Oleander Girl (33 page)

“Did he say anything particular?”

“No. But he wouldn’t admit to something like that right away, would he? He’s a lawyer, after all. Maybe that’s why he invited me over, to get to know me better. Make sure I’m the genuine article.”

“I don’t like you going to his home by yourself. Why don’t you call and ask to meet in a coffee shop.”

“I can’t! That would be like saying I didn’t trust him. He might get offended and call off the meeting. Stop frowning! You’re acting like—like my grandfather, insisting I have a chaperone! It’s just for half an hour. And anyway, aren’t you going to be lurking close by, just in case?”

Vic responds, but I don’t hear his answer. I’m too busy thinking of what I’d almost said to him before I caught myself:
You’re acting like Rajat.
Is that how I see my fiancé when I’m not guarding my thoughts? Someone who draws a tight circle around me and wants to keep me inside it? From being the dashing prince who kissed me boldly behind the oleanders, how has he come to this?

Late at night Rajat drives to Harry’s Bar and Grill. Sonia has suggested the place, a favorite from their early days, with quiet, dim alcoves for couples who want to talk. It’s not on the usual circuit of partygoers, and that suits him. He doesn’t want to run into anyone he knows.

Did he call Sonia too hastily after seeing the photograph that Mitra had e-mailed him? He evicts the question from his mind, rolling down the window for the cool wind. He loves this strip of road by the river. If only his life could be as calm and unhurried as the Hooghly, as uncaring of what fortune throws into it.

His mother had tried to stop him again. She had put her hand on his arm as he was at the door and told him that Abinash, the assistant foreman, had overheard a group of workers complaining that the union was too mild in their demands. They’d talked of taking matters into their own hands. Abinash suspected they might belong to the Naxal party. He had advised her to keep the family close to home, not to offer easy targets. Rajat hated seeing the new lines on Maman’s forehead. She had always taken such pride in her appearance. Now, gray showed at the roots of her hair because she had skipped her visit to the salon. He would have listened to her, but Sonia was already on her way.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Maman.”

“Where are you going? You know it’s not my habit to pry. But for safety reasons I need to know.”

He couldn’t lie to her.

She clasped her hands in agitation. “That Sonia’s nothing but trouble! Don’t you remember the heartache she made you go through?”

He weakened. She was right about the heartache. Maybe he should call Sonia. Back out, at least for tonight.

Then his mother said, “It’s not fair to Korobi, either.”

Her name brought back the photo, as clear as though it were branded into his brain: Korobi smiling over her shoulder at Vic, leaning into him as he removed her coat, flirtatiousness rife in every line of her body. His heart burned as if someone had cut it open and rubbed it with salt.

“At least take Asif—”

“No, Maman. I need some privacy.” He put his arms around her—the one woman he could always count on—to soften the refusal. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

A car is behind him on the otherwise empty road, its headlights bobbing in his rearview mirror. How long has it been there? Why doesn’t it turn onto a side street? His heart tightens. He thinks he sees two silhouettes, bulky, muscular. Through the camouflage of darkness it’s hard to tell. But here’s Harry’s, looming up all of a sudden because he hasn’t been paying attention. He pulls into the parking lot, tires squealing as though he were a teenage driver. The other car pulls in, too, but with more control. A man in a suit and a tall woman with a head scarf climb out, throwing him disapproving glances as they enter the restaurant.

Inside, Sonia’s at the bar, wearing a knee-length black dress shot through with silver threads, a new outfit, demure for her. He’s afraid she’ll do something flamboyant, such as throw herself into his arms, but she only offers him her hand with an uncertain smile. She is thinner—and nervous. He can see her neck muscles working as she swallows. She really wants this meeting to work. He feels ashamed because his own motives are questionable.

They go to one of the back alcoves. He orders for them: grilled chicken wings and beer, which they both love. He’s determined to stick to one drink. He isn’t sure what he’s going to say to Sonia, but he’ll need a clear head to say it right. There’s an awkward silence; then they both start speaking at once, break off, and laugh embarrassedly.

“How are you?” Sonia finally asks. “You look good.”

This, he knows, is untrue. Between worrying about the upcoming strike, the ailing New York gallery, and what Korobi is up to in the United States, he’s not getting much rest. At night he finds himself startled awake by troubling, garbled dreams. Sonia’s calls haven’t helped, either. Recently Pia told him that he was getting raccoon eyes. He glanced into the mirror before leaving home tonight; his sister had a point. He hadn’t made any efforts to hide them. He’s done with trying to impress women. It’s got to be on his terms, this time, whatever Sonia and he decide to do together. But what is that? What does he want?

“You look good, too.”

They smile wryly at the mutual lies and pick at their food.

“I’m sorry you’re having so much trouble at the warehouse. They’re about to go on strike, aren’t they?”

He nods, displeased. Are the Bose family’s problems common knowledge in all of Kolkata?

She gives up the pretense of eating. “I know you feel I’m intruding—but it’s just that I care. I miss you terribly. We fit so well together, like two pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle. I was too stupid to realize how special that was.” In a rush she adds, “Like I wrote, I’m sorry about what went wrong. I don’t want you to waste your life in a marriage that isn’t right for you. I feel responsible—like I pushed you into it. I’m asking you to give us one more try.”

She worries the tablecloth with her fork. How difficult it must be for her, a woman used to getting everything she wants, to make a request like this. He’s struck by an unexpected wave of admiration. If their situations were reversed, could he have done the same?

And what of the opportunity she’s offering? It’s true: they understood each other’s dark side—deeply, intuitively, with a startled recognition. With her, he never had to strive to be admirable. To go back to that—he can’t deny it would be a relief.

“As I wrote, I’d be happy to help with your family’s finances. I have money of my own, and Dad would loan me the rest. All I’m asking is that we give this a try. If it doesn’t work”—she shrugs—“I’ll accept it.”

It’s a generous offer. Temptation sweeps through him like a monsoon
storm. Bhattacharya out of their lives for good; the union appeased by extra compensation for the workers; the smile back on his mother’s face; her beloved Park Street gallery her own again. Maybe even the New York operation could be salvaged. And he, Rajat, would be the savior of the family.

And what about himself? The possibilities are endless. A new car—or two, why not? A Beamer for everyday use, a Lamborghini for going out with friends. The look on Khushwant’s face when he saw it! Suits tailored in London. Skiing in Switzerland. Shopping in Dubai. Gambling in Monte Carlo. But more than that, power and autonomy. He had gotten along famously with Sonia’s dad from the beginning. The old man had promised to make him vice president of his Delhi operations. Rajat would never again have to face those damned workers at the warehouse, judging him against the achievements of his father.

Then like a shock Korobi’s face comes up in his mind—not that damned photo but the way she’d looked at the airport, frowning a little, staring at his face as though she were memorizing it. It scatters all the other images, which he sees aren’t so important after all. And Sonia herself—the way she is today, though she means it right now, that’s not her real self, that’s her making an effort, wanting to win him back because she’s seen she’s about to lose him forever. It can’t last. He knows her well. The default Sonia is drama and tantrums, rushing from party to party, adventure to adventure, a constant bungee jumping. Just thinking of it makes him tired.

“I’m sorry. I love Korobi.”

The words startle him. He hadn’t meant to say them. He’d intended to leave Cara out of the discussion, guessing that her name would rile Sonia up—and he can see that it has. But he feels the heft of what he has just said, its truth.

“You can’t love her!” Sonia cries. “It’ll never last. You’re like fish and fowl. Why would you love her, anyway, that pale, boring, anemic—ah! Why?”

He examines his statement and is surprised to find it
has nothing to do with whether Korobi is a better person than Sonia (which she is), or prettier (which she isn’t). It has nothing to do with her innocence, or her courage, or her enthusiasm for the world, though these are all good reasons to love someone. For him—as perhaps for others, too, because why else is Sonia here?—there’s no logical explanation for love. It just is.

“You don’t have to decide on this tonight,” Sonia entreats. “Let’s go out a couple of times as friends. Let me give you the money you need. No strings attached.”

She’s like a person who’s running and a bullet hits her and she keeps on running, believing that if she can just continue acting as though this terrible thing hasn’t happened, she can erase the reality of it. It hurts him to see her this way.

He stands up, pushes back his chair. His coming here tonight has been a mistake. He’ll try to redeem it by giving Sonia the truth. He owes her that much. She’s spoiled, yes, and selfish, but except for that one episode in Digha, she’s always been a straight shooter.

“It’ll never work out for us, Sonia. Don’t get me wrong. You’re an amazing person, magnetic as a meteor. No wonder I was mad about you. But now I know it wasn’t love. I’m sorry for any false hopes I raised in you tonight. All I can say in my defense is that I didn’t know myself very well until just now. Please, Sonia, let’s break it off cleanly and move on with our lives.”

He braces himself. She’ll probably swear. Maybe throw the heavy beer stein at him. He hopes she will not shout. He hates it when people shout.

But she’s totally, astonishingly silent. He cannot read the stillness on her face. Is it heartbreak, or fury so deep she doesn’t have the words to express it? She pushes past him without looking at him.

On the way back, he watches for cars in his rearview mirror. He’s annoyed at how paranoid he’s growing. But no one’s following him. Why would they? He’s not some Tata or Ambani heir, just an ordinary man—he feels a small relief as he admits this—with a failing family business. He opens the windows, speeds up so the air rushes through him. He’s done the right thing tonight. Once Sonia gets over her pique, she’ll see it, too. Meanwhile, he’s going to call Korobi as soon as he gets home.
He’s going to tell her how Mitra tried to use the photo to turn him against her, and in the telling he’ll foil that ruse. He’s not going to ask her to explain, either. Not the haircut, not Vic. For better or worse, he’s thrown in his lot with Cara, and he must learn to trust her.

At 6:00 p.m. sharp, I call Rob Mariner from the lobby of his high-rise. He presses a button somewhere; the security gate opens; I pass through and take the elevator to his penthouse. He’s dressed casually in slacks and a sweater that make him look more like an older brother than a father. I’m in my Prada again—I have nothing else that’s suitable—and I blush as I see he realizes this. To hide my embarrassment, I walk over to the floor-length windows, which boast a gorgeous view, a bridge studded with lights against the deepening evening. Everything in this apartment gleams with richness. The carpet under my feet is thick and luxurious. Even the door that Mariner (I’m tempted to think of him as Dad) is locking behind me swings shut with an expensive, hushed click. Only the photo albums with their scuffed covers that he has set out on the coffee table indicate that they belong to a different era of his life. My heart speeds up as I stare at them.

Mariner pours wine for us—an excellent cabernet from Napa, he explains. I don’t want any, but to be polite I sip a little. It’s metallic and leaves a hot aftertaste. He raises his glass and wishes me luck with the inheritance. I force myself to smile. Is it my guilt, or is there a glint in his eye? The lighting is too dim to tell. Soon, I hope, my lie will not matter. The photo albums sit on the table like enigmas. I want so badly to look through them, my hands tingle.