by Mahesh Rao
On the other side of the house, in a downstairs cloakroom, the harpist wept, counting the days before he would be on his way home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN ONE SENSE, Ania’s trip to Italy was poorly timed. She would be away from Delhi for four weeks. It felt like a dereliction of duty at a crucial point, when Fahim and Dimple would welcome her oversight and encouragement. On the other hand, perhaps what they needed was time on their own, unfettered by other distractions. It seemed a bit of a gamble, but perhaps her absence would allow a natural momentum to build.
In any case, the time away was non-negotiable. A disquiet about her manner of living had been taking hold of her over the past few weeks. The feeling was unwelcome, but there was little she could do to dispel it. She could see a future where she did nothing, achieved nothing, had only the vaguest recollection of all the promises that she had made to herself. She thought about turning thirty in a few years. There might be nothing left of her ambitions, perhaps only something tepid and watery, melted ice at the bottom of a cocktail glass. She often started awake in the middle of the night. More years would pass and she would be the next matron in the room on the top floor.
She was also determined to prove her serious intent to Dev. While she certainly did not need his approval, she often thought about his reprimand. She had tried to couch it in other terms, but that was indeed what it had been.
An Italian literature foundation funded residencies for international writers with an impressive publishing record; others could pay their way, as long as they could provide a weighty letter of recommendation and a huge, nonrefundable fee. The writers would travel to the restorative environs of Lake Garda and spend four weeks closeted in the rooms of a fifteenth-century villa. They could sit by the promenade in the nearby village or walk in the villa’s terraced gardens, camellias and rhododendrons tumbling all the way down to the winding road. There was to be a rich exchange: ideas, opinions, interpretations.
“More realistically, dark looks,” Dev had added.
Ania arrived at the villa on a gusty evening in early spring, the wind flattening her yellow floral dress against her as she got out of the taxi. When the porter opened the door to Ania’s room, she could see traces of frescoes in the lamplight, a jeweled scepter in an alcove by the window, on the opposite wall the outstretched arms of an angel. Her welcome letter was printed on stiff cream paper, its envelope sealed with the foundation’s crest. The sheets on the four-poster bed were taut and crisp. On the terrace she caught the scent of lemon flowers and, after a few seconds, rosemary. Everything was just as she had imagined it would be.
“We have already received a package for you,” said the porter.
She ripped open the envelope to find a calf-leather notebook from Dev. He had scribbled a note on a postcard, but the words were bland and brief: they could have been addressed to anyone. In her disappointment, she almost forgot to turn the card over. But when she saw the image, she read everything that he had failed to say. It was Vermeer’s The Lacemaker, a woman with her head bowed over her work, in complete absorption, bringing all her attention to the intricacy of her task. Ania could see that the immersion was a reward in itself. The woman had dropped out of time in the intense beauty of the moment. She realized that his conversation with her in Delhi had not been a reprimand. It had been an expression of faith.
The villa was run by an English editor and his Italian wife, both of whom brought up Nobel laureate Clarence Lam’s letter in almost every conversation they had with her. They divided their labors according to their dispositions: he had the unctuous patience required to deal with artistic temperaments, and she had the iron hand needed to terrify the staff. Ania found their first encounter distracting; there was about the man a suspicion of body odor. Ania hated to make such a damning judgment without being certain. As he chronicled the history of the villa, she waited to be accosted again by that ripe smell. It took a quiet patience. But when the whiff arrived, there could be no doubt. His quarters, she soon discovered, were not on her floor.
Lodged in the neighboring room was a short story writer from Brooklyn who often spoke fondly of his time working in lumber mills in the Appalachian Mountains. He called her “Anna.” Across the corridor was Nemesia, a Chilean poet, who took all her meals in her room by special request. It was three days before Ania met her, having heard allusions to her bizarre working practices: an espresso machine installed in her room; midnight runs through the olive groves; a cell phone, possibly not her own, that she had thrown into the pond. They met on the stone stairway late one night, and Nemesia grabbed her by both arms. She seemed thrilled to see her.
“What is going on?” she asked.
Ania had no idea what to say, so she smiled and shrugged. Nemesia smiled back and rolled her a cigarette with special cinnamon-scented paper.
It took Ania a couple more encounters to establish that no response was expected to Nemesia’s question. This was merely her customary greeting. Every day Ania spent half an hour studying the few poems by Nemesia that she could find in translation online. The next time her arms were gripped and she was asked what was going on, she wanted to tell Nemesia, out of some sense of solidarity, out of a respect for her manic diligence, that she had understood and loved her poems, and that that was what was going on.
* * *
—
ALSO IN RESIDENCE was Adrian Thurley. Ania was astonished to find herself writing on the same floor as one of her favorite authors. She was lucky enough to be seated opposite him at dinner on her first evening. Even in the soft candlelight, his skin was chalky, his eyelashes pale. The skin on his nose was peeling. He looked as though he was weathering in a noble sort of way, taking it on the chin.
She watched him over the next couple of days, as he had lunch on the terrace and, later, in conversation over cocktails. Two deep furrows would often appear across his brow along with a tightness around his jaw, as though he was struggling with a hangover, which he often was. He seemed to have a signature gesture: a compact shrug and a shake of his head, often when his work was mentioned, as though the prospect of considering it was unbearable, as though he wished to throw off his fame and reputation, perhaps even his whole identity. She googled him to discover that he was only forty-eight, about ten years younger than she had thought.
Facing the picture window in her room, she tried to write, forcing fragments on to the screen, her page littered with sentences and parts of sentences but no coherent paragraph. The following day she would salvage what she could and then begin the attempt all over again. She wrote pithy impressions of her day in her new notebook. She made elaborate chapter plans and then scrapped them. She considered beginning a fresh novel. She could not bear the weight of her hair on her neck, so she piled it on her head in a tight knot. An hour later she took the pins out and let it tumble down again.
After a few days she received a message from Dimple, a short line hoping that she was well and feeling productive. Ania had barely given Dimple and Fahim a thought; life in Delhi seemed so far away. She felt a singe of guilt and replied instantly, saying that she wanted to hear about all developments the instant that she returned.
One breakfast she discovered that Adrian had left her a few doodles on her napkin, caricatures of three of the more annoying residents. She secreted it into her journal, flushed with delight. He lent her his copy of The Book of Disquiet and, a few days later, The History Man. After a day’s work, they began to go for walks on the lake promenade, past the ice cream–colored façades and the fruit market. He read her lines from a Sylvia Plath short story after dinner, his voice rich and low. Lights winked at them across the dark hillsides. When the writer from Brooklyn joined them uninvited, she felt a jab of annoyance. Her finite time with Adrian was being encumbered. She was sure that Adrian felt it too.
That same evening he offered to have a look at her work. She thanked him but knew she would always be too t
errified to show him a word.
Late that night she wrote an e-mail to Dev, a galloping stream of words, ostensibly to let him know that she was enjoying her stay, but in reality to tell him that one of the world’s most gifted writers had shown interest in her work, listened to her ideas as though she could in some sense be considered an equal, and avoided the company of established authors to discuss books with her. She fell asleep before she could send it.
One day, Ania and Adrian played hooky and ordered champagne hours before lunch. After their second bottle, they staggered into the village and had lunch in the piazza, Ania reveling in the writer’s outrageous literary gossip. As the sun began to dip, they lost their way in the cobbled alleys and then stumbled back into the piazza. Everything seemed funny: the marble pout of a saint, the ridiculously long inscription on a building, the way they felt they had to stifle their laughter in the sudden hush of a colonnade.
She tried on hats in an old-fashioned milliner’s shop as he egged her on. When they emerged, she was wearing her purchase: a white straw hat with a navy ribbon that trailed off the wide brim. When he put his arm around her shoulders, she noticed its surprising heat and heft. The gesture felt kindly and genial. Great barriers had come down, and she now had a new, immensely accomplished friend. He patted her arm and guided her across the road with his hand resting on her lower back. She herself had on many occasions been accused of being too tactile, grabbing the arm or wrist of some delighted male in her eagerness to drive home a point. At the rickety stairs that led down to the ancient castle wall, she let him take her hand.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT THERE was veal at dinner and too much wine. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and the excess of the last few days was taking its toll. She said good night to Adrian and the others and took the back portico to the stairs. A few moments later he called out to her, and she waited for him to catch up. Flames flickered in their lanterns. At the end of the passage an arch framed an orange tree in an urn.
“You left this,” he said, holding out her room key.
As she reached for it, he closed his hand over hers.
There was a slick of sweat in the dip above his upper lip. His eyelashes looked white. When he came closer, his breath was thick with whiskey fumes. He put his arms around her and whispered into her ear: “Principessina.”
She held her arms stiffly against him and turned away from his breath.
He moved closer and nuzzled against her neck. She felt his hands glide from her waist, downward, to form a grip.
“Please,” she said.
She pushed him away, her breath coming fast in fear and disgust, and walked down the passage that now seemed endless, her footsteps sharp, their echoes thrown up to the vaulted ceiling.
* * *
—
ANIA DID NOT see Adrian the next day. It was a day filled with uneasiness and frustration. She left the room briefly for a swim, but when the water closed over her head, she felt a sense of panic. The smell of the chlorine gave her a headache, and the water made a horrible sound as it slapped against the side of the pool. She felt as though she had lost something precious and did not understand how a friendship could flourish and then sour so quickly. It was, of course, his fault, but she was sure that in some irrefutable way it was hers too.
She knew that men were elementally predatory. It had been a fact that she had absorbed from a young age, expressed to her in both categorical and more subtle ways by Renu, her friends, her teachers, almost all the women she had known. There had been a few men in her life who had been pushy and sexually demanding, but she had always felt in control, forewarned, and able to repel them instantly. She had believed that there was a protection that emanated from her status, as though a special symbol existed next to her name. But at the villa, the bulwark had crumbled. And at the same time, she had been blinded by Adrian’s renown and apparent solicitude.
She found the e-mail that she had written to Dev and winced at her smug, crowing tone. At first, she felt relief that she had not sent the e-mail and that Dev would never come to know of her foolishness. Later, she was filled with shame that she had written it at all.
Toward evening her appetite returned, but all she really wanted was sashimi. She managed to locate a restaurant nearly forty miles away that was prepared to send her a delivery. When it arrived there was a tear in the plastic container, and the fish was a lurid pink and smelled foul.
Two more days passed. She changed the times she went down for her meals or had them in her room. Once in a while, she wondered if she was being exceptionally stupid. She caught a glimpse of Adrian from her window, walking along one of the tree-lined paths. The writing had come to a standstill. She lay on her bed staring at the faded blues and reds of the frescoes. She caught up with her e-mails.
Late one night, Adrian finally knocked on her door. She was preparing to go to bed, already in her pajamas, and was reluctant to let him in, especially when she saw he had a glass in his hand. He insisted, saying that he had something important to say.
She gestured at the chair and took the sofa opposite.
They sat in silence. She was desperate for him to leave and at last looked him in the eye. The skin on his nose was still peeling.
“Look, you’re the most beautiful thing here,” he said, pulling his chair nearer.
He touched her face, his thumb lingering against her cheek. His hand brushed against her neck and came to rest just below her collarbone.
She froze.
His hand felt cold and scaly. He looked like a different man, a pleading selfishness narrowing his eyes. When his irises focused on her face, they glittered.
Just as he leaned in toward her, she sprang up off the sofa. The fear and disgust crashed through again, but this time there was a cold fury that he had persisted, that he had felt entitled to do so with someone like her.
He was thrown off guard, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground. The chair screeched against the stone floor. His glass reeled across the room before coming to a gently rocking halt by the baseboard.
As a pass, it was grotesque. As an act of will, it was inept. Spots of whiskey stained the rug in a wide arc. He lay on the floor, looking at her like an injured animal, limbs strained, frozen in an effort to redeem himself, but the exertion proved too much. His body seemed to cave in, and his head hit the floor with a sad crack. He blinked rapidly: it looked as though he expected some ministration, some sympathy. Ania left the room and walked into the corridor. Anyone walking past would see his corduroy legs through the open doorway, his feet in the scuffed shoes. But there was no one about. She pulled a coat over her pajamas and ran down the corridor. After she had knocked on Nemesia’s door, they hurried together to find a security guard.
* * *
—
MORNING EVENTUALLY CAME. She was still shaken and in the grip of that same cold rage. During the long sleepless night Ania was sickened to realize that even in this temple of art and culture, where she had secured her entry using all her advantages, she could not make herself safe. In the morning, she asked to meet the center administrator in order to make a complaint. She made sure she was calm and clear-eyed as she described Adrian’s conduct in bald terms. He nodded at her every word and pushed a box of tissues a couple inches closer to her, tissues she did not need.
“I am truly sorry that this unfortunate incident occurred here, and I can fully understand your concerns. But I think we all have the same objective, do we not? We all want an amicable resolution,” he said.
“I don’t want an amicable anything,” said Ania. “Either he goes or I do.”
“Miss Khurana, everyone here is an artist, part of a threatened breed, doing our best to confront the challenges of a world that is, at best, indifferent, at worst, hostile. We are all on the same side, and it is essential that we remain so.”
Ania r
emained silent.
“It’s also worth pointing out that Mr. Thurley is a huge figure in the literary establishment. I need hardly tell you about the prizes he has won, the regard in which he is held all over the world. If any public unpleasantness results from whatever has transpired between you, it will certainly be troubling for him. But for a young, talented writer like you, just about to launch herself into this world, it could be a complete disaster.”
He pulled at each of his cuffs.
“I will speak to Mr. Thurley,” he said, lowering his voice. “I will make him understand that nothing of this sort must be repeated while he is here.”
As he continued to provide assurances, Ania left the room.
That afternoon she walked to the village to clear her head, her eyes still prickling. She held the two books Adrian had lent her. From an outside table at a café on the promenade, she gazed across the lake. It all seemed ruined. An oppressive humidity had descended; the shops in the village now looked crammed with vulgar souvenirs and an enormous tour bus blocked the road leading up the hill. The lake waters were choppy and gray. Somewhere, bottles smashed. She was going to throw the books into a trash bin, but she found that she did not have the heart. In the end, she left them facedown on a wall above the jetty.
She had shown a flash, a mere flash, of resistance but did not have the stomach for any more. She felt betrayed, winded. She wanted to leave at once. As she packed, she saw that she had a message from Dev. She would not read it until much later; there was no telling what effect it could have on her at the moment. Early the next morning, having changed her flight to New York, she was in a taxi on her way to Verona. Deep in her suitcase, secure in a cylinder of tissue and sticky tape, was the cigarette that Nemesia had rolled for her on the sunniest day at the villa.