Exiles Read Free

though Peter was pretty sure he detected a hint of victory in her dismissive tone. “Nepali houses nothave what you call, mm, furnace,” she said. “We just more clothes use.”
    |   |   |
    Peter and Alex, bundled in their fleece jackets, tramped into the kitchen. There was a small table with benches, so they squeezed in next to each other to share a little warmth. Alex shoved her shoulder into his arm, and he pushed back. Sangita stirred something on a three-burner gas hot plate connected to a rubber hose running through the wall to the outside.
    “So, you father-daughter?” she asked, not quite looking at them.
    “Sure,” said Peter. “Of course.”
    Sangita smiled knowingly. “Some Western men I seeing in Kathmandu, young girls with them, but daughter not. You not so old-looking, Doctor, sir. I think the girls might like.”
    “In this case, father-daughter,” Peter said, suppressing a smile. Alex looked at him in disgust.
    “Smug,” she whispered. “Tell it to your bald spot.”
    Peter picked up his fork and casually jabbed at her with it, but she deflected it and then, with a lightning move, twisted it out of his grip. She grabbed her own so she had one in each hand and waved them menacingly. She had that predatory feline look in her eyes.
    “Ooh,” said Sangita, with appreciative mockery. “I watch out for you.”
    “I sue for peace,” said Peter.
    “The pacifism of the defeated,” replied Alex. She handed him back his fork, tines first, so it stuck him a little.
    “You like my daughter,” said Sangita. “Scary-scary.”
    Alex turned to her, apparently brightened by this prospect. “You have a daughter?”
    “Oh, sure. Husband, son, daughter. Dog, chickens.”
    “How old are your kids?”
    “Daughter, eighteen. Son …” Sangita paused, her face clouded for a moment. “Twenty now, would be.”
    Peter and Alex looked at each other, both wondering why Sangita had trouble remembering her son’s age.
    She loaded the plates and brought them to the table.
“Dal-bhat,”
she said, and smiled. The plates were heaped with white rice, and each had a bowl of cooked lentils on the side. She carried over several smaller dishes and taught Peter and Alex the vocabulary as she put them on the table: flatbread (called
nan
), a vegetable curry (
tarkari
), pickled mangoes (
achar
, she said), and half a stick of goat butter. Finally, she fixed a plate for herself and stood, leaning against the counter, as she spooned lentils over her rice.
    “Won’t you join us?” Peter asked.
    Sangita fluttered her hand, looking embarrassed. “I fine,” she said.
    “We’re not used to having a
didi
,” Alex said. “This kind of thing makes us feel guilty.”
    Sangita regarded them as if she were indulging a couple of crazy children, but she came to the table and sat on the opposite bench.
    “It’s very good,” Peter said, just before he tried the buttered flatbread and gagged. Alex looked at him disapprovingly, but Sangita smiled.
    “Goat butter strong,” she said. “Maybe some cow butter tomorrow getting.”
    Peter nodded his agreement and took a drink of water. Alex was scarfing like a
T. rex
, and watching her, Sangita beamed. After a few minutes, when they’d taken the edge off their hunger and could sit back for a breath, Peter asked Sangita where she lived.
    “Not far,” she said. She’d already finished her plate, as she ate only about half of what they did. She got up and ran some hot water into the sink from a little on-demand propane water heater bolted to the wall. “Up road, near Italian embassy,” she added.
    When they were finished, Peter offered to help her with the dishes, but she flicked a dish towel at him. “You not clean house, I not treat patients,” she said. “Fair okay?”

THREE

    For a few groggy seconds the next morning, he couldn’t remember where he was. Sun streamed through the windows, birds sang outside, and the room was so cold he could see his breath. The