Imaginary Men (16 page)

“… in sickness and in health, until death do you part …”

I blink back tears. I imagine Raja Prasad marrying his princess. Will he have a typical Brahmo Samaj wedding? Why did he bother kissing a dark, thin, neurotic, single American woman who can't cook Bengali food?

He thinks I'm honest and forthright, but I'm a fraud.

When the ceremony ends, Harry and Jon kiss, and Jon lifts Harry off his feet. They throw the birdseed into the air, and Harry throws a bouquet. Donna catches it.

“You're next!” I hug her.

“No, you are.” She mouths
Raja Prasad
.

I shake my head. “Just business. I'm introducing his brother to my sister.”

“There, see? Two brothers will marry two sisters.”

“No chance.” I ask Donna to come with me for moral support.

“I get to meet the fab Dev? Of course.”

“You're a doll, Donna. I owe you my life.” I make my way to Harry and Jon and embrace them both.

Harry's face glows with happiness. “I can't wait to get out of this place. Paris, here we come!”

“Take me with you?”

“Any time, honey.” But I don't figure into his plans. He's smiling into his future with Jonathan.

Then the crowd moves in, hugging and shaking hands, and I drift away from the throng. A bubble of isolation surrounds me. I watch couples holding hands, some mothers wearing T-shirts, “Proud Parent of a Gay,” kids running around.

I walk away from the group, down the path to the sea.

W
hen I arrive at Madras Cuisine, Raja, Dev, and Kali are already seated in a booth. No sign of Donna. Kali's in a silk blouse buttoned to her neck. Her hair twists up into an Audrey Hepburn
Breakfast at Tiffany's
style. She's desperate to impress Raja, the Important Elder Brother.

Dev stands and kisses the back of my hand. He's slightly shorter than Raja, with narrower shoulders and a wider face, but there's no mistaking the Prasad features and charm. We make the introductions. Our stiff formality could starch all the red cloth napkins in the restaurant.

Kali's doing the demure, looking-down thing. I try not to
roll my eyes as I take a seat next to Raja. His elbow brushes mine.

Dev's gaze pierces me. I wonder if he's searching for similarities between Kali and me. He pours Heineken into a glass, spilling a drop on the white tablecloth.

I glance from Dev to Kali and back. No shimmering thread connects them, no body language that hints at the two becoming lovers. Doesn't matter, I tell myself, if Kali says they have cross-mojonation.

Dev lifts his glass. “Here's to making perfect matches.” His tone is acid, but we raise our glasses. Kali leaves an imprint of red lipstick on hers.

We talk, throwing formal questions and answers like hot potatoes. What does Dev do? What are Kali's interests? What does she hope to accomplish in life, and what's she looking for in a husband? She responds in a patient, polite tone, like a programmed robot. Although she loves her job at
City Chic
, she really wants to settle down and raise children.

“—Dev is finishing his MBA, and then he will return to work in the family business,” Raja says.

“Maybe I prefer to remain here,” Dev says.

Raja shoots him a look. An invisible storm rages between brothers. I have an urge to run for shelter.

Kali stares down at the napkin in her lap.

Where's Donna when I need her? I check my cell phone. No message, so we order without her. I barely notice the
meal, a combination of South Indian
masala dhosas
—crepes with curried potato and vegetables inside—dipped in a coconut or hot tomato curry sauce. The conversation swirls as I watch Dev, who never once looks at Kali. He keeps casting me questioning glances.

“When would you like to get married?” Kali asks Dev.

“Not too soon. I came tonight mainly out of obligation to my family.”

Kali's face reddens.

I twist the cloth napkin in my lap. At least he's honest.

Raja clears his throat, the skin around his lips turning pale. “His auspicious wedding date falls in five months.”

Kali chokes on a sip of water.

I'm going to throw up. I stand, place my napkin carefully on the table. “Will you excuse me a moment?” I dash to the bathroom, a small green-tiled room with a noisy fan and the smell of Lysol disinfectant. My mind whirls, my brain dampened by sulfites from the wine. Poor Kali.

I set up this meeting. Maybe there's still a chance to save the evening, but how? Suggest Kali and Dev take a drive together? Does Dev have any real interest in her?

I splash cold water on my face, pat my hair, and take deep breaths. I step into the hall and bump into Dev. His cologne is sharper than his brother's is, and there's a hint of alcohol on his breath.

He stands back, blocking the hallway. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy keen.” My trademark words.

“I apologize for the remark I made to your sister. I like her. She's lovely, but I need time to consider my future. I have many options, and marriage is a big step.”

“No rush. Take your time.” I think of the missing silver threads.

He steps back. “I hope Kali doesn't find me rude.”

“She thinks she's falling in love with you. She doesn't know what she really wants.” I squeeze past Dev, and my legs wobble all the way back to the booth. Plates of dessert cover the table. I try a spoonful of coconut
burfi
, made from coconut and cashews and cardamom, and crunch down on the sickly sweetness.

Dev comes back and sits down, and then Donna rushes in, a pale goddess in a white dress. “So sorry I'm late! Emergency at home. Long story. Lina, you have permission to kill me. What did I miss? Raja, great to see you again. Kali, you look beautiful. And you must be Dev—”

He takes her hand. She gazes up at him, and she and Dev take off to a distant planet. A translucent silver thread shimmers between them.

H
arry and Jonathan have been staying with me for two days. Their furniture is bobbing across the Atlantic Ocean on a ship bound for Europe. Harry folds laundry on my couch, and I'm plucking my eyebrows when the doorbell rings. I put down the tweezers and mirror and stare at the door, then at Harry. He stares at me. Jonathan is whistling “I Can See Clearly Now” in the shower.

“See who it is,” I whisper.

Harry carries a folded undershirt to the door and squints through the peephole. “It's him!”

“Him? Him who?”

“Him.”

“Oh, no!” I screech. “He's not here. He's in New York.”

“Then it must be his evil twin.”

“Don't you open that door.” I jump to my feet and gather the laundry from the couch. The cold morning leaps into my bones. Folded clothes slip from my arms and fall on the floor. The doorbell rings again, more insistently this time.

“You're just a friend visiting,” I say as I pick up a pile of briefs from the chair. “Better yet, hide in the bedroom, and I'll get it.”

Harry is already opening the door. I'll kill him.

Raja Prasad storms in. I'm standing in the middle of the living room in my sweats, a folded pile of Jonathan's sexy Jockeys in my arms. “It's not what you think.”

“Your engagement is not what I think?” Raja glances at me, at the pile, at Harry, and then back at me. “Word gets around. Did you think I wouldn't find out?”

How could I have expected people to keep their mouths shut? “Oh, Raja. I'm not really engaged!”

“Oh, really? I returned early, stopped by your office, and Donna said you'd left. I read the postcards. Every one of them. I won't ask why you didn't tell me.”

“Those postcards were fakes!”

Harry reaches out to shake Raja's hand. “I wrote them, of course. Pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you. All good.”

Raja shakes his hand, but his face is hard. “I'd heard nothing about you, until recently. Seems all of India knows, but I've been out of the loop.”

“I apologize.” Harry turns to me. “Lina will come clean, won't she? She'll tell you everything.”

Baba will crumble into dust. Ma will sequester herself until the end of time. Kiki will marry me to Pee-wee. “It's complicated,” I say.

Raja turns to Harry. “You must be her fiancé, the man who travels incessantly.”

“I do travel quite a bit.” Harry winks at me.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” I say to Raja. “It's a long story. It's about my parents, and my auntie Kiki. They so desperately want me to settle down, marry, and have kids.”

Raja turns to Harry. “Do you not realize how difficult your absence has been for her?”

“She was all broken up,” Harry says.

What's going on?

“How can you take this so lightly?” Raja says. “How could you leave her behind for so many months? If you're to be a good husband, you'll have to stay with her. It is unacceptable to leave her alone.”

“Whoa. You have it all wrong. This lecture isn't meant for me.” Harry holds up his hands.

“You must accept responsibility for your actions.”

Jonathan saunters out of the bedroom, biceps flexing, only
a towel wrapped around his waist. His dark hair is still wet and matted against his neck. “Lina, have you seen my underwear?”

“Here.” I hold out the pile in my arms.

Raja's face reddens, confusion in his eyes.

“Raja, this is Jonathan.” My mouth goes dry. I feel the ice creeping through the apartment.

“I thought your fiancé's name was also Raja,” Raja says.

Jonathan gives Raja an appraising look. “You're the only Raja we know, and I'm very pleased to meet you,” he says, then goes to Harry and plants a kiss on his lips. Jonathan says, “I took a great shower, I wish you could've joined me,” to Harry, and then a strange light of understanding comes to Raja's eyes. His face transforms into an expression of dismay, surprise, and a myriad of other emotions. I know his thoughts.
How could you deceive me, Lina Ray?

I find my legs, drop the underwear, and run to him. I grab his hands, but he yanks them away and strides for the door. I'm babbling. “Let me explain. It's a big hoax. In India, there was so much pressure. I made up someone.”

He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Harry. His name is Harry. Not Raja?”

“No, I … used your name. The first name that came into my head. Please, I'm sorry.” I follow him out the door and down the stairs as I try to explain, my words like boomerangs hitting me in the face. Outside on the curb, he hails a taxi, and then he's gone.

A
t work, I remove the postcards from Harry and throw them into the recycling bin. Then I sit at my desk and watch morning brighten across Chinatown. The sun hangs at the wrong angle in the sky. One minute I shiver, and the next minute the sweat droplets pop out on my forehead. The thermostat must be on the blink, or maybe my internal climate control has gone bonkers. I'm going through early menopause. Yes, that's it. The hot flashes are starting, and I haven't even had a chance to mate. What is it about love?

Maybe chemistry. Is that what love comes down to? Beakers and steaming liquids and elements and chemical reactions
and Bunsen burners? Is that what Raja and I were? Two Bunsen burners passing in the night?

My voice-mail light blinks. I press through the messages. Mrs. Mukerjee demands to know why I set up her daughter with a lech who could be her great-grandfather.

“Grandfather, not great,” I mumble, jotting down the message. I forgot to look at the man's age. The Mukerjees have an appointment here later this morning.

I listen for Raja Prasad's message, but it never comes. Why would he call? I tried phoning his hotel, but he'd checked out.

So what? To be with him, I would have to leave my whole life behind. I couldn't jog in shorts in India, could I? I'd have to wear heavy long pants that flap against my legs. I'd trip over them and fall on the dirty ground and get heatstroke or cholera or typhoid fever. Everyone would look at me and wonder whether I was a wandering ascetic rolling across India, occasionally falling in the ditch. I would have to cook. What would happen to my morning tea and newspaper?

It's best that Raja doesn't want me.

At nine, my first customer waltzes in, a wispy Indian, former Bollywood actress whose rich husband left her for a younger woman. She's got a new hot number on her arm, a blond god probably ten years her junior. She wanted a non Indian stud, and she got one. A diamond ring glints on her finger, the rock almost heavy enough to topple her over.

“I'd like you to meet my fiancé, John,” she says.

“Pleased to meet you. Glad I could help.” I give them both a wide smile. I don't remember him.

“I didn't meet him through you,” she says coldly. “In fact, I came to tell you that you messed up.”

I glance at her file. My vision blurs as I read the cramped handwriting. She wanted a young, rich, generous husband. “I didn't notice—”

“No, you didn't, that's the problem. He took me to the Outback Steakhouse. The man was a Neanderthal. A carnivore. Tearing the meat from the bones. He would be a cannibal given the chance.”

“Given the chance,” her boy toy echoes. He gives her a loving look.

“I nearly threw up,” she says.

“She nearly threw up,” he says.

I nearly throw up. “I'm sorry.”

“You'd better be. I want my money back.”

After I return her fee, she and her beau stalk out, and at ten o'clock Mr. Sen bursts into my office, his suit askew, as if he got dressed in REM sleep with his brain on backward. Or maybe he actually looks fine and
my
brain is on backward.

I wonder how I messed up this time. Everything I touch turns to dirt, or at least catches a serious case of dust bunnies. Even the office is disheveled. “Have a seat, Mr. Sen. How can I help you?”