Born Confused (40 page)

There was only one place I could do that. And it seemed as good a day as any, better even, to pay a visit to the darkening room. As soon as I was inside with the door shut firmly behind me I felt better. And as I reviewed the pictures hanging on the line I even began to feel hopeful, though about what I wasn’t sure. I’d been improving but still had a long way to go; I had been overheating, overcooling, and the last time I was in here, spilled fixer on my shirt and burned a fast hole through the fabric (of course, it could have been worse, considering how much higher temperatures were for color processing). In any case, might as well burn myself before I got burned.

But the mere sight of color in all the bleakness was revelatory;
the slice of vivid however imperfect life thrilled. This room was like the inside of a dreaming eye, the way there was a sense of it all being projected Technicolor in a nearly cosmic blackness, cast on shadowbrick in a room pulsing with invisible bodies.

I surveyed now the Queens photos. Despite the fact that one was too green, others too magenta, cyan, yellow, some still seemed accurate depictions of that day, of the memory of it. A patch of sidewalk scarlet with spat paan, two hobbity toe-haired toes flexing up-chappal in mid-wade. Birds rooting off railings, the American flag vigorous now, captured in a proud unfurl. Fantastic frontierless shots of sari fabrics. Men squeezing into the frame, not realizing the focus was on the women hanging back, staring shyly, it now seemed. Longingly.

I considered developing the rest of the Queens shots. But now I was aching to review the HotPot night; I couldn’t believe I hadn’t gotten around to these rolls yet.

I figured I should get the first one out of the way, and rubbergloved, levering off the end of the cassette with a bottle opener. Cut off the tongue, straight between the perforations, and wound the film onto the reel, slotting it into the flanges. For some reason I always found this moment immensely satisfying—the way the two grooved together.

I continued on, sank into darkness. To be honest, I completely lost track of time—I had no idea whether I’d been down there minutes or hours and I’d just finished up a set of test strips when I heard a distant flurry of chimes and tinkerbells amid a deeper toll, and my mother’s voice filtered into my reverie.

—Beta! You have a visitor!

And then, to someone else, in an equally voluminous voice (for my benefit):

—Go on down, Karsh—yes, it is fine, beta, I am sure. She is in the darkening room.

Karsh! I nearly dropped the developer. Frock—I had no makeup on or anything. Thank goodness I’d brushed—but I hadn’t flossed. And I was in a tank and pajama bottoms, braless. I considered making a run for the hatchway but realized that perhaps the safest place to be in my current condition was indeed this tenebrous vicinity versus an upstairs unsparing summer day. By the time I’d arrived at this conclusion, an escape was out of the question: Tentative steps were descending and approaching. A slight rat-a-tat-tat.

—Dimple?

—Uh, yeah.

I slipped the door open a crack and went out, closing it behind my back. The basement was fairly dark, the only light cookiecuttering in through the scant rectangular windows against the ceiling, these mostly blocked by unmown grass.

Karsh was so close I could smell that shirt smell on him. I didn’t look him in the eye for a minute, focused on the chappals and his big toes looping out instead so that he couldn’t see what I’d been thinking. You know, last night.

—Hi, you, he said softly.

I loved the way he said that. Like it could only be me. I wondered if he said that to Gwyn, or Trilok (Jimmy) Singh, or his computer science professor. I looked up at him. And now that I was in love with him there was no mistaking his beauty. It normally hurt my eyes, these rapid shifts of light. But the backlit view of him was a welcome one. The concrete cooled my feet. Here in the shadows I felt we might be in the club again, but there was only a somewhere sound of lawn mowers and the neighborhood malamute’s daytime moon call and, upstairs, the continuing hustle-bustle—turned up now it seemed (which was proof she was most likely eavesdropping at the doorway)—of my mother’s kitchen choreography.

—Hey, I didn’t want to disturb you. I just came by because
I—foolishly—forgot my shoes here in all the fun we were having yesterday.

Foolishly.

—Oh yeah, I said, trying to sound casual. But nothing sounded casual in this dim dazed setting. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, realizing if the concrete was cooling my feet into a toe curl, it was possible that certain upper protrusions were popping out to say good day as well.—Yeah, I saw them yesterday. I was going to tell you. They’re in the—

—I know. Aunty showed me.

Aunty. Meaning, I was like his cousin. His cousin-sister.

—Really—I can see you’re busy, he said.—I just. She told me to come down and see you. I just wanted to say thanks.

—Thanks for giving back your shoes?

—Uh. Yeah. I guess I’m such a footloose and fancy-free kind of guy I just didn’t notice.

—Well, you’re welcome.

—Okay. Then. I guess I’ll be seeing you.

But he didn’t go anywhere.

—So you’re working on your photos? he asked.

—Uh, no. Well, yeah.

—Oh that’s right, I think you mentioned something yesterday. I really must be bothering you.

—No, you’re not.

—Well, if I’m not, I’d love to see you at work. Only if you don’t mind. I promise I won’t disturb you.

I felt shy, but a little excited, too. Laid bare, like he’d said. I was really aware of my skin.

As soon as we slipped back into the darkroom and I closed the door behind us, I even almost liked the feeling. Night nakedness was different. He was keeping me in that red-toned dreamspace we’d
created in the club, the Pondicherry dawn. The state I’d been in last night.

Karsh’s pupils were dilated, iris all but gone. It was strange thinking they were literally apertures into him, like a human Chica Tikka. I fluttered up inside, belly cocooning. I tried to be very matter-of-fact as I set up the processing trays.

—So I was just—

He put a finger to his lips.

—No, don’t worry. Don’t explain. Just go on like I’m not even here. Really. I don’t want to disturb you; I just want to see.

There was no way to pretend he wasn’t there. But actually as I continued, pouring in the developer, stop bath, fixer, I found his presence wasn’t something that made me uncomfortable. Somehow he contributed to anchoring me, while still allowing me float space. His extra presence warmed the room.

When I took the tongs, he came and stood close behind me, watching over my shoulder. I immersed a sheet of the exposed paper in the first tray, his breath against my neck now. That thin space between us felt simultaneously like miles and nothing at all. We were so close, and it felt like we were in a cave and a storm was rushing just outside.

I could just nearly feel him against me as I rocked the dish back and forth. His breath smelled like cinnamon and clove and when I moved, our bodies brushed against each other, and even with this butterfly kiss of a touch I could nearly feel my cells changing as they collided with his, a chemical reaction just like the one on the sheet of printing paper before us.

The image began to take form. I could see general shapes, shadowed light; one piece of the page, on the upper left, didn’t seem to be bringing forth anything, but above the center stretches of sim
mering fabric the features of a face floated surreally up from under the liquid, like a person emerging upwards after diving to a bottom so deep they’d disappeared. A perfectly defined mouth, upturned nose, and not one but three jeweled eyes—the third eye blindingly scintillating—gazed back up at us. Gwyn’s eyes.

My heart sank: Even here I couldn’t get away from her! It was the picture from the night we went to the club: Gwyn in the mirror, looking unbearably beautiful (and even more epic in black and white), and me taking the photo from behind, my own face partly obscured by the flash going off in the glass. Even burning in might not be able to bring me back to life here. It would be best to crop me out to save the rest of the image.

I tried to concentrate, transferred the print to the stop bath, the fixer. I was hesitant to turn the light back on, but there was no reason not to. Illuminated now, my stomach wringing emptily, I washed the print and hung it to dry. It was strange to imagine she’d only been staring at herself, the fairest of them all in my mirror. Because now, from the clothesline, I could feel her eyes on us. On him.

I worried he would come back to his senses and leave me now. But he didn’t say a word, didn’t go, and my hopes struggled up again. Was it possible that he—? The wattedness of the room seemed not to disturb our secret space so much after all, turned it into something shared, cathedral, the now visible borders confirming that we were securely within it. Nervous at my wildly geysering sense of hope I threw myself into the film, moving on to color. And when the time came to turn off the light, I even dared to imagine the unkiss that hung there between us, tangible as the reel I was loading in my hand.

We remained there, developing photographs for hours it seemed.
The dreamy silence of the room just served to emphasize the feeling that he was a live wire beside me, a cut cable in deep water.

When I’d clipped Zara and her future husband up to dry, my stomach grumbled. In this stillness it was avalanchal, and we both laughed a little. It was the first sound we’d made in here. And we finally turned and looked at each other again, so minglingly close I felt strange. I could see myself in his pupils like in Chica Tikka’s third and only eye. I envied the tiny me, swimming there in the open passages to his heart, his belly, his memories. His future memories. I wished I could dive in, follow her through.

—Dimple, he whispered.—I don’t know what to say.
Wow.
It is so beautiful to see you like this.

My breath trapped in the back of my throat.

—That was so much like music, he went on.—Funny, since it was all silent. But the way you shook that tank, counting the seconds along to the tick of the timer—it was like you were layering snare on synths on cymbals. Your timing was impeccable. And then that thing you do—moving your hands around, and the light. Swap it for a song, and you looked pretty much like a DJ to me.

He took my ungloved hand and turned it over.

—Yeah, it says right here, he whispered, tracing his finger along a tributary in my pulsing palm.—You’re plugged in. You’ve got the Big Energy.

Now I was definitely not breathing, trying to memorize the certain weight of his hands on mine.

—And these images—

He gestured to the array of them.

—They’re amazing, he said.—Can I ask a favor?

—Anything, I said quietly.

—Would you make me a copy of one? I’d love to have it for myself.

My heart stuttered up at the compliment.

—Of course! Which would you like?

I followed his finger, and my heart sank again. The first one, the one of Gwyn. What made me think I could ever stand a chance?

I nodded and he went on.

—I’d love to see more—the ones you love the most, the ones that mean the most to you.

I nodded again, dumbly. He’d already asked for the one that meant the most to him. And I had no idea what meant the most to me anymore. Or rather I did, but I had no idea how to develop it, this image in my mind that would never resolve itself, of the two of us together.

I walked him upstairs. Just before we came out into the room I heard skittering footsteps and then the anthem of the Feng Shui Springfield Orchestra—my mother had set everything in motion and now chimes tinkered and water trickled and mobiles slamdanced together. She had definitely been eavesdropping.

—Won’t you stay for a bite to eat, beta? she asked.—I made samosas.

—Thank you, ji, but I’ve really got to go, he said.

—Baapray, after all the slaving over the dough…

Defrosting was more like it.

—Maybe next time? said Karsh.—I’m really sorry, it’s just that I have to get back to New York. I have a meeting to see an apartment.

My mother scuttled off into the kitchen and returned with a Tupperware box. She handed it to him.

—Well, I insist you at least take these with you, then, she said.—Now that I have heard how you are fed at this NYU.

—Thank you, Aunty, he smiled, stepping out to the porch. He turned back to me.—Don’t forget that photo, okay?

—I won’t easily forget, I said. It was time I woke up and smelled the bleach.

—It would mean a lot to me.

—I know what it would mean to you.

—Good, then, we’re on the same page.

He waved from the bottom of the drive now. I turned to go back inside and nearly knocked over my mother, who had been hovering just behind the door. She latched her arms around me and called mischievously through the screen.

—Don’t forget to bring back the Tupperware, Karsh!

She smiled, nudging me.

—You are looking very flushed. What is happening in this darkening room?

—Nothing, I mumbled.

—Wonderful! Nothing always means something when it comes from the mouth of a teenage girl!

She was staring at me now.

—And your eyes are red again.

—Must be the chemistry, I said, trying not to spill.—I mean, the chemicals.

—You are not going to believe who dropped in during my shift after lunch that day! said Gwyn. She’d called me over for a quick 411 before work, and I was standing in her kitchen now, watching her pack up her low-cal saladic lunch.

—Who? I said.

—Flashman! You know, that photographer guy. Whose name is Serge Larmonsky, if you can believe it. He was actually in Jersey for a shoot and came by to say hi.

She was checking the oven and stove and all the settings to make sure everything was off.

—Thank Todd I showed up in time, she said.—And thank Claude I was looking so fabulous—you know, all hennaed and bindi’d and rakhi’d and all. Of course I ripped off that ralphable green smock the second I saw him.