by Mahesh Rao
When the gates finally opened, polite society swept in to make up its mind. The opera house courtyard was golden with Mumbai’s early-evening glow, an almost holy light that poured over the assembled company. A strong wind riffled through the leaves in the floral arrangements; it set upon perfect coiffures and raised goosebumps on pale, delicate skin; when it pressed against the stiff white tablecloth, there was a sound like paper tearing.
“Well, we’re among friends here,” announced Flavia da Costa.
Champagne glasses clinked in one corner of the courtyard. The group gave the impression of schoolchildren having just been released for summer vacation. Their laughter was heady, infectious, and not entirely innocent. They seemed to be trying to keep nightfall at bay, determined to revel in that golden moment, consumed by their own visibility.
Serena Bakshi heard a lowered voice behind her and took a couple steps back to listen to the conversation.
“Well, you know how it is with these royals. They’ve not been the same since the British left, moping about in their decrepit homes, devastated that a twenty-gun salute will never sound again in Nowhereabad. And they can never resist boasting to a white person that their grandfather fed Edwina Mountbatten her first Peshawari plum. As for this Mussoorie or whatever she’s called, I’m sure she’s only too keen to indulge them. And when she gets a day off from kissing their hem, she pushes her way into all sorts of decent people’s events. It’s intolerable.”
“Which royal is it?”
“That spiteful old bag from Somwari.”
“Oh dear.”
“Isn’t everyone awful?”
“Simply heinous.”
A strong breeze had dislodged the label from a tray of canapés—the organic persimmon topped with Iranian caviar and a pickled onion—and it had fluttered across the cobblestones and attached itself to Silky Chhabra’s heel.
“I’m still trying to get the banquet hall at the Regent for my female empowerment panel. It’s a nightmare because the cleaners at the hotels have all gone on strike over their pay. How on earth are we supposed to uplift working-class women when it’s so difficult for us to secure a decent conference venue?”
A pair of sapphire drop earrings trembled angrily in agreement.
At the far end of the courtyard, an elderly gentleman had been provided with a chair. His eyesight was deteriorating, but it was far more reliable than his hearing, which was irremediable, proffering at times nothing but a series of high-pitched squeaks, loud clinks, or a great whoosh of emptiness. He knew that he had been invited because he had been born the same year that the opera house had originally been inaugurated. It made for a good story—the organizers would be able to display their thoughtfulness at including a local resident, a senior deserving of concern—and he was glad of it.
He would not be able to hear the music, but he was looking forward to the spectacle of the show. The lovely young girl had given him a shawl in case the air-conditioning proved too much. It was the softest thing he had ever held; he felt as though he had plunged his arms into a pile of down. And she had assured him of a seat by the aisle after he’d told her about his bladder. He had a flutter of anxiety that they would forget and no one would come for him when it was time to go into the theater. He locked his hands together and counted backward from a hundred, an old technique that helped to calm his nerves.
The group in front of him moved away, and he had a clear view of the façade of the reconstructed building, its plasterwork now a pristine white, the late sun turning the louvered wooden shutters a honeyed brown. He remembered this wall as pocked and speckled, whipped by the salty sea winds, chipped away by each savage monsoon, fouled by the hundreds of pigeons that had made their home on the top-floor terraces.
Images flickered into his vision, as though projected on this new white wall. His mother put her hand on his jouncing knee as he watched the amazing Marathi actor Bal Gandharva appear onstage dressed as a woman with flowers in her hair. He saw himself as a middle-aged man, ignoring the musicians and peering upward as water dripped onto his shoulder through a hole in the ceiling. And he remembered the thrill of that scene on the giant screen, after the theater became a cinema, the couple lying with such abandon on the beach, the waves crashing over their bodies as they kissed. His head had filled with the roar of the surf then—and the sounds around him now, the chatter, the applause, the laughter of beautiful people, were filling his head with a similar roar.
“Mind if I butt in? Over there, they’re ranking Meenu Lakdawalla’s ex-husbands in order of net worth, but I can barely remember any of them.”
“Do join us, we were discussing Europe.”
“Oh, yes, what about it?”
“Well, it’s not what it was, is it?”
“Absolutely agree. I never go now. Europe is just not my idea of a vacation. Trudging around some schloss, waiting in line with people in horrible raincoats, paying through one’s nose for awful service. Give me the tropics, heat, jungles, adventure. I’ve just come back from Belize, and I feel five years younger. And so much fitter. When we’re inside I’ll let you feel my glutes.”
The speeches had begun, but not everyone could be bothered to face the front and pretend to listen. Someone mentioned that Gandhi had once made a speech in the opera house, shortly after he had cabled the viceroy, insisting that Nehru be released from jail. But there was no response: no one was in the mood for a history lesson.
“Anita Malwani’s not here.”
“Obviously not, she’s out on anticipatory bail.”
“Oh dear God, what’s she done now?”
“You know about her attempting to poison her husband?”
“Oh, yes, everyone knows.”
“Apart from that, have you heard about the delightful little scam she had going? There’s a horribly creepy jeweler on Lamington Road, but he does have the most fabulous pieces. Anita was a regular customer, and they had agreed that he would invoice her husband for at least fifty percent more than the actual price. She then stashed away the difference, with a cut for the jeweler. And Bobby being an absolute cretin didn’t have a clue about it until some mix-up with the tax people, when it all came to light. So now, in addition to the poisoning business, the poor thing’s been charged with criminal breach of trust or something and is confined to her home, no doubt shackled in the billiards room.”
“Anita is, of course, ghastly, but I can’t help feeling it’s such a shame she was caught.”
“Oh, I agree, it’s completely tragic. It’s not like Bobby would even miss that money. She phoned me the other day, you know, wanting some advice.”
“And?”
“I told her that she should get a publicist and plant her side of the story in the Mumbai Mirror as soon as possible.”
“Oh, but, darling, that’s probably illegal if it’s all going to court, and you know what Bobby is like about having his name in the papers. That’s probably the worst possible advice you could have given her.”
“Naturally.”
They laughed like excited seals.
The opera house program directors had not found it difficult to settle on a star for the opening night performance: Niloufer, the only internationally celebrated soprano of Indian origin, was the obvious choice. She went by one name, although it was cattily suggested that this was because she had no idea who her father was. And even if this was true, it hardly mattered when critics and crowds in New York, Paris, and Vienna were in thrall to her gloriously rounded voice and magnificent presence. Special arrangements had to be made at the opera house for Niloufer’s preparatory rituals to comply with the building’s fire regulations. A stone basin had been placed on the external stairs at the back of the building to accommodate smoldering splinters of palo santo wood, whose fumes Niloufer inhaled to cleanse her spirit and preserve her energy. As she leaned over the smoke, coughing and spluttering in
her kimono, the opera house staff exchanged nervous glances. But at the front of the building, the evening’s performance was distant from the minds of many of the invited guests.
“Did you hear? Serena Bakshi’s been ditched by her husband. This time for good.”
“To be expected, of course. Can’t really understand why he took up with her in the first place. I mean, I know it was all a long time ago, but running brothels and whatnot, it’s just not the kind of thing one’s family ought to be doing. I don’t object on moral grounds, of course, people’s sexual peccadilloes are entirely their own business. It’s just that, as a métier, it’s so tawdry.”
“I don’t really know Serena that well so I shouldn’t comment.”
“Oh please.”
“I have been to a party at her brother’s house in Kasauli though.”
“And?”
“The garden was full of dahlias in the most vulgar colors.”
* * *
—
IT BEGAN AS a ripple of gossip, a tantalizing little wave that flowed into the general stream of slander and tattle outside the opera house. But the information had been verified and, unfortunately, it was true. Someone closely connected to Renu Khurana—her beloved husband’s nephew, in fact, who had been doing the rounds—had been arrested in New York on charges of fraud, money laundering, and perjury. There might have been other infractions; it was difficult to remember. Americans had such antiquated terminology for their crimes, all that felony and larceny, so much more suited to Elizabethan highwaymen than spirited Indian immigrants on Wall Street.
Discreet three-quarter turns were made to see whether any of the Khuranas were at the event. A wonderful opportunity had presented itself, to greet them warmly while searching for signs of internal collapse. But no one from the family appeared to have come to Mumbai, and any probing would have to be done in a few days’ time in Delhi.
Uncharacteristically, Nina had arrived on time. Her eyes were bright, and her throaty laugh sounded often. She feigned great admiration for a real estate tycoon’s latest project, making him increasingly nervous about his achievements. She flattered intemperately. She blew Silky Chhabra a kiss.
The news came to her in little snatches, solidifying slowly until there was a jolt of recognition. Her heart hammered. Voices crowded in. She took an old friend aside and made him repeat what he knew.
“Ripped loads of people off apparently. Every cent that he took, he invested in dodgy schemes, and now it’s all just vanished. The FBI had been onto him for a while, and they arrested him a few days after he returned to America. He’ll be out on bail, I guess, unless they think he’s a flight risk. I mean, he was here for ages, wasn’t he? Do you know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“My parents know his mother. Oh well.”
Nina excused herself but remained motionless. She had no idea that Nikhil had returned to New York. She had assumed that his current elusiveness was another game that these young men liked to play. Even on her way to the opera house, she had imagined turning up at the opening with him, enjoying the picture of the scandal. She would take him by the hand and guide him through the crowd, all the faces that she had known for years. He would hand her a drink, and they would exchange deliberate looks.
She felt that she must have been spared. Perhaps he had gambled other people’s money but hers had been saved, that last stockpile preserved out of a sense of loyalty and affection. It would be returned to her in due course. She would be safe.
But then the reality crashed over her again: her stomach churned, and an acid burn flared through her chest. He had provided her with information, so much information, documents with details of past returns and future projections, market conditions, regulatory frameworks, compliance mechanisms, matters that she had pretended to understand as she had no desire to display her ignorance in front of him. And he had taken her for every penny. She had borrowed as much as she could against the apartment, cashed in a life insurance policy, sold a few items of jewelry to turn it all into a round figure—the last of which had been her own greedy and specious suggestion—and transferred the whole amount to his account in New York. He had flung a few sweet smiles at a lonely, foolish old crone, and she had clasped them to her bony chest. He had violated her. And now he had ruined her.
She wondered if they all knew, whether there were lists of his victims being shared with a combination of pity and contempt. The chatter continued around her, but it seemed to emerge now with a hard, tinny edge, the laughter rising with an unruly eagerness. Nina knew she was flushing, that there might even be beads of sweat at her hairline. She looked for somewhere to put her drink down, and when she caught sight of a passing waiter, reached for his arm to stop him. It was only when she saw his expression that she realized she must have dug her fingers into his flesh. She put her drink on his tray and turned away.
She pushed past a couple and headed for the courtyard gates. Over the heads of guests, she could see that the swarm of photographers was still in place, bystanders thronging the pavement, the road choked with cars. Security guards had formed a cordon in front of the metal detectors. She approached a steward who told her that there was no other exit from the courtyard but that the congestion at the gates would subside once the evening’s performance began.
She turned around. They were all there. Silky Chhabra was shrieking with delight, weighed down with emeralds, her teeth long and yellow. And behind her, Herman Van den Broeck was trying to catch Nina’s eye, a shrewd and alert expression on his face. A mumble in Nina’s ear made her move toward the opera house steps. More people hemmed her in. She felt the graze of a man’s jacket on her arm and a warm gust against the back of her neck. Krish and Candy Mehra were weaving through the crowd, making their way toward her. The performance was not due to begin for a while, and all the doors to the building looked firmly shut, an usher positioned outside each one. She began to edge her way toward the far corner of the building. A foot dragged at the hem of her sari, and a woman in dark glasses said something unintelligible to her.
Around the corner, a few steps led up to a side entrance. She felt a desperate, dizzying need to remove herself from the crowd. If she managed to get into the building, she would be able to stand in a dark corner or passage until they all filed inside; then she would slip away. She walked quickly toward the side door, grabbing at the handrail and almost pulling herself up the steps. The usher in the doorway shook his head as she approached.
“I’m sorry, madam, we are preparing for the show. We are not allowed to have unauthorized personnel here. In another twenty minutes the main doors will open.”
The last vestiges of her dignity hardened on Nina’s face.
“If you value your job, you’ll let me in now,” she said.
“Madam, it is not allowed.”
Nina clicked her fingers.
“I give you three seconds to decide.”
Confusion flickered over his face as he weighed the threat. Nina had never looked more somber or purposeful. He stepped aside and she pushed open the door, knowing that he would probably phone a superior immediately. She staggered through a passage into the foyer, ablaze with lights and mirrors. Members of staff had their backs to her, deep in conversation. She ducked through a doorway into the theater, stepping into its consecrated hush. She stood deep in shadow, staring at the dull shine of the gilt, the whirl of scarlet opulence. Soon every seat would be occupied, the room filled with applause. A voice echoed behind her; she did not have much time.
Turning into the aisle, she walked past another usher, startling him and making him look round the room in bewilderment. She breezed past him. A moment later she recognized the precise look she had seen on his face when their eyes met: it was not one of fear but of pity, normally reserved for lunatics who raved in the street.
She saw some hurried movement in the distance, an oblong of light as
a door was opened and closed. Musicians were tuning up in the orchestra pit, and there was a blast from a clarinet, a warning. Security guards would soon grab her by the arms and escort her out. She would be paraded past the entire audience. For the first time that evening, complete silence would descend on the courtyard. Terror made the ground seem to shift, rearing up to meet her. She forced herself up the steps at the side of the stage and looked frantically around her in the wings. A spiral staircase led to the upper floors, but she would never make it to the top quickly enough in her sari and heels. Her breaths had begun to turn into gasps. A man called out, and there was a commotion at the foot of the stage. She had walked into a trap that she had set for herself.
She fled to the outer passage and realized that the row of three doors led to the artists’ dressing rooms. She tried each one; the third was unlocked. Rushing into the room, she slammed and bolted the door and then stepped away as if it had the power to harm her. Footsteps thundered toward her followed by a crescendo of hammering on the door. There were shouts as the handle was shaken violently. She could barely find the strength but she pushed the sole chair in the room against the door. Then she tried to move the dressing table, but it would not budge. The knocking and shouting continued. Sooner or later they would smash their way into the room. She collapsed onto the sofa and buried her face in her arms. A few moments passed as the blood thundered in her head. She raised herself on her elbows and turned toward the mirror to see her face as it came apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DIMPLE HAD GONE so far as to rehearse her words in front of the mirror. She knew she had never been under any firm obligation to keep Ania informed about her marriage plans or to seek her opinion, but she found it difficult to escape the notion that her silence had been an act of deception. She had the confidence to realize that she knew some things better than Ania, but she still lacked the courage to be able to tell her.