by A. X. Ahmad
Feeling a flush of excitement, he heads toward the elevated subway station at Court Square. If he takes the train into Manhattan, he could make it to the park just as the afternoon cools down and the nannies begin to emerge. Leela should be relatively easy to spot amongst the groups of thickset, middle-aged nannies.
* * *
It is four o’clock when Ranjit walks down the wide asphalt path that curves along the west side of Central Park. On this hot weekend afternoon, the trees are reduced to dark shapes, the sun shines out of a cloudless sky, and it seems as though the whole city is seeking refuge in the park.
An obese man in a sweat-stained T-shirt jogs slowly past Ranjit, followed by a pack of long-legged girls, moving as easily as thoroughbreds. Bicyclists zip by, clad in multicolored spandex, and in their wake are the Rollerbladers, twirling and showing off. On benches lining the pathway are the watchers, men mainly, their eyes caressing the taut backsides of the running girls.
Ranjit walks through it all, his eyes searching the crowds. There are nannies everywhere, pushing strollers, their faces beaded with perspiration. Tall West Indian women, shorter Filipinas, Sri Lankans, and Haitians, all wearing bright, cheap T-shirts and baggy pants. No sign anywhere of a curvy, short girl with an afro.
The sun shines down, and sweat begins to pool in Ranjit’s armpits. How stupid he was to think that he could find one single human being in this mass of humanity.
He walks north, heading toward the yellow-brick bulk of the Dakota, hoping that somehow, miraculously, he will run into Leela, but of course he doesn’t. Soon he’s right at the edge of the park, across from the Dakota, and remembers the lawyer telling him not to go anywhere near the crime scene.
Tired now, he looks for a place to sit for a few minutes. Following the sound of a guitar, he turns back into the park, and enters a clearing. In its center is a circle of gray mosaic stone set into the ground, the word IMAGINE inscribed into its center. This must be the John Lennon memorial, because red roses and scribbled notes are strewn across it, and a group of solemn Japanese teenagers are taking pictures with large cameras.
Ranjit walks toward the benches at the perimeter, and stops in surprise. Sitting on a bench, legs spread out, as though he owns the place, is Hector. He is still wearing his faded jean jacket covered in peace and love symbols, and his round granny glasses, complemented today with a red headband.
Hector’s eyes widen in surprise. “Hey, bad boy. You stopped by. Sorry, I can’t pay you back, man, but soon, soon. I’m working on it.”
“It’s okay, I didn’t come for the money. You work here?”
“Look, I’ll show you, man.”
Hector walks up to some laminated pictures placed at the edge of the mosaic memorial. They are of John Lennon, as a clean-cut Beatle, and later, long-haired, with his arm around Yoko Ono.
Gesturing to the Japanese teenagers, Hector smiles and says, “Hey, you want a picture? Picture?” He mimes taking a photograph, then throws up his hands in peace signs. “Peace and love, right?”
The teenagers nod and step up. They take turns posing with Hector in front of the laminated photographs, and when they’re done, they tip him with a handful of dollar bills. Stashing the money deep inside his jean jacket, Hector bends to realign the photographs.
“These kids, they come here all the way from Japan, they expect a real memorial, and this isn’t much…” He gestures to the drab stone circle. “… so I add to the experience. For a couple of bucks they can take pictures of me and my pictures. They can’t get enough of it.”
“Very innovative.”
“Hey, I’m providing a service. The Parks Department should pay me, not hassle me. Now, bad boy, what can I do for you? Wish I could pay you back, but I’m still behind on my rent…”
“It’s okay.” Ranjit sits down next to his former cellmate and wipes his face in the sleeve of his shirt. “So you’re here all day? Next to the Dakota?” He gestures at the gabled roofline beyond the trees.
“Yeah, man, it’s a good spot. All the tourists go over there, see where Lennon was shot, then they come here, all emotional.”
“I’m looking for a friend, maybe you saw her? She’s a nanny over at the Dakota, she’s out with her kid here. Pretty girl: short, maybe five-one, green eyes, afro?”
Hector whistles. “Wish I had, man. Sorry.”
Ranjit nods, feeling the hopelessness of the situation. “Well, good to see you. Good luck with your business—”
“A bunch of other nannies from the Dakota just went this way, though. The kids, they always come by to say hi to me.”
“Did they walk that way?” Ranjit gestures to the asphalt pathway.
“Naw, man. They always go to the same place—” Before Hector can continue, an African man in a tank top walks up, and stands wordlessly in front of him. Looking apologetic, Hector digs through his army surplus satchel, and hands a small, paper-wrapped package to the African. The man slips Hector a bill and quickly walks away.
Hector catches the expression on Ranjit’s face. “Naw, naw, it’s not like that. No drugs. I ain’t that stupid.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I’m a drop box. A human drop box.”
“What the hell is that?”
“See, suppose you’re walking around all day with a package, and you don’t want to. For a small fee, you can leave it with me, collect it later. I’m always here, seven A.M. to nine P.M., rain or shine. Better than the United States Post Office.”
Ranjit nods admiringly. “You’re a real businessman. Now, where did the nannies go?”
“The Sheep Meadow, man. Over there, on the far side. They’ll be there till five o’clock. You know those white kids, need to be in bed by seven.”
“Thanks, Hector. I’ll be seeing you.” Ranjit raises a hand in farewell and heads off in the direction Hector was pointing. As he leaves, a fresh group of Japanese tourists arrives, and they point their cameras at Hector, who immediately throws up his hands in a double peace sign.
* * *
It is hard work walking through the expanse of the Sheep Meadow. The lush green grass is littered with scantily clad bodies, some lying neatly on beach towels, others sprawled directly on the grass. Ranjit picks his way through them, inhaling the heady scent of sweat and suntan lotion. Some women wear bikini tops, while others have turned onto their stomachs and undone their bras, willing the hot sun to erase the white lines across their backs.
He passes a young, long-haired woman lying next to a tanned, muscular man. Their bodies are covered by a yellow sheet, their hands busy underneath it. The woman opens blind eyes as Ranjit’s shadow falls over her, and he quickly looks away.
Even after two years in New York, the raw carnality of the city stuns him, the erotic energy of so many bodies packed tightly together. He thinks of the boys and girls he’s seen, kissing in the back of his cab, more turned on, it seems, with being in New York than with each other. The promise of fame, of unbounded sex is always around each corner, and even he’s felt it, in his drab role as a conveyer of people.
Right now, with the sun beating down on him, surrounded by bare flesh, the city becomes a bittersweet promise that sticks in his throat. Life has been so dull here, and so hard, sustained by the promise of the future: when he has enough money for a better apartment, when Shanti arrives. And now that future is about to be taken away, made worse by the days that have gone by, unlived and unspent.
He makes his way through the sunny heart of the Meadow; at the fringes the crowd is thinner, and he can walk faster. Hector said the nannies were at the northeast corner, and he sees a group of women standing around a tree, their dull clothes and sturdy bodies contrasting with their lithe, brightly clad children and their large strollers, all slick nylon mesh and huge chrome wheels.
When he gets closer, he sees a dark West Indian woman peering up into a leafy tree.
“Tyler!” she shouts upward, cupping her hands around her mouth.
Another three nannies—Guyanese, he can
tell, from their Indian features and thick gold earrings—also cluster around the tree, looking terrified. One nanny wears a tiny pink halter top and jeans and is young, but the others must be in their early fifties.
Ranjit smiles his most charming smile. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“It’s evening, fool,” says the West Indian nanny. “And you can be on your way. We ain’t buying nothing.” She steps in front of him, trying to block his view.
He smiles again. “Oh, I’m not selling anything. I’m just looking for a friend. Hey … what’s he doing up there?”
High up in the tree there is a flash of red clothing. A young boy sits astride a branch, looking terrified, his eyes closed, and holding on tightly with both hands.
“Tyler, you come down here, right now—” the West Indian nanny bellows, then moans under her breath. “Oh, Lord. I’m going to be fired, for sure.”
Ranjit steps forward. “Don’t shout at him. He’s terrified. You’re just making things worse.”
“Can you help me?” The woman tugs at his sleeve. “Get the boy down? I don’t want to call the police, fire department, all that, you see, I got no papers, and…”
“I’ll get him down. Give me some room.” Pulling off his shoes and socks, Ranjit rolls up his shirtsleeves and approaches the tree. As he hugs the tree, his bare feet find purchase on the rough bark, and he jackknifes upward. Reaching a low branch, he hauls himself onto it. From here, he clambers from limb to limb, staying close to the trunk; the greatest risk is that the branches won’t bear his weight.
The leaves close around him, and the bark scrapes his arms as he climbs, gauging every move, moving higher and higher into the dense foliage. Soon he reaches the terrified boy, and the hardest part is persuading the child to let go of the branch. Ranjit speaks in a slow, calm voice, telling the boy what to do; he shivers, but reaches out and wraps his arms around Ranjit’s neck, then climbs onto his back.
With the boy safe, Ranjit pauses for a second, tingling from the adrenaline of the climb. The park is spread out below him, green and undulating, and he feels, for a second, the way he did when he climbed high up on the Siachen Glacier: at peace, removed from the fray of everyday life. From up here, everything seems neat, organized, making perfect sense. It’s on the ground that life becomes complicated and confused.
Ranjit makes his way slowly back down, bent under the boy’s weight, struggling to breathe as the boy’s hold tightens around his neck.
When he reaches the lowest branch there is an excited murmur from the nannies, and hands reach up and grab the child.
Swinging down to the ground, Ranjit gasps for breath. His hands are scraped, and one shirtsleeve is ripped where it snagged on a branch.
“Tyler! How many times have I told you—” The West Indian nanny holds the boy tightly, pushing his sobbing head into her ample bosom. “Oh Lord, oh Lord, this child could have fallen…” She turns to Ranjit. “Thank you, sir, thank you.”
The other nannies are clustered around, the young one in the pink halter top with her hand clasped over her mouth.
Ranjit bends over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. Red spots dance in front of his eyes.
“Come and sit down.” The West Indian nanny gestures to a bench. “You want some water?”
Ranjit sinks down onto the bench and drinks plastic-tasting water from a disposable bottle. The nanny stands in front of him holding the child, who is now blubbering quietly.
“You wearing too many clothes, man.” She gestures at Ranjit’s dark trousers and his long-sleeved white shirt. “You Indian? Indian people always wearing too many clothes.”
The other nannies standing around the bench titter at this observation.
“Yes, I’m from India. Thank you for the water.”
The young nanny in the pink halter top steps forward. “Hey, my great-grandpa, he was from India. From that part of India, where they dance with sticks, you know?”
Ranjit knows she is talking about the daandia raas, a harvest dance that Punjabi farmers do, twirling and rhythmically clashing short bamboo batons. “Yes, I’m from there. From Punjab. You ladies from Guyana?”
The West Indian nanny makes the introductions. “Uh-huh, they’re all from Georgetown. They’re Indian too, but they are Christian. This is Norma, and Ria, and Vashtee. I’m from Jamaica. I am Harriet.”
“Nice to meet you ladies.” Ranjit sips the warm water as he talks, conscious of the women’s bright eyes fixed on him. “I’m Ranjit Singh. So you ladies work on the Upper West Side, huh?”
Harriet, clearly the leader of the group, continues the conversation. “Uh-huh. How do you know?”
“Hector told me to come here—the guy at the Lennon memorial. I’m looking for a friend of mine. She’s Guyanese, works at the Dakota, I thought she might be out here today.”
“Oho, you like Guyanese girls. Friend? Like a special friend?” All the ladies laugh uproariously, and the mood changes from tragic to hilarious. “She’s hiding from you?”
He decides to play along. “Something like that. We had a little tiff. I want to make it up to her, take her out to dinner.”
“You can take me out to dinner. Anytime. Nice tall, strong man like you.”
The boy has stopped crying and looks up at Ranjit, his blue eyes full of curiosity. “What does the man have on his head?”
“That’s a turban, boy. He is a coolie man from India.” The laughter grows even more uproarious, and the ladies slap their thighs.
Harriet continues. “So this friend, what’s her name?”
Ranjit is smiling as he speaks. “It’s Leela. Leela Rampersad. She works at the Dakota—”
Harriet’s face darkens, and she clutches the little boy. “Leela. Lee-la? She’s that dougla girl?”
“I don’t understand. She works at the Dakota?”
“Dougla. Half black and half Indian?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“No. We don’t know any Leela.”
The laughter has gone out of the women’s faces, replaced by a stony impassivity. They all shake their heads, and Ranjit feels confused.
“But you just said…”
“No. We don’t know her. Thank you for saving the child. God bless you. Come on, girls.” Harriet turns away and grips her stroller.
“Please, I need to get in touch with her. If you know—”
“I just said, we don’t know nothing, okay, mister?” Harriet’s voice rises.
Ranjit watches helplessly as the women buckle their children into their strollers and walk away across the Sheep Meadow. From their stiff backs and quick gait, he can see there is no point following them.
Sitting on the bench, he watches the women dwindle into the distance. They had clearly known who Leela was, so why the hell wouldn’t they talk to him? They are Indian and black; surely Leela’s mixed race is not an affront to them.
He picks up the water bottle and holds it to his mouth, but there is nothing left. It’s baking hot and he’s probably dehydrated; he should find a vendor and buy a bottle of cold water. Yet he remains sitting there, and images swim through his head: Leela saying, I can’t get involved. Her slim legs blurring as she ran away down the dark street. And now these women, ostentatiously denying that they know her. Some kind of dark knowledge clings to Leela, he’s sure of it.
He glances at his watch; five o’clock, but the warm summer day shows no sign of abating. The sun is still high, the sky is blue and cloudless, and it will be light till almost nine: one of those endless summer evenings, and he has nowhere to go and nothing to do.
On evenings like this he has always been working, and he suddenly misses it, the endless driving through the endless streets. And afterward, a meal at Karachi Kabob, talking with the other cabbies, their lewd jokes and banter a bulwark against the emptiness of America …
Without the safety of his cab, he’s suddenly lost. He sits with his eyes open but unseeing, feeling New York City stretching endlessly around him, the
green of the park edged by the walls of skyscrapers, the street grid extending beyond that. He feels a profound sense of disorientation, of complete loss and utter exhaustion.
“Hey, mister. Pssst.”
He jerks his head around, and there is the young nanny in the pink halter top, pushing a stroller with a toddler asleep within it. She must have jogged back from the other side of the meadow, because the front of her halter top is soaked with sweat. A scrap of dark hair has come loose from her ponytail and flops across her forehead.
“Yes? Did you leave something behind?”
“No, no. Listen, come here. I don’t want the others to see me, okay?”
He walks into the shade of the path and the woman speaks breathlessly.
“You did a nice thing, okay? And those ladies, they were not nice to you, so I came back.” She stops, and he nods encouragingly.
“I know her. Leela. She was working with us, one year almost. Then she left.”
“Did she do something wrong? Something to upset you all?”
“No, no. She did nothing wrong, but she did something wrong in their eyes. She left here, she found another job.”
“You know where she works? Please tell me.”
“Okay. But you didn’t hear this from me, mind? Leela, she fought with her employer, she left and got a job in a club.” The woman’s face twists in disdain. “Her aja—grandfather—was a respectable man in Guyana, but now she is a hostess in a club, working nights. One time she came back here, all fancy, nice dress, nice shoes, and things. The other ladies, they don’t like that, they bad-eyed her. They said she looked like a garmant whore.” The young woman nods for emphasis, sweat dripping down her neck. “So why do you look for her? Really?”
Ranjit ignores the question. “Do you know which club? Izizzi in the Meatpacking District?”
The woman shakes her head. “No, not that one. Someplace called Ghungroo. And you be careful now. Leela, she’s always in trouble, always finds some man to get her out of trouble.” She turns and begins to walk away, then stops. “You ever looking for a nice, nice girl, to talk to? You come back and talk to me, Vashtee, okay? I’m always here, evenings.”