Don't Let Him Know (30 page)

She had resolved at the time to never come back to America. She had said she didn’t want to be marooned in some small town in America alone with a baby and to her surprise Avinash had acceded with little fuss. She had thought that once she went back to India and started a family everything would be okay again. And it did turn out all right, she thought. Avinash proved to be a good husband, all things considered. And Amit turned out to be a good son, decent and caring. Sometimes, however, she wondered if Avinash had resented her for going back. What would it have been like, she thought, to have raised a family in America, to hear Amit call her ‘Mom’ as Neel called June? But in the end, she thought with a wry smile, what did it matter? Here she was with her son and his American wife and their little American boy in a small Midwestern town just as if she and Avinash had never left after all.

Romola realized she was snapping and unsnapping her handbag, running the tips of her fingers over the blue pills inside. Determined to be more engaged on a trip that was being made in her honour, she put the bag aside and said, ‘I remember there used to be an international store we would go to for spices. I used to write down the names of the spices in English before I went there. Coriander for dhoney, cumin for jeerey. But fenugreek was a hard one. I could never remember it.’

By the time evening rolled around, her enthusiasm was flagging. They had walked all over campus. Amit pointed out the church with the clock tower. There seemed to be dozens of new buildings but the pond was still there. Romola watched a young couple on a rowboat glide by, trailed by two ducks. Amit took a photograph of her. ‘Cheese,’ he said. She obliged, holding her grandson in front of her. They walked up and down Main Street, still called Main Street. But she recognized none of the shops. Where there used to be a Chinese restaurant they went to for special occasions, there was now a print and copy shop. The old post office had turned into an ice-cream store where Neel insisted on getting a waffle cone. Amit eagerly embraced his role as tour guide bombarding her with questions until June quietly said, ‘I think your mother is getting tired, dear. It’s been a long day.’ They decided to head back to the motel.

But at night Romola couldn’t sleep. She told Amit she wasn’t hungry and went up to her room. For a while her grandson kept her company while his parents finished their dinner. When Amit and June came by to say their goodnights, she sent Neel off with them and sat at her window watching the streetlights come on. 657 Holly Street, Apt 202 – her first American address. How many times had she written that on the lower left-hand corner of envelopes? How many times had she run down to the mailbox, hoping for a letter from India with that handwritten address under the familiar reassurance of the stamps with Mahatma Gandhi’s bald head? She remembered the window from which she had her own postcard-sized view of America. She had looked out of it once in despair, wondering how she would ever find her way back home. She could hardly believe she had now found her way back to Carbondale after all these years. Outside the town slowly settled down to sleep, the way small towns do. She remembered that hushed feeling well, the suddenly empty streets, the flickering television screens in locked-up houses, and the welling feeling of trapped loneliness she had fought down night after night with mango pickle and rice.

At ten o’clock, wide awake and restless, Romola wrapped a shawl around her and quietly let herself out of the room. Tiptoeing past Amit’s room she wondered what she would say if he suddenly came out. Where was she sneaking off to at night? But his curtains were drawn and the room was dark. They seemed to have gone to bed. Only the glowing eye of the soda-vending machine at the far end of the corridor watched her unblinkingly. The bored young woman sitting at the reception reading a magazine barely looked up as Romola walked out the door.

The October night was still pleasant though the first hint of a winter chill was already in the air. A young man with a backpack was approaching her.

‘Excuse me,’ said Romola. ‘Do you know where Holly Street is?’

He did not. She had to ask three other people before a young Chinese woman told her how to get there. It was a longer walk than she had thought it would be and she had to ask her way a few more times. To her astonishment her old apartment building was still there, as ugly as ever. It wasn’t blue-grey any more. It had been painted what seemed to be a rather bilious pistachio green but everything else was the same. She half expected to stumble on another bicycle someone had left on the path but there was nothing there. It was already close to eleven and the street was deserted. Romola stood in front of the driveway wondering who lived there now, whether their lives were any happier than hers had been. She had an urge to go up to the front door, ring the bell and run away.

Two young men, one walking with a bicycle, came up the street towards her, looking at her curiously. ‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ said one politely. ‘Do you need help?’ Romola shook her head, suddenly aware of how odd she must look, standing there, huddled in a shawl, in her cream synthetic sari with its green floral pattern. She started backing away from the house slowly. Somewhere a dog barked, making her jump. Romola started walking faster, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. It was a mistake coming here, it was just a stupid ugly building, she told herself, what had she been afraid of? They could have just come in the morning, she, Amit, June and Neel, and she would have told them silly funny stories of her life in America, of how she had once tried to make pizza in the old oven in her kitchen and it had come out hard and black. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do,’ she resolved. ‘Tomorrow I’ll suddenly remember the name of the street. And we can come see the house and then I can close this chapter for good.’ By now it was past eleven and she hoped Amit had not got up to check in on her.

It was at that moment she realized she was completely lost.

She had somehow wandered into a part of town with very few people. The stores were shut. There were a few car lots, lights blazing, the cars on sale gleaming but not a soul in sight. American flags fluttered in the evening breeze over Japanese cars. Giant poinsettias of red, white and blue adorned some of them, their prices scrawled in fluorescent yellow across their windshields, advertising wondrous sales of slashed prices. The cars looked ready to go somewhere, as if at the stroke of midnight they awoke to life and freedom. It reminded her of the stories she used to read as a girl where the toys suddenly burst into life after the children went to bed. But despite the lights and the cheerful signs advertising Halloween Specials, there were no people around. Cars whooshed by her as Romola trudged on, hoping she was walking in the right direction, starting to fight back the first ripples of panic until she spotted a bar on a side street.

It was called Wonderland. A funny name, thought Romola as she pushed open the door, hoping someone inside would be able to guide her back to the motel. It looked quite ordinary. It was not very full and rather dimly lit but it seemed everyone stopped talking to turn and stare at her as she stood uncertainly at the door. There were a lot of men, many of them looking like college students drinking beer. She spotted a couple of women standing in a corner near a pool table. There were video-game machines lined up against the wall and the music was so loud it made her head spin. Romola stood at the door, unsure about what to do next. After the brief lull, the conversations picked up around her again as if nothing had happened. And she might have just pushed the door and gone back out into the night again, if someone had not suddenly materialized from the shadows and said, ‘Excuse me, are you Indian?’

The voice was low and masculine but when Romola looked up she saw the most perfectly made-up woman she had ever seen. The high cheekbones were chiselled, the plucked eyebrows perfectly arched, the skin a ‘fair and lovely’ olive, the wine-red lips pursed in a glamour-doll pout. She wore a sheath-like satiny purple dress and tottered on impossibly high heels.

The apparition looked impatient. One eyebrow rose even higher. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Are you? I mean, you are wearing that gorgeous sari.’

‘Oh,’ laughed Romola smoothing her pleats, a flush of pleasure sweeping over her, bringing colour to her face. ‘I didn’t realize you were talking to me.’

‘Who else would I be talking to?’ Glossy red talon-like claws fished out a little mirror from her bag like a fabulous bird of prey.

‘Who are you?’ said Romola, ignoring the question altogether.

‘Oh, how terribly rude of me. Excuse me. I am Lady Bang la Dish. But you can just call me BLD for short. A bit like the sandwich.’ She looked at Romola expectantly as if waiting for her to laugh. Then seeing Romola’s blank expression, she shrugged and carried on. ‘I wanted to go to that Indian Students’ Association on campus but at the last moment I freaked out. But I really need to know what kind of outfit an Indian princess should wear.’

‘An Indian princess?’ Romola, dumbfounded, repeated.

‘Yes, yes, for my dance performance,’ BLD said. ‘I am a performer, you know. Nothing big. Just some shows here and there. But one must keep it authentic.’ Someone yelled at her from across the bar. BLD threw up her hands. ‘Oh, won’t she be savage if I keep her waiting. But don’t go anywhere. Sit on that stool. What would you like to drink? How about a gin and tonic? I’ll be right back.’

Romola was about to say she didn’t want a drink. She just needed to know if BLD knew where the Best Western motel was but she had vanished, leaving behind a cloud of perfume. Someone came over and thrust a gin and tonic in Romola’s hand before she could protest.

How strange everything is today! thought Romola as she took a tentative sip. Her eyes widened. It was strong.

All around her men were laughing and talking to one another. She spotted a young man who looked like he could be Indian. For one moment he reminded her of Avinash as an earnest young graduate student, the neatly parted hair, the moustache that had never been shaved, the square glasses. She tried to catch his eye, sure he would know where the Best Western was. But he looked at her as if he had seen a ghost and quickly walked over to the other end of the bar. Within minutes he was gone.

Romola took another sip of her drink. She warily looked around her. There was a bank of video games near her and a pile of free magazines. She opened one and quickly put it down. She couldn’t see very well without her reading glasses but she didn’t need them to realize it was full of pictures of men without shirts, some of them showing their butts as well. Romola clapped her hand over her mouth as she realized where she was. She was wondering if she should just slide off the barstool and quietly let herself out of the door when BLD reappeared and admonished her, ‘You’ve hardly drunk a drop.’

Romola took a big gulp of the gin and tonic. It felt really refreshing. So she took another, crunching the ice cube between her teeth. ‘It’s Bombay Gin,’ said BLD with a chuckle. ‘Get it? Bombay Gin for you?’

This time Romola did get it. She was going to say she was actually from Calcutta, not Bombay, but decided it didn’t really matter.

‘What brings you to our town?’ said BLD. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

‘Romola. Romola Mitra. I used to live here almost forty years ago,’ she said.

‘You don’t say.’ BLD’s eyebrows arched and almost disappeared into her hair.

‘Was this, um, this place, here then?’ Romola wondered if Avinash had ever come here on his own. She tried to picture him standing there ordering his screwdriver. That had always been his favourite drink.

‘Oh honey, this has been here for ever. Though it’s had different names, Lonely Hearts, Faces, Wunderbar . . .’ said BLD. ‘But forty years, that’s a long long time in gay bar years. You know, I don’t even know if they had gay bars down here then, though I should know. I’ve lived around here for over forty years now but don’t tell any of these queens that. I’m not admitting to being a day over thirty-five.’

Romola smiled. There was something about BLD’s frankness that was attractive. Or perhaps it was the gin and tonic. She’d drunk most of it and now felt as if she was floating down a deep well. She looked around. One of the men standing at the bar and talking caught her eye. He smiled and raised his drink to her. She blushed and raised her glass back.

‘Do you know,’ she told BLD, ‘you have the most beautiful cheekbones?

‘You don’t say,’ BLD seemed genuinely taken aback at the compliment. ‘That calls for another drink. Especially coming from someone as elegant as you. You are the most elegant creature in this whole place.’

Romola smiled bashfully. It had been a long time since she’d heard a compliment like that. A waiter brought over their drinks. ‘This here is my new friend, Romola. She lived here almost forty years ago. She is back visiting,’ BLD said.

‘I thought the whole idea was to get out of Carbondale and never come back,’ the waiter said.

‘Oh shush,’ said BLD. ‘It isn’t so bad. Actually, it is,’ she said conspiratorially to Romola. ‘But what’s a girl to do?’

Between the throb of the music, the drink sloshing in her head, and BLD’s accent, Romola could understand approximately one word in three. But it didn’t matter – BLD was unloading the story of her life as if they were old friends meeting after many years.

Bang la Dish’s mother had been born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, but had grown up in some small American suburban town in the middle of cornfields with one Dairy Queen (‘I thought I’d call myself Dairy Queen for a while,’ laughed Bang la Dish). Her father was the son of German–Irish parents. ‘Standard European mutt, you know,’ BLD said, knocking back her drink. Romola didn’t know. It all sounded terribly exotic to her – the German–Irish accountant, son of a plumber, meeting the Bangladeshi–American girl who preferred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to rice and dal.