Imaginary Men (17 page)

“I don't want to sit.”

I should be worried. Or regretful. I should beg his forgiveness and give him a refund, but I gaze at the windowsill where the crumpled rose petals are scattered. I imbued them with the sentiment of a man who never existed. Can't Mr. Sen see I'm mourning a lost love? The roses are dead, and I'm tired, but I prop my eyes open with phantom toothpicks. My mouth does overtime with this smiling business. What does a smile mean, anyway? It's all in the eyes.

He paces, his suit threatening to slip off his narrow frame. I'll soon have a naked Mr. Sen in my office, or at least a Mr. Sen in his underwear, a prospect that should horrify me, but I'm numb.

“Miss Chatterjee didn't want me, so I went on another date. It was all wrong.”

“I'm so sorry.” I can't fix what I've broken. I try to imagine shimmering silver filaments connecting Mr. Sen to a woman I picked for him, but I see nothing.

“That, that woman you suggested. I had dinner with her.” He points at the file folder on my desk, as if it's Pandora's Box.
That woman
.

“And how did it go?”

“How did it go? You want to know how it went?” He strides to the window, stares out as if he wants to fling himself to the pavement. “To begin with, she's very dark. The photograph must've been doctored, made to look as if she's fair-skinned.”

“I thought she was pretty.” I look at my own arms, the skin tanned from jogs in the sun.

He tugs at his wrinkled collar. “Pretty, yes, but what's on the inside matters most, nah? She was nice on the inside, of course, but then—” He takes a deep breath. “We were discussing this and that, the cities of our youth, our parents—”

“Sounds as though you got along well.”

He laughs, a thin whistle through his nose. “Hah, got along well. I'll say. I was even imagining our families meeting, the wedding, and finally settling down to proper married life.”

“A good thing to imagine.” The breeze lifts a few dry rose petals and sends them sailing to the carpet.

“And then I discover—” His face screws up into a disgusted expression. “That she's a Muslim.” He spits the word as if it's a rotten grape.

“How could I not have spotted this in the file?”

“Oh, Shiva.” He looks to the ceiling, as if the Hindu gods might hear him, except they aren't in heaven, they're all around us in parallel worlds they've created for their own amusement.

“I'm so sorry,” I say. “Chalk it up to an unfortunate mistake.” My whole life is an unfortunate mistake. An unfortunate series of mistakes. Call me Lina Ray, the Unfortunate Serial Mistake.

“It's more than a mistake.” He shakes his head, keeps
shaking it like a dog trying to get dry. “My grandparents fought Muslims during partition in 1948. I'm past all that, nah? I know Muslims. I have Muslim friends. I respect the religion, but I'm not a Muslim. I will never be a Muslim. I will never worship Allah, never kneel or fast for Ramadan. But there I was, sharing a meal in public, in a restaurant with a Muslim, and I actually considered marrying her, because of you!”

Everything happens because of me. I'm convinced of this now, more than ever. The earth must wobble on its axis because of me. Whales beach themselves because of me. Auntie will be disappointed and heartsick because of me.

I apologize profusely. Sorry, Please Forgive Me. Mr. Sen is humiliated, mortified.

I've royally screwed up everything.

I
'm late leaving town for Baba's birthday party, and it's my imaginary man's fault. He argues with me all morning, begs me to stay, but I grit my teeth and pack my duffel bag, letting him rant.

Let me ride in your luggage.

“There's no room for you, now that you're huge and muscular. You're looking too much like Raja Prasad, and he doesn't want me.” I stuff panties, bras, books, jeans, and T-shirts into the bag.

What will you tell Auntie Kiki?

I bite my lip. He always asks the difficult questions.

My whole life has collapsed beneath the weight of my lies, but I'm going to dig my way out. “I'm telling everyone the truth today. It's time to stop the charade. They'll have to believe me this time.” I slump on the bed next to my duffel bag, the new V. S. Naipaul book of essays heavy in my lap. Baba will like this book. Naipaul has a finger on the pulse of the Indian exile. I, on the other hand, don't have much of a pulse. I'm the walking dead.

You're in love with Raja Prasad. Go after him.

“I had my chance. Now he hates me, with good reason. I'm a fake. I should be made of plastic, modeling swimwear in JCPenney. Except I'm too dark and not shaped right.”

Don't denigrate yourself that way. You're beautiful.

“At least an imaginary person thinks so.” My deranged laughter echoes through the apartment. “There's zero chance that Raja and I could be together. I have to face reality. He'll go back to India and marry the princess. She probably speaks a million languages. I bet she can feel a pea under fifty mattresses.”

Stop talking nonsense. Stay with me.

“I can't.” For the first time, I don't want my imaginary man around. I'm turning into one of those crazy people on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, gesturing to a nonexistent companion and mumbling to myself. I snap my fingers, but he doesn't entirely disappear. He fades in and out, his face changing into Raja and then blanking out, then changing back. It's like when you try to blow out all the candles on a
birthday cake, but a few stubborn flames continue to flicker, mocking you.

“I have to get rid of you.”

His eyes widen in horror.
So that's why I've been a bit dizzy lately
.

“You have to go. Scram, skedaddle.”

Where will I go? I have no home. This is my home.

“Fly away and live in someone else's imagination.”

He follows me to the dressing table. I grab Star Galaxy and tuck the stone into my handbag. I need to keep it close, the only thing I have left of Raja Prasad. I slide the golden serpent bangle onto my wrist and pin the golden brooch to my shirt.

Outside, the chilly air sinks into my bones. Clean air, free of deception. I wonder what Raja's doing right now. Having tea with the princess? Dinner with his mother? Traipsing into the jungle? It's late in India. He's probably in bed.

I still taste his lips on mine. I turn, and my imaginary man is gone. All I see are patterns and shadows on the wall, and suddenly I want to reach my parents' house as quickly as I can, just to be with people.

Seven hours later, I park on the curb. Baba's birthday party is in full swing. I see lights through the windows and the silhouettes of people talking and holding wineglasses. Cars clutter the driveway and the street, some parked halfway on the grass. I pull
down the visor mirror, wipe the sweat from my face. My heart hammers. The house bursts with guests, and I sense Auntie Kiki's presence. She glares at me from every window, her piercing eye disapproving of my shiny face, tangled hair, and dirty silver Honda. So many times on the drive down, I wanted to pull a one-eighty and race home, but the monotony of the highway past King City lulled me into a hopeful stupor. Maybe it won't matter if my fiancé isn't here. Maybe Baba's birthday party will be all about Baba, and everyone will forget the old-maid daughter hiding in the shadows.

I've let everyone down. Kali, Raja, my parents, myself. I shouldn't be here, but I get out of the car, walk up the driveway, ring the doorbell, open the door, and call out into the smell of frying curry and onion, the sound of laughter from the kitchen. Auntie Kiki's voice sends a chill of apprehension down my spine. She can outtalk anyone, shoot her mouth off with perfect, deadly aim.

Ma comes rushing down the hall. “I was worried about you. I thought you'd had an accident.” She peers past me toward the car, straining her eyes in the darkness.

“I'm fine, Ma. I got a late start.”

“Acha. You're here now. Hurry and freshen up.” The evening bears down, strangling me.

“I have to talk to you and Baba.”

“Later—the guests are waiting.” Ma's scent of gardenia lotion comforts me. The familiar sounds of the kettle clanging
on the stove, the cabinets swinging open and shut, laughter and conversation, fill me with a calming sense of home. I wish I were a child again, when lies were simple. You came clean, got a talking-to, and got on with growing up. Now I'm grown, and my lies may never untangle themselves.

“I have to do it now, Ma. I have an announcement—”

“Eat first. You must be famished. We've made a feast. We've been anticipating this moment for weeks.” She pulls me inside, and I drop my duffel bag by the stairs.

“It's been a long drive. How's Baba?”

“He's been in quite a buoyant mood today. You know why.”

Oh, no—this will be harder than I thought.

Durga bounces in from the back room. She's a radiant Olympic champion, biceps flexing as she lifts her red sari. “Lina, omigod! I'm so happy you're finally here!” We hug, and she pulls back, her face aglow. “Hurry—we're all waiting.”

“They may be waiting forever.” Nobody's asking about my fiancé. Maybe they expect me to pull him from a hat.

Durga gives me a puzzled look, then forges on. “I can't wait to tell you about our disastrous honeymoon in Goa. Rained the entire time. Our hut leaked, and the toilet overflowed. We had such fun anyway. I miss Amit
so
much. He's still back in Delhi visiting an uncle. I'm counting down. Only five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes until he returns.”

“You were always good with numbers.” If I count down
the days until I see Raja again, I'll be counting to the end of my life.

She wiggles her nose with excitement. “I can't wait—won't it be lovely to be two married sisters together? Perhaps we'll get pregnant at the same time and share baby clothes—”

“You're jumping the gun again.” I turn away and slip upstairs to my room. I try to wipe the pain off my face.

My bedroom drags me back into my teenage years. Stuffed animals squish together on my pillows, and books line the shelves. Everything is green paisley—the bedspread, curtains, and rug. My old clothes still hang in the closet. Bellbottom jeans and satin jackets.

I comb my hair, sponge off in the bathroom, and apply lipstick and eyeliner. I squeeze into the black dress, which fits better now that I've lost more weight pining for Raja. I turn, half expecting to see my imaginary man watching me dress.

Muffled laughter and synthesized Indian pop music drift up through the floor. It's a wonder this kind of noise never bothered me when I lived here. We get used to things, and then we forget we got used to them.

I grab the V. S. Naipaul book, take a deep breath, and head downstairs, my fingers gripping the handrail, sweat breaking out in my armpits despite the washing and deodorant.

This is it. The moment I face my family.

The back room is crowded, the Hindi pop music growing louder. The whole gang is here—Ma and Auntie Kiki and
Kali and Durga, several Indian friends, colleagues from the university. Auntie Kiki's stooping and mild-mannered husband has a massive cigar hanging from his mouth. The party spills out through the French doors onto the veranda and into the backyard.

Then Kali comes whirling up to me, grinning. “I've found a new guy! Shagadelic. Met him at work.”

“You always bounce back quickly.” I hug her. “Where's Baba?”

“This way.” She steers me through the crowd. Baba stands off in the distance, on the other side of the room, a million people crowding the space between us. He's smiling, a rare sight. Maybe his stock portfolio posted a gain today.

Auntie Kiki emerges like Godzilla in a green sari. “Lina, darling, how lovely to finally see you!” She rushes toward me, and I have the urge to duck, but then we meet in a head-on collision. Her airbag breasts cushion the impact. She hugs me, then releases, and I catch my breath and hope my ribs are still intact.

She glares at my head. “What have you done to your hair?”

“I drove with the window open, Auntie.” My heart races. I know what's coming. The questions, the admonishments. “How was your flight from Kolkata?”

“Horrible, nah?” Auntie Kiki pulls me aside. “Turbulence
and cold. Ice-cold. Hardly anything to drink, and the food is terrible. Have you tried eating the airplane food?”

“It's horrible,” I agree.

Her fingernails dig into my shoulders. “Lina, the engagement suits you well. You're looking pink-cheeked.”

“Thanks, Auntie—”

“Don't thank me. Thank the stars. Thank the gods.”

Then Baba comes up and gives me a hug. “My baby Lina has finally come. We've all been waiting.”

“Happy birthday, Baba!” I kiss his cheek and put the V. S. Naipaul book on the table with the other wrapped gifts.

“Come!” Auntie steers me through the crowd, her elbows out. Everyone makes way, and I swear people are whispering about me.

“Auntie, I have to tell you something, about my engagement, about Raja—”

“Come come, no need to say—”

“No, I really must say.” I raise my voice over the din of the stereo.

“You needn't. We know how much you have suffered waiting and waiting—”

“You don't understand, Auntie. You see, Raja and I—”

“Raja and you will live happily ever after!” Auntie leads me toward the door, and as the crowd parts, I grab her arm to keep steady. There, coming toward me in long, easy strides, is Raja Prasad.

H
e looks striking in khaki pants and a white linen shirt. He takes me in his arms, sweeps me off my feet, and plants a firm kiss on my mouth. “My darling Lina. How I've missed you!”