Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, frowning at the red crosses that appeared on every page. Then she understood. Her mouth tightened. She flipped the pages rapidly. When she looked at me, the expression in her eyes scared me.

  ‘Isn’t anything sacred to you?’ Her voice rose. ‘These red crosses are my periods, aren’t they? Why are they here? On your calendar? If anyone should keep tabs, it should be me. Why are you like this, Shyam? You seem to want to rule me. You won’t let me breathe. It isn’t right.’

  I heard the sob in her voice.

  ‘It isn’t the way you think it is,’ I tried to explain. ‘This way I know when you are ovulating and that’s the best time …’ I finished lamely.

  The anger in her eyes unnerved me. I dropped my gaze, unable to meet hers.

  She stood there for a moment. When she spoke, the distress that had run through her words was replaced by fury.

  ‘I was pregnant once. So it isn’t that I can’t conceive. Perhaps you need to find out if you can father a child,’ she said before walking away.

  I was stunned. I did not know what stunned me more. The thought that she had been pregnant once, or the possibility that I could be sterile.

  I chose to go to a fertility clinic in another city. I wanted the investigations to be done as quietly as possible. The doctor who had been recommended to me was one of the finest. She had an enviable track record and if anyone could help my cousin, it would be her, I was told. I had had to invent a fictitious cousin while I made my enquiries about a gynaecologist with experience in this field.

  On my way to meet her after the tests, I stopped at the Kadampuzha temple and made an offering. Santhana-muttu. A coconut for a child. If the coconut split in neat halves, all would be well. The priest broke the coconut and it cracked evenly. I offered a prayer of thanks. All would be well now.

  The doctor’s smile gave nothing away. ‘It is not good, but it’s not bad either,’ she said, shuffling the sheets.

  ‘What do you mean?’ This woman might look old enough to be God’s mother, but she wasn’t God. And God couldn’t be wrong.

  ‘Your sperm count isn’t very high. It is about sixteen million spermatozoa per ml of sperm. It is not bad, but it isn’t great either. Also, low sperm counts could be a temporary affliction. What is more serious is the sperm mobility—the sperm’s ability to move. If the movement is sluggish or not in a straight line, it will have difficulty in getting past the cervical mucous or penetrating the hard outer shell of the egg.’

  Why am I not surprised? Radha has not let me penetrate her soul in nearly six years of marriage, so what chance has my sperm to penetrate her egg? The fortress walls she hides behind are beyond my sperms and me.

  ‘It is not uncommon. A recent study suggests that fifty per cent of men with infertility problems have double defects like you do.’

  I looked at my reflection in the glass that covered the top of her table. I felt axed. How could it be? How could I have an infertility problem? I didn’t even approve of her using that word. Women were infertile, not men.

  ‘There are a few things you can do to improve your sperm count,’ she said. ‘Wear looser underwear for one. When you wear tight briefs, there is no air circulation and the heat is not conducive to sperm mortality. In fact, the testicles are outside the body because the body temperature has a direct effect on the sperm’s chance of survival. You will be interested to know that Eskimos have the highest sperm counts because the cold temperature allows their sperm to live.’

  I felt a sheepish grin fix on my face. This was surreal, I thought. Here I was sitting with a strange woman, discussing the state of my balls.

  ‘Cut out smoking and drinking, avoid bicycling, but get plenty of exercise. All this should help.’ I looked at her face. How could she not be embarrassed? I was so mortified that I couldn’t even meet her eyes.

  ‘I suggest you come back in a month’s time and we will do a sampling again. Please do bring your wife. I need her to be present. Both partners have to be willing to co-operate. Only then can we start planning how we can make you parents.’

  I took the reports, and on my way home I bought a medical textbook.

  Sperms have to have an oval head and a long tail, I read.

  The descriptions of abnormal sperms reminded me of the freak babies preserved in formaldehyde in specimen jars in the anatomy department of medical colleges. As I read, the word sperm blurred to become baby. Babies with extremely small, pinpointed heads. Babies with tapered heads and crooked heads. Babies with twin heads. Babies with kinks and curls in their limbs. What chance did a sperm with these defects have?

  The textbook reassured me more than her words had. She hadn’t said anything about the shape of my sperm, which meant at least my sperm morphology was all right.

  I put the reports and textbook away in my locker with my important business papers. I didn’t want Radha to discover the truth. I wasn’t afraid of her scorn. If she knew that I was the one to blame, she would smother me with concern. What I feared was her pity. When Radha looked at me, I wanted her to see a full-bodied, redblooded alpha male capable of fathering a hundred and one children.

  The taxi driver clears his throat. ‘We are here,’ he says.

  I sit up and roll down the window. The tour operator had insisted we meet at a resort. He wanted to show me a few things which he thought were very commendable and saleable.

  ‘Is there a teashop nearby?’ I ask.

  ‘There is a restaurant inside the resort,’ the driver says.

  ‘No, not there. Somewhere outside the resort.’

  ‘We passed one about two kilometres back.’ The driver is puzzled.

  ‘Take me there,’ I say. I need some coffee to clear my head. I don’t want to meet the tour operator feeling the way I do.

  I sit in the teashop sipping my coffee. I watch a lizard scaling a wall.

  From a school lesson, I remember a story. Of Tanaji, the commander of the army of the great Maratha king, Shivaji. He had thrown an iguana on to an enemy fortress wall and on the strength of its grip, he took his forces in and broke into what was considered an impregnable fort.

  I would find an iguana, too. The doctor would help me find and nurture one. I would raise enough sperm to conceive an army. I would teach them to rush headlong and straight. I would impregnate Radha. I would give her a healthy, wailing, screaming, kicking and gurgling reason to stay at home. God couldn’t be wrong.

  Radha

  Shyam’s call leaves me feeling angrier than ever. I cannot take this any longer, I think. I cannot bear to be this insufferable man’s wife. I bite my lip and try to repress my anger. Uncle’s friend, Maya, is looking at me from across the room.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Uncle asks.

  ‘That was Shyam. And …’ I stop. I do not want to criticize him in Maya’s hearing.

  ‘And?’ Uncle prompts.

  ‘He’s upset that I didn’t sleep at home last night.’

  Maya rises from her chair and walks to the veranda.

  ‘I said you were ill, which was why I came here last night. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Uncle doesn’t say anything. He sighs. ‘What am I ill with?’

  ‘Gastritis.’

  ‘Radha, do you know what you are doing?’ he asks. His face is worried.

  ‘I know, Uncle. Very well. I know the world would think it is wrong. There is no justification for adultery, I will be told. But I love him. He is a fire in my blood,’ I say.

  ‘I can see that,’ he says wryly. ‘What about him, Radha? Are you a fire in his blood as well?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle. He cares for me. We are like twin halves of a being. We think the same way. I am not a sixteen-year-old girl. I know this love of mine is for real.’ I try to explain how I feel about Chris, and his feelings for me. It is a relief to do so. What we have, Chris and I, is more real, I discover, when I talk about it. To give it mouth and eyes, heart and soul, is to give it form, breathe life into it.
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  ‘Be careful, Radha. Shyam has eyes and ears everywhere. They will think it their moral duty to inform your husband.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I say. ‘My marriage is dead. And Shyam means nothing to me.’

  ‘I don’t think you mean that. You do, in your own way, care for Shyam. Are you saying that eight years of marriage mean nothing to you? But it is not for me to resolve your feelings. You have to do that yourself. Be careful, that is all I ask.’

  On my way home, I stop at Chris’s cottage. He is playing his cello. I stand there, letting the music soak into me. I will ask him for the name of the piece. I will buy a CD and play it all day when I am away from him. That way, I’ll feel as if he is with me all the time.

  I step back. I don’t want him to know I am here. I merely want to reassure myself that last night wasn’t a dream. No matter what the world thinks, as long as I have Chris, I will find the courage to be myself.

  The resort is sunk in a soporific calm. I think of what Uncle had said: Be careful. I am. Which is why I walk in, seemingly guileless, and ask Unni, ‘Has Uncle come in yet? He said he would wait at the Sahiv’s cottage for me.’

  Unni looks up from the computer screen. ‘I haven’t seen him. Do you want me to send someone to the cottage to check?’

  ‘No, I’ll go. I have to return some tapes anyway,’ I say. I do not hurry as I walk to Chris’ cottage.

  He is sitting on the veranda, writing. I worry that I am intruding. He looks up at my footfall. ‘I was waiting for you,’ he says.

  I feel all my worries dissipate.

  He takes my hand and leads me into the cottage, and closes the door with a decisive click.

  Last night, the darkness had allowed me to forget my uncertainties, hide my fear. Last night was a dream I had walked into. At half past three in the afternoon, I cannot tell myself the same. I feel unsure, afraid even, and a voice in my head holds me back: what are you doing here?

  I look around and see the cello. I pretend a casual ease. ‘What is that piece of music you play so often?’

  ‘Which one?’ He crinkles his eyes. I feel my heart somersault. It is an expression I am beginning to know well.

  He opens the cello case and takes the instrument out. He moves to sit on the chair opposite mine and places the cello between his legs. He plays the opening bars of the piece.

  ‘No, not this one,’ I say hastily.

  I hum a tune. ‘That one.’

  He peers at me, interested. ‘You have a nice voice,’ he says.

  ‘A nice humming voice. Would you play it for me?’

  Chris slides the bow on the strings. He plays it for me and a great yearning fills me.

  When he finishes, he places the cello down carefully. ‘I don’t know much about this piece. I found it in the wardrobe of a lodge on the edge of Loch Tay in Scotland. I think it was called Ardeonaig Lodge. One of those places with a log fire, a stunning view over the loch of the surrounding mountains …I found this music score written for the cello. I know I shouldn’t have, but it intrigued me and I took it away. I must send it back and ask them who T. Lavin is. That’s the name of the composer. It is not often you find music written for the cello and this one speaks to me.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I know fear again. I feel so distant from his life.

  ‘Radha,’ Chris asks, ‘what is wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘All of this is so unreal. You, me, this …0ur lives are so separate.’

  Chris says, ‘Come here.’

  I go towards him and he takes me in his arms and holds me so close that all distances disappear and I know that flame in my blood leap and blaze again.

  ‘We can’t take chances,’ I whisper.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ he whispers back.

  ‘Because we can’t take chances,’ I murmur against his skin, and then opening my mouth I nip his flesh.

  ‘Ouch,’ he screams.

  The curtains shut out the day. In the semi tones of the room, in the welding of light and darkness, I can see bits of him. The corner of his smile. An upraised nipple. The ball of his knee. A line of shank. The curve of his little left toe. Dark spaces, too. The shallow cavern of his armpit. The silk of his skin. The salt of his sweat. The base note of his cologne. He is a jigsaw I am still putting together, day by day …I smile at the conceit.

  ‘First she bites a piece of my flesh off, then she smiles. What is all the mystery?’ Another piece falls into place, filling a dark space with defined edges. His voice. I would know it anywhere now.

  ‘I mean it, Chris. We can’t take chances,’ I whisper again.

  ‘Huh?’ He cocks an eyebrow. In the darkness, the green of his eyes is a deep olive, the whites of his eyes whiter than they really are.

  ‘You will have to use something.’ I am too embarrassed to use the word condom.

  ‘Oh, would you pick up a few?’ His tone is careless.

  I sit up in shock. ‘What?’

  No doubt in his country women think nothing of buying condoms. There are even vending machines, I hear. But this is India. And small-town India. How could he even ask me to do it? The horror of it makes me cringe.

  And yet, when I speak, I hear myself say in a small and apologetic tone, ‘I can’t. What do you think will happen if I went to the chemist’s and asked for condoms?’

  He pulls me towards him. ‘Hey, I was just teasing. Relax, Min-min.’ His voice caresses me.

  ‘I picked up a few this morning,’ he says. For a moment, his face is serious. ‘But what about yesterday?’

  I settle against his chest. ‘Last day of my safe period. So I should be fine.’

  I didn’t dare tell him that yesterday morning I had calculated frantically.

  ‘Shall we test drive one?’ he asks.

  I giggle.

  I like this new me. A giggling, glowing Radha. I feel as if I have retrieved the courage to be myself again.

  Much later I ask him, ‘Tell me about where you live.’

  ‘It’s a lovely neighbourhood,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t think it was Manhattan. There is a tree that overlooks my apartment. My bed is by the window and I can see the tree from there. It is an old apartment. My mother’s friend owns it; she sublet it to me. It’s filled with bits and pieces she has collected over the years. A whole wall of books. Many paintings, too. She is a painter, so there are some works of hers, and others she has been given or has acquired. There is a lovely tub. An old porcelain tub mounted on cast-iron griffin feet. There is a screen door that has wheels so you can move it around, depending on where you want it. Strange things, but nice. She lives there for part of the year and I live there for the other half. It’s worked out to be a nice arrangement. There’s place enough for both of us to keep our things and we have a home to go back to.’

  I suppress a bolt of jealousy. I think of this woman he doesn’t even give a name to. I imagine her to be a Glenn Close like creature. Chic and passionate, like she was in Fatal Attraction. All crimped hair and flashing fingernails. I see them sipping wine from tallstemmed glasses with ‘Madame Butterfly’ playing in the background. I see him playing her instead of his cello.

  ‘How old is she?’ I ask.

  I feel his gaze scald me. ‘You are jealous.’ I hear the laugh in his voice.

  ‘No, I am not,’ I protest.

  ‘Don’t lie. You are jealous. I can see it.’ His voice is triumphant. ‘She is my godmother. She is sixty-three and her name is Helen. And guess what, she’s met your uncle. A long time ago. I must ask him about her. Helen doesn’t do figurative work; the only figurative painting she has done is of him. It is a strange painting. Almost diabolic. The energy in it would sear you. Somehow I can’t reconcile the man in the painting with the man he is.’

  ‘He is not so young now,’ I say. I am smiling now. Uncle’s contemporary. Perhaps even an ex-lover.

  ‘Is she good-looking?’ I ask.

  ‘She is charming when you know her. But when you see her first, yo
u think what a little dumpy creature she is. She has a wart on her chin, badly cut hair, and no dress sense. And she smokes a pipe, so she reeks of pipe tobacco.’

  I ache to grin, but feel I ought to be charitable. ‘You are vicious. I wonder what you would tell your friends about me.’

  He hoists himself on his forearms and looms over me. He is so close that his face is out of focus when I look at him.

  ‘Let me see,’ he murmurs. ‘My Min-min is a piece of music that I am still learning to play. Her key signature is F sharp major with sharps and flats that would drive you nuts. Her time signature is adagio appassionato. Slow and passionate.’

  I do not understand the complexities of his description. It is enough that he sees me so.

  ‘Oh, Chris,’ I murmur, for I do not know what else to say.

  ‘Let me finish,’ he says. ‘I was just getting started.’

  ‘Don’t bother,‘I say, holding my palm against his lips. ‘I’ve heard enough.’ And then, with a daring I didn’t think I possessed, I murmur, ‘Show me …’

  He chuckles. His laugh salutes courage. His and mine.

  ‘When did you know?’

  ‘When did you?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘Was it when we sat by the river?’

  ‘Sat by the river …no, much before that, but I asked you first.’

  We play the lovers’ game of trying to retrace our footsteps. We play it with eyes and tongues locked, with hands clasped, and feet that curl into each other’s. We take the time when we didn’t know each other and turn it into a fiery orange ball. A boiled sweet in its cellophane wrapping, which we peel away. A hard confectionery ball we roll between our mouths, playing catch with our tongues. A layer of his time seeps into me, a chunk of my time rests in him. Back and forth we toss our memories. Our tongues and reminiscences, our saliva and our past collide, clash and then collude into a quiet calm, so that the time when we were strangers ceases to exist.

  We lie back content. He knows that my teen years were overrun with the Beegees, while I know his were filled with Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead; we both read Kafka and Camus and secretly dipped into thrillers to shrug existential angst away; we both smoked grass and experimented with drugs. We know that our parents embarrassed and enraged us by turns and sometimes caused us to bury our heads in a pillow wailing, why don’t they understand us? That our formative years lived in two different continents were not so far apart …