Baiyya, big brother, clean-shaven and in a dinner jacket as she’d never seen him, while she was dishevelled and still reeling from Simon’s pseudo-embrace. Tariq turned his gaze away from her and toward Simon. She felt sick to her stomach. After almost two years away, Tariq comes back now? For this?
Slowly and awkwardly she sank down, until one knee, then the other, was on the checkered marble floor. She stared at the two men. Such stillness, with Simon standing in front of the avid exhibition-goers, and her beautiful, beardless brother to one side of him, an arm outstretched toward her, though his eyes were turned away. For one strange second she was outside of it all and could see their trio with her painter’s eye: a tableau, classically balanced, with all the whirling color and activity of the red-carpeted arrivals visible behind them.
—
THE BUZZ OF the exhibition crowd, audible to Richard through the open doors, suddenly quieted then was broken by an angry shout, followed by the rising murmur of people with something to talk about.
“Oh, man,” said the guard. He looked at his half-finished cigarette, then dropped it onto the flagstones and walked quickly toward the main doors.
Richard followed, telling himself that another hour of the opening was still preferable to spending all Saturday placating Deirdre. Once inside, the guard pushed without hesitation through a wall of backs. Richard stopped near the door, keeping the guard in sight. From where he was, he could see over people’s heads to the two men that the crowd had circled.
An Asian man in a dinner suit, his face set and angry and as impossibly handsome as a magazine model’s, was standing over a young woman on the floor. She sat awkwardly on one hip, an orange and pink sari piled around her, breathing quickly, her soft features blank and slack-looking. One hand gripped a thick braid that hung over her shoulder, its end brushing the floor. Richard edged forward without thinking. Was she hurt? Sick? The other man was shorter, with gelled hair, his face flushed and angry-looking. But the guard was watching the Asian man, as if he were the greater threat but also almost as if waiting on his word to act. The crowd had stilled again, waiting also.
Someone’s mobile phone beeped, and then all was noise and motion. Gelled-hair turned toward the girl and, just as Richard took another step, the Asian man moved swiftly, his shoulder colliding with gelled-hair with enough force to make them both grunt, and to knock the shorter man off-balance. He crashed to the ground on his back, his face, white as paper now, framed by a black tile. Someone in the crowd called out in an encouraging way, as if this were the entertainment for the night. The guard put a hand to his radio, watching the two men intently.
The Asian man pulled the girl up with one quick movement that also seemed to propel her, sliding and skidding on the marble floor, through the parting crowd and toward the main doors, keeping a tight hold on her all the while. Short and plump, she only came up to his shoulder, and was struggling to keep up with his long strides.
Richard followed just behind them, the guard catching up with him at the doors.
“Aah,” the guard said warningly, one hand patting the radio on his shoulder, which was squawking like a fractious baby.
“That’s family trouble for sure. Best to let them go, man.”
The couple ran down the carpeted steps as if pursued, and for a second the girl looked back over her shoulder, her face, lit up against the darkening sky by the light through the glass doors, distraught and fearful. Beneath the yellow awning, the sari’s colors brightened, and the fabric’s loose end rippled and flew back from her shoulder toward him.
As they left the carpet for the pavement, she seemed to stumble and the man half picked her up, swept her along past the few remaining photographers, flashbulbs going off, and they disappeared down the street.
Richard followed in their wake until he reached the photographers, who were packing up their equipment. One of them was trying to wave down a taxi. When he saw Richard looking down the street, he shouted, “They’re long gone, mate. He had a car.”
Richard offered him a cigarette. “Do you know who they were?”
The man waved energetically at a taxi that drove past without stopping, then shook his head in disgust. “Nah. Gatecrashers, maybe. Protesters. Somethin’ like that. Jaysus, what does it take to get a cab.”
Another photographer appeared, younger than the rest, coming back from the direction in which they’d gone. “That’s that Paki girlfriend of one of the Trust-fund boys, I fink. Took a shot through the side window.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one,” one of the other photographers jeered. “That’d be worth a bit, Asian girl in a car. Never seen that before.”
“Just fuckin’ jealous you are. Too old and fat to run for it now.”
Richard turned away and retraced his steps, unsettled by the quick drama and mystery of it all. The guard was still at the top of the stairs, drawing on a fresh cigarette with a contemplative air. Richard stopped near him, unable to let it alone. “What do you think happened in there? To start the fight.”
“It was over that girl, yeah.”
“So they weren’t gatecrashers?”
“No, no.” The guard gave him a reproachful look. “All invited.” He turned and went inside.
Richard stayed outside to finish his cigarette, mildly disgusted at his own nosiness. Was his own life so boring that he had to stick his nose into other people’s now? The girl was probably fine. Her face flashed into his mind again, as she’d looked back, her round face, the full bottom lip, with its deep central crease. He walked toward the entrance and into a burst of laughter and talking, and Deirdre on her way out with a couple of her stockbrokers in tow.
She gave a small shriek when she saw him. “Darling, how clever of you! I’m famished, so ready to eat something after all that excitement. There’s nothing left to wait for now, and I know you’re starving.” She walked him back outside and, after waving the suits into a taxi, skipped over to him. “How about a curry? On second thoughts, all that fat.”
She waved again at the departing taxi, which appeared to be receiving conflicting directions.
The taxi sped off, then braked and performed a U-turn before passing them again.
Deirdre’s long fingers hooked into his arm and pulled him out from under the awning. “So, Japanese, then? I know this darling little place.”
Richard turned to face her, took her other arm and walked her backward until she was up against the gallery wall, in the shadows, and pressed to him hip to hip. He reached behind her and hooked his hand under her bottom to pull her against his groin, then slid his hand under the hem of the smock and against her crotch. Her mouth opened, and he kissed her hard, spreading the lipstick.
“Takeaway, your place. Let’s get a taxi.”
His fingers were inside her before the taxi had gone a block. The urgency of his desire almost kept them in the lift and, then again, against the door to her flat, only prevented by her leggings.
When the key was finally fumbled into the lock and they staggered inside, Deirdre pulled away, wanting to shower, to slip into lingerie, her usual routine, wanting the latest purchase praised, but he didn’t let her.
A swift upright fuck with her legs around his waist followed in the entryway, with Richard almost instantly dissatisfied, wanting more, trying to carry her into the sitting room. But as he stopped to disentangle himself from suit trousers and shoes she fled laughing to the bathroom. He stripped off and followed her, but by then she was in the shower. She beckoned him in, but the sight of her body leaning against the glass, attenuated by the steam to a minimalist sketch of womanhood, strangely only made his desire fade. He padded out to the kitchen, wondering whether he would have time for a smoke before Deirdre had finished her shower, primed herself with moisturizer and perfume, and climbed into the newest bit of satin and lace. As it turned out, it was two cigarettes and a coffee before she ret
urned, in latex.
Six
TARIQ DROVE THE rental car hard, his arms straight, going fast now that they were on the motorway. Dashboard lights drained color from his face and forearms, and made Rohimun remember a scene from some old black-and-white movie in which the hero was slowly descending an endless ladder into a bottomless pit.
She shivered, but could not bring herself to turn on the heater. Her sternum and right hip felt bruised and tender. The important thing was to be still. And quiet. If she didn’t say or do anything, nothing would happen. Baiyya, big brother, wouldn’t ask anything of her, tell her what he thought, what he was going to do with her. They would just keep driving through the darkness, getting further and further away from London.
When they’d left the V&A, she’d been faint with shame and fear, utterly unable to think what would happen to her next. Tariq had dragged her to a shiny white car and bundled her into the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.
As Tariq had got into the driver’s seat, there had been a blinding double flash through her window: a photographer must have caught up with them. Her brother had thrown the car into gear and accelerated away, and had not spoken or looked at her since.
It had taken them forever to get out of central London, caught in the web of Friday-night traffic, and she kept thinking that Simon would be at the next intersection. But when they eventually merged into the constant swinging speed of the motorway, it brought her no relief.
Now Tariq was saying something about coffees, and he pulled into a service station and got out before she could say, no, please don’t leave me. As soon as the driver’s door closed, she central-locked the doors and shrank down in her seat, keeping her eyes on her fingers, which she clenched on her lap, then spread out, then clenched again.
The angry rattle of the driver’s door handle made her jump, and she leaned across the car to fiddle hopelessly with the handle before she remembered she’d locked it. Tariq slid back into his seat, a steaming polystyrene cup in each hand.
“Munni,” he said. “Take these.”
Her pet name, little Munni, from ever since she could remember. God, how long since she’d heard that from him.
“Munni. The coffees.” Tariq fished in his pockets and pulled out a handful of sugar sachets, tearing them open and emptying three or four into her cup, then the same into his. He never used to have sugar.
He drank his coffee quickly, holding the cup in his left hand as if in the habit of keeping the right hand free. Rohimun watched him as she held her coffee, still far too hot to drink. Tariq here, back in the UK, after so long. Had he known she would be at the V&A tonight? Had Mum and Dad sent him? She shuddered again, pushed the thought away.
Tariq had lost some puppy fat along with the beard, looked taller and thinner, but fit. Wiry, that was the word, with his face and hands darker, more weathered. His alertness, the impression that he gave of physical readiness, was also new. Perhaps this was manhood, after so many years of being a student. His old impatience was still there though, not far below the surface: one quick drum of his fingers, which he then suppressed until she managed to finish her coffee.
No more words were exchanged until after they had set off again.
“So, you knew him, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She forced herself to sip the coffee. Despite the burning shame, some shaitan, some devil inside her would not let her lie. He may as well know the worst. “He was my boyfriend.”
“Jesus.”
He glared at the windscreen, shifted up a gear and merged from the slip road into the busy motorway traffic. Rohimun swallowed, her palate sore from the scalding drink, wrapped one hand around the sash of her seatbelt, the other protectively across her stomach, and waited for what she knew was inevitable. The explosion of rage, the slaps, perhaps a beating.
Lubna from school had lost the hearing in her left ear after her father had caught her sitting in a cafe with a boy: he had driven her home without a word, taken her to the landing and thrown her down the stairs. Tariq, unlike many of his friends, had never raised a hand to his sisters. But there had never been a matter of family honor before. He couldn’t do much while he was driving, though. It would be stopping that would be dangerous. Oddly enough, the thing that scared her most was the thought of Tariq taking her back to Simon. Or Simon finding her. She felt sick at the thought of that photographer, of the scene at the V&A; that would surely mean payback.
Tariq glanced at her, then away before she could meet his eyes. “This is going to kill Mum and Dad.”
The relief: he was taking her home. The shame. Rohimun felt her eyes well up, and she started to search fruitlessly for a tissue.
She heard Tariq puff out a sigh. “Munni. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s alright. You’re right anyway, Bai.” Rohimun found a paper napkin and pressed it against her eyes. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think what to say.” God, how could she face her parents?
“I’ll talk to Dad. Mum will want to talk to you though.”
“No. Not tonight.” She shivered and pushed her body further back into the seat. “I can’t talk about this. I can’t, I can’t. Couldn’t you talk to her? Please, Bai?”
He frowned, but his eyes were glittering and liquid.
She reached out, hope in her heart, and awkwardly brushed her hand, sticky with her own tears, across his fingers on the gearstick. “Please, Bai. I just can’t face Mum tonight. You know what she’s like. Please.”
They were off the motorway now, and the narrow country road was bounded by ditches of featureless, deepest black that made her feel as if the roadmetal on which they travelled was detached, floating above the countryside through which they passed. The road itself had become a series of sweeping blind curves, unlit except by the headlights. She shivered again, and this time Tariq reached out and flicked the heater up.
“I just wish I’d had some idea. All this time away . . .” He hit the steering wheel with the heel of his palm, and she could not stop herself from flinching. “I don’t understand how this happened. It’s not like he’s some village gundah straight out of Bangladesh. Or a pub-man. He looks like an educated boy, high-class family.”
“Yeah, very high class. High-class bullshit.” She winced at Tariq’s startled look. “Sorry, Bai.”
“So why didn’t you just leave him?”
“I did, a few months ago. I went to Shunduri’s flat. I couldn’t cope with going to Mum and Dad’s.”
“Baby’s in London now? Jesus. What’d she do?”
“I told her we’d had a fight, you know? But he was there within a day: I think she called him. And then they did the story on him in that magazine.” Rohimun felt her face burn.
“I’ve been out of the country, you know?”
She swallowed. It gave her a sharp pressure in the chest to tell her brother, almost as bad a pain as when Mum had left the awful message on the answering machine after the magazine article came out. Nothing but Munni, Munni, then crying until the machine cut out. Rohimun never answered the phone after that.
“He’s a society boy, yeah? So the magazines, the papers, they were interested in him, in who he was with.” Rohimun swallowed again and went on, very softly. “He told them I was living with him, and they printed it.”
There was silence in the car now, but Rohimun could see that Tariq was crying. So Mum and Dad had told him nothing. She may as well have stabbed him. She forced herself to continue. “After that I knew I couldn’t go home.”
She didn’t need to tell Tariq her other great dread: that when they got home, the door would be closed to her anyway. That Shunduri was their only daughter now.
In the silence Tariq drove on, the headlights illuminating a continuous tunnel of black hedgerows.
She closed her eyes and drifted into a doze, broken now and again by panic and the conviction that it
was actually Simon driving, or that Simon was behind them. Then Tariq was on his mobile, speaking quietly in Bangla. She hadn’t heard it in so long, she could feel the tears start again.
When he finished, he turned to her. “Mum and Dad aren’t living in the community, the Oxford community now. Don’t forget that. It’s not like they’ve got neighbors watchin’ their every move anymore, yeah. It’s a gora village in the countryside.”
At least he could still speak to her. “Have you seen them then? Since you got back?”
“Nah. I only got back from Jo’burg a week ago. Been looking for you.”
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. So they hadn’t sent him. “It won’t make any difference, Bai. I mean, they haven’t changed that much. They’ll never take me back. And what if a reporter turns up, or a photographer comes around, yeah. What Dad’s precious stately home will do then, I don’t know. Sack him maybe.”
Tariq gave a sudden grin. “Put him in the stocks, more likely. Look, I’ll think of something. Mum and Dad’ll come around. They just need some time.”
“Bai, they’ll never—”
“Of course they will. You’re Dad’s favorite, yeah?”
“They won’t.” Rohimun startled herself with the force of her tone, and they both fell silent.
Then Tariq spoke, his voice tight. “They’ve fucking got to, alright? They’re all we’ve got.” He cleared his throat. “If they can’t forgive, I won’t leave you here. You could come back to Jo’burg with me.”
She stared blankly at him, but he kept his eyes on the road.
“Just let me worry about it for now, right?”
South Africa. He wanted her with him, even if it meant breaking with Mum and Dad. He knew about Simon, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t turning the car around and driving back to London to sort things out with a funchait, or even shouting at her about the family honor, telling her that she’d made her bed.
A Matter of Marriage Page 7