I just realized how little I’ve given you all by way of fiction so here is another story from my collection, which is already out in India and soon to be out in the US.
Acknowledgements:
This story has been published in: N+1, May 2013.
The Visit
In September, Anita left Mark. She wrote out instructions for Maya, packed two bags and took a taxi to Hopkins Airport in Cleveland. From there, she flew down to New York’s LaGuardia.
Ohio spread below like a chequer board of green and brown. East coast rolled so close she could smell it like rain. It was only for two weeks. Two weeks that permitted, no matter how fleeting, the smallest thrill of betrayal.
The key, as Anjali had promised, was with the doorman who, in his grey suit and fixed stare, made Anita feel shabby after the long journey from Columbus. She gave him her name, signed the visitor’s register and as she hustled her duffle bag and carry-on into the elevator, was distinctly aware of him watching her struggle.
The last time she had stayed with Anjali was somewhere else—downtown perhaps. Anjali was always moving, changing neighbourhoods—the way one changed their wardrobe when they got bored or it felt out of fashion. Mark and Anita had lived in the same house on Beaumont Road for as long as they had been together. Eight years. Eight years and they had never bothered to paint the kitchen, as she had always wanted—Lemondrop Yellow. She didn’t mind the creased walls anymore. She had long come to an understanding with it. There was something about living around acres of land and wide blue skies that felt fixed and settled.
She unlocked the door to the apartment and set the keys down on the entry table. It tumbled out of her hand and skated across the smooth surface. Quickly she picked them up, worried she may have accidentally scratched the polished mahogany. At least, that is what she thought such wood was called. Whenever nice furniture was described in magazines, they always said mahogany. She knew because she used to stare at the pictures, then discreetly, without Mark noticing, search the pages for their prices, which were always written in the smallest of fonts at the very bottom.
When they had first moved into that house on Beaumont, Mark constantly told her it was better to buy from local flea markets—one found decent, solid pieces, reasonably priced, which they only had to sand down or wax or distress if they so wished. He had hair back then, long and straight, that always strayed on the sides. But everything else about him was contained: his taste for spices—he had a sensitive stomach; the way he ate—he cut everything into the smallest of pieces; his words—he rationed them just like his food and sometimes Anita blabbed on just to get a satisfactory response out of him; even the white T-shirt he always wore hung from his lean frame with austere athleticism.
The foyer of Anjali’s apartment opened out on both ends and Anita followed it to the left, which led her into the living room. The south-facing wall was entirely windowed, with blue fabric shades, Roman shades they were called, that ballooned at the bottom. She had wanted shades like those, not in blue but in a pale yellow and not rounded at the bottom but straight. She had seen them in the ‘Country Curtains’ catalogue.
Mark had said “No.” He had said, “Imagine how stupid they’d look in our living room with the metal futon and the scratched-up table.”
“Why will they look stupid?”
“Because you can’t do up half the room and not the rest.”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s kind of nice to have one good thing. It’s like wearing pretty underwear beneath track-pants.”
Mark didn’t think that was funny. He didn’t think there was any point in wearing pretty underwear either. He said they came off in the end, anyway. So Anita brought back curtains from India. The pillowcases too were from there. It was true, they never had much of a budget to work with but she was proud that she managed, in her efficient way, to always make do.
This house was not like hers—a collage of salvaged fabrics. Every surface of this room, and there were several of them, were filled with photo frames and ornaments and books and bowls. Anjali’s house in Calcutta was much like this as well, only larger. She used to be scared of that house, of the large dining room on the ground floor—with its wood panels and crystal chandeliers and oil paintings in gold frames. It felt old and when something was that old, she thought ghosts hid behind the walls.
They used to play a game called ‘Dark Room’ in there—hide-and-seek with all the lights turned off. Anjali always made her the first seeker.
When it was her turn, she stood outside the mirrored doors of the dining room. Then she’d open the doors and plunge herself into the deep dark room.
This trip was like plunging.
She parked her bags in a corner of the room where they looked more worn-down against the plump, upholstered sofa. She hadn’t been thinking when she had grabbed them from the upper shelf of their narrow hall closet—stowed away alongside Mark’s old laptop carrier, his piles of vintage records, the old shoe-boxes stuffed with power cords, broken gadgets, batteries, whatever had fit. The bags were coated with stains—years of filth collected while moving one apartment to another, from being hauled up endless flights of stairs, and now, from the baby, who staked her claim on every conceivable surface. At the thought of Maya, Anita felt the prick of guilt. Not for having left but for failing to mourn in the ways mothers were meant to mourn the absence of their children.
On the other side of the long hallway, past the entry, was a door that led into a bathroom. Her eyes fixed on the Jacuzzi tub. Somewhere, at the back of her head, she could hear Mark’s voice, “Annie, baths are such a waste of water. There’s nothing wrong with a shower-stall. They’ve got perfectly good water pressure and are a breeze to clean.” He would say this not sternly, as an admonishment. Rather, explain it the way she might explain the sun and the moon to Maya.
A subtle fragrance in the air, like a mild afternoon wind that carried with it the smell of summer flowers. Perhaps, she would go for a massage in the city, before Mark and Maya came down. It had been so long since she had pampered herself.
Past the bathroom was another door. On it, a sticky-note addressed to her:
Hi honey,
This is your room. Make yourself at home. Your bathroom is down the hallway and I’ve kept out your towels. Kitchen’s a bit empty unfortunately but feel free to help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll be back from my trip late evening (flight lands at eight) and then we have some much needed catching up to do.
Love,
S.
Catching up. How exactly would they do that? She could summarize her life in a few sentences: What have you been up to? Oh nothing. I wake up and feed Maya. We play. She takes naps. She wakes and I feed her again. In between I read catalogues and magazines that Mark doesn’t approve of. In the evening he comes home and goes straight to his desk. Then I take the dildo to the bathroom.
So much had happened over the years. Anjali and she had kept in touch at first—through intermittent emails, a phone-call every few months, a visit when possible.
Mostly it was Anita who came down to New York, where Anjali studied, from her college town of Delaware. Delaware, Ohio—you could squeeze that name like stale lemon and nothing would come out. The woman at the ticket-counter in Port Authority had once said, “I’m sorry, we don’t go there.” But Anita told her she was wrong. She told the woman that the bus did indeed go there—from New York to Cleveland, from where one would have to change to a bus to Columbus and finally to a third, that went into Delaware.
In the days to come she would remind Anjali of those stories. They would reminisce about the old days. She would tell her that Menaka had gotten a divorce—the first of their lot. That was to be expected though. After all, she had started much earlier than the rest of them.
Anita rummaged through her handbag, which was filled to the brim with her toothbrush, toothpaste, face wash, all the things that hadn’t fit in her luggage. She dug out her phone and dialled Mark’s number. “Hey,” she said when he answered in his familiar, unhurried speech.
“Heyy. Missing me already, huh?”
“No. It’s not that,” she said, somewhat stiffly. Mark had told her right from the start that she wouldn’t be able to stay away from them. He had told her that they should just bite the bullet and move to the city together and use their saving while they both hunted for new jobs. It would only be for a month, two at the most. But he hadn’t thought things through. In spite of all his good sense, he never considered the real practical matters such as medical costs, which were far higher in New York. They weren’t on friendly terms with any doctors here, as they were with their local paediatrician in Columbus. Besides, child-care was outrageously expensive in the city while they had such a strong support-system back home—what with Greta and Joy and Carrie and Dennis—all their neighbours who were only too eager to help; the sort of community living she had, at one time, longed for—in the same way she had always dreamed of sitting by an evening fire, with a shawl over her lap. No one had told her then that her fires would be all smoke and ash.
Anita had insisted that Mark stay back with Maya, in Columbus. She said he should continue working at the bookshop while she move ahead for her upcoming job interview and try to sort out their living situation. Once the bookshop closed down and his position officially terminated, he and Maya could join her. Hopefully by then she would have found something.
Found some answers at least.
They had discussed things through and he knew how important it was for her to find the right situation this time—a career, not just a job—perhaps working at a small non-profit or, if she was lucky, at a gallery or museum. She had told Mark she couldn’t do it anymore––live in quiet submission, away from people, the noise of a city. She had told him that her emotional wellbeing was important for their future, even if it meant making small sacrifices now. They had been deliberating this shift to New York for some time now. Then came the announcement that the bookshop would close in the fall and they knew it was time to make that big change.
Nothing ever changes.
Mark’s voice hummed over the phone, like an old, scratchy song turning on a record player.
“Did Maya have all her food this morning?” she asked.
“Mostly. She didn’t like the carrots. She spit them on the floor.”
“She always does that with carrots.”
“She doesn’t like them.”
“No. She doesn’t like them at all.”
“But you could try mixing them with apple-sauce,” she added. “She loves that. If you run out, get the ones with the green packaging. Not the other kind they carry at the store. She doesn’t like those as much.”
“Apple-sauce in pink packaging,” Mark repeated, slowly. He may have been writing it down. He had a bad memory and she always made him write out lists. She had, once, even made him a list of all the things she’d wanted him to do in bed. But he had looked at her with disgust and said that’s not what he was—a toy that turned on and off at her bidding.
“Green, green. Not pink.”
“Green,” he repeated. “Okay. Got it.”
“And make sure you rub on the cream after her bath. Or else she gets that rash.”
“I know. I remember.”
What else? What else could she talk of now? She was tired of talking about baby food. Sometimes, she felt the world was passing by and all she ever did was change diapers. She wanted to talk about real things like that last conversation they had, three years ago, when Anita was last down in the city. On that trip, she had confessed to her friend that Mark and she were not having as much sex as she would like. She hadn’t meant to talk about that but after the second glass of wine, it somehow felt right.
“We do have sex of course,” Anita had added, “It’s just not the same as before. He’s always writing at night and even when we do get it on, it’s a bit perfunctory.”
To her relief, Anjali didn’t round her eyes and lower her voice to a ribbon-like whisper and say, “Really?” She shook her head tragically and told her she knew all about complacent marriages. She had heard this story so many times. “Yes, sex is important,” she said. “You just need a good fuck now and again, you know?”
They were at a restaurant on the fiftieth floor of a building. The room was dark. After her second glass of wine, the stars and lights outside the panoramic windows melded with the walls and she felt as though she were floating. “Yes.” Anita had said. “Yes, that’s what I need. A good fuck. I should tell Mark that. I should just say, Mark, fuck me.”
“And then, you know, there are accessories,” Anjali had said.
“What kind of accessories?”
“Oh many. Like leather underwear with a hole in it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting. It’s kinky. Men like kinky,” Anjali said. She also said that older men didn’t like women to shave down there.
“Not even the bikini line? I would never ever do a full Brazilian but at least the bikini line.”
“Trust me. They prefer it natural!” She leaned forward and lowered her voice as she said this.
That was the last time the two had met. Then Maya was born and her life spiralled somewhere else. Anjali couldn’t make it for the rice ceremony—she was on a business trip to Hong Kong––but she sent a gold locket with an engraved heart pendant. On Maya’s first birthday––for which they had rented La Cucina, the best Italian restaurant in town and Anita had taken cake-baking lessons for three months—she couriered a tricycle.
“Annie, you there? You’re really quiet.”
“Sorry. I was just thinking. I should go now. I just got here,” she said. “Call me later, after you put Maya to bed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, okay. I said okay.”
“I was just making sure.”
“Bye Annie. And please don’t drive yourself crazy. We’re doing fine here. Just fine.”
“I know, I know,” she sighed loudly. This silent voicing of discontent was the only way she could try and talk to him now.
She pictured Mark giving their daughter a bath that night, reading to her, turning the lights off and the blinds down. Not that he didn’t help with those things when she was there. He did. They shared in all the household duties equally. He was truly amazing. Her rock. No. Her coconut tree––bald and simple.
She was lucky to have found Mark. She really was. She had friends whose husbands never lifted a finger.
But this was also what she wanted. Mark said she was conflicted but all she really needed was a little time. Soon, everything would be normal again.
“Talk later,” Mark said, the words stretched, lethargic, a pace that was in good contrast to her worrying nature, a pace that unfortunately permeated into the bedroom as well.
It also promised, in its own way, that everything would turn out fine. Everything did in fact always turn out fine. But only because Anita worked hard at them. She had worked hard at finding a job in the HR department of a small law firm in Columbus—not one she enjoyed but at least one with decent benefits; she made monthly budgets when Mark went part-time so he could focus on his writing; rationed their outings; resisted urges to buy new clothes; learned to drive so she could get herself to her old university in Delaware where she used her alumni discount to take fitness classes. When New York became a real possibility, she job-hunted till darkness dragged over the streets and silence blared through the house. She proofed her cover letters over and over and even pleasured herself in the bathroom on those nights she knew Mark was not in the mood. Every night. She worked and worked and gave and gave. She was proud of it. Life could never defeat her. She was a fighter, a survivor and everything became more bearable when Maya cast her first look at the world into her mother’s eyes. Although it had been just three years, Anita couldn’t remember a life before motherhood. Maya was her equilibrium. She had no regrets. She really didn’t. In fact, if anything, she should have had her earlier.
* * *
Anjali’s building was on the Upper West Side. You walked out and turned left and came up to the chaos of Broadway. There was an organic market at the corner—yellow, green, orange fruits and buckets of lilies, roses, tulips, daisies and carnations lay heaving outside in voluptuous bins. In front, the din of traffic criss-crossed the two-way avenue; further ahead—the heavy artillery of construction. One block over, Amsterdam Avenue was lined in restaurants with foreign names and outdoor seating and umbrellas over which the evening sun scattered.
A little boutique on the corner of 82nd Street caught Anita’s attention—the window dressed in pink wallpaper, lined with mannequins in multi-coloured hair wearing black clothes and platform boots. It stood out from the other shops that sold khaki coats and tapered pants and lace-trimmed children’s wear. She stopped in front of it. Not the sort of clothes she typically wore. But window-shopping wasn’t about looking at what you had in mind. It was looking for what you could never imagine.
There was one dress though, that she thought she could potentially wear. The skirt was ordinary and long, ending just below the knee of the mannequin. It would come farther down on her smaller frame. It opened out into a wide ‘A’ line that would hide her gradually expanding hips at all stages of life. What gave the dress an edge, the right to be displayed up there, along with the leather pants and corsets, was its top—a tight halter-necked bodice showing off a large portion of the back and a thin vinyl strap with a gold buckle.
She was tempted to go into the store but stopped herself. Reminded herself that all these clothes were made somewhere in Bangladesh or South America—produced in bulk, shipped in hordes. They didn’t hold the intrigue of time and memory that cleaved the racks of vintage stores. Besides, that dipping neckline was too low.
She walked on. She walked three more blocks and came up to the burgundy awning of a restaurant. Through its tinted windows, votives flapped above white linen and behind them, the dancing shadows of sinewy bodies. It was Friday evening. The weekend had begun.
Anita looked down in dismay at her own attire—light blue jeans of a nondescript origin; a plain, purple T-shirt; a brown bag picked up after much haggling with a street vendor. She might as well have worn an ‘I LOVE NY’ cap to go with it. Somewhere along Amsterdam, there must be a pizza place, a Chinese take-out. They were usually in ever corner, like the foliage of New York City. She walked in what must have been circles––through the side streets that tunnelled endlessly, shadowed by the spread of Honeylocusts and Willows that gave the fleeting impression of something green and serene, then out again into the grey, concrete discord of the avenue. Windows lit up. Restaurants glowed under candles. The sky turned pink but a different sort of light took over the city. Soon, she was back in front of the shop with pink wallpaper. She had walked for almost an hour. Her feet were heavy and hot. Now, in the dusk, the neckline of the dress didn’t look so bad after all.
She lightly pushed the door open. The bell rang. The woman behind the register looked up, tentatively, as though she didn’t want to unsettle the bright blue wig and the silver tiara that balanced on her head.
“Hey there,” she said. Her voice, like her hair was coloured—first husky, then ending on a high note––a voice that had been resting for quite some time. Anita thought she must have walked into a Halloween shop. But it was too late. The woman had looked up. She felt she had to stay for a while and look.
The shop was larger than it had appeared from the outside. It was narrow but ran deep and was divided into two sections—the front for a large assortment of dark clothes and the back for sparkled shoes and bright wigs and fake eyelashes—accessories necessitated by morbid clothing, she imagined.
She browsed the racks and ran her fingers lightly over every item, making it known that she was considering each of the black dresses and lace tops and vinyl corsets, which she had no idea how to put on because there was too much of criss-crossing of lace at the back. The blue-haired woman was sitting at the register. Every time Anita looked at her, she quickly put her head down and proceeded to untangle the heap of price tags in her hand.
Between the meshed nylons, she finally found the black dress she had seen earlier in the window. It looked much narrower than it did on the mannequin but Anita couldn’t help herself from searching for the price.
“We’re having a sale,” the woman said. “That whole rack is fifty per cent off.” Her voice had finally found its happy medium.
Anita nodded. Another minute and it would be okay to leave.
“Why don’t you try it?”
“Oh no, that’s okay. I was just looking.”
“Really. Just try it.”
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.”
The blue-haired woman came out from behind the register. She wore leopard-printed leggings under a short black skirt. Her legs were thick, like tree trunks.
“Darling. There’s nothing wrong with just trying. Really. What size are you? A medium?”
Anita wanted to say ‘small’, which was her original size, but the truth was, she hadn’t fit into anything small since Maya was born.
“Let me see. Look. That’s a medium,” the woman said. She held out the dress over her own body and twirled gaily, as if all day long she’d wanted to do just that.
“No really, that’s okay.”
“Tsk,” the woman shook her head. “You see what’s written on my shirt? Read it. Come on now. Read it. Don’t be shy.”
“It’s all about me,” Anita read out loud.
“Now read the back.”
“I forgot about you.”
“You see that?” the woman flipped her hand. “It’s all about you girl. When’s the last time you said that? Now I know you like that dress. I can see it in your eyes.”
The dress was even tighter than what Anita had expected, especially around the hip. But that, in fact, made the fabric cling around her butt, which she knew was her asset (Mark used to say so back in the day). From the front, it was demure and simple. Only when she turned around was the open back fully exposed and could one see the vinyl strap with the little gold buckle, which nestled behind her neck like a secret. She imagined what Mark would say. He wouldn’t make her return it of course, or say anything openly negative. He wasn’t that sort of a man. But she knew he’d silently judge her, in the same way he said Hollywood movies or her friend, Anjali.
“So? What do you think?” the blue-haired woman asked from behind the curtain of the changing room. “It’s fifty per cent off, so it’s only eighty-five.”
Over the next two weeks, Anjali and she would do all the things they’d done together in the past––go to restaurants serving fusion cuisine, to bars with blue lights and cocktails in martini glasses, perhaps even to a party that Anjali was invited to.
“There’s tax of course, but it’s still an incredible bargain.”
She could wear this dress out one night. She could keep the tag on and return it afterwards. They could both dress up as they used to. Right up to their hair. Yes. Wouldn’t that be something? Sometimes, Anita felt there was an actress in a sequined brassier and hips that swayed like a snake hiding inside her, dying to be let out when Mark wasn’t looking.
The blue-haired woman folded the dress in pink tissue. First one side laid carefully and flat, then the other—pulled snug, the way Anita pulled at Maya’s coat over a thick sweater in the winter. Finally, a little pink sticker on the top. She threw in a box of blue eye shadow and winked. “That’s for you honey, for helping me to reach the day’s target. Now I can close the store early.”
The sun had slipped behind the tall buildings. Darkness fell, as it does—gradually, then all at once. People were heading out for dinner—in pairs, in groups, arm-in-arm, footstep-to-footstep, conversations churned the air. A girl stopped outside the shop. She was talking loudly into her phone.
“What do you think?” she said. “He went for more booze of course…three vodkas so far. And a pretzel…God! It’s way steamy out here. I’m a bit drunk.” She giggled. “Just one but you know how I get with just a glass of wine…yes, he is…yes, I hope so too…his place, we’re right here…I hope he makes a pretzel out of me.”
Anita stopped the blue-haired woman, as she was about to put the dress in a shopping bag. “You know what? I’d like to wear that dress right now, if that’s okay.”
* * *
The restaurant was French, a name she wanted to pronounce as ‘cute’ but she knew it wasn’t that. It was probably ‘cue’. Or worse. She was probably way off. It wasn’t the kind of name she was used to seeing—Le Chateau for example. Everybody knew how to say that.
It was still relatively early for dinner in New York, but many of the tables were filled. Waiters sieved through the dark wood furniture with trays tucked under their arms. The lights were turned low and the cutlery shone under the candles. The hostess, who was standing near the bar, looked up from her reservations book and smiled—not the generous kind, which she probably saved for the prime-time clientele and regulars, but with a certain reservation, possibly directed at the stragglers who walked in with none.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
“No. No, it’s just me.”
She was led to the far side of the room, the part that was mostly unoccupied––where tables of twos were set against the wall––like the empty side of a stadium. Menus were brought over and set down. Not thrown, but with careful disinterest. While she read through it, Anita couldn’t help but notice the two waiters hovering to her side. Her back felt cold. She shook out her hair to cover it. She had thought once she sat down she would feel better, but if anything, the clanking of glasses, of forks against plates, the grating of chairs and raised conversations from the other, busier side, heightened their absence from her end. Getting up and leaving would look more absurd.
Instead of ‘appetizers’, the menu had something called ‘Amuse-Gueules’. She supposed they were appetizers because they were the only things within her price range—grilled calamari with fennel, country paté, some kind of a dish with baked Brie, a large selection of salads. Everything else was quite exorbitant.
It had been some time since Anita had indulged herself to a good dinner. With real food. When they had first met, Mark used to frown on her unhealthy Indian eating habits, which consisted chiefly of fried potatoes and over-spiced curries. He encouraged her (in his wonderfully gentle and inspiring way) to try healthier things such as steamed squash and tofu. She had grown to enjoy that sort of food—which she discovered was excellent for digestion—just as she had traded in the glossy magazines for The New Yorker. Mark said it was the only magazine worth spending money on. They took turns reading their subscription copy and afterwards, at night, when Maya was asleep, discussed some of the articles.
“Have you read this story, Annie? He’s one of my favourite writers,” Mark had said.
“Yes, I did. I loved it.”
“Oh yeah? Really?” Mark sat up. Anything about literature excited him. Sometimes, it seemed to Anita, he was more aroused by Baldwin and Borges than by breasts. “What did you think? What did you like about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. Her voice became hesitant with the burden of having to prove herself. “It was…you know…touching.”
“You found it touching?”
“Well no. Not touching exactly. But it moved me.”
After some thinking, Anita said, “I like the way he looks at things.”
“Sensibility.”
“What?”
“An artist’s sensibility,” Mark said, using the sort of voice he did with some of the people that came into his bookshop—not patronizing really, or preacher-ish, but as if he were rehearsing for his future teaching career.”
After some deliberation, Anita finally decided on the escargot—a good, economical choice, she thought. Not the cheapest, which might show a lacking, but reasonable enough and far more exciting than salad, which was likely to be what Mark would have ordered.
It was what lovers popped into each other’s mouth. Why did she just think that? She wasn’t sure. Something about the rolling of the ‘r’ in ‘escargot’ felt sensuous and illicit.
The waiter had forgotten to take the wine-list back. Or perhaps he had intentionally left it behind. Anita flipped through it. She thought, while she was on the path of self-indulgence, she might as well go all the way. She summoned the waiter.
“Could I get a glass of red wine, please?” she whispered.
“Sorry? What?” He leaned closer.
She looked to her left, then to her right. “Red wine. You know…” she whispered again, a little louder this time.
“Any particular kind?” he asked and she wished he would lower his voice.
She looked through the list again. None of the names meant anything to her. “Merlot,” she said, because it was what she usually drank. When she did. Mark and she weren’t the drinking kind. Well, Mark wasn’t. She loved wine. But it wasn’t much fun to drink alone.
Several other people had come in by then and her section of the room was starting to get busy. She hadn’t realized before how closely all the tables were set together—side-by-side, with barely a few inches between them. She was the only one who sat alone, separated from the din of the room, against the wall, in exile.
Her wine arrived and she took a sip right away. It felt good.
This was right. This was everything she’d fought against to get here.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind.
“Oh sorry.” She pulled her chair closer to make room. A man passed through and sat at the table to her left. They were seated so close that if she moved a little to that side, her dress would touch the leg of his chair, or their arms might accidentally rub. But she couldn’t see his face. In order to do so, she’d have to turn deliberately in his direction.
All she could see were his white sleeves, which rested on the menu but didn’t open it; all she could hear was a voice that spoke in the lowest octave, saying something to the waiter who took the menu and went away. Then he got up and reached in his leather bag, which was on the other chair, across from him, and she thought—what a fine ass he has.
Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, she circled her neck as if stretching it and gave the room a brief survey. She hadn’t noticed the wrought iron candelabras hanging from the ceiling before. Or the white flowers on every table. Le Chateau had roses. She never did like roses. They smelt too sweet. As she turned her head, she let her eyes slide over the next table as though it was just one more thing.
Their eyes met and the man smiled at her, an acknowledgement that they were two fellow diners, eating by themselves on a Friday night. The lines on the sides of his face—dark; his hair combed back from his wide, receding forehead. He looked good in his white shirt. Another button undone would have been better. Then he’d look quite dashing, in a Anjali’s old lover sort of way.
God. When did she start finding creases sexy?
He flipped pages as if he were looking for a bullet point––a bunch of papers held together in a black clasp. A business brief? Manuscript? She wished she had a magazine. There was something so desperate about a woman eating dinner by herself on a weekend night. Or she should have waited for Anjali’s flight to land. If Anjali were here, she’d have started a conversation with the man already. Actually, she wouldn’t even need to. He’d be the one to say something first. And then she’d start on her questions, like running water. She’d ask him what he did. When he told her he was a corporate lawyer at Wells Fargo, she’d ask him how their new east coast expansion had worked out. She knew something about everything. They’d talk the whole night through and every once in a while she’d look at Anita and say, “Don’t you think so?” There’d come a time when it might seem quite outrageous that Anita had considered him at all.
In between turning pages, the man reached for his wine without looking up. His hands didn’t so much as even grope, it just knew where to go, as it knows parts of its own body. Her wine was done. She might as well get another. She raised her hand to call for the waiter.
Few minutes later, the busboy carried out her escargot. Instead of bringing it to her, he served it to the man who looked up, puzzled.
“I think that’s mine,” Anita said.
“Oh. Sorry,” the busboy stuttered and took it around.
“New guy,” the man said, shaking his head when the busboy left. “They always get these stupid new guys.”
She laughed and looked away. Why did she do that? She always did that.
The man was back to reading. He flipped a black pen in his hand like a baton. His heel tapped against the floor.
“Well, you know, we single diners…we probably all look the same,” she laughed.
Alone. That’s what she had meant.
“Right,” he said.
“You probably thought it was on the house or something.”
He nodded and smiled and looked down at his work. His cheeks were shadowed. She felt better now—the confidence that comes after a glass of wine, in new surroundings and a backless dress. The escargot was warm and slippery in her mouth.
“This is good.”
The man still had his head down but she knew he was aware of her, in the same way she knew the bartender and the old woman at the table in front had noticed that she was sitting alone.
“It’s really delicious.”
“Sorry?” he looked up. “Were you saying something?”
“The escargot. It’s very good.”
“Yes…yes.”
“It’s very detectable.”
The man’s eyebrows dipped together like the arms of a bow.
“I mean delectable.”
“Yes…”
“The flavours are very…interesting.”
“Uh, yes. They like to be a little innovative out here.”
“Yes. Very innovative,” she said. Her voice had started to do that jumpy sort of thing. She needed to stop getting so excited. Mark always said she got excited easily. Oh Mark.
She dipped bread into the sauce at the bottom of the plate. It dripped on the table and she dabbed it with her napkin. She folded the napkin over so the stain was hidden and put it back on her lap. She pulled it to the left to make it even. Then a little to the right. The man was still flipping pages.
“Your food is taking quite long,” she said.
He looked up again and let out a strong exhalation––like a bull. No, a wild horse. A fuming stallion. “Well, I think that’s just the steak being cooked—they usually take a while,” he said.
“Yeah.”
He pursed his lips, as though he wanted to smile more fully but circumstances prevented him—a wife; a loveless marriage that had outlived its course. She imagined he spent many hours at this restaurant, wading in his sea of papers, in order to avoid returning to the perdition of the four walls that caved in on his life. He couldn’t leave because of the children—duties, promises––she knew how that worked. Somewhere in his eyes, she saw a quiet grieving.
She took another sip of wine. She’d almost finished the second glass. Something was rising up through her abdomen. If she closed her eyes, she could feel it moving up her chest, lifting her as though she was tied to the wings of a thousand birds. She swept her hair to one side and leaned forward. Her hand brushed against the gold buckle behind her neck. She felt at any given moment anything could happen to change her life forever.
She leaned over and whispered, “I think it’s because we’re sitting alone, you know? I think there’s some conspiracy against single diners.”
Alone, alone, dammit.
“Um, yeah, sure,” he said. He lowered his head again and turned pages briskly.
The room was buzzing. She could feel her eyes glaze and tried to focus on something steady, the wall. There was a ceramic plate hanging on it. A blue ship set out on the sea—with its sails swollen in the wind, its oars swiping through the water. It wasn’t a pirate ship. Majestic towers rose over its masts and flags blew merrily in the wind. A happy ship; on its way to an adventure.
If she stayed like this, as though with blinkers on either side of her face, then it wasn’t so bad. Everything around her went away and the buzz faded and she felt as if she were the only one in the restaurant. And the miserable man. She felt a certain responsibility towards him, to show him that the future was long and uncertain and it was that prospect of uncertainty for which they must strive on. She leaned closer. “You want to try some?”
“Sorry?”
“Escargot. Try some.”
“Ah…no. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“Really, try some. Just dip some bread in the sauce.”
“I have my steak coming, but thank you for your offer.”
“Seriously. I don’t mind.”
“That’s okay.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’m right here. I mean, it’s right here.”
“Um, yeah,” he said.
“Yeah.” She took another swig of the merlot. She should have drunk more slowly because now she had to go to the restroom. The weight of the wine had settled down in her pelvis. She got up and smoothened out the dress and made sure she walked around her table and passed from his front. Without looking up, he pulled the table closer towards him to make room. She knew he’d do that.
“I’m just going to the restroom,” she said. She didn’t need to say it but she had wanted to. Had wanted to let him know that she wasn’t abandoning him. As she walked away, she could feel his eyes light up her body.
If Anjali were here, they’d have both gotten up together. While Anita went into the toilet, Anjali would lean forward and suck in her cheeks and examine her face in the mirror. Then she’d stand back and examine her full body. They wouldn’t giggle or gossip as other girls did. They’d leave all that for later, when they went home. Just as they would tonight. Only an hour now. Well, perhaps two, there might be traffic.
She opened her bag to take out her lipstick and saw the green light on her phone winking surreptitiously from its cubby. Mark! She had forgotten all about him. Over from a blanched Columbus night, her husband was calling to let her know that he’d put their child to sleep and turned the phone on silent and drawn the curtains and switched off all the main lights and was about to retreat on his easy chair for the next two hours with Anna Karenina (he was rereading Tolstoy lately).
It wasn’t Mark. It was Anjali. “Darling. It’s me,” she said on the message. ‘I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to make it tonight. I have to stay back here a little longer. I might be back next week sometime, I’m not sure. Something’s come up. I’m really sorry. But don’t let that change your plans. Stay as long as you need to. Make yourself at home. If you need anything ask the doorman. My cleaning lady will come day after. She’ll look after the house so you don’t have to worry about a thing. And to make it up, I’ve booked you a day at the Bliss Spa in Midtown. I insist. Really. Once you settle in, call them to make an appointment. They have my card. Bye. I miss you.”
She shouldn’t be disappointed. This wasn’t Anjali’s fault after all. But now what was she to do with the dress? Or the evenings she’d set aside? The long trip from Columbus felt so pointless. She wondered where Anjali was. She never had mentioned. Sooner or later, Anita would find out anyway. She’d find pictures on a blog, an online article in Conde Naste Traveller about spontaneous traveling, perhaps some comments or a link on a mutual friend’s Facebook profile. She’d sit on her bed, in the obscurity of nightfall––when Maya had long given in to the gentle rhythms of her dreams, and Mark was a quotation mark over his desk––pouring over every little detail, till she imagined that Anjali herself had told her all of it. This was how they had remained close throughout the years, even though they’d never met. This is how they’d always stay in each other’s lives—acquainted just enough so that they never slipped into an obscure acquaintanceship. The Internet was an incredible thing.
Before going out, Anita retouched her lipstick, smoothened out her hair and practiced her smile—she mustn’t show her teeth when she went back out. She had to remember that. Refined women always smiled demurely, with little show of anything. She rehearsed her smile again. One more time. There, that was the one. She reasoned that if she bought herself some time, the man’s steak might arrive and they might finish dinner at exactly the same time. Nothing came for free in life. One had to create their opportunities. She knew that. She was a fighter. So now, if she coordinated this exit well, then on their way out of the restaurant, the man would hold the door open for her. She would wait for a taxi, even though Anjali’s apartment was near-by. He’d ask her where she was going.
“Oh a little ways off,” she would say. A well-told lie was necessary, not a crime.
He’d say he had just finished working on a big case and was going down to Gramercy.
“I’m staying with a friend,” she’d say.
“You’re not from here then?” he’d ask.
“Actually, I’m staying at her place while she isn’t here.”
Then he’d ask, since she was not doing anything else, if she would like to have a drink together.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s kind of late.”
There wouldn’t be too many taxis at that time but one would happen to pull up to let someone out. He’d get in and hold the door open for her and she’d say, “Oh well, okay, just one.” She’d suck in her cheeks and throw her hips forward.
They would cut across the park—the streetlights snaking through the long winding road. Tall trees on either side making the night feel heavy. They would ride in silent acquiescence towards something inevitable.
Down the wide Park Avenue, the traffic lights would blink their lonely warnings, a bicyclist would ride by, pedalling furiously and paying no attention, windows would drop down their shades, preparing for a new chapter in the morning. Ultimately, they would come to a stop on a side street. It would be a brownstone building with a green awning and heavy glass doors with white frames. Must be a pied-a-terre he owned in the city she’d imagine. There’d be a long hallway with chequered floors and a mirror to the right. But no doorman. Doormen always led to unnecessary conversation and then awkwardness. As they walked to the elevator, at the far end of the hall, she would quickly glance at her reflection in the mirror to make sure everything was still in place.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, the man was gone from his table. The door of the restaurant swung back and forth like a broken pendulum and she caught sight of him for a split second—coat slung over his arm, papers clutched to his breast, lunging around the corner––like a streaky photograph of a racing car. Perhaps, he’d gone in search of her. Or perhaps, like her, he was flustered by this moment that had passed between them. That’s what this had been—a moment shared by two strangers; a turn in life when something crucial might have happened. It didn’t—not out of circumstance but out of choice. It was always important to choose. To know that life didn’t happen at you, but was a consequence of everything you did. She could have stayed back and not gone to the restroom. She could have pestered him a little longer, tried to coax out that morsel of life that lay buried beneath the rubble of his miseries. She knew now that she’d gotten up because something inside her said she must leave things alone. For now. Just for now. More chances would come along. As long as there was more to come.
Truth was, she might not have gone with the man. She might have chosen Mark and Maya and the life they would forge together. She could live with that—the fact that she had made a decision. She would be able to accept that and go on and the rest of her life would become all the more bearable for it.
Broadway was a steady stream of headlights. Like balls of fire they appeared out of nowhere and followed all her the way home. The sidewalk drummed under her feet. Above, the sequined black shawl of nightfall. All around her there were people, but being in a crowd made one feel more alone. As she walked, she imagined how she might relay all this to someone; she tried to memorize the evening in a way that might make it easier to explain; later, when things made more sense.
The night doorman was different in Anjali’s building but Anita took no notice of him as she pressed the button and waited for the elevator to go up. The apartment was dark. She groped on the wall and found the light switch. The hallway sprung to life like a toy box, objects that had melted into obscurity took their appropriate shape and form. From somewhere came a soft but heady smell of flowers that kept the empty apartment company. The Roman shades billowed gently as she closed the door, then settled back. Nothing else moved, like unfathomable blackness. The walls too were still, which was unusual in New York apartments. It was hard to imagine that anyone lived behind them––the amazing, the unbelievable, the wrenching tales that spun each person’s world.
Years from now, this evening would continue to play in Anita’s mind, looped over and over, like scenes one remembers from an old movie—grey streets, white tablecloth, sprightly candles, a crisp white shirt with one button undone, brown leather shoes tapping the floor, a stack of dishevelled papers. The conversation and the scenes would often vary. Sometimes they met in Rome, sometimes in Columbus itself, at Le Chateau, where the man would have come on work (he owned a carpet manufacturing business and had a factory near-by). Always they would ride in a car, in silence, and get out in front of a building—doors with arches or grills of wrought iron, and then that long, lighted aisle that led to the elevator.
She would think about it at times more often than others, especially when Maya had grown older and the hours became empty. At first, she would be ashamed of her thoughts, guilty perhaps, that she was betraying Mark in daring to wish for something else. Soon, this would give way to fear—that if she hoped too hard, nothing might ever happen.
Eventually, a time would come when she would dream freely and continuously. The dreams would be vivid and wild. It would take up many hours of her day––many years later, when everything was quite settled and she was old enough to know just how long each story would take.
--END--