The Girl in the Road (33 page)

I approach one of the cook fires on the beach and a young girl sees my traveling clothes, jumps up, and offers me passage. She's wearing a hijab and demure jean shorts with flowers embroidered on the pockets and she has a hoverboat that she assures me is very safe, very comfortable. She's in her element. This is the heart of the world, for her, both before and after the wave, which didn't hit as hard here on the west coast as it did on the east coast. But it still hit. The world changed when Yemaya came ashore.

I show her the address written on the side of my hand and she nods and gestures me to follow her. This is too easy. This part should be harder. I expected resistance or some other species of difficulty but now everything is going very fast. We get into her hoverboat and she takes me out into the shallows, down alleys of water between houses on concrete pillars, and above us, men in sky-blue robes watch from their porches and call to the girl, who yells back with clever rejoinders that make them laugh. I like her. I want to be like her.

Too soon, the girl slows down the boat and pulls up to a concrete staircase leading up out of the water, up to a square house with a narrow porch running all around, just wide enough for a stool to sit on and look out in any direction. On the walls are white chalk drawings of crescent moons and fish.

I want to ask the girl to stay with me, to beg her, really, to stay in her hoverboat at the foot of the stairs, in case something goes wrong, in case I change my mind. But instead I pay her in rupees and watch her go. And then I'm left alone on the concrete stairway.

There's nothing left to do but ascend.

How did this moment arrive so quickly.

My thoughts keep slipping from the present. They want to avoid it and go somewhere else. Nothing is like I thought it would be: the concrete, the sea, the white chalk drawings. I become self-conscious. I make myself look down at my feet and take fifteen steps. But when I reach eye-level with the porch there's only a dog by the door, who lifts her head and thumps her tail, once. Maybe I have the wrong name or the wrong house. In fact, I hope I do. I feel like I might float up into the sky. But I have to stay here. I have to be present for this.

Then a little girl comes to the doorway. She's wearing a clean white dress and is otherwise barefoot. She falls back against the doorframe, shy, her finger in her mouth, looking at me.

I'm not confident in my Hassaniyya but I've learned some French during my travels, so I try it on her. I ask her if her mother is home. She says no, she's at school. The girl is sweet but looks confused at my clothing, my manner, my nervousness. I feel panicked. I'm intruding, clearly. It was arrogant of me to come, and even more, to think I'd be welcome. I apologize and begin to turn back down the stairs.

But then an old woman comes to the door, wearing a dress the color of young leaves.

She knows my cowrie-shell mouth.

She puts her hand on the little girl's shoulder and closes her eyes and I know I've found who I'm looking for, and so the act is done and can't be taken back, so I say nothing, and just wait and listen to the surf, the calls of men, the cries of children, the laughter of women, course up and down the waterways.

Then she opens her eyes and nods to me and says to the little girl,

HASSANIYYA:
You must invite our guest in, Saha.

My deepest thanks to Deepti Gupta, Nebeyou Zewdie Tesema, Dr. Stefan Gary, and Dr. Jennifer Bishop for their professional assistance on the manuscript; and to R. Subramanian, Umair Kazi, Sisay Gebre-Egziabher, and Aatish Salvi for their insights. Thanks also to my early readers Stefani Nellen, Kat Howard, Jay O'Berski, Byron Woods, and Dr. Beckett Sterner for their warm encouragement.

The novel never would have been written without the Mary Elvira Stevens Traveling Fellowship for Wellesley College alumnae. I cannot express enough gratitude to the fellowship committee for having faith in me. For the same, I also thank the Durham Arts Council and the Vermont Studio Center. Thanks and love to those who aided and sheltered me during my travels: Sisay Gebre-Egziabher, Samson Challa, Eva Miranda, Jessica Ozberker, Nicole and Joshua Wengerd, Marcy and David Aldacushion, and the kind staff of Mr. Martin's Cozy Place in Ethiopia; Leena PS, Alysha Aggarwal, Chriselle Bayross, Dilna Shelji, Dr. Sarath Chandran, Anuradha and Gautham Sarang, Unny LJ, Bala Prakasam, and the extraordinary staff of Vijnana Kalavedi in India; Eleanor Kleiber in Fiji; and the hundreds of unnamed strangers who pressed on my heart, especially the little girls who wished me well.

Warm thanks to my agent, Sam Stoloff, who's been my champion since day one. Thanks also to those who supported me during the very earliest days of this novel: Lucy and Don Aquilano, Mary, Andrew, and Ginny Beazley, Clare, Donald, Julie, and Mary Byrne, Amy Calhoun, Erik and Martin Demaine, Danielle Durchslag, Cynthia Fischer, Cecilia Gerard, Jim Haverkamp, Mirren Fischer, Stefan Jacobs, Scott Jennings, John Justice, Sam Kirkpatrick, Jessie Kneeland, Alice Kunce, Jeanne Manzer, Lisa Martin, Ellie Mer, Cally Owles, Jenny Nicholson, Kristin Parker, Michelle Legaspi Sanchez, Laurie Stempler, Beckett Sterner, Sandy Sulzer, Ingrid Swanson, Laura Westman, Prem Yadav, Jackie Geer, Frances Wiener, and Laura Wysong. Thanks also to Arian Aereeyan and his agent Hanif Yazdi for accommodating my strange request.

For research on this novel, I'm deeply indebted to the nonfiction writings of Gita Mehta, Michio Kaku, Anand Giridharadas, Susan Casey, Laurence C. Smith, Roz Savage, Nega Mezlekia, Jeffrey Tayler, Kira Salak, and Thalia Zepatos. I am also grateful for the literary heroes whose books I kept on my desk while writing this novel: Norman Rush, Ursula K. Le Guin, Mary Renault, Kim Stanley Robinson, Arundhati Roy, Toni Morrison, Donna Tartt, and Haruki Murakami. Also, percolating through this book like water through limestone is the music of Meshell Ndegeocello. I thank her for being herself and no other.

Finally, my family are my greatest loves. Every day I wake up grateful for them, not only for their extraordinary companionship, but for offering nothing but unconditional support for a creative life. As my sister Julie says, No one could ask to be so blessed in this world.