Objects in the Mirror

by Nicolò Govoni

  “Great!” cries the Bear while Ferang covers the mirror once again. “Knock yourself out, get rid of greatness, go back to being like all of them.”

  Ferang sinks his nails into his arms until he sees the red of his own blood painting his fingers. They spend the whole night staring at each other, the two of them. Ferang naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, the Bear beyond the curtain.

  At dawn, Ferang takes another shower, but this time he finds no pleasure in it. He puts on the dirty clothes from the night before. Turns off the TV.

  “I have read the message,” he says.

  The Bear doesn’t respond. He just looks at him.

  “Even if I decide to go, it won’t make any difference—they can easily look for the child themselves.”

  No response.

  “Even Gabriel knows that. They don’t really need me over there. They will find him,” says Ferang. “And what did Gabriel expect of me, after this message, that I drop everything and go searching the whole slum?”

  Silence.

  “You think I’m wrong,” goes Ferang. “You think my presence would make a difference. Not because I have the best chance of finding the boy, but because he might have run away just to come and find me.”

  Silence.

  “But you know what I realized tonight?” Ferang takes a step towards the mirror. “My darkest prison is not you, it’s me. I dread that I will disappoint people when they find out that I’m not you.” Ferang shakes his head. “People are just waiting for heroes to fall.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, says the AC.

  Ferang shakes his head. “You’re right.”

  Silence. Ferang leaves the room.

  From the taxi, parading in front of the Breach, in front of the small clinic he thinks he sees the Doc in the crowd, but at closer look it’s not really him. Sliding in front of the shacks of which Ferang knows many of the owners, the taxi reaches the bus station. The public bus that will reach the orphanage is filling up with people. Soon it will be ready to go. Ferang feels the Bear’s presence reflected in the window opposite to where he sits. He keeps his eyes on the damn bus, that ramshackle vehicle covered with rust spots and dents, the bus he took so many times. With one nail he traces its edges on the glass. His hand falls to the door handle. Grabs it. But he doesn’t pull. He fishes the iPhone out of his pocket and texts Gabriel back.

  It’s for me that I did it, he writes. I hate selfies.

  “Farewell, Santosh,” he whispers, and tells the driver to take him to college. “It’s okay to be human,” he says out loud. The bus gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “I’m coming,” he tells the Bear, but the Bear is gone.

  ***

  Blackness. In college, the classroom is black, the door closed, the windows shut. Everything is black. Backness in the class, where the classmates look like cardboard cutouts in front and behind and beside him. Ferang’s bowels lock up. Black and light, a swastika, a huge one, projected on the wall. The wall was white once, but now it is black.

  “This is not happening,” he says.

  On a grainy video, a group of Nazis do the Fascist salute, and some classmates applaud while others stand up and cheer. The Fuhrer, a mammoth crowd of officers and banners and brass eagles at his feet, shoves his fists in the air and spit-rails. His mustache, projected on the wall, quivers with hate. The classroom fills with laughter. Someone starts to imitate him, to ape the harshness of the German language. Many others follow suit. Punching the air, extending the right arm, even those who have opposing political views. All cackle, and it’s general hilarity.

  “This is not happening,” Ferang repeats, but he can’t take his eyes from the projected images. Can’t metabolize the scene buzzing around him. In the darkness of the class, eighty students, the crème de la crème of this country, the future leaders of India—some by sheer animosity and some jokingly—are standing and screaming and laughing in response to Hitler, and Ferang, his bowels twisted in a knot, would like to leave but stays right where he is. None of them would understand. They’d think he’s showing off. That he’s patronizing them. He would turn out be the weird one again.

  He closes his eyes, waiting for it to pass.

  “This attitude of superiority doesn’t really suit you, Ferang,” says Careena from behind.

  Ferang rubs his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. He forces himself to open his eyes and watch the film.

  A burst of applause.

  Sooner or later it will all end.

  “I still love them,” he whispers to himself. “I love our differences as much as our commonalities.”

  The documentary is over. Ferang turns. Behind him, only empty chairs.

  The classmates stream out of the class. Ferang looks for the professor, by all accounts one of the best of the best faculties in the country, who’s been silent the whole time while the class hailed National Socialism.

  In the air-conditioned hallway Ferang drinks a glass of ice cold water dispensed by a shiny purifier, handing the glass back to a faceless maid hired for the sole purpose of cleaning it. He walks down the marble staircase heading to the next class, History, and puts his bag on the desk, his heart still racing. “They don’t understand,” he tells himself. Resting his head on the bag, he tries to get some sleep.

  “Still better than last week,” says Hrisha, a fat classmate, but with whom he is on genuinely good terms. “I mean, when we were shown a documentary about the concentration camps, they laughed in front of the bodies being moved by the bulldozer—believe me, that was worse.”

  Some of them are good. Yes, some of them realize our pain. Our pain.

  ***

  He wakes with a start. The class has already begun, but the one standing in front of him is not the History professor, he’s that of Law and Ethics, and even the classroom isn’t the right one. Ferang takes his notebook out of the bag. Once he’s through a first page of notes, he looks around. Nil, quite surprisingly, is sitting in the back row. Damn long time since they last met in class.

  At the first opportunity, Ferang raises his hand. Gets up. Speaks. All go silent.

  “I believe that a criminal is not only a criminal,” he says to the professor. He’s totally off topic, but who fucking cares, right? “He can be a trusted friend, a kind husband and a loving father, at the same time. A monster is not just a monster.” He turns to Nil but doesn’t look at him, he pretends to scan the room. “And sometimes a lie is truer than the truth.” Ferang sits back down.

  After a moment’s puzzlement the professor mumbles a “Thank you—sir,” and resumes his lecture.

  Ferang turns to Nil, looking at him in the eyes this time. He winks. Then he fishes his iPhone out of the pocket and launches Instagram. Hearts and notification flash before his eyes. All these followers, all the praise. Ego and pride. The Bear’s? Who is he kidding—it’s his own. In each selfie, it’s his smiling face that shines. Half for the children, half for himself.

  Ferang posts one last selfie, the one he took that night at Imal’s, the body of the guy who fell from the rooftop and died for the Facebook likes of half the University broken on a stretcher behind his captivating smile.

  Don’t blame me, says the caption. I am a product of your making, your endorsement and your guilt. I am the highest expression of voluntourism.

  ***

  Ferang hangs around the Gymkhana for two hours in the afternoon. No exercises, sure enough, but he chats with a German businessman to whom he claims to be the son of an Indian politician and a foreign waitress. Then, he takes a shower and downs a quick drink putting it on Nil’s tab. Calls an Uber. Pays with Paytm. The Bear doesn’t object anymore.

  Scheria. Without a word, Mel leads him into the bedroom. They don’t touch until they are lying on the bed, where Ferang feels suddenly cold. Or rather, his nose is cold, freezing cold. His laboured breath scrapes the air. It sounds like a turntable scratching the grooves of a record. The walls are a violent white. The gray bars of the bed, the cold
sheets, the hot light filtering through the window, her blonde hair spread on the pillow, her zircon eyes leaning inside his own—it all has a sense of finality to it.

  They don’t undress, not a garment do they take off. Ferang pulls his pants and boxers down to his knees. Mel’s cream-colored shirt stands between his fingers and her breasts. She smells like trifle. Their breaths intertwine. Ferang’s breath struggling to leave his throat. Maybe he caught a cold last night—the damn AC. He kisses her. Mel breathes deep yet calm breaths, making him feel uncomfortable. He pressed his lips against hers, trying to stop her breathing, to imprint in the pores of her skin a trace of his own essence.

  Their hips collide time and again. Trembling, Ferang shift his weight onto his forearms.

  The iron bars of the headboard. The pillowcase. The reddish light hinting at the oppressive heat outside. And Mel looking at him from below, with those eyes—those psychopathic eyes of hers.

  Ferang enters her. He senses the contours of his own body become rarefied, almost abandoning the solid state, enjoying the lightness of not being. But when he feels he’s about to disappear, it’s her who keeps him true to himself. With that silent look. Irrepressible. Imperishable. Her eyes piercing the bottom of his existence. “I got you,” they seem to say.

  Ferang turns her on her knees, grabs her by the hips. The sound of their lovemaking is vulgar and animalistic. Mel is meat. Her brain, Ferang can almost see it—is but a slimy mass behind a skull, skin and hair. They are connected, the two of them, at one and only one point.

  Ferang feels feverish. And totally alone. The act of penetration ceases to give him any pleasure.

  He lifts his fist high over his head. He takes in his own image reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe—feels enraptured by it. Looks at the edges of his own cramped muscles, the tan line showing off his commitment to the poor, the expression of complete self-mastery on his face. Of course, the mirror has elected him protagonist of yet another scene in this play. The Bear stands close to them, by the bed, and his mask, though forever unchanged, is indeed smiling. Ferang gasps. Ferang hits Mel.

  Mel heaves, her chest compressing, her lungs emptied. Before she can turn around, Ferang strikes her again, landing a good one her lower back, and Mel slumps forward. Her head sinks into the pillow. The Bear is still there. The third punch reaches her on the ribs. Mel curls up on her side, Ferang supporting her weight. He can see her face now, her eyes closed. She raises a hand towards him. Ferang attacks, mute, striking her on the wrist. Mel’s arm falls back on the bed, away from her, while Ferang is still inside her. Moving her legs, he turns her on her back. She opens her eyes. Looks at him. The Bear is smiling in the mirror. Ferang slaps her in the face. Her cheekbone makes an absurd sound, but Mel doesn’t cry out. A deathly silence envelops the room. Mel opens her eyes, stares at him again, those eyes—those eyes, and Ferang hits her on the mouth. Mel turns her face away, then lifts her head towards him, opening the eyes again. And she smiles, baring a grin covered in blood. At that moment, Ferang loves her. He truly does.

  He realizes that he ejaculated. The Bear has disappeared.

  Mel glares at him. Unblinking, her raw zirconia green eyes haunt him with no mercy.

  Ferang slides out. Lifts his hands up in mid air. Stutters the hint of an apology and backs away from that body lying between his knees. His hands shaking. The walls a violent white. Only now does he notice that, in the vase on the windowsill, the flowers are gone and dead stems stand in their place. In the mirror is a little boy with spotty chest hair and a limp and small cock. That’s you.

  Silence.

  Mel looks at him. She does not move, her smile monstrous.

  Ferang swallows the bitter taste of their sweat. Feels the cold sheets clawing his knees as he gets out of bed.

  “You disgust me,” he says.

  Buttoning his pants, he doesn’t dare looking at her. Tucking his shirt in, he stares at the buttons. Tying his shoes, he eyes the floor. He leaves at a brisk pace, the mark of her scorching smile on him as he walks down the twilight hall.

  ***

  Ferang gets home. Yes, that old dump, his home. Finds Suresh busy in the kitchen, sober, he believes, for the first time in months. After changing, he pops his headphones playing “Twist And Shout” by the Beatles. He takes a few dance steps. He joins Suresh, making some dinner, shredding two tomatoes, half a cucumber and a pile of onions with the only knife they own. While cooking, the two of them crack a few jokes. They laugh together. The night air seems lighter than usual.

  They dine sitting on the dirty floor, resting their food on sheets of newspaper. It’s a frugal meal, but a delicious one. Ferang has seconds. Then he gets up, puts on a blazer and a pair of semi-clean jeans and waves Suresh goodbye. He takes the bus to go at Imal’s—not the penthouse but his folks’ villa. They are out for the week, playing the stock market in Dalal Street, Mumbai.

  The mansion is stunning, just like he expected. Standing in the suburbs of Candil, where the British officers and their families summered surrounded by large parks and churches full of history.

  Once past the entrance gate, Ferang is greeted by a white porch lit by brass chandeliers. The music intensifies as the taxi approaches. With the music, the voices of the guests come to life. And the sound of splashing in the pool. The high-pitched laugh of a girl high up on the terrace of the colonial villa.

  Ferang pays the driver off with Paytm. Fixes his hair. Walks in. Large French windows punctuate the walls of the hall, candid curtains fluttering in the air blown by countless fans arranged along the entire perimeter. Exquisite wicker chairs adorn every corner, and palm fronds protrude from outside the windows.

  Greeting and shaking hands with the not-quite-acquaintances he meets on his way to the elevator, Ferang fulfills his duty as the people’s favorite, the popular guy. The Splendid One.

  The elevator ride is short but enough for Ferang to hear a verse of “Rockstar” by Nickelback. The perfect song for a lovely evening.

  Sitting on the antique sofa in the middle of the main hall, Priyal is doing nothing. Not a drink in her hand, no one to talk to, not even Imal lapdogging beside her. Ferang sits down, away from her, pretending not to see her at all, then shifts to the corner of the sofa. Priyal crosses her legs. Smooth, no doubt treated with Fair and Lovely. He studies them carefully. She asks him something, but he ignores her.

  “Why do you never ask me about my kids?” he goes, irritated all of a sudden without a real reason.

  “What kids?”

  “Those from the orphanage where I volunteer.”

  Priyal chuckles, but joy doesn’t even graze her eyes. “If they are poor, Ferang, is because they have done something wrong in their previous lives, and now they have to fix it.” She runs a hand between her silky hair. “Let them redeem themselves.”

  “They are children.”

  Priyal shakes her head, on her lips a pale, pitiful smile.

  “We come from worlds apart,” says Ferang, pouring himself a drink from the bottles neatly displayed on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  She rolls her eyes, yet keeps on smiling. Priyal never shows her teeth when she smiles. Stretches out her legs for a moment before crossing them again.

  “You are beautiful tonight,” he says.

  She nods casually, and casually she cocks her head to meet Imal’s stare, a beggar looking for a piece of bread. He is quick to look away. Priyal laughs a suave laugh and glances at Ferang and then at Imal, who glares back, sitting at the piano on the left side of the hall. He has no idea how to play it, of that Ferang is sure.

  Ferang sips his Old Monk, celebrating the success of his routine flirt. Looks at her fair hands, her Tiffany nail polish.

  Ferang keeps an eye on the rest of the guests, at the same time eager and terrified at the prospect of seeing Mel in the crowd. But she’s not there. Only beautiful people chatting the night up.

  The thought of having messed up the relationship with her sends a rush of
anxiety through his body. The thought of having screwed up the chance of her helping him getting what he needs makes him feel sick in the guts, his back covered with perspiration. His own knee and Priyal’s nearly touch, but that centimeter of distance between them is as dense as a supernova. Ferang runs his hand over his face. From the moisture on his fingers he knows that his nose is running. A headache. He can almost feel his own organs throbbing inside him, their contours and their every vein running.

  He opens WhatsApp.

  It’s over, he texts.

  Mel is online. Seen. No answer.

  I always blamed you for being wrong, for being the cause of all our problems, but you’re not.

  Seen. No answer.

  It’s not you, it’s me.

  Seen. No answer.

  And I apologize.

  Seen. No answer.

  I am the protagonist.

  Priyal asks him a question. Ferang shuts the doors of his greenhouse mind.

  Mel, please.

  Seen.

  What can I do?

  Seen.

  Tell me, what can I do to make amends? Please, I’ll do anything.

  Besides buying viagra? She writes. Tell him about us.

  His heart racing, Ferang groans involuntarily, then grins. He hesitates before writing, then punches in the words.

  Does that mean you’re ready?

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Ferang stops. Breathes in. The air smells of blood and broken things.

  I don’t know if I can do this to him, he texts. Alone.

  You can’t wait, she answers.

  You need to be here.

  I will, in due time.

  The stage lights come back on around him.

  Taking leave from Priyal, Ferang gets up from the couch. Scans the hall for Nil, but before he heads to the terrace, Aishaniya appears, hitting on him shamelessly, in her movements a lewdness that borders aggression. Behind him, Imal seizes the moment to sit down next to Priyal on the couch. Ferang oveRiyankars their conversation while coaxing Aishaniya with a perfect smile.

  “I killed some guy driving the car the other day,” goes Imal, cutting the pleasantries. He doesn’t sound shaken.