Vertigo

by Ashok Banker

  ‘I should go,’ he says, suddenly desperate to leave, half-rising.

  ‘Where? Where are you going?’

  ‘Home. My mother...’

  She catches his arm, pulls him down. ‘Are you crazy? Have breakfast at least.What difference does another hour make? I’ll drop you.’

  ‘I don’t know...’ He fidgets uncomfortably, looking around. A woman enters the restaurant and his heart jumps. But it isn’t his mother; of course, it isn’t. How could she know he’s here? Yet there are times when he wonders if maybe, just maybe, his mother has some supernatural ability. A painful memory stirs: His mother appearing dead drunk in her nightgown at a school social when he was fifteen, staggering up the stairs to the school auditorium at the precise moment that Jay was coaxing a coy dance partner downstairs for a moonlight walk. He zaps the image, remembering with painful clarity the shock, the sense of cosmic betrayal, the speechless shame at the sight of this wild-haired red-eyed spectre appearing at the top of the stairs, clutching a bottle of government country liquor orange flavour in one hand, a cloth purse in the other, her nightgown stained with the unmistakable brown Rorschach of a woman’s monthly discharge. The horror, the horror. He gulps down a large glass of water, puts it down, holds his head in his hands.

  ‘Jay, are you okay?’

  He nods dumbly.

  ‘What is it? Are you feeling sick?’

  He shakes his head. In his belly, the water and coffee swirl, bloating his guts. He belches, tastes beer, Coke, rum, coffee, water. Can you taste water?

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  Meera’s hand on his; warm, anxious, strong. ‘Jay, talk to me.’

  He shakes his head, fighting the tears that demand to be released.

  ‘Is it about your mother? Are you worried about her?’

  He makes a sound; a half-laugh, half-choked cry.

  ‘Do you want me to call her?’

  He forces himself to look up at her. She’s leaning forward across the table, the top of her breasts visible down the shirt at this angle.

  Beautiful, so beautiful; and yet so impossible. His voice is caught deep within his throat, hoarse with phlegm and swallowed tears. ‘No phone,’

  he manages.

  ‘Do you want to go home then? Now? I can drive you home if you Like.’

  Hoarsely: ‘What about the breakfast?’

  ‘Fuck the breakfast.’

  ‘But you’ll have to pay.’

  ‘Jay, forget the damn breakfast. I’m concerned about you.’

  He shakes his head, nods, lifts the empty glass to his lips, doesn’t know what he’s doing. ‘I’m fine.’

  The waiter arrives with a full tray. Meera says without looking at him: ‘One moment.’ In a different, gentler tone: ‘Jay, there’s no problem. We can do whatever you like. I can always have breakfast later.What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nods. She searches his face anxiously, ignoring the waiter’s impatient expression. Finally, still not completely satisfied, she nods to the waiter. The man sets the food down, leaves. Jay stares at her waffles, jug of syrup, his own burger, heaped plate of coleslaw and fries. Where’s the milkshake? He scans the table again.

  He picks up the knife and fork, then puts them down. He’s not sure whether it’s okay to eat a burger with his hands in a five-star hotel. Meera watches him, not touching her food. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  He tries to smile reassuringly at her, ends up with a bizarre lopsided grin. She picks up a waffle and bites a bit off the corner. Inspired, he grasps the burger, bites. Juices flow down his mouth. He reaches for a napkin.

  In minutes, his plate is empty.

  Meera smiles. ‘Well, you were hungry.’

  He takes the milkshake from the waiter’s hand, not letting him set it down, drinks greedily. Meera laughs when he slurps air at the bottom of the glass and stares at the illusory fullness of the froth. ‘You eat like a kid.’

  He looks at her. ‘Maybe I am a kid. Maybe I never grew up. Maybe I never had a chance to grow up.’

  She catches the note of desperation in his voice. ‘How old are you, Jay?’

  ‘How old do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. You look twenty.’

  ‘I am.’

  She stares. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m twenty years old.’

  ‘But that’s absurd. You’ve been working at DM for three years.

  You’ve done your management. You’ve got to be at least twenty-five, twenty-six.’

  He raises his arms, palms up. ‘Fooled you, ma’am.’

  ‘Jay, what are you talking about? You can’t be twenty.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Do management.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘When I applied at DM, Chris said he wanted MBAs. So I said I was an MBA. I had a friend who did his MBA at Siddharth, so I said I did my MBA at Siddharth. He never asked me for a certificate or anything.’

  ‘You mean you were... seventeen years old... when you joined DM?’

  ‘Sixteen years and some months.’

  ‘But what about college?’

  ‘I didn’t do college. I applied for the correspondence course, paid my fees for the first year, but there was so much work at DM, I couldn’t get time even to read my textbooks. So I dropped out.’

  She leans back, crooks an elbow, places an arm on the back of the sofa, touches her chin with a forefinger, stares at him. ‘Wow.’

  He shrugs, pleased at the impression he’s made.

  ‘And you did all this because you had to support your mother?’

  That spoils his pleasure. The truth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jay, that’s incredible. I mean, I knew you were intelligent, bright, from the first day I met you at DM, but this is too much.’

  ‘You should have known. Didn’t you remember my age? I mean, we met at the wedding.’

  ‘Yes, but,’ she pauses, ‘that was ages ago. Besides,’ she looks down, the rest of the family never really talked much about you.’

  ‘Embarrassed. I don’t blame them.’

  She sighs, adds Sweet’N Low to her coffee.

  ‘Meera?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No, I mean, really talk. About,’ he swallows, scared that her face will change, that she’ll say Yes but mean No, ‘about my mother. My problems.’

  She leans over, instantly responsive: ‘We can talk about anything, Jay. I told you last night, I want to help you.’

  He nods, the tears returning unexpectedly, misting his vision.

  ‘We can go back to my place, relax, talk.’

  ‘What about your landlady?’

  ‘Oh, forget her.’ But she betrays a twitch. ‘No, maybe you’re right. She can be quite a pain sometimes. Why don’t we do this: Let’s gas up the car, then go over to Sun ‘N’ Sand.’

  ‘Sun‘N’ Sand?’ He’s heard of the hotel, a favourite haunt of film stars, very exclusive.

  ‘I’m a member of the health club there. You swim?’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘We’ll get you some trunks. Good. We can spend the day there.

  You can have a massage. I think you need a little pampering.’ She smiles affectionately, tweaks his nose. ‘Twenty years old! God!’

  He wonders about Mama. He can’t figure out what to do. He’s on a roller-coaster ride, up one minute, down the next, manic-depressive.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Meera. About my mother.’

  Her eyes reflect his pain. ‘Let’s get out of here, we’ll talk about it.’

  Only now does he realize that the place is packed with people.

  ‘I mean now. Whether to call her or...’

  ‘Jay, don’t mind my saying this, but... oh, god, how do I say it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ye
s, thank you.’ She signs the credit card slip, the waiter returns her card, takes the billfold away. To him again: ‘You’ve done a hell of a lot for your mother. More than any guy I know. I think you deserve to think about yourself for once. For one day at least.’

  He stares at her as she gathers up her purse, prepares to leave.

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Shall we?’

  They manoeuvre through the crowded restaurant. At the door, Meera exclaims, picks up a copy of Economic Timex and walks out of the door with it as if she’s just bought it at a news-stand. Jay, appalled at her casual boldness, stares longingly at the Journal. He glances around.

  Nobody is paying attention to him.

  He slips the Asian Wall Street Journal out of its slot, folds it under his arms, and walks quickly after Meera.

  chapter sixteen

  ‘God,’ Meera says, her perfectly manicured fingernails touching her forehead. ‘ God. That's terrible.’

  He sits looking out through the windshield.

  They haven't reached Sun ‘N’ Sand yet; they're at the petrol pump near Juhu beach, fourth in a row of waiting cars. During the drive to Meera's flat, while she was changing her clothes, then while they drove here, Jay has been talking: Not the complete epic, but an exhaustive abridgement. His parents’ doomed marriage, his father's self-absolvement of responsibility; his mother's desperate struggle to raise him, educate him; her alcoholism; Jay's odd jobs throughout his school years, anything to keep food on the table; after finishing school, his seeing the vacancy ad for DM among others, applying; en route, a few brief but heart-rending episodes to illustrate his mother's character and ‘accomplishments’ ; his meeting Tuli in the last year of school— they would have been classmates still had he continued his studies; ending with the incident with his mother two weeks ago—

  he still has the scar on his forearm.

  ‘God, Jay. That's a living nightmare. How did you survive all that shit?’

  He grins, less tense now that he's vomited out so much gook:

  ‘Japan survived Hiroshima, didn't it?’

  They shift up to second place. Meera has been smoking since they stopped at the pump; now, she flicks the butt away into a pool of water—or is it oil? Jay holds his breath, but the butt hits the puddle with a hiss and winks out.

  ‘And this girl,Tuli? How does she feel about all this?’

  ‘She knows everything.’

  ‘And she’s willing to accept a mother-in-law like that?’

  ‘What do you mean “accept”?’

  ‘I mean, she’s going to live with your mother?’

  ‘Not exactly. She wants me to move out, get a flat on rent.’

  Meera starts the car again, moves up before a pump. The attendant puts his hand out, she drops the key in his palm: ‘Twenty litres.’

  ‘We went to Lokhandwala last weekend, found a place. But now ’

  ‘I know. You told me about it last night.’

  He’s fantasized about talking to someone for so long that he could easily tell her everything twice but he’s scared of putting her off . ‘Anyway, so you know the precise level of the shit in the creek right now.’

  ‘I told you, I can lend you the cash.’ She holds up a hand before he can open his mouth to protest. ‘You can pay me back, Jay. Look, for god’s sake let’s get one thing clear. Either you want me to help you or you don’t. If yes, then treat me like a friend, not just a shoulder. Okay?’

  He is surprised and moved by the iron in her voice. She looks at him, her eyes blazing. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She pays the attendant, plugs the keys in the ignition, roars out the pump like she’s got a Lamborghini under her ass not a Volkswagen, spins out on the road and carves a hole for herself in the traffic. She heads up Juhu Tara Road. He feels some change in her, anger—or passion?—keying up, growing taut, stretching. Is it something he said? Or did? He remembers her from last night, lying back on the rear seat, her breast spilling outside her shirt, her nipple erect, his cock swelling. He falls in love with her a little now, or maybe he’s just grateful because she’s listening. After all these years, somebody is listening.

  The swimsuit is too small for him. He stares at his reflection in the full-length mirror of the changing room. Look at me. I need a haircut, a shave. What the hell, I need a new chest, arms, legs, more muscle, less slouch.

  Meera knocks on the door. ‘Jay?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What are you doing in there? Masturbating?’

  ‘The suit’s too small.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s a bikini brief. It’s supposed to be that way.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could barely get it on.’

  ‘It covers your essentials, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Uh... yeah.’

  ‘Then get the hell out before they start charging you monthly rent for this damn cabin.’

  He checks hurriedly for visible pubic hair, tugs the tiny black brief down, exposing himself at the top, adjusts it again, checks one last time, swallows, unlatches the door, steps out awkwardly, face red.

  Meera raises her eyebrows, looks pointedly at his crotch, pats his member. ‘Great. You look better than Biondi.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Matt Biondi, American swimming champ. Let’s go.’ He follows her out to the pool, unable to keep his eyes off her costume: skin-tone string briefs and top. At a glance, she looks nude, which she is, except for a couple of inches. He realizes with a heart-flutter that she must shave her pubic hair to wear such a costume. He walks across damp grass, enjoys the blades prickling his soles, the wind on his body. He realizes he’s going to get an erection, and wants to get in the pool before it happens.

  Never before has he walked out in the open dressed in so little.

  Never before has he seen a girl wearing so little. Never before has he been out with a girl so beautiful, so arousing, so intimate with him.

  Compared to Tuli, Meera is... what? He doesn't know how to describe her, or, as the old joke goes, he doesn't know how to describe her without using his hands.

  They emerge from the trees into the sunshine. There is nobody by the pool, the deck chairs are empty. But there are two foreigners in the water, tanned Europeans. Meera leads the way to the showers, which are out in the open. She turns one on, doesn't seem to mind the water on her hair; no shower caps for her. Jay forces himself to look away, not to stare. He turns on the shower, is shocked at the chill of the water, shivers involuntarily. Meera notices, laughs. He rubs his neck; thin black threads of collar grime come away. He wonders if he should use a soap, reluctant to take his unwashed body into the shining blue pool. But Meera has finished, is walking to the diving board. Jay shuts off his shower hurriedly, starts to follow her, then stops.

  He watches her climb up the metal rungs, up past the first level all the way to the top. She walks out to the end of the platform, twenty-feet high. The sun turns her costume into gleaming metal; brass. The two Europeans in the pool have stopped swimming, are resting their arms on the side, looking up at her. One of them says something to his companion. They both grin; man-grins.

  Meera raises her arms. The faint shadow of her underarms is strangely arousing. The heat of the day dries the water on Jay. He is frozen, watching. Her arms meet at the top, fingertips join. The bikini top is pulled up, leaving the lower halves of her breasts exposed. Jay glances at the two foreigners, realizes they've noticed this, burns with anger at their unselfconscious stares. A bellboy or somebody in a hotel uniform stops to gape at her. She arches her back, an exquisitely shaped Barbie doll, throws her hair back. Water on her face catches the sun, glitters; diamonds and sapphires. She springs into the air, is suspended in space, brown body against deep-blue sky, begins to fall, slices the blue skin of the pool, is swallowed up with barely a ripple, vanishes.Jay hears applause, realizes he’s clapping. The Europeans nod, clap enthusiastically. The bellboy moves on, shutting his open mouth.

  The water hides his half
-erection but aggravates it; the sensuous cool touch of fluid caresses him between his legs, the insides of his thighs, under his arms, his nipples. He stands in neck-deep water, swishing his arms, enjoying the swirling waves.

  Meera breaststrokes fluently up to him. ‘Come on. Swim.’

  He nods, but stays where he is.

  She dives, grasps his waist underwater, nuzzles his navel, goes lower. He blushes, tries to push her away gently. She emerges, laughing, water rolling off her hair. ‘So that’s why you aren’t swimming. Your rudder is horizontal.’

  ‘Meera!’ He looks around. The two Europeans have climbed out, are walking towards the showers. ‘You’re too much.’

  Her brown eyes twinkle. She touches him below the waist again, then slides her hand right into his briefs, grips his erection, strokes it once, pulling back the foreskin. He gasps, outraged. ‘Hey!’

  She releases him, stands before him, pressing her body against his.

  Her breasts against his chest, she grips his buttocks from behind, forcing his rock-hard penis against her crotch. He swallows, has a moment of desperate desire during which he almost puts his arms around her, comes to the brink of ejaculation. Then he shoves her away roughly. Too roughly. ‘I’m not Chris.’

  She falls back in the water, arms flailing clumsily, twists around, regains her balance; she swims back to the shallows, stares at him.

  Her eyes are filled with pain, unmistakable agony, not the anger he’d expected. He has seen pain like that before; he has seen it a million times, in mirrors.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. They are partly dressed; she has a bathrobe on over her costume, he has pulled on a pair of jeans she gave him back at her flat, brand-new Levi 501s she said she'd bought for her brother, and a Fashion Street tee shirt—hers. They are walking along Juhu beach, the sand hot beneath Jay's bare feet. He has to keep his eyes down to avoid stepping on the coconut shells, assorted trash, horse and camel dung. Her arms are folded across her chest, head averted from him, staring out to sea, damp hair over the bathrobe.

  ‘That was a mean thing to say,' he says. ‘I'm sorry.'

  She doesn't reply.