Oleander Girl (25 page)

They had talked late into the night but failed to come to a conclusion.

Lost in her worries, Mrs. Bose has missed part of the conversation at the table. She hears Bhattacharya say, “Mr. Bose, I’m willing to become a partner—but in light of the recent developments, you’ll have to make some additional concessions. I want fifty percent ownership of the Park Street gallery and a hand in its operations.”

“That’s a significant change,” Mr. Bose replies in his calm voice. But Mrs. Bose can see a telltale pulsing at his temple. “You’ll have to give us a little time to discuss this.”

“Take all the time you want.” Bhattacharya smiles expansively. “I’m in no hurry, though I do believe you might be.”

The phone rings, making Mrs. Bose jump. The shrill sound is like the cry of a cicada, amplified. Only Sonia ever calls at this hour. The family stares at each other, uncertain about how to handle this situation. “Well, aren’t you going to answer it?” Bhattacharya asks.

“I don’t want to interrupt the meal—or your conversation,” Mrs. Bose says, stretching her lips with effort in the approximation of a smile. “The caller can leave a message.” She is counting on how, whenever the
answering machine clicks on, Sonia hangs up. She doesn’t want Sarojini to think Rajat might be involved with another woman while Korobi is away. And if Bhattacharya knew that Rajat was being stalked—no other word for it—by an ex-girlfriend, that this possible scandal, too, loomed on the family’s horizon, he’d surely drive a harder bargain.

“I’m done with conversing.” Bhattacharya nods at Rajat. “Why don’t you take care of the call, young man, while your mother gives me one last tiny piece of that sinfully delicious dessert.”

Rajat has no choice but to pick up the phone. The caller says something brief and crackly. Mrs. Bose listens as hard as she can, but fortunately no words can be deciphered. Why won’t Sonia leave her son alone? They’d been very much in love, Mrs. Bose had seen that, but it was over now. Rajat was engaged. Though used to getting her way (a trait Mrs. Bose understood well), Sonia needed to realize that it was time to move on. Or had Rajat been encouraging her in some way? Mrs. Bose decides she will have a talk with Rajat about it. In the past, he’s shied away from such conversations, but this time she’ll insist. In the kitchen doorway, Pushpa stands gawking. Mrs. Bose must chide her as soon as the guests leave. Servants! Sometimes they’re enough to drive you crazy.

“Wrong number,” Rajat says, replacing the receiver. His face is flushed again.

Bhattacharya raises an eyebrow but concentrates on the piece of tiramisu Mrs. Bose has managed to cut into a perfect square and serve him.

Finally, finally, the Bhattacharyas leave. Sarojini says she, too, must go. Mrs. Bose would like to tell her how much she appreciates her help with Bhattacharya, but that would entail long and complicated explanations. Instead, she gives Sarojini a hug, holding her an extra moment. The old woman must understand something because she whispers, “I’ll pray for your family’s peace of mind.”

Once Pushpa, sulky from having been admonished, has cleaned up and left, Mr. and Mrs. Bose say good-night to their children and retire to bed. Though it is a warm night, Mrs. Bose feels chilled. Even her favorite silk Jaipuri bedspread, pulled up to her chin, doesn’t help. In the dark, she clutches Mr. Bose’s nightshirt lapels and cries fiercely that the thought of
Bhattacharya owning part of her beloved gallery, showing up whenever he wants with that proprietorial attitude, makes her feel physically ill.

“Then we won’t do it, dearest. We’ll find another way.”

“But how?” Her voice spirals up in desperation. “We’ve been unable to find anyone else willing to invest in art. The banks won’t loan us more money—”

“Hush, Joyu.” He holds her close. “Remember the time I caught dengue fever out near Bankura District, in that remote village where there was no phone line to call you?”

“Shanto, this is no time to—”

“Remember?”

“Yes,” she whispers, giving in. It’s her favorite story, one they’ve told each other many times. She loops an arm around his neck. “I sensed you were in trouble. I left baby Rajat with Ma. I had to travel alone all the way on a bullock cart. I was so scared. I wasn’t even sure I was going to the right place. There were no guesthouses out there. I had no idea where you were staying.”

“But you found me. You nursed me until I could be moved and brought me back on that rickety bullock cart. I was so weak, I had to stay in bed for a month. We had no money. The landlord was determined to evict us.”

She gives a little chuckle. “But I managed to persuade him to give us a month’s grace. I even talked him into buying something from the store for his wife’s birthday—embroidered pillowcases, I think it was.”

“If we could make it through that, we can get through this, too.”

“Yes,” she says, though her voice is tinged with doubt.

“We’ll think about it in the morning. We’ll figure something out.”

He holds her, running his fingers in soothing circles on her back until she relaxes into his chest, into sleep.

On the way to Boston, Vic makes me practice my lies. Along the freeway bordered by chain stores whose names appear again and again as though I’m caught in a looping dream, I tell him how excited I am to be
in America, where my wonderful new husband has promised to build me the house of my dreams. We pass gas stations that sell slushy coffee and empty fields patched with tired gray snow. I make shapes in the air describing the L-shaped family room that needs to open to the dining area because I plan to throw lots of parties, the inner courtyard I want to fill with oleanders. I know I need to focus on this, but from time to time, my errant thoughts flit back to our time together yesterday.

When we were at the Empire State Building, Vic asked, “So, how does Kolkata compare to New York?”

I was silent. I’ve never looked down upon Kolkata from up high, so I had no idea how far the city sprawled, which shape it took. On the ground, I knew its contradictions: lavish wedding halls behind which beggars waited for leftovers; red-bannered, slogan-shouting protesters marching by a house where a musician practiced classical flute. But Kolkata’s spirit, at once vibrant and desperate—I had no words to describe it to someone who has never lived there.

“It’s complicated,” I said finally. “Most Indian cities are. You must have noticed that yourself.”

“I’ve never been to India.”

“Never? Didn’t you want to see where your people came from?”

He shrugged, a bit defensive. “When I was young, we didn’t have the money to go. By the time we could afford it, I was a teenager and refused to waste my summers that way. I guess I really didn’t think of myself as Indian.”

“How did you think of yourself? As American?”

“Yes. Though after 9/11, I had some difficulties with that, too. Anyhow, my mother always asked me to accompany her, but she’d have to end up going alone. And then she died. Maybe one of these days, if I get enough money together, I might go visit her hometown. Might look you up in Kolkata, too. Though you’ll be a rich man’s wife by then and won’t want to see me!”

I had given him a pale smile. He’d hit too close to the truth. Once I was married, Rajat would make sure this chapter of my life was closed for good.

The lanes swell; the Boston skyline with its high-rises looms over us.
We skirt the Common, with its statues of men in three-cornered hats. We pass colleges with stained-glass windows that, Vic tells me, are as old as anything white people built in America.

“You went to Berkeley?” I enunciate brightly. “Amazing! So did my mother! Did you happen to know a girl named Anu Roy?”

“Your voice sounds like you murdered someone and hid the body!” Vic tells me. “Say her name again and again until it becomes like any other word. Oh, never mind. Rest for a bit. Otherwise you’ll be worn-out by the time we get to Evanston’s office.”

Gratefully, I turn my face to the window. We pass by a park with its daffodil beds. Yesterday, I asked Vic to take me to where the Towers used to be.

“Not you, too! Why?”

I wasn’t sure. I only knew that it wasn’t the impulse to gawk at disaster. Perhaps it was a mosaic of desires. To acknowledge tragedy. To pay respect. To understand Mitra’s meltdown. To apologize for Grandfather, who had said that finally America was learning how the rest of the world suffers.

Through the chain-link I saw the piles of rubble still to be cleared, smashed concrete, mangled iron rods. Yellow machines like steel dinosaurs clamped piles of debris in their jaws. I tried to superimpose on the scene what I’d seen in my dream: the buildings collapsing, dust and fire, stampeding crowds, people falling like meteors out of the sky. Nothing matched. A supervisor in a hard hat motioned in annoyance for us to move on.

A part of me is still standing there.

We enter a tunnel, the dark punctuated by yellow globes of light. I can see Vic’s face reflected on my window glass, close to mine. He’s humming to a song on the radio.

“It was a bad time all around,” Vic said when I told him about what happened to Mitra after the Towers fell. “I remember how terrified and furious I felt right after. That’s when my own restaurant business—which had been doing quite well—started going under. People just stopped coming. Nine-eleven injured the people of this city in so many ways—we still haven’t been able to tally up the casualties. We aren’t used to shit
like this happening inside our own borders, America the protected. We needed to find an enemy to lash out at. Some people did, and folks like Mitra became the casualties. But there were other kinds of casualties, too. A friend of mine who was in construction was hired to clean up Ground Zero. One night after a few beers, he started describing how it was. Imagine finding bodies everywhere, pieces of people half-cooked by the heat. Sometimes recognizing a friend. You didn’t know when a patch of fire would flare up from below. And the stench. He’d come home exhausted but couldn’t sleep. Started drinking. His marriage broke up soon after.”

The car lurches to a stop. We are at one of the ubiquitous McDonald’s.

“Time to change into your rich-and-fashionable clothes,” Vic says.

When I come out of the women’s restroom dressed in a sleek cream pantsuit, he purses his lips in a soundless whistle. The admiration in his eyes makes my heart lurch guiltily.

“Wow, didn’t know you owned something this chic! Isn’t it a Prada? They sell those in India?”

I give him a smile. The suit has a story, but it isn’t mine to tell.

Last evening, when I was packing, Seema had come and perched on my bed.

“Boston! Wish I could go with you. I always wanted to visit Boston, but we never had the time—and then we didn’t have the money. What will you do there?”

If it weren’t for Mitra, I would have told her. There was no guile in Seema.

“Sorry,” Seema said. “I know you told me you promised someone special you wouldn’t talk about it. Bet I know who that is! Rajat-babu. He’s the one who gave you that gorgeous diamond ring, right? I hope you remember to turn it inside out when you’re on the subway, like I told you. You don’t want people to see something so expensive. You love him very much, don’t you? I remember how dashing he was. All the girls used to be after him. I think it would worry me if my fiancé was so attractive. What are you packing?”

I showed her a green silk salwar kameez with gold embroidery at the neck.

“Wow! That’s very fancy.”

“It’s for an important meeting—”

“With white people? It’s too gaudy! They won’t take you seriously. Wait just a moment.”

She ran to her bedroom and returned with the pantsuit. It was rich, understated, perfect. It made me realize more than anything else how far the Mitras had fallen. I looked at Seema in her shapeless polyester pants stretched over her enormous belly, holding up the suit with a tremulous smile, and understood a little of the anger Mitra must feel.

“You can borrow it. I’ll probably never manage to fit into it again, and even if I did, where would I wear it? Only, let’s keep it a secret. Mr. Mitra might get upset if he found out. He gave it to me for our first anniversary in this country. This year he’s so preoccupied, he probably won’t even remember the date.”

She brought out shoes, a purse, earrings. The shoes were a bit tight, but I couldn’t resist them. In the mirror I looked transformed, a sophisticate that men would line up to claim as their daughter. How could I thank Seema for such generosity? How could I console her for the longing in her eyes? We wrapped everything in a beach towel that said
peace out
and hid it in my carry-on.

It is snowing when we reach Rob Evanston’s office. My first snowfall, and I’m too nervous to enjoy it. Inside, the furniture is overstuffed and has a mournful look. Evanston does not seem to be doing too well. The only occupant of the office is a stocky young redhead in a sweater meant for someone of less robust proportions, buffing her nails. She puts away her nail file with reluctance and informs us that Mr. Evanston is running late with his morning meeting.

The wall is crowded with photos of houses designed by my potential father. They are all of a type: large and rectangular, with crisscrossed wood beams and chimneys that rise up like fat exclamation marks. I dislike them all. I wonder if this means I will dislike him, too.