Imaginary Men (15 page)

“Your clothes are in the laundry,” he says. “Would you like to borrow mine?”

I go back to the bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans that nearly fall off my waist, tie them with a belt and roll the bottoms up several times, then pull on a T-shirt that falls past my knees, tuck it in, and tug a thick black woolen sweater over it. I'm ready to walk the runway at a celebrity fashion show. The Woman Swimming in Raja Prasad's clothes.

When I return to the living area, Raja grins, amusement in his eyes. He hands me a glass of sherry. “To warm you up. Sit.” He points to the plush couch, and I curl up on it, happy to feel the heat of the fake fire on my skin.

I sip the sherry and savor the liquid rushing down my throat.

He sits beside me. “If Dev is to meet Kali, it must be soon. I'm traveling again next Saturday.”

My heart drops, then plummets through the earth, and I scold it for being so fickle, for leaving behind my imaginary man tonight. I need my phantom fiancé, because I can't fall for Raja. He's nearly engaged. We rolled through the surf together, nothing more.

He drapes an arm over my shoulders. My heartbeat picks up. I'm aware of his size, his strength. But of course, he's leaving. Just as men always leave. Just as Nathu left. Okay, Nathu died, but that's a form of leaving.

I cross my arms over my chest and babble about anything and everything. Stupid things, like the way waxed dental floss leaves a residue on your teeth, so you should use unwaxed floss. He lets me talk, watches my lips move.

“I don't want to leave,” he says, leaning close. The heat rises from his skin. I reach for my imaginary man, but he falls off a cliff and disappears.

T
he next morning I'm in yoga class, stuck in the downward-facing dog position. The blood rushes to my head. Inhale, exhale. Six
A.M.
is too early for exercise.

“It's all about the breathing,” the instructor says over the monotonous drone of meditative music. She's a rubber-bodied brunette who twists herself into a variety of pretzel shapes to make us all envious.

“So Raja took you to his suite?” Donna whispers beside me. “Tell, tell.”

“I've never known a guy who would swim in Ocean Beach with all the riptides! Maybe he has a death wish.”

“He loves life. He's spontaneous,” Donna says.

“Or he had a momentary lapse of common sense.”

“A lapse that extends to washing your clothes and offering you sherry?”

“You're right. He was romantic. And he runs orphanages to help little girls. I don't get it. He's so proper. He dresses in expensive, tailored suits and wants everything perfect. He wants the perfect wife for his brother, and probably for himself too. But there's a caring, wild man underneath all that propriety.”

At the instructor's command, we step forward and rise into mountain stance.

“Sounds like a dream man to me. So you had caring, wild sex?” Donna whispers.

“Ha! I wish we had. He let slip a small fact. He's practically engaged.”

We all lunge forward into warrior pose, front leg bent at the knee, back leg extended.

“What does that mean? Engagements are reversible. You have to get the scoop from him.”

“It's none of my business. It was wrong of me to go to his hotel room.”

“Oh, wrong of you! Now you have a conscience? You went anyway. For a reason. There's always a reason.”

“I got caught up in his—”

“—to-die-for good looks and charm? That'd be enough for me.”

As we unwind through the relaxation poses, I imagine Raja Prasad as a wild man in Puri, at his home by the sea. I picture him jumping into the wooden boats and floating out with the fishermen. Does he perform religious ablutions in the morning? Does he chant his prayers? Does he brush his teeth three times a day?

After class, in the gym shower, I close my eyes and juxtapose his image against every guy I've dated. Dr. Dilip Dutta, Patrick Malloy, Pramit Lall. They shrink into tiny hobbits, and Raja grows into King Aragorn, handsome and noble.

I towel off and dress in jeans and a sweater. There has to be a comparable man. I had fun taking windsurfing lessons with a freckled sailor. We laughed and hiked and dined together, until I discovered he was laughing and hiking and dining with two other women, one Korean, one African-American. His Rainbow Coalition.

Raja would never do such a thing. He's loyal to his mother, his brother, his life in India. He'll be loyal to his wife, too.

Back at my apartment, I'm alone and restless. I forsake my usual cup of tea and make coffee instead. Why not take a risk, go out on a limb? The hot liquid tastes bitter, so I douse it with sugar and the organic milk that Harry left behind.

I sit at the breakfast nook to read the newspaper, but I stare out the window instead, at the Chinese women, their long hair pulled back into shiny, black buns, strolling up the
sidewalk, carrying bags of produce home from Chinatown shops. Then a knock comes on the door.

My heartbeat races. Oh, God, oh, God, it's him. No, it must be a solicitor. But there's a big sign downstairs:
NO SOLICITORS
. It's Kali, Donna, Harry.

On the way to the door, I nearly kill myself with anticipation. I glance at my reflection in the hall mirror. I look like an Indian Medusa. I run my fingers through my hair.

Another knock.

“Coming, coming!” I peer through the peephole. Oh, God, again. Raja stands in the hallway clad in black turtleneck and jeans.

He looks rested, his hair neat.

I step back to get my bearings. Breathe in, breathe out. He was a dream, but now he's not, or maybe I'm still dreaming. Maybe this is a dream within a dream within a dream. Where's my imaginary man when I need him?

I open the door. “Raja! I wasn't expecting you.”

“Breakfast?”

“I'll be just a minute.”

“I'll wait downstairs.”

I pull on my shoes, my heart racing. It's been a long time since I felt this way.
Flustered
. I'm downstairs in record time.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

Warmth travels up through my insides and radiates along my limbs. He's attracted to me. Me, the Indian-American
woman with frizzy hair. A silly smile spreads across my face. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

He nods, as if women say this to him every day. Then we're out on the street, walking together as if we've always walked this way. The Chinese women smile as they pass, their arms laden with bags of bok choi and bamboo shoots.

My heart beats fast, and the colors of morning seem brighter. I'm filled with well-being. Our strides fit together perfectly. He doesn't walk too fast for me today.

We talk about the landscapes we pass, the people, the sky, the city. I'm floating, living in the moment for the first time in two years.

At Milton's Diner, we find a window booth. The restaurant is abuzz with an eclectic mix of San Franciscans, all fuzzy and fresh in the morning. I order the tofu scramble with onions, and Raja orders an omelet. After breakfast, we drive south, away from the city. The farther we go, the more relaxed the lines of his face become. We park at Shoreline Park, beneath a slightly pink, smoggy sky.

“How did you know the way here?” I ask.

He reaches over me, his arm brushing my leg, and opens the glove compartment. “Maps.”

I barely breathe with him so close, and he pulls out a pair of binoculars. “What are you going to use those for?”

“Bird-watching.”

Another surprise. We walk in silence on the path along the canal, and I fall into step beside him.

He points at pelicans, their shapes gangly and prehistoric as they guzzle fish. “White pelicans, very rare. And there, a snowy egret. They wear golden slippers.”

“So they do! Amazing.” I hand back the binoculars. “You're an astronomer
and
a naturalist.”

He fixes me with a studied gaze. “I'm interested in many things, including you. I was watching you at Durga's wedding.”

I blush, the heat creeping from my ears up to the roots of my hair.

We drive to Berkeley, wander through Urban Outfitters, Bancroft Clothing Company. We order
samosas
at Vik's Chaat House and eat them with our hands, licking the curry sauce from our fingers. We browse through Serendipity Books, and meet at the entrance at precisely the same time with books in our arms.

We drive back to Palo Alto, stop at the Stanford Museum. The air is cool and controlled inside, bringing goose bumps to my skin, or maybe the goose bumps are from Raja's proximity. I feel small and fragile around him. I picture my imaginary man pacing in the apartment, flicking the TV channels.

We wander past the Rodin exhibits; marvel at a massive black cast of
The Thinker
; stare at Degas sculptures found in his studio after his death, at Andy Warhol's piles of Brillo pad
boxes constructed from wood and paint, and a Japanese tea set from the eighteenth century. We find an Egyptian mummy from two thousand years ago. The hieroglyphics call her “Chantress of the Sun.”

“The coffin is so small.” I press my nose to the glass display case. “Like she was a child.”

Raja comes up behind me, his chest against my back as he leans over me, so close, to see the mummy. Across two thousand years, Chantress of the Sun is casting a spell on us.

W
e have afternoon tea at C'est Café and watch people. At a table under an umbrella, I take in university life—Calvin Klein's Obsession perfume, cigarettes, nose rings, and skimpy, midriff-baring outfits.

“Tell me about your fiancée,” I say.

He chokes on his tea. “My fiancée?”

“What's her name.” I can afford to watch him through sunglasses. He can't see the expression on my face. “I mean, should you even be out with me?”

He clears his throat and takes another sip of tea. “Her name is Sayantoni. She's a princess.”

A princess
. The word cuts through me. She must be beautiful. I run my finger around the rim of my teacup. I want him to say he's not really engaged. It was all a rumor. Now his woman has a name.

“What's she like?”

“I don't know her well. My father knew her father.”

“But you've gone out with her.”

“I've met her.”

“You're with family when you see her?”

“Yes. Her parents arrange the meetings.”

“And you go along.”

He sits back, his face shaded by the umbrella. “I respect my mother's wishes. She wants to see me happy.”

“If you don't know this woman, how do you know you'll be happy with her?”

He gulps his coffee. “We come from similar backgrounds. She understands what's required.”

There he goes again, describing a Stepford Wife. The ghost princess drives a wedge between us. “Was she promised to you, like a child bride?”

He laughs. “Of course not. You know the Brahmo Samaj don't believe in child brides.”

“But you agreed to the match.”

“Not yet, although her family would like my response soon.”

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Do you … know what you'll do?”

“I haven't decided. Although … she comes from a good family.”

I'm from a good family too. “Are you in love with her?”

He breaks into a startled smile. “You are direct.”

“Well, are you?”

“Love takes time. It's learned.”

“So you're not in love with her … yet. But you think you might be in love with her, someday?”

“Perhaps.” He grins. I'm amusing him.

“You don't believe in love at first sight?”

“Perhaps, but such was not the case with her.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Ah, well.” He looks off down the sidewalk. He has to think about it?

“I mean, she's a princess, right? Does she look like a princess?”

“In a traditional way.” He shifts in his seat. “Anyway, it's of no consequence. She's willing to become a good wife. That's what matters.”

“To take care of your family.”

“She's very respectful. Well educated, well read—”

“A perfect ornament for your palace.” Oops, what did I just say?

He doesn't answer, and I don't blame him.

“Sorry.” Jealousy claws at my gut. “What would she think if she knew you were with me?”

“Lina—” He leans in close. His breath warms my cheek.

“Did you know I had a fiancé once? He died two years ago.”

“I'm sorry—” He touches my chin, turns my face toward him.

“Yeah, well. I think he may not have been exactly faith—ful.”

“Then he was the wrong man for you.” He angles his face to kiss me, softly at first, and then his lips are demanding and direct. The kiss radiates through my body. His face is flushed, his eyes half-lidded.

I pull away and straighten up, my breathing shallow and quick. I can't compete with an Indian princess.

H
arry and Jonathan hold their commitment ceremony outside at Bear Valley, at the Point Reyes National Seashore. Hills of pink and yellow wildflowers roll away to the edge of the forest. An ocean breeze wafts through the crowd. I stand in a semicircle with the maids of honor in blue dresses and sandals.

Harry and Jon stand on a platform in front of the priest. They both look stunning in tuxedoes, their hair slicked back. A bright thread of love shimmers between them, connecting their hearts.

A lump lodges in my throat. I hate weddings. I'm not the
type to be hitched, at least, not anymore, and I can't understand why I get emotional at these shindigs.

People of all persuasions are here. Most of gay San Francisco must've shown up—the city is missing half its population. I didn't know Harry and Jon were so popular. The priest recites the commitment vows, and the two men respond with relish.