as they say. I am forever knocking into this and into that, and he says, ‘Latangi, you are as graceful as a butterfly. You go here, there, here. You must be graceful as a snake instead, moving carefully, twisting and turning.’” She smiled and then sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said.
“He was a clever man,” she said. “A good man. When he was ill, he told me that he had been wrong. ‘All that flittering and fluttering,’ he said. ‘It is indeed better to have a butterfly than a snake for one’s wife.’” She looked around as if she might begin trying to straighten up the apartment, but instead she threw up her arms and turned back to Henry, tears in her eyes. “Yes, he was a good man.”
Henry did not know what to say, but Latangi stepped toward him. “Also this, Mr. Garrett. Mohit was a poet as well. More of a poet than a businessman, you see.”
Latangi looked closely at Henry as if she were studying him, attempting to discern some hidden quality or avocation of his own, then she went to the table and reached for a bright blue teapot. “He composed long works of poetry, so very many pages,” she said. She made the rat-tat-tat noise of a typewriter. “Page upon page. Poetry of a spiritual nature but also poetry of love, if you understand.”
Henry nodded, and Latangi poured the tea from the bright blue pot into two small cups.
“I am afraid I am not much for poetry, Mr. Garrett. I am not equal to it, I would say. Mohit, he loved these words more than food. Once, he said to me, ‘I have married you, Latangi, for your words the way other men marry for wealth.’” She laughed and sipped her tea. “Yes, you should hear him. ‘You are a bottomless well of words, Latangi, and so you are a treasure to me,’ he would say. Even upon our marriage he declared that my only task was to fill his life with words.”
“Did you?” Henry asked, accepting the cup of tea that Latangi offered him.
“Yes, yes,” Latangi said, laughing, leading Henry through the living room into a small kitchen with a Formica table spread with ceramic pots, a vase of dried flowers at the center. “I am so full of words, I am afraid, Mr. Garrett, I have allowed you too few.”
“That’s fine,” Henry said, sitting down. “I don’t have so many. They stay here,” he said, pointing to his head.
“Yes, yes,” Latangi said. “When Mohit passed away, I no longer wanted to speak. My whole life I had done nothing but speak. Suddenly the words were gone. Without Mohit’s ears to listen, I felt as though I had no mouth.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “I understand.”
“This hurricane,” Latangi said. “So terrible. It is all beyond words.”
“Yes,” Henry said, and he realized that he had not turned on the television again, that he had no idea what was happening in New Orleans. He wondered if the water had receded but then realized that it could not have. Where would it go? As a child, he had marveled every time he and his father drove past the Orleans Canal pumping station, its smoky red-brick walls pierced by the giant green metal pipes that emerged from the ground like secret passageways to the underworld. Would the city simply rot away beneath the water? Who was left there now? Who had failed to obey the order to leave? How many had not been able to get up from their beds and so were now dead? How many had climbed stairs as the water rose and then could climb no higher?
Henry looked down at the plate Latangi had placed before him. He wondered if anyone he knew had stayed there, had died in the storm. He tried to think of who might have been foolish enough to remain in the city, who might not have had the means to get out. There had been so many people coming in and out of Endly’s—homeless men, their heads filled with voices, too angry or disturbed to distinguish the real threat of a hurricane from the threats they lived with every day, the snakes that leaped from the mouth of anyone without a beard, as
“I’m sorry,” Henry said.
“He was a clever man,” she said. “A good man. When he was ill, he told me that he had been wrong. ‘All that flittering and fluttering,’ he said. ‘It is indeed better to have a butterfly than a snake for one’s wife.’” She looked around as if she might begin trying to straighten up the apartment, but instead she threw up her arms and turned back to Henry, tears in her eyes. “Yes, he was a good man.”
Henry did not know what to say, but Latangi stepped toward him. “Also this, Mr. Garrett. Mohit was a poet as well. More of a poet than a businessman, you see.”
Latangi looked closely at Henry as if she were studying him, attempting to discern some hidden quality or avocation of his own, then she went to the table and reached for a bright blue teapot. “He composed long works of poetry, so very many pages,” she said. She made the rat-tat-tat noise of a typewriter. “Page upon page. Poetry of a spiritual nature but also poetry of love, if you understand.”
Henry nodded, and Latangi poured the tea from the bright blue pot into two small cups.
“I am afraid I am not much for poetry, Mr. Garrett. I am not equal to it, I would say. Mohit, he loved these words more than food. Once, he said to me, ‘I have married you, Latangi, for your words the way other men marry for wealth.’” She laughed and sipped her tea. “Yes, you should hear him. ‘You are a bottomless well of words, Latangi, and so you are a treasure to me,’ he would say. Even upon our marriage he declared that my only task was to fill his life with words.”
“Did you?” Henry asked, accepting the cup of tea that Latangi offered him.
“Yes, yes,” Latangi said, laughing, leading Henry through the living room into a small kitchen with a Formica table spread with ceramic pots, a vase of dried flowers at the center. “I am so full of words, I am afraid, Mr. Garrett, I have allowed you too few.”
“That’s fine,” Henry said, sitting down. “I don’t have so many. They stay here,” he said, pointing to his head.
“Yes, yes,” Latangi said. “When Mohit passed away, I no longer wanted to speak. My whole life I had done nothing but speak. Suddenly the words were gone. Without Mohit’s ears to listen, I felt as though I had no mouth.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “I understand.”
“This hurricane,” Latangi said. “So terrible. It is all beyond words.”
“Yes,” Henry said, and he realized that he had not turned on the television again, that he had no idea what was happening in New Orleans. He wondered if the water had receded but then realized that it could not have. Where would it go? As a child, he had marveled every time he and his father drove past the Orleans Canal pumping station, its smoky red-brick walls pierced by the giant green metal pipes that emerged from the ground like secret passageways to the underworld. Would the city simply rot away beneath the water? Who was left there now? Who had failed to obey the order to leave? How many had not been able to get up from their beds and so were now dead? How many had climbed stairs as the water rose and then could climb no higher?
Henry looked down at the plate Latangi had placed before him. He wondered if anyone he knew had stayed there, had died in the storm. He tried to think of who might have been foolish enough to remain in the city, who might not have had the means to get out. There had been so many people coming in and out of Endly’s—homeless men, their heads filled with voices, too angry or disturbed to distinguish the real threat of a hurricane from the threats they lived with every day, the snakes that leaped from the mouth of anyone without a beard, as
Similar Books
