Page 262 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

behind the register counter. Now each table served was greeted by a hearty clang

of the copper bell. The regulars were used to it—they barely heard it anymore—
and new customers mostly chalked it up to the eccentric charm of the place,
though there were complaints from time to time.
You don’t want to ring the bell anymore, Baba said one night. It was in the
spring quarter of my senior year in high school. We were in the car outside the
restaurant, after we had closed, waiting for Mother, who had forgotten her
antacid pills inside and had run back in to fetch them. Baba wore a leaden
expression. He had been in a dark mood all day. A light drizzle fell on the strip
mall. It was late, and the lot was empty, save for a couple of cars at the KFC
drive-thru and a pickup parked outside the dry-cleaning shop, two guys inside
the truck, smoke corkscrewing up from the windows.

It was more fun when I wasn’t supposed to, I said.
Everything is, I guess. He sighed heavily.
I remembered how it used to thrill me, when I was little, when Baba lifted me
up by the underarms and let me ring the bell. When he put me down again, my
face would shine happy and proud.

Baba turned on the car heater, crossed his arms.
Long way to Baltimore.
I said brightly, You can fly out to visit anytime.
Fly out anytime, he repeated with a touch of derision. I cook kabob for a
living, Pari.
Then I’ll come visit.

Baba rolled his eyes toward me and gave me a drawn look. His melancholy
was like the darkness outside pushing against the car windows.
Every day for a month I had been checking our mailbox, my heart riding a
swell of hope each time the delivery truck pulled up to the curb. I would bring
the mail inside, close my eyes, think, This could be it. I would open my eyes and
sift through the bills and the coupons and the sweepstakes. Then, on Tuesday of
the week before, I had ripped open an envelope and found the words I had been

waiting for: We are pleased to inform you …
I leapt to my feet. I screamed—an actual throat-ripping yowl that made my
eyes water. Almost instantaneously, an image streaked through my head:
opening night at a gallery, me dressed in something simple, black, and elegant,
encircled by patrons and crinkle-browed critics, smiling and answering their
questions, as clusters of admirers linger before my canvases and servers in white
gloves float around the gallery pouring wine, offering little square bites of
salmon with dill or asparagus spears wrapped in puff pastry. I experienced one