Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

Afterward, as they ferried dirty plates and glasses into the kitchen, Jaz hissed at her.

“Well, that was embarrassing.”

“Why? Why would you be embarrassed?”

“You’re forcing it on people. Rubbing it in their faces.”

“Rubbing it in your face, you mean.”

“Try to understand, Lisa.”

It turned into an argument about Raj. What was possible. What the future looked like. She accused him of being willfully blind to the good things that were happening. Sometimes, she told him, she felt he didn’t believe in his own son. He said he didn’t even know how to answer such a charge.

She was triumphant. “Because you know it’s true.”

“No, because your accusation makes no sense.”

“You really ought to get your head out of the sand.”

“God, Lisa. You think I’m the one with my head in the sand? Yours is buried so far — look, I’m trying hard to be positive here. In fact I’d say I was optimistic. Cautiously optimistic. Raj seems to be doing well. But think of what actually happened. Anything could come up for him. Repressed memories, trauma. Until we know who had him, what he went through, we won’t be able to say for sure.”

That night, she lay awake in bed, listening to sirens dopplering in the distance. Barricaded by pillows, Jaz had wrapped himself in the quilt, hunched up into a rigid, accusatory ball. She’d tried to dismiss his point about trauma, telling him he had only to look at how well Raj was doing to know it wasn’t an issue. But in truth it did worry her. She had to admit she wasn’t as certain as she wanted to be. About damage to Raj, about a lot of things. For a long time she’d been obsessing — not, like Jaz, about the day of Raj’s disappearance, but the night before, her drunken odyssey into town. She’d been out of control that night. She was never out of control. Perhaps someone had put something in her drink. It was a sleazy bar, the kind of place where that sort of thing probably happened. She had only the vaguest memory of being in the woman’s car, the headlights lighting up the dirt road, the house they drove to, with its odd bulbous roof, its triangular windows, the animal-skin rugs lying on its polished wooden floors. The alcohol swimming in her head had dissolved everything into shadows. Only the stone hearth and the woman in the rocking chair had substance. She remembered collapsing onto a bed that smelled of dust and cigarette smoke, feeling a rough Indian blanket under her cheek. The two women were standing over her, talking.

“What about her?”

“Leave her, she’ll be OK.”

“What if she wakes up?”

“She’s got so much booze inside her, she ain’t going to move a muscle until morning.”

Why had that stuck in her memory? Had they left her? Where had they gone? How long had she been unconscious in that strange house? The trapdoor was open, the questions hatching and swarming, like maggots turning into flies. Raj had been spirited away into that teeming darkness. They’d said something about her, about Raj. What had they been saying about Raj? Shut the trapdoor. Draw the heavy bolt across it. There were places into which one shouldn’t trespass.

The call from Raj’s speech therapist came completely out of the blue. She’d met the woman, of course. She was expensive. The best. They’d been very happy with her work.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Matharu.”

“That’s quite all right. What can I do for you?”

“I’d really prefer to have this conversation face-to-face, but — well, it’s a difficult matter. I wanted to speak to you as soon as I could. Your husband came to see me.”

“Alone?”

“No. He brought Raj in for his appointment earlier today. But he asked if he could see me without Raj. Without Raj being in the room.”

“Why ever would he do that?”

“I don’t know why he chose me. Maybe because I’m — well, he may have thought I’d understand. This isn’t my area, of course. But I found what he told me — alarming. He has ideations. He seems very scared.”

“Ideations?”

“He’s got the notion that Raj isn’t your son. It’s unusual, but not totally without precedent. He told me he believes Raj — the real Raj — has been swapped for an identical double. A twin. I don’t know why he chose me to confess to, but I believe this thought has been in his mind for some time. He knows it’s not normal. He knows there’s no logical explanation. He’s very troubled by it.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I asked him how he knew about the substitution. How he’d noticed. What had changed. He told me absolutely everything was just like Raj, except it was clear to him that it wasn’t the same boy. This Raj is identical in every respect to your son, but in some essential respect he’s not the same boy.”

“But that’s crazy. It doesn’t make any sense. He really thinks this? That someone’s swapped Raj for a double?”

“Maybe, with the kidnap, the trauma …”

“You’re telling me he’s gone insane. That’s basically what you’re telling me.”

“I certainly think there are grounds for seeing a psychiatrist. Strong grounds. You’ve both — your family has undergone a great deal of stress. It’s possible that this is merely a reaction. Perhaps with rest, maybe some kind of medication, it will all be resolved. This is very tricky, Mrs. Matharu, and, as I say, I’m not qualified to make a diagnosis. You really need to see a specialist. Your husband has assured me he doesn’t want to harm Raj. He’s not hearing voices, or experiencing compulsions. He says he’s no danger to the boy.”

“Oh God! He’s out with him now. What should I do? Should I call the police?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. As I say, he claims he’s not going to harm him. Why don’t you wait and talk to him yourself? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. This must be very distressing. If you need a recommendation, maybe I can call around and get you a name.…”

Lisa sat at the kitchen counter, twisting from side to side on a high stool. She felt stalled, short-circuited. She poured out the contents of the bowl into which they habitually threw spare change. She lined up coins to make patterns and moved them about with her forefinger, a game with no clear rules. Finally, she heard Jaz opening the front door and the sound of coats and boots being removed in the hall. Raj came barreling in. She scooped him up, held him tight.

She didn’t know how to start. Jaz started chatting, asking about her day. They’d booked the sitter. They had plans to go out to the cinema. What did she want to see? He seemed completely normal. She watched him. Did he seem more tense than usual? Did he seem frightened?

“I had a call from Dr. Siddiqi.”

“Oh yes?”

“Jaz, I don’t understand. She said you’d told her Raj wasn’t our son.”

Suddenly his face collapsed. He looked hollow. She knew then that it was true. Involuntarily she put her hand up to her mouth. He was shaking his head, holding out his open palms in a gesture of pacification.

“Look,” he said. And again. “Look.”

“What’s going on?”

“I know it’s not logical. But surely you of all people should understand.”

“I should understand? Why?”

“You believe in — all this stuff.”

“All what stuff?”

“You told me you thought it was a miracle.”

“A miracle that he came back. I don’t think he’s being — what? Impersonated? I don’t even know what you think is happening. What did you tell that woman?”

“I can’t — not while he’s here. Raj, go play in the other room.”

Raj looked from one to the other, confusion flickering on his face.

“Go on, darling. Go play. Why not find your dinosaurs? You can take them to the living room.”