Like us, I thought. Like us.
III
ON A MORNING LIKE THIS, London could be the world’s greyest city. A big-bellied sky pressed against the tops of buildings, their roofs and chimneys, while pale, pallid light clung to walls and windows, settling dully on the ground. The parks, unused and abandoned, cradled lakes of grey water, and the trees seemed extinguished, their leaves defeated by damp. It was raining—an odd drizzle that made people undecided about opening their umbrellas. Instead, they buried themselves into their coats, willing to be warm, to shield their faces from the pallor of a lifeless sky. The city had awoken to monochrome, bereft of all color, except the splash of a telephone-box, a bus, the sudden silvery glimmer of passing cars. A city in long mourning for summer.
Inside the skeleton of Paddington Station, encased in ribs of steel, the aspect, perhaps given its containment, was more lively. Passengers scurried around, stepping off, and into trains, or headed underground, standing on escalators that traveled into darkness. A busker played her violin, the bow clasped in her frayed mitten-clad hands, and the sound rose through the air like a bird trapped inside the belly of an enormous beast.
Above that came the flatline call of automated announcements—the 10:45 First Great Western service train to Cardiff leaving from platform 5; the 10:57 to Reading delayed by twenty minutes, We apologise for the inconvenience; the 11:06 to Oxford departing from platform three. The 11:15 to Bristol…
I’d ordered a coffee, and now another.
How long could I make it last? I sipped slowly, cradling it in my hands. The trouble was, in this weather, it cooled rapidly; soon, the liquid swirled weak and insipid in my mouth. I was at a small table outside the entrance to Costa, along a row of shops lining one side of the station. Above the grand doorway to my left, a three-faced Victorian clock counted the minutes between announcements.
She would come, I told myself.
She asked me to be there. She must show up. I didn’t want to reflect on it now, but if she didn’t we had no way to be in touch. We hadn’t exchanged addresses, or phone numbers. We didn’t have the time—rather it hadn’t struck me to, in the midst of all her pronouncements.
He’s not my brother.
I could still hear her voice, calm as a windless sea.
If I hadn’t attended the concert, and stayed behind, I may never have known. No, the points at which to pick a moment of fated ruse lay further back—multiple and many. This venue was, if nothing else, appropriate. Stations, airports, and docks are sites of infinite departure, reservoirs of potential journeys, of possible events, the slippery and fleeting, worlds aborted and almost born.
I looked at the train tracks, joining and parting, reflecting light.
How difficult was it to comprehend this web of connections?
This complicated intersection of lines.
At some point, we feel compelled to account for every decision, every circumstance that places us in a particular moment.
We paint a surface and leave no free spaces.
Horror vacui. The fear of the empty.
In the end, we are all cartographers—looking back at a map of our lives. Marking out the uneven course of our existence, hoping there’ll be no disappearances, of ourselves and the people we love.
“Are you done?” said a bright, young voice to my right. A blonde pony-tailed waitress in a neat red apron stood at my shoulder. Her gaze fell on my unfinished coffee. “Oh, I’m sorry…”
In the background, I could hear a call for the midday train to Oxford.
“No, I’m done, thank you.” I gestured that she could clear up.
“Would you like anything else?”
I hesitated. The three-faced clock made a mockery of my expectations.
“No, that’ll be all.”
I pulled on my coat, buttoning it up tight, and wove a woollen scarf around my neck. As I walked away, headed down the platform toward the escalators, I heard someone call, “Excuse me… sorry… excuse me…”
When I glanced back it was the waitress, approaching, holding a bit of paper in her hand. “I almost forgot… were you by any chance waiting for someone named”—she glanced at it—“Myra?”
“Yes… I was.”
“Are you”—she scanned the paper again—“Nehemiah?”
“Yes, I am.”
She smiled, pleased and relieved, holding it out. “A lady dropped by this morning, and requested one of us to give you this. She said she had to leave earlier than expected…”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome… I almost forgot… but no one else sat here as long as you… I should have asked you earlier… I forgot…” She was young, barely out of school, and I can only imagine the kind of adventures this encounter had conjured in her heart.
I said she’d been most kind, most helpful.
“Not at all.” She wished me a good day before hurrying back.
The paper had been torn from a notebook, the edges raggedly uneven. It carried a hasty scribble, an email address. “Write me.”
One evening at the bungalow, I remember, Myra was filled with a fiery energy. Her spirits soaring, driven by something unfathomable. Everything, she declared, would be transformed. The drawing room into a stage. The heaters lit and radiating warmth. The bar opened and displayed. The curtains drawn to withhold a secret.
In the center, her space. A stool and a music stand.
Everyone, she pronounced, must wear a suit for her soirée.
“A suit?”
“Beg or borrow, darling.”
“But—
“Find one. Steal.”
Nicholas, sitting aside quietly, said he’d dig out something suitable for me. He rummaged through his cupboard, throwing options on the bed. A pair of trousers, too long but they’d do. An exquisitely tailored ivory shirt. “Are you sure—” I began. He waved the rest of my words away.
Finally, I was fittingly attired.
The get-up may have been bulky, but the bow tie, he remarked, was perfect.
Later, Myra joined us in the drawing room, where we were waiting with our drinks.
She sat beside me on the sofa, trailing her fingers on my arm, watching me with cool, clear eyes. She leaned closer when I spoke, her neckline low and flimsy. Her perfume heady, sweet like lilies.
What would he think?
I saw her glance across at Nicholas, sitting separate from us, on an armchair, but I couldn’t decipher the look on their faces.
Did she want to rouse him to anger?
“Why don’t you commence your performance?” Isn’t that why we’re here.” His voice was as smooth as the whisky we were drinking.
“When I’m ready, I will.” She turned to me. “Will you be my cupbearer, my precious? And fetch me more wine?”
I refilled her glass, and my own.
The room, ablaze with heaters, had warmed up; we were uncomfortable in our suits.
She wouldn’t permit us to loosen our ties, take off our blazers.
When it was well past nine, she prepared for her recital. For that evening, she announced, she’d picked something by Brahms…
“Naturally,” murmured Nicholas. “Can’t we have something else?”
She was stirring him like the wind whipped the sea.
“I’ll play what’s on the programme,” she said, “Brahms Sonata in F minor, Op 120., Number 1… Vivace.”
A lively, crescendo piece, that wavered between moments of long strung melancholy and fits of vivacious energy. Almost schizophrenic in their ability to exist alongside each other on the same page of music.
Like Myra herself.
She was with me, my arms around her waist, the dip of her hips—while he was watching. Her breasts pressed against me as she leaned back and laughed. Then, it was all three of us, falling over each other, the alcohol flaming in our heads, clinging to someone’s arm or shoulder. Soon, the night scattered, like snowflakes, into patches that fell out of our memories.
> What I do remember was returning to the guest room, where I sprawled on the bed, the alcohol burning away all life. It was sometime before dawn, before light had flooded the sky, when a figure moved swiftly toward me, reaching for my shirt, my trousers. Undoing them with fumbling fingers. In the air, her perfume lingered, strong and heady, sweet as lilies. I said her name when the person leaned in.
“It’s me…” He hushed into my ear.
“Myra,” I said, “you smell of Myra.”
It was difficult to push those memories away while chastely typing—Dear Myra… I hope this message finds you well… Will you be in London anytime soon? In honesty, it hardly was that seamless. How should I begin? And end? “Love, Nem,” or “best wishes.” I spent an entire afternoon reworking the middle. Eventually, I kept it polite, and brief. After all, this was meant only to put us in touch.
A few days later, she replied, with a line of apologies, pleasantries, and affirmation. Yes, she was in London, but for a string of pre-Christmas concerts; it was a busy time. Perhaps it might be better if we worked out something else—how long would I be around?
At first, I toyed with the idea of suggesting a visit, I could travel to the countryside. I remembered Santanu saying I should get out of the city, for a break. Eventually I didn’t. Somehow, I had the feeling I needed to be careful, in case I pushed her away with a gesture, a word. So I was restrained, giving her my dates, ending my message lightly—“Whatever, for you, is most convenient.” The edges of our emails pulsed with things unsaid, and unanswered questions; I suppose it was silently understood that we’d talk when we met.
But despite my caution, she didn’t write back.
Everyday, I left my laptop on, waiting for the ping of a new email. Rushing to check when that did happen, only to find PR announcements for art exhibitions, or messages from Nithi—something related to work, an article due soon, a piece that needed editing. And when I was out, I obsessively checked my phone. What if I didn’t hear from Myra again? What if she’d decided otherwise.
The screen ridiculed me with its emptiness, with its reiteration of her silence.
A week passed; it seemed endless.
It didn’t help that all the while we were assailed by dismally wet weather.
And Christmas.
Both of which began long before the 25th of December.
Carols spilled out of shops, reminding everyone to be good, that Christ was born, and we must, in joyful unison, dream of snow. Oxford Street was lined by cheer mostly manufactured in China, and the city heaved under the relentless stamp of shoppers.
A bit like Diwali back in Delhi, I told Santanu.
We were elbowing our way through Covent Garden. Above us, gigantic silvery-red baubles dangled from the arched ceiling, wreathed by pythons of green tinsel.
“I think I prefer this place in the eighteenth-century. You know,” I said, “when it was a notorious bohemian red light district.”
“What?” said Santanu. “Oh, yes.”
This wasn’t the first time I noticed he was distracted; lately, he seemed unusually preoccupied.
“And this weather,” I continued, “apparently the wettest December on record for a century.”
“They always say that,” he muttered vaguely. “In this country, every month sets a new bad weather record.”
“Is Yara coming?”
“No.”
“I thought you said–”
“Earlier she said she would… then today, she texted saying she couldn’t make it…”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
We trudged past shoppers and loungers, digging our gloved hands deep into our pockets. The cold stung our faces like invisible airy nettles.
Yes, I replied, long ago, with my sister and other children from our neighborhood.
Instead of explaining why he’d brought it up, he said, “I wish we didn’t have to go to this thing.”
We were on our way to the Institute’s annual Christmas party. “Join us for some holiday cheer!” the email invite exclaimed, and it didn’t seem like Santanu was in the mood for any this season.
When we passed the old Faber & Faber building, he stopped.
“Nem,” he said, “do you feel up for a quick drink?”
I was about to remind him we wouldn’t be left wanting a bar at the party, but something about him—the look on his face, his gestures—made me acquiesce.
Our nameless bar was surprisingly busy that evening, invaded by students intent on end-of-term revelry. The management had made a not wholly uninspired effort at festive décor, and Santanu and I squeezed in at the end of the bar counter with an assortment of plastic candy canes and fat Santas dangling above our heads. All around us, the tables were crowded twice over, the air vivid with snippets of laughter and conversation.
We ordered our drinks—two pints of St Peter’s, a dark, sweetly smooth stout—and I waited for him to speak. I’d hardly, if ever, seen Santanu at a loss for words. For as long as I’d known him, he was articulate and eloquent, at times happily loquacious. Now, he gazed at his glass, at the wooden counter, the beer taps, as though these things might offer him some inspiration.
“Is everything alright…” I offered, thinking it might make it easier for him to begin. “I mean, with Yara…”
“That’s the problem, I’m not sure…” He sipped his ale. “I suppose it all started at the Queen’s Head…”
I couldn’t tell where this was heading.
We’d spent a few evening there. It was nicer than this bar, more atmospheric, complete with roaring fire, standing piano, and an excellent beer and whisky list. But it was also further away. Hidden in a row of bleak sky-grey buildings down Acton Street near King’s Cross.
“Remember that evening…? You, me and Yara…”
Not long after they first met. They invited me for an aperitif, and I found, when I arrived, that it was a special occasion—the publication of her poetry chapbook. I ended up walking home well past midnight.
“We were talking about the dedication…”
“What dedication?”
“In her book…”
My memories of the evening were dim. She’d pressed a copy into my hand, navy, with an illustrated cover. Santanu was rifling through his. “For Maher and Liana… your mom and dad?”
Yara sipped her wine; her cheeks the same color as her dusty pink sweater. “No, my boyfriend and his wife.”
“Ex-boyfriend I should hope?” said Santanu. “Or else his wife might be upset.”
“Perhaps,” she tapped him playfully on the cheek, “he and his wife have different arrangements to the ones people think of as normal…”
“Like an open relationship…”
“If you want to call it that…”
“I’m not really aware of other terms.”
She smiled, wide and carefree. “There are many others, habibi… look them up.”
We clasped our pints in silence. The student crowd around us burgeoning; a group nearby had ordered multiple rounds of tequila, and I could hear enthusiastic cheers.
“A few weeks ago,” continued Santanu, “I met her in Brixton… remember?”
After we’d walked to Camden to join Eva at The Mexican.
He swilled the stout in the glass, a dark miniature whirlpool. “We talked for a long while… and at the end of the evening, she gave me this…” From his pocket, he pulled out a paper napkin. On it, in pencil, a sketch.
“An… infinite heart?”
“It’s meant to be a symbol of polyamory…”
Between my fingers, the paper lay thin and soft, insubstantial tissue.
She told him she wanted to be honest. She was of many loves.
Maher lived with his wife in Hackney. Liana too loved a man there.
There was no need for secrets. No subtraction of affection, only an infinite multiplication.
“She said they didn’t condone these hierarchical terms, but it made
it simpler to explain the relationships to me… Maher and Liana are a “primary” while she and him share a “secondary”… so does Liana and the other guy… are you following?”
I nodded.
“But you?” I asked. “Are you okay with it?”
“What would you prefer?”
He lifted his gaze, to the Santas with their big-bellied grins and the cheap, cheerful candy canes. “I don’t know, Nem. I just don’t want to seem… uncool.”
When we arrived, the Christmas party was well underway—Michael Bublé on the stereo, and chatter and laughter spilling generously into the air. It wasn’t as extravagant as I’d expected. (I suppose, everything else appears subdued when you step away from the glittering streets of Central London.) The gathering had convened in a courtyard on the ground floor; one corner taken up by a decked tree sprinkled with tinsel and star-shaped lights. A buffet table, spruced-up with wreathed holly, was laden with wine, mulled and otherwise, and an assortment of seasonal foods. I hadn’t imagined there’d be such a crowd—I came into contact with so few; mostly only with the faculty from the literature department.
Eva and Tamsin were there already. Conversing with the dean, a small balding, bespectacled man with fascinating elfin ears. I watched them carefully; even in public there were hints of their closeness. Or perhaps every gesture—Tamsin’s hand briefly on Eva’s back, their touching shoulders—was now laden with new meaning. I remembered the evening in my room, Eva’s quiet sadness. Today, she was wearing a high-necked red silk dress that wrapped her entirely to the knees. Like a cocoon, an exquisite plaster to hold her in place, to make her invulnerable. When she turned, though, her dress was gashed at the back, opening in a pointed oval. An elegant Achilles heel.
Eva smiled. “Well, you’ll soon find out.”
They were heading to Japan for a fortnight, she explained. An impulsive, last-minute decision. When Tamsin turned to greet someone else, Eva added quietly, “I didn’t feel like spending Christmas in Beirut.”
“You can’t spend it alone.”
I assured her I wouldn’t.
Seahorse Page 16