Stealing Nasreen

by Farzana Doctor

  She backs up from the mirror and scans her body. She feels fat today. She pinches the loose flesh on her arms and around her waist. She wonders if she has gained weight since she last saw Connie. She changes into a loose fitting green blouse that holds up her heavy breasts well. Then she squirts some perfume into her cleavage. She takes one last look at herself and recites the positive self-talk she has trained herself to say each day, the one gem of good advice she picked up from her first therapist years ago, “Yes, you are a beautiful woman.” Today, she’s not quite sure if she believes the affirmation, but she knows it is worth saying regardless. Maybe one day I will believe this self-inflicted brainwashing. Whatever. She turns off the bathroom light and sees Id watching her in the hallway. He mews loudly at her. Nasreen picks up the overweight cat and cuddles him, happy for his attention and diversion.

  “Is that a meow of love, or are you just hungry again?”

  At five minutes to eight, there is a knock at the door. Nasreen opens it and there Connie stands, holding a small plant in her hands. A peace offering.

  “Hi Nasreen. Here, this is for you. It’s a Christmas cactus. It’s easy to look after. And it should flower soon.” Nasreen takes the plant, looks at the small, tight red buds and then steps back.

  “Come in.”

  Connie does, and Nasreen closes the door behind her. She sets the plant down on the coffee table. “Thanks. It’s nice,” she says blandly, unsure if bland is what she wants to sound like.

  “It’s almost impossible to kill. Just water it a couple of times a month and it should be OK.” Connie stands awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Everything kind of looks the same.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Nasreen says woodenly. How is it that this woman who was once her lover is now like an alien to her? “I guess it must be weird being back here.”

  “A little. Oh, there’s Id.” Connie sits down on the couch, puts out her hand to the cat, coaxing him closer. Id circles Connie’s ankles seductively and Connie strokes his back. Nasreen watches their easy familiarity with a lump in her throat, and sits down on the couch too.

  “Do you want some tea? Do you want to stay a little while, or you in a hurry?” Nasreen wants to offer Connie an exit strategy, or perhaps a way out for herself. Door Number One, she leaves with her envelope and the world returns to normal again. Door Number Two, she stays, and we talk. About what?

  “Sure, if that’s all right with you. I can stay a little while. I mean, I wasn’t sure if you would be open to that after the last time we saw each other.” Connie looks uneasily at Nasreen. “You know, at Tango’s.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure what I’m open to, but a pot of tea would be OK.” She says, bristling for what feels like no good reason. She walks away to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Id remains in the living room with Connie, basking treacherously in her attentions. Nasreen takes down a small blue teapot from the cupboard and puts in two bags of peppermint, the way she has done many times before. She doesn’t have to ask Connie what kind of tea she wants. Nasreen stands at the counter, closes her eyes a moment, pressing her eyelids together. Numb. No, sad. It feels sad and strange. I should be angry, she tells herself. She reviews her mental inventory of things she hates about Connie, the injuries she will never forgive, the wounds inflicted that she doesn’t know how to heal. She remembers the quiet nights when Connie came home late, too late, the many little lies that made a fiction out of their relationship. The kettle whistles at full blast and Nasreen opens her eyes again.

  “Do you need any help in there?”

  “No, the tea’s ready. Just a sec.” Unnerved, she pours the boiling water into the teapot and carries the mugs and pot to the living room on a small wooden tray. Id lounges in Connie’s lap. Nasreen sits down beside them, a couple of feet away. “It will take a minute to steep.”

  “Id seems the same as usual. And you’re looking well, too.”

  “Thanks, you too.” And Nasreen means it. She looks shyly at Connie’s muscular arms, bulging slightly out of a tight navy blue t-shirt. She registers her flat stomach, her short, spiky blond hair, her languid amber eyes ringed with dark brown lashes. Nasreen can easily imagine her naked, her small breasts, the angles in her collarbone, ribs, hips. Their sex life had been the easy part of their relationship, even close to the end. Lesbian Bed Death did not even come close to looming over them as it had with other couples Nasreen knew. She and Connie folded easily into each other and even the stress of work, or her mother’s death did not interfere with their lovemaking. Nasreen wonders if Connie is the same with other women, or if it had been something special between the two of them.

  “So, you’re going to New York?”

  “Yeah, it’s a short trip. I start a new job in two weeks, so I wanted to go somewhere before I have to build up vacation time again.”

  “A new job? Really? You’re not at Starbucks anymore?”

  “I’m still there for another few days. I got a better paying job with Coffee Love. I will be doing more or less the same kind of work for them, you know, PR, some advertising.”

  “Coffee Love? Connie, there are huge boycotts against them.” Wait until Mona hears about this, Nasreen thinks.

  “They’re not as bad as other companies. I did some research.” Connie reaches for the pot and pours them each a cup. Id jumps to the floor.

  “I don’t know about that.” While they were a couple, they had often disagreed about politics. They had also learned how to avoid arguing about politics. “Well, I hope it works out for you there.”

  Connie follows Nasreen’s lead out of the contentious subject to other topics: Nasreen’s job; gossip about some of their friends in common and Nasreen’s plans to go to India with her father.

  “I’m glad to hear that you are taking a vacation this year too. How long has it been since you went anywhere?”

  “Probably not since we went to New York.”

  “That was a couple of years ago. I liked that trip. Do you remember that neat restaurant we went to, in Soho? They had amazing mussels.”

  “And grilled shrimp. I do remember. We sat on the patio for hours.” Nasreen allows herself to enjoy the moment. Since the break-up, she hasn’t given herself permission to tread into the fleeting warmth of Good Connie Memories.

  Nasreen observes Connie reaching for her hand, senses Connie’s warm fingers intertwining with her own, feels Connie’s thumb pressing lightly into her wrist.

  “I’m really sorry for the way things turned out. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Nas. I mean it, I’m sorry. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me some day.” Nasreen looks into the dark irises of Connie’s eyes and sees in there a well of hope. She means it. Her own dark eyes become wet.

  Connie takes the mug from Nasreen’s hand. Her vision blurred by tears, Nasreen doesn’t see what comes next. She feels strong arms pulling her, hot breath on her neck and then soft lips on her cheek, forehead, and mouth. Nasreen becomes uprooted, Connie the gale force wind snatching her up. Caught in this tornado, there is only motion now, the force of legs and arms, the crush of eager lips and hungry mouths, the whoosh of clothing being unzipped, unbuttoned and discarded. Nasreen struggles to hold on. By the time she opens her eyes again, Connie is kissing her from somewhere above, and Nasreen is flat on her back, her hands gripping Connie’s hips tightly. Her brain registers that things are too far gone for her to bother stopping now, so she runs her greedy hands over Connie’s back and pulls her weight down onto her, whispering teasing, bawdy words into Connie’s receptive ear. Id watches them from the pile of still-warm clothes on the living room floor.

  “You what?” Asha exclaims, her mouth full of penne. A 501 Queen streetcar rattles by their window table and Nasreen wonders if Asha hasn’t heard her. Then, assessing Asha’s expression, she guesses otherwise.

  “OK, I
admit it. It was poor judgement. I know that. I just don’t know what came over me. It happened really fast.”

  “I can’t believe you’d sleep with her after everything she’s done to you!”

  “I know, I know. It was stupid. It was weird. One moment I was feeling all cool and confident about her and then next, I was melting. It was because,” Nasreen looks up at her friend’s frown, and then back down at the cooling pad thai in her plate, “she said that she was sorry.”

  “Just sorry? That’s what it took? That’s what got you into bed with her? Oh, Nas…” Asha shakes her head disapprovingly.

  “Hey, you don’t know what’s it like with her and me. When she started to talk, and seemed so sincere, well, that’s what got me. I guess I needed to hear her apology.”

  “But do you think she was really sincere?” Asha’s tone softens for a moment and then hardens again, “Come on Nas, it can’t be that easy. ‘Hey, I slept with my best friend, I betrayed you and now I’m sorry, so let’s fuck?’” Nasreen looks around to see if anyone else has noticed the increasing volume in her friend’s voice.

  “I know it’s not that simple. Something about her apologizing made me weak or something,” Nasreen says quietly. “There were two things that were really good between us. Sex and … well, her taking care of me … being nice to me. And that combo was there again on Thursday night.” Nasreen doesn’t look up, but hears Asha sigh heavily.

  “That girl is a snake and she just bit you. There’s something about her that makes you way too vulnerable. I’m not sure you should be spending time with her.” Nasreen stares out the window at the busy sidewalk, avoiding her friend’s probing eyes. “Are you going to see her again?”

  “No, I guess not. You’re right. I just don’t hold my own when I’m with her. She just … I don’t know what it is about her. And anyway, she’s going away for a couple of weeks. That should be enough time for me to suffer through the withdrawal. Again. When she’s back I’ll be strong again.”

  “Nasreen, should I remind you that two months have passed between the break-up and your passionate evening with her this week? I think you need a longer Connie Moratorium to get yourself rational again. Her venom stays in your blood a long time.” Asha spears a sausage and pops it into her mouth.

  “Geez, what’s with all the serpent metaphors?” Nasreen jokes. “OK, OK. Yeah, I know you’re right. The next time she asks to see me, will you remind me that I can’t?”

  “Yeah, as if you’d listen to me.” Asha says, her mouth full of sausage.

  “Try harder to convince me next time. I can’t go through another evening like that again. It feels like the way it did when she first left me.”

  “You mean when you kicked her out after being a two-timing slime-bucket.” Asha looks at Nasreen. Nasreen is silent and stares sullenly into her noodles. “What? What’s wrong? What’d I say?”

  “It’s not what you said. It’s what I haven’t said. The truth is that I didn’t kick her out. I don’t know why I said that to everyone. Maybe that’s the version of things I would have preferred. I wish it had happened that way.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “She cheated. That part is true. And then I pleaded with her to stay. I begged like a desperate person. I told her that we’d work it out. And then she left. I was pathetic, a mess.”

  “Oh wow, Nasreen.”

  “I couldn’t tell anyone that I’d been left. I couldn’t believe it myself. I didn’t want to believe it. So I started telling the story in a way that sounded better to me. I almost started believing it. Wow, am I delusional, or what?”

  “Maybe a bit of a revisionist, but not delusional. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I mean, it’s not so long since you lost your mother, why would you want you lose Connie too?” Asha tries to be soothing, but her tone only sounds condescending to Nasreen.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with my mother,” Nasreen says defensively, “I wanted her to stay because I loved her.”

  “OK, well … you know there was no shame in asking her to stay and work it out,” Asha says, trying to placate her friend.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Nasreen says, her voice softening.

  “I bet there are plenty of couples who work things out after a bout of infidelity. I would have been lucky if one or two of my exes would have been open to that possibility.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, you big philanderer,” Nasreen says, at last a glint of mischief in her eyes.

  “Hey girl, I am no philanderer. The proper term is polyamory queen, thank you very much,” Asha grins.

  “I should remind you that it is only polyamory when there is agreement between, I mean, among the partners involved. Otherwise, it is cheating. What would your girlfriend say about that?” Nasreen asks, eyebrows raised.

  “I know, I know. I am a reformed woman these days. But how did this become about me? We were talking about you and your good-for-nothing cheating ex-girlfriend, weren’t we?”

  “Yes, we were. That good-for-nothing cheating snake of an ex-girlfriend” she says, laughing, “OK, I declare a Connie Moratorium starting today and going forever. I mean not forever. Well, for a long time. A really long time.”

  “Uh huh. OK, if you say so”, says Asha, raising her glass and eyebrows in a toast to Nasreen.

  The next morning Nasreen awakes from a dream so vivid, its clarity endures through the beeping of the clock-radio alarm. She closes her eyes, expecting to be pulled under by the thick dark night of it, but it has moved on, has already released to the day. She reaches for the pad of paper beside her bed and writes it down.

  She was trailing Connie happily through their neighbourhood, following a few steps behind her. Only she wasn’t herself in the dream, she was smaller, like a puppy. Her nose was wet, and close to the ground. The smell of warm asphalt and garbage filled her nostrils. Her palms scratched up against the rough pavement and her knees were stained and raw, unprepared for such mistreatment. Despite the discomfort, she felt happy to be with Connie.

  During the walk, she began to find money all over the street in front of her. She wanted to jump up and down with excitement, but couldn’t manage it from her all-fours position on the ground. The money was in large denominations, crisp red fifty-dollar bills and brown one-hundreds. The money was so pretty, reminding her of autumn leaves. She scampered toward the money and gathered up the notes in her right hand. This caused her to fall once or twice, until she figured out how to balance on one hand and two knees. She yelled out excitedly to Connie about her discovery, urging her too to look for the treasure. Connie bent down and tried to grab the money too, but just as she reached for it, the paper dissolved into the asphalt, disappearing as though it hadn’t been there in the first place. Nasreen watched helplessly as Connie tried again and again to gather the vanishing money. Connie grimaced and looked at Nasreen angrily, as though it was somehow Nasreen’s fault. Then, she bent down and grabbed the bills from Nasreen’s hand. This unbalanced Nasreen and she crashed down to the ground, skinning her cheek. Connie marched away from her, leaving her alone on the pavement.

  Nasreen puts down her pen and rubs her cheek, feeling wounded, but finding no injury there. Leaning over to her left, she pulls open the drawer of her bedside table, feeling for a thick bundle of notes and cards held together by an aging rubber band. She started this collection when Connie sent flowers and a note after their first date. No one had ever sent her flowers before. The pile of love notes continued to grow over their years together. She pulls aside the rubber band, and it ungracefully snaps open and springs across the room. Id races to capture the runaway elastic, and snarls with it.

  “Stop that, Id! You can’t eat that!” The cat stops chewing the elastic to study her dully. He jumps onto the bed and sidles up against Nasreen, the elastic still between his teeth.

  Nasreen turns to the bundle of cards that she h
as read and reread, an archive of her life with Connie. At the top of the pile is the small florist’s card that says, “Thanks for the lovely evening. I’d love to get to know you better.” There is a Valentine’s card full of sexy sentiment, a birthday promise of everlasting love, and an anniversary letter that once spellbound her with its romantic prose.

  She gathers the pile together, and with a deep inhalation, she begins to tear each card and love note, one by one, until there is a small pile of little paper scraps in front of her on the bed. She scoops up the shredded paper in her pajama top and carries it carefully to the bathroom and then dumps them on the cotton bath mat. She drops a handful into the toilet, watching as the paper soaks up the light blue water, becoming saturated, heavy, unreadable. She flushes. She repeats this again and again until all the paper scraps have disappeared. Then, she rests a moment on the side of the bathtub and stares vacantly into the blue water of the toilet. To her surprise and relief, something about this has worked, has helped. She feels as though she has lost five pounds. She has cleared away something, created a little bit of space in her bedside table drawer. And within herself.

  Chapter 19

  SALMA UNDOES THE METAL latch of her old, metal trunk and breathes in its slightly musty, closed-up smell. It was shipped from Bombay along with a few boxes they could not carry with them on the plane, and its delayed arrival in Canada carried with it heavy expectation. Now, loaded up with bits and pieces that have no other place in the small apartment, it sits at the foot of Salma and Shaffiq’s bed, mostly ignored. It is the one piece of furniture in the Paperwala home that is from India.

  Upon landing in Canada, the Paperwalas experienced the immigrant’s optimism, the heady, hopeful feeling that everything can be better in this new place. For most this sentiment lasts perhaps half a year and then the excitement, this faith in the new country, begins to dissipate when dreams become sidelined by the wearying challenges of looking for a home, finding a job, and searching for belonging. It’s as though the new country can only participate in the charade for so long, and eventually tires from the heavy expectation placed upon it.