Excerpt of Shalimar The Clown by Salman Rushdie
(Page 4 of 4)
Printer Friendly Excerpt
The neighborhood's old men were single, too, some inhabiting sagging sacks of
bodies over which gravity had exerted far too much power, others grizzle-chopped
and letting themselves go in dirty T-shirts and pants with unbuttoned flies,
while a third, jauntier contingent dressed sharply, affecting berets and bow
ties. These natty gents periodically tried to engage the widows in conversation.
Their efforts, with yellow glints of false teeth and melancholy sightings of
slicked-down vestiges of hair beneath the doffed berets, were invariably and
contemptuously ignored. To these elderly beaux, Max Ophuls was an affront, the
ladies' interest in him a humiliation. They would have killed him if they
could, if they had not been too busy staving off their own deaths.
India saw it all, the exhibitionist, desirous old women pirouetting and flirting
on the verandahs, the lurking, spiteful old men. The antique Russian super, Olga
Simeonovna, a bulbous denim-clad samovar of a woman, was greeting the ambassador
as if he were a visiting head of state. If there had been a red carpet on the
premises she would have rolled it out for him.
"She keeps you waiting, Mr. Ambassador, what you gonna do, the young. I say
nothing against. Just, a daughter these days is more difficult, I was a daughter
myself who for me my father was like a god, to keep him waiting unthinkable.
Alas, daughters today are hard to raise and then they leave you flat. I sir am
formerly mother, but now they are dead to me, my girls. I spit on their
forgotten names. This is how it is."
Excerpted from Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie Copyright © 2005 by Salman Rushdie. Excerpted
by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without
permission in writing from the publisher.