The Fires by Alan Cheuse

you are going to the water,” said the dancing-eyed man as he kneeled down in front of Gina. “He can be going anywhere, depending on his living in the past.”
    â€œHe was a good man,” Gina said, feeling her throat tighten.
    â€œThen after his journey up to heaven, he will be going then to be returning to a better place.”
    Better than me? Better than with me?
    Gina felt a surge of heat in her chest. Dr. Betsy Cohen, where are you when I need you? And what would you say, seeing me praying to an elephant god? And burning my husband’s body?
    â€œAnd now,” said the swami, “we begin with the fire wherefrom he came here, wherefrom he was born…”
    Two women moved through the crowd, holding wooden bowls before them. People reached into the bowls. When it was Gina’s turn, she saw that the containers were filled with cooked rice steeped in milk.
    â€œYou are taking some,” the woman said to her, “and throwing half away.”
    Gina plucked a sticky wet ball of rice from the bowl and, under the woman’s steady scrutiny, touched her lips to the mass before tossing it onto the ground.
    â€œAnd now to your husband,” the woman said, urging Gina forward to the platform where with the woman’s guidance she took another ball of milk-soaked rice from the bowl and this time loosened the grains and sprinkled them before her.
    Up close, the body, wrapped in swaddling, had a fragrance of its own, and not at all offensive, smelling of incense and something similar to sweet butter. Paul had had a hardier
odor, less sweet than rough, something that always reminded her of wood and tree-bark, of rocks baked in the sun. The memory of it nearly made her swoon again, and Gina stepped back from the platform, bumping right into Goldstein.
    â€œAre you ready for this?” he said.
    â€œWhat do I do now?” Gina said.
    â€œFollow me,” he said. “Not that I know what I’m doing. I’m just following him.”
    They walked around the platform three times slowly, led by the dark dancing-eyed man and accompanied by the now almost abrasive sound of the chanting.
    â€œWhat are they saying?” Gina called to Goldstein over the droning of the devout.
    â€œI don’t know,” Goldstein said, “but as I told you it’s not entirely unfamiliar to me.”
    â€œI think I’m on another planet,” Gina said, smiling at the man with the lively eyes as he approached them after their third time around the platform.
    Gina felt the breath rush out of her when she saw the smoking torch in his hand.
    â€œWe say these things,” the man said, holding up the torch. Gina inhaled the hot raw air around it. “Mr. Stingold would supposed to be saying, but I am saying it for him this time. Now I am applying fire to all the limbs of this person, who willingly or unwillingly might have committed lapses in this life and is now under the clutching of death, this person being someone attended with virtue and vice, greed, and ignorance. But in spite of all these flaws, very human imperfections if I must add these words myself, we are hoping he is to be attaining the shining regions up above…”
    He held out the torch.

    â€œHere then for you, Mr. Stingold.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Gina said.
    â€œThe wife,” said Goldstein.
    The dancing-eyed man stepped back.
    â€œMost important is the fire, rather than the person who ignites it.”
    Gina stared at the torch, the harsh odor of tar and fire rushing fiercely into her nose.
    â€œWould you like me to do it?” Goldstein held out a hand.
    Gina shook her head.
    â€œMr. Stingold,” said the dancing-eyed man, “it is better for the wife.”
    â€œBetter?” Gina stared at the smoky torch, breathing hard. The fumes both repulsed and attracted her, but at this distance she couldn’t escape them.
    â€œBetter than not,” the man said.
    â€œI