The Worlds Within Her (5 page)

Yasmin had always been struck by their differing reactions to physical attractiveness. Beauty disarmed Charlotte; it made her helpless. But beauty, by its very nature, suggested to Yasmin the untrustworthy; it put her on her guard.

There was Garth, for instance, a researcher at the station. Tall, confident, athletic Garth. He had appealed to Charlotte, the ease with which he carried himself, the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. Gorgeous Garth, Yasmin had called him, and Charlotte, in the grip of her infatuation, had misconstrued the sarcasm as admiration. “He's not your type,” she had retorted. That Garth knew himself to be attractive was, in Charlotte's view, no hindrance. Charlotte's attractiveness was no secret to herself either.

Then one afternoon Garth, spotting a photograph of a bikinied woman on the fashion reporter's desk, had called out, “Hey, who's the babe in the 'kini?” He seized the photograph and examined it with an adolescent avidity.

“Christ!” Charlotte said afterwards. “I thought he was going to jerk off right there.”

“Thought or hoped?” Yasmin said.

Charlotte shook her head, as if to free it of shattered illusions. “Yet another one,” she said, “who seems like a normal human being until he's caught off guard.”

It was a day or two later that Yasmin found on her desk a flyer advertising the wine-tasting evening at the local wine bar.

From the street of its location, in the basement of an office building, it had not been promising. And from the threshold where she stood, Yasmin thought the interior offered little hope of improvement. It was dimly lit, probably to enhance its approximation of old-world intimacy: wall-panelling of weathered
planks, wooden beams which, she was sure, would ring hollow when tapped.

She saw with relief that every table was taken and had begun to hope they would have to return another day when Charlotte, with the boldness that made her good at her job, approached a man sitting alone at a table in a corner. She beckoned Yasmin over.

The man introduced himself as Jim Summerhayes. He was an architect. He was here, he said, because he liked to expand his horizons.

Yasmin thought: Great, another winner …

His gourmet-cooking course had ended the week before, and learning more about wines seemed the next logical step.

Charlotte nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”

Yasmin said, “You must have a lot of time on your hands. You unemployed or just no good at what you do?”

Charlotte said, “Yas!”

Jim looked thoughtfully at her. Then he laughed. “Neither of the above.”

Yasmin guessed him to be in his early thirties. An ordinary, intelligent face, angular. He was casually dressed, in a tan turtleneck and tweed jacket. His palms were broad, with long slender fingers and neatly trimmed nails. He wore no wedding band, but that meant nothing.

The wine tasting continued. After each sampling the expert on hand gave his impressions, reading the effects of the wine on his tongue. His vocabulary was so esoteric that by the third glass Charlotte and Yasmin both stopped scribbling notes on the forms they'd been given. Jim, though, was assiduous in filling out his, intense in the way of university students who noted down the lecturer's every tic and cough.

“Nutty?” Charlotte repeated as the expert intoned his judgment. “Him or the wine?”

Jim smiled, whether from politeness or genuine amusement Yasmin could not say. But he continued to scribble, paying close attention to the expert's opinion.

Yasmin, nibbling on dry bread, settled back to enjoy the glow of the wine. On a poster pinned to the wall behind Jim a red and yellow ribbon swirled into the shape of a bottle. Sipping at her fifth or sixth glass, the wines all tasting the same now, Yasmin found herself enjoying its movement, the touch of gaiety it lent to the sedate atmosphere.

Beside her, Charlotte sighed unhappily and Yasmin knew she would not soon wish to return to the bar. Its earnestness discouraged the mingling and easy conversation that led to the discovery or invention of mutual interests, to the exchange of phone numbers.

Yasmin's gaze fell from the poster to Jim's hands, the left lying palm down on the table, the right holding the glass to his lips. Tenacious hands, she thought, but composed. The hands of a man at ease with himself. She wondered what it would feel like to touch them, what it would feel like to be touched by them. She had once seen Charlotte take the hand of an attractive stranger and, under the pretext of reading his palm, arouse his interest with the caress of her fingertips. Yasmin was not timid, but she did not share Charlotte's impetuousness.

Jim slowly placed the glass on the table, his eyes following it as if in silent interrogation. He made a note on his form, put down the pencil and reached for a heel of bread. He said, “Did you know that the Russians claim that if you just sniff at some bread or a pickle you won't get drunk? On vodka, of course.”

Charlotte said, “I've heard that.”

Yasmin said, “Think it works with wine?”

He held the bread up to her. “Here. Try.”

When they left not long after, Charlotte said, “I saw that. Daring.”

“What?”

“You know what. He'll call you for sure now.”

“I don't know what —” But her face was burning hot.

“Did you see the look on his face?”

No, she hadn't. She hadn't seen anything but the spongy whiteness of the bread, had sensed with a dizzying keenness the swirl of red and yellow ribbon on the wall above.

“Bet you anything he's heading home to a wet dream.”

“Charlotte!”

“Give it up, Yas. No man's going to forget a woman who licked his finger the way you did.”

“It was an accident. The wine. I —”

But Charlotte had no interest in explanations. She hailed a passing taxi.

On the way home to the apartment they shared, Charlotte teased Yasmin by licking at her own index finger and making faces of ecstasy.

Yasmin ignored her. The smoothness of his nail was imprinted on her tongue. As the taxi pulled up to the apartment building, an icy shiver radiated down her spine. For the first time in her life, she had done the unthinkable.

HERE WE GO
. There's nothing like the odour of a fresh brew, is there, my dear?

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my wedding. Tell me, Mrs. Livingston, do you know what privilege is?

Having the supermarket deliver your groceries for free? Well, yes, I suppose. But, my dear, you are aware that privilege has a less pleasant side, are you not? In my part of the world — or at least that part of the world that used to be mine — it was a deadly serious game of exclusion. Privilege, you see, manifested itself through the colour of one's skin.

I won't bore you with the countless ways in which skin from light to white eased lives, both social and professional. Suffice it to say that entire careers were built on that one qualification, just as entire lives were derailed because of it. My husband used the occasion of our wedding to begin the process of lifting this prejudice from the shoulders of our people.

Keep in mind there are two ways to look at this story. His supporters saw it as proof of his commitment, his detractors as proof of his opportunism —

How did I see it? Let me tell you the story first, my dear. Now, where shall I begin? With another sip of tea, I should think. It is rather dry in here, isn't it? Oh, that's good. Now then …

At the time of our marriage, you see, my husband had begun to acquire a small reputation as a leader in some quarters, as a troublemaker in others. He needed —

No, let me put it less indelicately. Politics is drama, and drama needs event. My husband knew he would benefit greatly from an event that would earn him the right enemies, and it so happened that our wedding presented him with just such an opportunity.

We had a club in the island, you see. Its name alone — “The Majesty” — bespoke glamour. It was a large lounge, really, in a hotel in the town — the island's first hotel, if I'm not mistaken. There was a tennis court out back, I seem to remember, and a
swimming pool — and members were allowed to run up tabs, which seemed a particularly stylish thing to do. When I imagined the goings-on at the Majesty, I always pictured the women in evening dresses, the men in dinner jackets — and the entire scene in black and white. It was the vision that had been given to me, you see, by the movies, and I could not — indeed, it never occurred to me to — make the leap to colour. And it was only much later that I realized this. To me at the time, it was quite normal. Elegance came in black and white — which is an irony much too simplistic for words …

The one time the queen visited our island, she was conveyed from the royal yacht
Britannia
directly to the Majesty for a reception. You see the kind of cachet this place had.

Now, the only problem with the Majesty was that it was exclusive to the whites of the island. Understand: this was not a rule, it was not written anywhere; it was more of an understanding, a social convention, and so all the more powerful. Once, on New Year's Eve, which we called Old Year's, my husband and some of his friends, having already imbibed a fair amount, were turned away, a sting that never stopped smarting — and which later led to accusations against him of a personal vendetta. Some pointed to the personal slight as proof that he was not principled.

But things change. This was a time when a lot of our young fellows were going off to England to become doctors or lawyers, and quite a few of them returned to the island with white wives. It was said — and whether this was true or not I cannot say — but it was said that the club was considering allowing in the wives but not the husbands, so that — had they not still been in England at the time — Celia, for instance, could become a member but my brother-in-law Cyril could not. He would be allowed to drive her there and then pick her up, of
course. But if he wished to wait for her, he would have to sit in the car or while away the time in the botanical gardens across the street.

And so my husband got it into his head that our wedding reception would be held there, at the Majesty. He submitted a request for rental of the premises — and received a reply stating that the premises were not available on the requested day. He changed the day, and still the premises were booked. This was the usual tactic.

Now, by this time journalists had begun attaching themselves to my husband, so he had one of them call up an officer of the club. The newspaper, the hack claimed, was looking into reports that Mr. Vernon Ramessar, an up-and-coming political leader in the East Indian community, was being refused rental of the club's premises for his wedding reception, a notable event in the community. Was there any truth to this?

The club's members were not unmindful of the growing resentment against them; they were not unaware that profound forces were at work outside the confines of the Majesty. The club officer pleaded simple scheduling conflicts — but he assured the hack they were working on a solution. By the following day it was all arranged. The club asked only that there be no goat-slaughter on the premises, no outdoor cooking fires, and that noise be kept to a reasonable level.

It was something, I tell you, Mrs. Livingston. We were drummed into the Majesty in full regalia, me in my sari, my husband in turban, kurta and dhoti, heads held high. You could practically hear the sound of privilege crashing down. Even the kitchen and dining-room staff stood and applauded. You cannot possibly imagine what it was like, my dear. The discrimination —

Ahh, yes, of course. How insensitive of me. Your name tends to suggest a different history. One does forget, you know, that
you acquired it from your husband. Italian immigrants after the war. You were still the enemy, weren't you …

But listen to us, trading old humiliations — let us not forget the triumphs, too! Do you know, my dear, what I consider to be the greatest triumph of all? That we've survived, Mrs. Livingston. We've survived, and we're here to savour it.

The next day there were photographs in the newspapers, and lengthy stories turned out by the hacks. But the real story, as everyone well understood, was that the Majesty Club could not go back to its old ways. We celebrated Old Year's that year at the Majesty, and we were far from alone …

There's a touch left, my dear. Would you …? No? Then I think I shall …

Yes, yes, I know. All this sugar. But I am treating myself just for today. I shall return to my sensible ways tomorrow, don't you worry.

So to get back to your question, how did I see it? My dear Mrs. Livingston, I saw it as the action of the man I had agreed to marry. I didn't judge it. I admired his courage — but I did think, I confess, that he might have chosen a more appropriate occasion …

Regret? No, I don't think so. I entered this marriage with full knowledge of his ambition, but I was only just beginning to learn just how deep that ambition went.