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The tea is made in the Indian style, with spices and milk and sugar; Yao accepts it anyway. Kabir is certain this is because Yao will never refuse a cup of tea offered to him, just as Kabir will never walk into another’s house with shoes on. There are things one must never do, social graces one must maintain. Even in the worst of times, they have always been polite to each other. One can come back from war, injury, manipulation, but there’s no excuse for insult.
“Thank you,” Yao murmurs, holding the cheap, chipped hotel cup with both hands, like he does with the cups in his side of the world. So Kabir holds his cup from the rim with his fingertips, like it’s made of steel and will burn his hands, because that’s how he likes to do things. Yao glances down at his hands and grins, tired, and they both end up staring at the snow on the window. His shoulders hurt, but he ignores them.
“Do you like the tea?” Kabir is genuinely curious. Yao has never liked his version of tea. He carried his supplies on this trip, plus a small induction stove. He refuses to be cold and miserable in Europe anymore.
“Yes, it’s good. Thank you,” Yao says in English.
“Right. But…do you like the tea?” he asks again, in Mandarin. They have this unspoken rule. They tell the truth in their languages, but they only use English to lie.
Yao grins again. “Aadrak hai?” he asks, his Hindi well-enunciated, as always.
“Yes, it’s got ginger.”
Yao nods. Takes another sip. “It’s interesting. Thank you,” for the third time. “Did you anticipate me showing up at your room in the middle of the afternoon, or were you expecting someone else?”
“I was actually…” Kabir begins in Cantonese, thinking of his younger brother. Now his back twinges, and he shakes his head. In English, he adds, “But maybe he’s busy. It doesn’t matter.” Yao understands his meaning anyway. He drops the subject.
“I was out to lunch with America. These conferences are a good opportunity to connect with other nations.”
“I agree. And how was lunch?”
Their conversations always go a certain way. A customary spar, at first, veneers and lies and diplomacy, until one of them makes the first move, bursting through the pleasantries. Kabir is a master swordsman. He knows how this joust will go. He’ll bide his time so Yao can strike first.
“We talked about space exploration.”
“That’s nice,” he says placidly.
Once again we are going on a hunt—RUN RUN RUN RUN—Let me help you up, please get up, please—How could they take it? It’s gone, where could it go?—
“Come back,” Yao orders, hands on Kabir’s wrists. He blinks. His own hands are trembling. His neck is tight and screaming at him. “That’s it. You’re back to me?”
“Yes.” Kabir pulls free and takes his cup again. The tea is lukewarm. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Where did you go this time?”
“The trenches,” he murmurs. His reflection stares back in his red drink. “It’s because we are in Europe right now.”
He miscalculated this one. He struck first. Yao loosens, sinking back into the sofa chair. He sits cross-legged. So does Kabir. He twirls the end of his ponytail around his fingers. Kabir drums his hand on the table. Your move, he decides, and Yao delivers.
“Do you ever think we’ve outlived our usefulness?”
Very few things surprise Kabir anymore. He is impervious to the worst of tragedies, the most shocking of scandals. He doesn’t keep up with trends, not the passing fads they call fashion these days, nor the larger historical trends that shape nations for scores of years. Everything evens out in the end, and he perceives time on an epic scale.
But Yao’s question momentarily stuns him.
“What do you mean?” he pushes, intrigued.
“Do you think we are old coots, outliving our usefulness?” Yao repeats. “I am tired, my friend. I know you are too. I don’t want to keep up with whatever global nonsense is happening this time. I’m so bored of power politics, and I don’t care to think about the world order anymore. Isn’t that a sign? Isn’t that a sign that I am done? Shouldn’t personifications care? I was thinking about this while at lunch with Alfred. He cares so much. I remember how madly he cared during the Cold War.”
“We were all a bit mad during the Cold War.”
“Not like Alfred. Not like Ivan.” He stops. Not like me, he wants to say, but instead, he sips his tea. Kabir scratches his chin.
“The 20th century is no metric for this conversation. The 20th century is bathed in blood. Even when the West was done ripping itself to shreds, we were still drowning in blood. We cared because we were in pain.”
“What about now?” Yao snaps. “Do we care? I’m not talking about leaders, or science, or war. I’m talking about us. You and me, as people. Do we care now? Because I don’t. Most of the time I’m so tired, and when I’m asked to care, I’m angry. I just feel such a profound sense of ennui. You know as well as I do that this trade deal the kids are all debating about will fizzle out in a few decades, maybe a century, even if it’s passed. The world will go to shit in a new way, but really, it’s the same old way. The rich countries will strangle the poor. There will be coups and revolutions, famines and plague, and maybe they’ll discover or invent some fancy new toy that upsets the economy—maybe they’ll do this a few times over—and meanwhile, everything’s melting and burning and dying!” Yao slams the teacup on the saucer, some of the beverage spilling over the rim. He buries his head in his palms. “I’m sick of it. I want someone younger to take over for me. I’m done, now.”
“Don’t.” Kabir fights down something panicky in his heart and reaches out, a hand on Yao’s thigh. “Don’t say such things. Don’t invite such rotten luck. What will I do without you on my doorstep?”
“My country will live on without me. There’ll be a new personification.”
“What will I, Kabir, do without you, Yao?” he repeats. He hates spelling things out for Yao. He doesn’t usually need to. “Who will I drink tea with? Who will I bed, and wed in secret under the stars, who will I talk about the old days with? You are tired. I understand this. Believe me, I do. This is why I don’t engage anymore. I don’t listen when the kids talk. My leaders deal with the power politics, and I try to do what makes me happy. I think we have both earned this right after the lives we’ve had.”
“We are not humans that we may retire,” Yao mutters, raising his head.
Kabir rolls his painful shoulders. “Neither are we children to get so caught up in ephemeral world affairs.”
Yao sighs, and smiles vaguely, and stares at the window again. “Do you know Alfred still reads the news?”
“Really?”
“He says he likes to know how the world changes day to day.”
“Oh, gods.”
“They are children,” Yao agrees. “We were like that once. Hungry for news from everywhere, desperate to make our mark. But our time has passed, Kabir. We are not the kings we used to be. We are not as rich, not as powerful, and the others only speak to us when they want our ancient wisdom,” he sneers. “The only thing we have got going for us is that we have not died yet.”
“Hey, now…”
“Rome had the right idea. To be born after us, and to vanish before we were even eighteen in body. And he is remembered as the greatest,” Yao adds in a bitter tone. “Because no one speaks ill of the dead.”
“Is that it? You want to be bathed in glory again? You, of all people, should know better than to glorify the past.”
“No. That’s not it. The past was a mess, just as today is a mess. And we both have strong economies. We command our side of the world. Or—our leaders, our people do, anyway. What I miss is feeling glorious. Feeling like I was relevant. That through all the hardship, there was meaning.”
“May I ask what brought this on?” Kabir asks, at last. This miserable, defeatist attitude is something new from Yao. He has to know what broke this camel’s back.
“I went to lunch with Alfred today.” Yao takes a deep breath. “We discussed space exploration.”
“Yes, he seems to think he’s the only one that ever loved the stars.”
Yao cracks a smile, despite it all. “Westerners,” he quips. “Anyway, he was talking about his new technological advancements.”
“As he does.”
“As he does, yes.”
“And that upset you?”
“No,” Yao rolls his eyes. “I listened, of course—I wasn’t going to interrupt a child showing me his toys.”
“Naturally.”
“And then we wanted to order our food.” And now he pauses, and for some reason, his cheeks go pink. “And it’s a QR code menu.”
“Huh?” Kabir can’t help the grin that pulls at his face. “A QR code menu is what made you think of dying?”
“They are the WORST invention!” Yao practically bellows, as Kabir collapses in a fit of laughter. “Right after the nuclear bomb! Stop your chortling this instant! I couldn’t figure out how to order a single goddamn drink! Alfred had to do the ordering for me. And I truly felt old.”
Kabir, who has managed to stifle his laughter by the end of Yao’s diatribe, shakes his head and suppresses his smiles. “I hate them too,” he says in solidarity, patting Yao’s thigh. “Not enough to think of dying, but yes, they’re terrible.”
“I am not incapable of ordering myself a drink,” Yao mutters.
“But you are old. It is no sin. It is, in fact, a rare accomplishment. Nations are born and die like mayflies every century. But you have grown, and changed with the current, and remained.” Kabir gets up and comes around Yao’s chair. He puts his hands on his shoulders, rubbing them. They crackle like the waves of the South China Sea. Yao sighs in relief. “You are so old. You need care.”
“We both need care.” Yao takes one hand and places a kiss on his wrist. Kabir hugs him from behind, resting his chin on Yao’s silky black hair.
“You cannot disappear. Promise me you will not disappear.” He holds Yao tight and fast, feeling, for once, afraid.
“As you wish,” Yao murmurs. “We shall be two useless gods dancing with infinity.”
“Infinity,” Kabir agrees. And it’s one of those words they use to say the things they can’t say aloud.