The Lowland

again. She looked at the books behind him, the papers piled on his desk. She looked at the crisp material of his shirt, the cuffs covering his wrists where the sleeves of the jacket ended. She thought of what he’d experienced, at less than Bela’s age.
    My first husband was killed, she said. I watched it happen. I married his brother, to get away.
    Weiss continued to look at her. His expression had not changed. After a moment he nodded. She knew she’d told him enough.
    He stood up, and walked over to the window in his office. He lifted it open a crack.
    Do you read French or German?
    No. But I’ve studied Sanskrit.
    You will need both languages to go on, but they will be simple for you.
    Go on?
    You belong in a doctoral program, Mrs. Mitra. They don’t offer one here.
    She shook her head. I have a young daughter, she said.
    Ah, I did not realize you were a mother. You must bring her to see me.
    He turned around a framed picture that was on his desk, and showed her his family. They were standing with their backs to a valley in autumn, flaming leaves. A wife, a daughter, two sons.
    With children the clock is reset. We forget what came before.
    He returned to the desk and wrote down the names of a few books he recommended, telling her which chapters were most important. From the shelves he lent her his own copies of Adorno and McTaggart, with his annotations. He gave her copies of New German Critique, indicating some articles she should read.
    He told her to continue taking upper-level courses at the university, saying that they would count toward a master’s. After that he could make some phone calls, to doctoral programs that would suit her, universities to which she could commute. He would see to it that she was admitted. It would mean traveling a few times a week for some years, but she could write her dissertation from anywhere. He would be willing to serve on her committee, when the time came.
    He handed the paper back to her, and stood up to shake her hand.
    7.
    At the front of the apartment complex there was a broad sloping lawn. The school bus stopped on the other side of it, at the top of the road. For the first few days of first grade, Gauri walked Bela across the lawn, waiting with her for the bus, seeing her off, then going back in the afternoons, to receive her.
    The following week, Bela said she wanted to walk to the bus stop on her own, as the other young children in the complex did. There were one or two mothers who always went, and they told Gauri they were happy to make sure all the children got safely onto the bus.
    Still, Gauri would keep an eye on Bela as she walked down the pathway at the foot of their building, across the grass, to stand with the other children until the bus came. She moved the dining table she worked at over to the window. The bus always came at the same time, the wait only five minutes or so. Lunch boxes arranged on the sidewalk marked the children’s places in the line.
    She was grateful for this slight change in the morning routine. It made a difference that she did not have to get dressed, did not have to step outside the apartment and make small talk with other mothers, before sitting down to study. She was taking an independent course with Professor Weiss, reading Kant, beginning to grasp it for the first time.
    One morning, after a night of downpours, a light rain still falling, she handed Bela her lunch box and sent her off. She was still in her nightgown, her robe. The day was her own until three, when Bela’s school ended, when the bus would drop her off along with the other children, and they would return across the sloping lawn.
    But today, a minute later, there was a knock on the door. Bela was back.
    Did you forget something? Do you want your rain hat?
    No.
    What is it, then?
    Come see.
    I’m in the middle of something.
    Bela tugged at her hand. You have to see.
    Gauri took off her robe and slippers, putting on a raincoat and a pair of boots. She stepped outside, opening an umbrella.
    Outside, the air was humid, saturated with a deep, fishy stench. Bela pointed to the pathway. It was covered by a carnage of earthworms; they’d emerged from the wet soil to die. Not two or three but hundreds. Some were tightly curled, others flattened. Their rosy bodies, their five hearts, sliced apart.
    Bela shut her eyes tightly. She recoiled at the image, complained of the smell. She said she didn’t want to step on them. And she was