by Marc Levy
Lali met him in front of the fountain in Washington Square Park.
“I feel like having a gourmet meal. Pick the best restaurant in the neighborhood, and it’s my treat,” Sanji said upon seeing his aunt.
“No need to waste your money—I brought us a basketful of goodies.”
As she spread out a tablecloth on the grass and took out paper plates and plastic utensils, Sanji wondered if fate was conspiring against him.
“It’s funny that we’re meeting in this park,” said Lali.
“Why? My partner’s office is close by.”
“Well, my partner also works close by.” Lali continued unpacking the basket.
“What was my father like as a child?”
“He was reserved, always observing other people. Kind of like you. Don’t deny it—last night, you hardly took your eyes off Deepak. But I doubt you saw much, because behind that grumpy face hides a man who’s full of surprises. In fact, he’s never stopped surprising me.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“What is this, a police interrogation? You haven’t told me anything about yourself.”
“Does he drive a taxi?”
“An elevator,” said Lali with a smile. “He has spent his life in a tiny compartment that’s even older than he is.”
“How did you meet?”
“We met at Shivaji Park. I loved going to the cricket matches. I went there every Sunday. It was my taste of freedom. If my father had known that I was watching boys play sports, I would have been in hot water. Deepak was a great batsman. He finally noticed me sitting alone in the bleachers. I was quite pretty when I was young. One day, during a close game, Deepak looked over at me and missed the ball, and everyone was surprised, because normally the other teams’ bowlers could never get him out. But I wasn’t surprised. When the match was over, he came and sat two rows below me, just in case anyone saw us. He said that he had been seriously humiliated because of me, and that to make it up to him, I had to agree to see him again. Which I did the next Sunday, but this time we left the park and walked along Mahim Bay. We sat down near a temple that looks out on the pier. We started talking, and we’ve never stopped. We’ve been together for almost forty years, and when he leaves in the morning, I miss him. Sometimes I even come to this park and walk around, just to be near him. He works on 5th Avenue, at number twelve,” she said, pointing toward the Washington Square Arch. “But he hates it if I go and bother him. That damn building is his personal kingdom.”
Lali stopped speaking and gazed at her nephew.
“I see myself in your eyes, not my brother.”
“What do you see, then?” Sanji asked skeptically.
“Pride and dreams.”
“I have to get back to work.”
“Back to the tech world?”
“It’s my own personal kingdom. I have dinner plans, so don’t wait up. I’ll be quiet when I come in.”
“I’ll hear you anyway. Have fun, and tomorrow, or some other day, we’ll go visit some of my favorite places.”
Sanji walked his aunt to the subway station. As he headed back to Sam’s office, his eyes wandered to the awning of 12 5th Avenue.
A building’s lobby holds its history. It’s the backdrop to its residents’ stories, the people who live side by side but often barely know each other. The milestones of their lives are ushered through the stairwells—births, marriages, divorces, and deaths—but their daily privacy is protected behind the fine apartments’ thick walls.
The lobby Sanji entered was paneled with oak. The elegant décor was illuminated by a large chandelier and crystal sconces, and the center of the gleaming marble floor was inlaid with a black granite rosette and a star pointing in the four cardinal directions. The building’s original charm had been painstakingly preserved. On the reception desk sat an antiquated Bakelite telephone. Once it had been used to call the doorman, but it had been silent for ages. A black notebook whose pages were slowly filled with visitors’ names was open on the desk. And behind it, Deepak was dozing. The click of the front door had not roused him.
Sanji cleared his throat, and Deepak awoke with a start.
“How may I help you?” he asked politely, adjusting his glasses.
Seeing Sanji, he frowned.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see this place that my aunt described in such glowing terms.”
“Haven’t you ever seen an apartment building? Do you live in the Dharavi slum?”
“I wanted to see the famous elevator—”
“Lali told you about that, too, did she?”
“Apparently it’s beautiful and you have to be an expert to operate it.”
“That’s true,” he said, flattered.
Deepak turned around to make sure they were alone. He grabbed his cap and put it on his head. In this fine uniform, Sanji thought his uncle looked like the captain of a ship.
“All right,” he grumbled. “No one is going to call for a while, so follow me and I’ll give you a tour. But be quiet, okay?”
Sanji agreed. He felt as if he had been given permission to visit a museum after hours. Deepak slid open the gate of the elevator and beckoned for his nephew to enter. With his hand on the handle, he waited for a few moments, as if to give a more solemn feeling to the short trip they were about to take.
“Listen closely,” he said. “Every sound is important.”
Sanji heard an electric crackling and the hum of the motor as it came to life. The elevator slowly rose with a whoosh of air.
“You see, it plays music, with a different note at every floor. I can recognize the notes with my eyes closed. They let me know where I am and exactly when I need to lower this handle to gently stop the elevator.”
The elevator came to a stop right at the level of the sixth floor. Deepak stood still, waiting for a show of appreciation with such an expectant look on his face that Sanji did his best to look impressed.
“Going down is even better and requires a lot of skill, because of the counterweight, which is heavier than we are. Do you understand?”
Sanji nodded. As the elevator started to move, Deepak’s cell phone rang. He turned the handle, stopping the elevator.
“Is it broken?” asked Sanji.
“Be quiet, I’m thinking. I’m needed on the ninth floor,” he said, turning the handle once more.
The elevator ascended, much faster than before.
“You can even adjust the speed?”
“It must be Mr. Bronstein, but this isn’t his usual time. Stay behind me and don’t say a word. If he says hello, say hello back, as if you’re just visiting someone.”
A young woman in a wheelchair was waiting on the landing, facing away from them in order to enter backward.
“Good morning, miss,” Deepak said politely.
“Yes, good morning again, Deepak …”
Sanji scooted back against the wall to make room for her.
“Aren’t you going to stop and drop this gentleman off somewhere?” asked Chloe as they passed the second floor.
Deepak didn’t need to explain since the elevator had now settled onto the ground floor. He slid the gate open and just barely managed to stop Sanji from trying to help Chloe. Deepak rushed out into the lobby to open the door for her.
“Do you need a taxi?”
“Yes, please,” she answered.
And then several things happened at once. Someone showed up to deliver a package while the bell behind the desk rang three times. Deepak asked the deliveryman to wait for a moment, which didn’t seem to make him happy.
“Three rings is Mr. Morrison,” Deepak muttered. “But let me get your taxi first.”
“Who’s gonna sign for this package?” asked the deliveryman, following them outside.
Chloe grabbed it, put it on her lap, and signed the slip.
“Ooh, it’s for the Clercs. I wonder what it is?” she asked conspiratorially.
Deepak shot a meaningfu
l look at his nephew, who was waiting under the awning. Sanji stepped over to Chloe and took the package.
“I’ll leave it on the desk, unless you want to open it first,” he said.
He came right back. Deepak was in the middle of the avenue, with his whistle at his lips. But he let three yellow cabs with their lights on pass by without trying to flag them down.
“I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but the bell is still ringing,” Sanji informed him.
“Deepak, go and get Mr. Morrison, I can manage on my own,” Chloe said.
“I’ll get a taxi,” Sanji suggested, coming closer to his uncle.
“Not just any taxi, only the minivans that are handicapped accessible,” whispered Deepak.
“Of course! I don’t know who this Mr. Morrison is, but he doesn’t seem very patient.”
In a bind, Deepak hesitated, and then dashed into the building, leaving Sanji with Chloe.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t everything be okay?” she replied curtly.
“No reason, I just thought I heard you say something.”
“I should have left earlier. I’m going to be late.”
“For something important?”
“Yes, very important … at least I hope so.”
He dashed out into the street and stopped a taxi. A regular one.
Chloe approached him. “It’s very nice of you to almost get run over, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I’m going to have a hard time getting into this one.”
“You’re late, aren’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Sanji leaned over, picked her up in his arms, and gently placed her on the back seat. Then he folded up the wheelchair, put it in the trunk, and came back to shut the door.
“There you go!” he said, pleased with himself.
Chloe looked him in the eyes.
“Can I just ask you one little thing?”
“Sure,” he replied, leaning over the door.
“How am I supposed to get out when I get there?”
Sanji looked baffled.
“When is your appointment?”
“In fifteen minutes, just enough time to make it there, if traffic isn’t too bad.”
Sanji looked at his watch, walked around the taxicab, and got in next to Chloe.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Go where?” asked Chloe.
“Wherever your appointment is.”
“Park Avenue and 28th Street.”
“I’m going the same way,” he said as the taxi pulled away.
Silence. Chloe looked out the window, and Sanji did the same.
“There’s no reason to feel awkward about it,” he said at last. “I’ll just drop you off and—”
“Actually, I was thinking about the joke I made in the park a little while ago. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way. I’m sorry, I didn’t expect us to run into each other again, especially not the very same day. What were you doing in my elevator?”
“Going up and down.”
“Is that a hobby of yours?”
“What’s this important appointment? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“An audition. What about you? What are you doing at 28th Street?”
“It’s also an audition, but with investors.”
“You’re in finance?”
“Is it for TV or the movies?”
“I didn’t know we had this in common.”
“‘We’?”
“I’m Jewish. An atheist, but still Jewish.”
“And what do we have in common?”
“Answering a question with another question.”
“So I can’t be Indian and Jewish at the same time?”
“You just proved my point!”
The car pulled over to the curb.
“Right on time! I’ll tell you what I do for a living if we happen to meet again,” said Sanji as he got out.
He opened the trunk, unfolded the wheelchair, and helped Chloe into it.
“And why would we meet again?”
“Good luck with the audition,” he said as he got back into the taxi.
She watched as it made a U-turn and headed back downtown.
Sanji’s cell phone hadn’t stopped vibrating the whole cab ride. Sam must have been bouncing off the walls of his office.
Sanji arrived, with no explanation for his tardiness or the dreamy look on his face. Sam didn’t even try to hide his irritation but jumped straight into his version of the presentation. Sanji observed his friend’s performance, and, although he found it lacking in creative flair, he didn’t have the nerve to say so under the circumstances.
They agreed that the next morning, Sam would present the project to one of his biggest clients and Sanji would simply grace them with his presence.
After dinner in Chinatown, Sam offered to drop Sanji off at his hotel.
“That’s nice of you, but I’m staying in Spanish Harlem.”
“What the hell are you doing in Spanish Harlem?” Sam exclaimed.
Sanji explained the situation and his aunt’s misunderstanding.
“Why didn’t you ask me to write the letter?”
“You were already doing a lot for me.”
“You’re insane! Giving up a suite at the Plaza with room service and breakfast in bed to go stay with strangers—either you’re crazy or a masochist!”
“They’re not strangers,” said Sanji as he got into a taxi.
The springs of the sofa bed were poking into Sanji’s back. He got up and opened the curtains. The cheerful noises of Spanish Harlem brought him back once more to Mumbai. Sanji believed in signs, and he wondered about the series of circumstances that had led him to this little room overlooking a Puerto Rican bodega in the apartment of an aunt he had never met. All while he had been so determined to flee his family!
The break with his family had taken place after his father collapsed at the dinner table midsentence. His body wasn’t even cold when his uncles had started arguing about the future of the Mumbai Palace Hotel. Sanji had promised himself he would never be like them. He had listened silently as they talked in code about the inheritance and the new division of roles in the company. He then slipped away for a moment of silent prayer beside the body of a man who had taught him so much but whom he hadn’t spent a lot of time with.
According to his uncles, a mother could not raise a child alone—a son needed paternal authority. They decided to take the fatherless Sanji under their wing. From that moment on, Sanji swore he’d escape them.
Boarding schools and tutors made for an austere childhood. Sanji counted the days until school vacations, when he could finally see his mother again. He was later sent even farther away, to Oxford. The definitive break with his family occurred when he came back from England. Sanji happened to run into an old classmate. The conversation soon turned to women. It was generally understood that young people in India could spend time together as long as it wasn’t serious. Deciding whom they would love was up to their families.
Sanji had an idea. Since their carefree youth would soon be taken away, why not find a way to enjoy it as much as possible right now? He had the idea of developing an app so that people could meet each other without relying on chance, an app that could extend their horizons beyond the circle of family or professional connections. The social network he imagined would be much more sophisticated than the ones developed in America. The first versions of his program quickly attracted several thousand users, and their numbers kept growing. He needed more capital to improve the interface, hire employees, rent offices, and market the app to attract even more users. Sanji had inherited his father’s fortune, although most of it was in the form of shares in the Mumbai Palace Hotel, of which he owned a third. His success surpassed his wildest dreams. One year after its launch, the platform was up to one hundred thousand users. Now it had almost reached one million.
The Daily News had covered h
is success, but one journalist raised an issue that haunted Indian society: Would the social network Sanji had created radically change the culture, and how far should it be allowed to go? The article got a lot of attention, and it sowed much discord between Sanji and his uncles. Only his mother was still on his side, even though she didn’t understand much about what her son was doing. He was happy, and that was all that mattered to her.
One day, while visiting his sick mother, Sanji sat at her bedside flipping through family photo albums. He noticed a face he didn’t recognize. He learned from his mother that the young woman in the photo was his father’s sister. An aunt whom he had never met because she had abandoned her family to marry some good-for-nothing and run off to America.
When his mother recovered, Sanji plunged himself back into his work. He needed new capital to grow. Indian banks were reluctant to get involved because his company was constantly being lambasted by the conservative press. Then Sanji had the idea of drumming up investors where his competitors had prospered—America. It had taken just a visa and a letter to an aunt he’d never met to get him here, to this awful sofa bed.
Sanji closed the curtains again, wondering what the next sign would be.
“Can’t sleep?” Lali asked, opening the door to his room. “I’m an insomniac, too. I don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing—the less you sleep, the more you live, right?”
“That’s not what the doctors say.”
“Are you hungry? Want me to heat something up for you? We don’t have to worry about waking Deepak, he’d sleep through an earthquake.”
Sanji sat down at the kitchen table. Lali got out the badam halwa and dished out two large portions of the almond-flavored Indian dessert.
“So, which is it? Insomnia or jet lag?”
“Neither. I was just thinking.”
“Are you worried? Do you need money?” Lali asked.
“No, what makes you think I need money?”
“I know your uncles. When my father died, they cheated me out of my share of the inheritance. Oh, I know the dilapidated apartments he owned weren’t worth much, but it’s the principle of the thing, you know,” she added, taking her wallet out of her purse.
“You can put that away, I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“No one does anything great all alone. Those who think so are full of themselves.”