Cut Road by Brent van Staalduinen

Author:Brent van Staalduinen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Guernica Editions
Published: 2022-03-14T17:04:56+00:00

Barton Walkup

Z

“A thousand bucks is still a thousand bucks,” Vik says.

“But it’s not about the money,” I say.

“It’s always about the money, Gail.”

I turn back to the stove, where my water has begun to boil. I add my spices. Four cloves. One cinnamon stick. Four pods of green cardamom, each bruised with a bite. The rolling water tumbles the spices over and around each other.

I ask, “Will you tell Francesca?”

“No. But does this change things for you? As in — ” He waves his hands around as if to say, All of this?

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not.”

My mother sent the package general delivery. In a weak moment a few weeks ago I called home and she got it out of me that I’m living in Hamilton with friends I met in India. Her first question: How are you for money? It’s always her first question. She told me she’d send something, so I’ve been passing the post office every day since. It arrived yesterday. Inside the crumpled bubble-mailer an open-ended airline ticket to Brussels and a Visa card preloaded with a thousand US dollars.

Vik shakes his head. “A paper airline ticket,” he says. “Didn’t know they were still an option.”

“Harder to say no when it’s actually in your hands,” I say.

I remove the pot and pour in a measure of loose Assam tea. Stir it all together. Vik and I stand next to each other in silence as the tea steeps. I place the pot back on the burner. Medium heat. Reach for the milk and pour it in until the chai becomes just the right shade. Add sugar. Stir the chai as it warms, the heat moving the tea around in seemingly random directions.

You have to use whole milk. Vik, an engineer by trade, always goes right to the chemistry of it, saying how the masala is made up of aromatic spices best released in alcohols or fats. Something about a benzene ring. But I’m not so scientific. I just rely on the recipe given to me at a railway kiosk in Delhi by a tiny man surrounded by scorched pots, burners, and stacks of paper cups. His shirt and trousers were always pressed and clean, despite the ever-present mess and bustle.

“Smell that reaction,” Vik says, leaning over the pot.

“You’re such a fucking geek,” I say.

“I am indeed a fucking geek, and you love it.”

He tries to throw a sly smile over his shoulder as he leaves the kitchen, but I drag him back and plant a kiss right on his smooth cheek. Gay Indian guys take smooth skin to a new level.

I get these little crushes on unlikely men. I know there’s no chance with any of them, but I don’t buy the theory that says a person’s love is finite, that some gets chipped away with each attempt. I crushed on the Delhi chai wallah, too. I couldn’t say how old he was, but was taken in by his lonely manner, his surprisingly good English, and those clean, pressed clothes.

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