. “I don’t think…” He paused to look at me. “I don’t think any of them have money for scholarships.”
“You don’t know that. If none of these ten will take you in, then we’ll find ten more. There’s no one in this country more deserving of scholarships than you and Raji.”
I took the list of schools. “Thank you so much, Dr. Pompeii,” I said, then stood. “We’ll get right to work on these.”
Dr. Pompeii rose from her chair and reached across the desk to take my hand. “I wish both of you all the luck in the world.” She held her other hand out to Fuse.
“Thank you, Dr. Pompeii,” Fuse said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”
* * * * *
I don’t know why, but our rambling walk took us to the nearby campus of Octavia Pompeii Academy. I thought about that day in August 1926, when I had joined the junior class. Fuse didn’t finish the competition in the top fifty, but he was invited to attend when one of the other students had to leave due to a death in his family.
Now the once lively academy was a depressing sight, with the windows and doors boarded up and weeds overgrowing the sidewalks and tennis courts. We stopped in front of Hannibal House to watch a trio of crows pecking at the disintegrating parapet above the door.
“I wrote a letter to Mom,” Fuse said, keeping his eyes on the crows.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He nodded, still not looking at me. I turned to walk along the sidewalk, watching the cracks in the crumbling cement. He walked beside me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He stopped to face me, and I saw that crooked grin I knew so well.
“I’ve always wanted to see India.”
“Me, too.” I returned his grin.
It had been fifteen years since I was taken from my home in Calcutta. Thinking back over my life in America, I truly believe I should be thankful to those thugs who grabbed me, along with twenty other girls and young women, from the streets in 1912. We were shipped to New York in the hold of a cattle boat like so much livestock, then sold off to become indentured servants. After my thirteenth birthday, I ran away from the house in Queens where I had been held. Two days later, I ended up sleeping in a barn in rural Virginia.
How fortunate for me that the barn belonged to the Fusilier family. Fuse, who was a boy of fourteen at the time, discovered me the next morning, then I spent the most wonderful year of my life with him and his family. Marie Fusilier took me in as if I were her own daughter.
“I should write to Mama Marie, too.” I took Fuse’s hand.
“I told her you were going with me.”
“Well, how presumptuous of you.”
“Uh-huh.”
That night, Fuse and I packed what little gear we had and hitched a ride to New York City on the back of a potato truck, then we walked along the docks of lower Manhattan.
Two days later, we shipped out on the Borboleta Nova, under the command of Captain Sinaway. The Borboleta was a beautiful new freighter only six months out of the shipyards at Lisbon. She was bound for Calcutta with a cargo of dynamite, and since neither Fuse nor I had any sailing experience, the captain assigned Fuse to the engine room, shoveling coal, and I went to work as a deckhand. We didn’t care what we had to do—we just wanted to escape. From what, I don’t think either of us knew.
I was very apprehensive about seeing my family, especially my mother, Hajini. Seven years earlier, she had written to me at the Fusilier farm, informing me that she had arranged a marriage for me. This was quite a shock, at age fourteen to learn my mother had betrothed me to a man of forty-seven. Mama Marie Fusilier was equally surprised. She told me if a man married a child in America, he would go to jail.
Marie helped me write to my mother in India, explaining that I would like to wait for marriage until I was at least eighteen, then I wanted to pick my own husband.
My mother wrote back, telling me I was being disrespectful and this sort of behavior was not allowed. And in addition, she and my father had purchased passage for me on a ship leaving America for Calcutta. The ticket would arrive soon.
The ticket did indeed come to me in the mail. I sent it back, telling my mother I was old enough to make my own decisions. After that, it was four months before I heard from her again. This time, she said my grandmother was dying and I should come to see her as soon as possible, but she made no mention of paying my passage. I wrote back, saying if I had enough money, I would pay my way to India to see grandmother, but it would be a roundtrip ticket.
It was a year before I received another letter, in which my mother gave me news of all the family. She included many details about my nieces and nephews, and she said my grandmother was still alive, but growing weaker. I wrote back to her about my progress at the academy and said I planned to go to medical school.
Five years passed with no more letters from my mother.
* * * * *
Fuse
I spent a very tense week with Raji and her family in Calcutta. She and her mother were exactly alike in temperament and frankness, each one speaking her mind on any matter that arose. Her grandmother of eighty-seven was just as outgoing, but without the energy to carry an argument to conclusion she often fell asleep in the middle of a discussion.
On a warm Friday evening in October, a young man arrived at the Devaki home.
“This is Panyas Maidan,” Mrs. Devaki said, leading him into the living room, where Raji and I sat on the floor, teaching some of the children to play chess.
Raji was on her feet before I was, and it seemed to me her smile was a bit more lively than necessary.
“I am Vincent Fusilier.” I spoke in Hindi and reached to shake his hand.
“This is my daughter, Miss Rajiani Devaki,” her mother said, pushing Raji forward.
Mr. Maidan looked at Raji, then spoke to me. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”
His English was perfect and precise. His handshake was firm, but not overpowering. I must admit, it was somewhat of a relief to hear my native language after a week of endless conversations in Hindi. His build was athletic, and his complexion a light tan. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-ten, and maybe three or four years older than I, making him about twenty-five.
“Mr. Maidan is an architect,” Mrs. Devaki gushed. “He has built many beautiful buildings all across India.” Her radiant set of dentures was outshone only by Raji’s dazzling white teeth.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Maidan said. “I only draw the pictures of buildings. I must leave the difficult tasks of construction to more capable hands.”
He looked at Raji. She still had that ridiculous grin on her face, and now she tilted her head to the side in a cutesy but rather awkward motion.
Mr. Maidan glanced at Raji’s hands, then mine. “Do you play cricket, Mr. Fusilier?”
“I’m not much for sports. I play tennis occasionally.” I felt the edge of Raji’s sandal pressing down on my little toe.
“Really? Perhaps you could come to my club for a few sets of tennis tomorrow afternoon.”
I would love to