The dance floor was left to no one else; not man or woman or couple could compete with Raj Bahvnani’s ability to perform Indian dancing. And all others would not allow him to leave the floor. They applauded and cheered and Savannah Lane was the most demonstrative and led the chant of “More! More!” and someone yelled “Bravo!” and someone else yelled something that sounded like “Shah- bash!” Whatever it meant, in the way it was said it had to be a compliment.
Such dancing was not seen before in Manhattan; at least not in the way he did it: his feet moved as though they were not in New York or even in Bombay but in Moscow’s Bolshoi Ballet Theater; his legs running and jumping with movements above his knees different from those below his knees; his arms twisting and turning with flexibility as though each section of his arms were not connected to the next section of his arms; his hips revolving as though they were in London’s Soho District’s maze of clubs for the young to rock and roll; his neck went side to side and front to back as though he was a headhunter in the Ivory Coast; his fingers behaving as though they were performing in a Bangkok wedding celebration. That exhibition of Raj created the epitome of Indian dancing that had no challenger but had only surrender as the applause and cheers kept any dancing rival away from competition.
But it had to stop sometime and Raj volunteered to stop himself by ignoring the crowd who wanted even more from him. The applause and cheers escorted him from the floor.
In a heap of perspiration and exhaustion he headed toward the small table and its empty chair he had left beside Savannah Lane, and he almost fell on the chair. He took a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and he wiped his forehead.
“You are unbelievable!” Savannah Lane said with a soft southern accent. “You are a danc-uh! A real danc-uh!”
In a display of modesty which was something previously unknown in all his years on earth, he said with breathlessness, “I don’t know how to dance.”
“What!?”
“No. I never danced before.”
“How on earth is that possible!?”
While attempting quick breaths, he rolled his head in that native Indian style that seems to be inborn and so automatically that no non-Indian find it easy to accomplish. “I watched the movies. All Indian movies have dancing in them. All of them: dramas, comedies, tragedies, history; every movie has Indian music and dance.” He took deep breaths and then continued: “I watched movies in the theaters of our cities and on the stretched out white sheets between two trees in our villages that were carried to the village by someone who brought a projector and a sheet and wanted some food from the villagers or wanted a sleeping place from us or wanted something else, but wanted something. I didn’t know I could do what I saw in movies—I didn’t know I could dance—and then I added my own meaning of dance with my own steps and motions I never knew I had.”
Then he wiped his forehead again and this time he added some wipes of the handkerchief on his cheeks and that did it: he was able to wipe away more than his perspiration. This time he was able to wipe away his recently found modesty that was so difficult for him to find and now his old habits came back as he congratulated himself. “Did you like the way I glided—skated—rolled—lifted this audience across all dimensions?”
“Oh yes!” she foolishly agreed. “No one here ever saw anything like you!”
He nodded. He knew she was observant and smart. But then she said something that was not observant or smart. “That man at your table at Mama Leone’s. He is a friend of yaws?”
Raj laughed. “Oh no, M’em Sa’ab! No friend. No friend. Hungry. He wanted a good dinner. He has no money.”
“So you took him to eat?”
“I always do that for the poor.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask, M’em Sa’ab?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Nothing to wonder. He is a dreamer. That is why he is always in trouble—why he has no money—no talent. He dreams of flying through space,” and he pointed upward. “He dreams of heading toward Mars or Saturn or Nirvana or somewhere—from Florida or somewhere—from somewhere.” And Raj laughed, then spread his arms and moved one of his arms up as he moved the other down as though he was flying through clouds.
“He plans to go into space?”
“To hear him, he is going to go everywhere. But he has been nowhere. No money. No nothing. I take him to eat. He was hungry. Now, shall we go somewhere else—for a drink? Not into space. Unlike our friend, we will stay in the United States tonight, M’em Sa’ab!”
“I am not M’em Sa’ab.” There was the certain tone of annoyance in the rhythm of her words as only a woman’s cadence can perform as it becomes somewhat of a warning. Any man would either have ignored the designation of M’em Sa’ab or laugh at it or say “Hey Buddy, I ain’t no M’em Sa’ab!” She, however, was very much a woman. “I am Savannah Lane. That is my name: Savannah Lane.”
“Of course. I said ‘M’em Sa’ab’ because I am taken back home, so very comfortable with you that I go back to—to habits of respect at home. Now, should we go somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else? Why?”
“Because there are more places to go!”
“Where?”
“Ahhh. Top of the Sixes.”
“Top of the Sixes? What is Top of the Sixes?”
“It is the Top of the Sixes.”
“I don’t know what you mean. The top of what sixes?”
“666 Fifth Avenue. That’s the address because there are three big 6’s that are lit up on top of the building and there’s a restaurant on top of the 666’s. I know it well. Fine people. Fine People. There’s a bar there, too. The people who own the Sixes are all close friends of mine. Yes, yes—good people.” What he didn’t tell her is that he knew of it because he read about it while sitting in the Algonquin. “They are my friends.”
“I’m sure they are—but not tonight. Some other time. It’s been a long day and I better get home. Alright if we get our coats?”
Raj gave a very quick expression of squeezing his lips together while nodding in agreement. Like being caught by Chris in the telling of his Taylor Woodrow story, this was just another time for him to accept defeat as gracefully as he would accept victory. “I’ll get your coat. I won’t get mine because I didn’t bring mine,” and he laughed with a new twinkle in his eyes.
In contrast to Raj Bhavnani, defeat was not an accepted trait of Christopher Straw. And so Christopher Straw would not allow the evening to end where it had been headed for him and, instead, he wanted to insure that the hours that had passed so miserably for him would be no more than a misplaced prologue to the more important exaltation ahead for both Christopher Straw and Savannah Lane in the later hours within that January evening.
duet
THEME TEN
A GOOD NIGHT AT ANGELO’S
RAJ AND SAVANNAH WALKED toward the exit area of the front parlor of the Ceylon India Inn. The parlor housed the coat-racks and desk with the coat-checker behind it, and a telephone booth near the revolving doors of the Inn. Through the picture-window Savannah caught a glimpse of a man outside on the sidewalk with hands in the pockets of his black overcoat and he was pacing in the cold. Savannah recognized him as the one who had been at the table with Raj Bahvnani at Mama Leone’s and who had exchanged a quick but intense glance between the two of them. He was bold enough to be making himself noticeable to her by waiting for her exit from The Ceylon India Inn with or without Raj Bhavnani.
Savannah did not want to find out what he would say or do if she and Raj were to walk out together. As Raj helped her put on her coat, Savannah asked, “Raj, you live in Midtown don’t you?”
“Yes. That’s right. I live at the Algonquin Hotel. Would you like to have a drink there? Do you like cats? We always have a cat in the lobby—a friendly one. Do you want to have a drink there? Just some—I don’t know—it’s just some five blocks away; the short ones.”
“Oh, no. I can’t do that
. I have to get home. You go ahead. I live in the Village and I’m going to take the subway home. I always do. I live right across the street from the station. I told the girls who live there—we live together—that I’d be home before 10 o’clock. I’m going to phone to tell them I’m on my way so they won’t worry. You go ahead.”
Although Raj Bhavnani won the attention of the pretty young woman at the Ceylon India Inn by his dancing abilities, she now had given him increased signals that he fell short of winning her affection. He again handled her gentle rejection by using his frequent facade of disinterest. No anger. No hostility. No victimization. By this time he knew what to do because he had already known so many disappointments in life. Even when he was a child no one ever saw tears from his eyes. He wanted to give evidence that he could handle life. And he could.
So even with that quick direction of hers for him to “go ahead,” he at least gave the impression that it was of no consequence whether she stayed with him or if their night together was done. Without protest he watched her as she walked toward the phone booth in unchallenged obedience to the wishes given him by the pretty Savannah Lane. He walked out the door to the street.
All of this while the uninvited wanderer outside turned the other way, his face remaining invisible to Raj who was signaling for a cab. One came in short time, whisking Raj away.
It was close to five minutes before Savannah walked out of the Ceylon India Inn after feeling that enough time had passed to pretend to have made a telephone call, just in case Raj would be waiting for her. She could see he wasn’t waiting but the wanderer was.
She buttoned her coat, walked out through the revolving door and this time the pacing man in the black overcoat made no turn-away for face invisibility. And for the first time he saw her full-length. Even though her coat had a fur collar and there was fur around the bottom of her sleeves and looked warm, its short length didn’t care about the temperature. It was short enough for him to see her legs clearly for the first time by her keeping up with then-current fashion. She looked gorgeous. “Savannah?”
She turned her head toward him. She made no effort to hide her smile. Nor did she keep distance. “Yes. I’m Savannah Lane. You ahh persistent, ahen’t you? Should I pretend that I have no interest?”
He gave a wider smile than hers. “If you want. Sometimes persistence doesn’t pay off at all for me. Tonight it did. Seeing you smile just now—and smile while so close to me—and hear that southern accent of yours—is worth all the failures in persistence that I’ve endured in my life.”
“Oh, my! I am complimented by what you just said but all I asked was ‘should I pretend I have no interest?’ I didn’t say how much or how little or what kind of interest. I noticed you were staring at me at Mama Leone’s and then I saw your angry look at Raj Bhavnani when he came to where I was sitting with mah friends.”
“Of course I was angry! He ate too much and he left the check for me to pay. And that’s what made me angry.”
She smiled. “And you expect me to believe that?”
“No.” He gave a slight smile and it quickly disappeared. So did hers. Their smiles had been exchanged for studies of each other’s face. For a while neither said another word.
She broke the silence. “What’s your name?”
“Chris. Christopher Straw.”
“Now, Christopher Straw, tell me the real reason you were angry at your friend.”
Christopher nodded with his lower and upper lips pressed together. “I wanted to be with you and he was with you. I normally do not stand outside in the freezing cold waiting for one more glance at a girl. But I’m not complaining now and I’m not angry at him or angry at anyone. Not now. Look. It is very cold and I can’t compete with Mama Leone so I won’t ask you if you want to go somewhere for a second dinner, and I don’t know where to ask you to go with me to hear good music, but do you want a drink, or a Coke, or a dessert, or maybe an aspirin?”
Her smile was back. “An aspirin sounds good!”
“Good. Then I’ll have an aspirin too. I never take aspirin alone. I just generally need a cup of coffee to get it down. I’m glad you want an aspirin, too.”
“Yes! That’s the best way-uh to get it down, Christopher Straw.” She said his name for the second time, this time playfully and in the playfulness she was proving she had put his name solidly in her mind.
“Right! Now, just stay next to me,” he gently directed. “I know a place that’s pretty good that’s straight ahead. Angelo’s. It’s not even a half block away. They have great aspirins there. Bayer. Besides that, it gives us a place to get out of the cold—and gives me more time to be with you.” He took her hand and, surprisingly, she held it tightly.
“We don’t need gloves” she said as they walked briskly down 49th Street. And as they got closer to the destination he then changed their pace into slow steps and she accommodated, and after that her head found its way to rest on his close shoulder as the slow steps became even slower. What a marvelous interlude no matter its brevity.
Too bad, but entering the restaurant meant her head went into an upright position. Too bad since there was now too much brevity after all.
He placed their coats on the hooked coat-stand next to their table and as soon as he did that they were greeted by someone who Savannah thought was obviously the owner or the maitre d’ or at least someone in authority at Angelo’s. “Christopher Straw! For the seventh time this week you are back! Each time a different girl!”
Christopher laughed and said to Savannah, “He kids around. He just kids around. That’s Angelo and he will say anything he can think to make his customers uncomfortable. That’s what he does.” Then he looked back at Angelo. “It is not! The seventh night this week! What are you talking about? That’s outrageous!”
“Then it was the eighth night this week; so what?” He looked at Savannah. “Mister Straw comes here every night with a different girl.”
Christopher shook his head but it was combined with a smile. “What are you doing to me, Angelo?!” Then he twisted his head to look away from Angelo to look at Savannah. “The owner here is trying to ruin my evening.”
Angelo nodded. “Alright; I didn’t count the times. But all so young. Yes, a different girl every night, barely out of their teens.” Then he bent down to whisper in Savannah’s ear, “He’s a pervert, you know. Be careful.”
“Oh, I know,” Savannah said attempting to hide a smile or any other sign of lightness, and suddenly her southern accent disappeared. “I’m a policewoman and I read his entire folder—his record before leaving the station tonight. That’s why I’m with him! He should never be left by himself. Angelo—you’re Angelo, right?” Angelo gave a quick nod. “Angelo, just insist on cash tonight. I think he still carries stolen traveler checks and a stolen Diners Club card. It’s why we first arrested him.”
Christopher could not help himself from laughing because she was the only one he ever knew who topped Angelo’s urge to insult with such matter-of-fact ease.
Then she turned to Christopher and asked, “Do you mind, Chris, if I give our order to him?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Two pieces of buttered white toast for each of us. So in other words four pieces in all; two for him and two for me. Butter them for us so the butter melts way into the middle of the depth of the toast while the toast is hot. And a cup of coffee for each of us—regular coffees—and two aspirins for each of us. In other words, add to the four pieces of buttered toast two regular coffees and four aspirins: Bayer, please. Got it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He looked away from her and nodded at Christopher. “I like her, Mister Straw. She doesn’t kid around. She isn’t a child like all the rest you’ve brought here. I think this one might even have passed her 20th birthday. Maybe. Just maybe. Admittedly, she doesn’t look it—but she acts it. And she knows exactly what she wants.”
Savannah gave one of her most feminine smiles with slightly squinted distrustful eyes and then a
quick wink at Angelo. Then she tilted her head just like Miss Osborn did when Christopher was in 4-B. “Thank you, Angelo.”
Angelo nodded, then walked into the maze of tables and stopped to talk to some other customers.
Savannah was glowing. “I love Angelo! I’m so glad you brought me here! I never knew this place existed! Does it have a good reputation?”
“No. Terrible.”
“Then how come they have so many customers?”
“To be insulted. They come here to be insulted. Angelo hates all his customers. What do you think? Do you think this place lives down to its reputation?”
“Oh, yes. It’s appalling. I love it.”
“Savannah, where did you get that name: Savannah?” Suddenly her southern accent became hauntingly re-pronounced. “The same place you received yaw name: Christo-fuh.” How did her accent re-appear in one flash?
“The same place? What do you mean, the same place I received my name?”
“Muh parents. Muh parents named me Savannah just like yaw parents named you Christo-fuh.” Perhaps her accent wasn’t put on, he thought, and maybe it was that hearing nothing but a Yankee talking made the southern accent predominate with automatic ease and quick command, totally beyond her control with something inside of her telling her how to talk to whomever she was with much in the way a person who speaks two or more languages almost unconsciously is able to use them interchangeably without more than an involuntary click going on inside the person’s mind. But of course he was giving her an excuse to what could well be a put-on accent.
“Oh! Okay! Gotcha! I mean did your parents name you Savannah because you were born there?”
“I wasn’t bawn theyuh. Ah was born in Chahleston. Savannah’s in Gee-aww-juh. Chahleston’s in South Carolina, y’know.” Nothing is worse than a geography lesson taught by a southerner with a time-increasing accent.
Raising the Baton Page 9