“Then reserve judgment until you see him again.”
“There’s something else. His family used to own palaces.”
“So?”
“He has an older brother. They’re princes. Descended from royalty.”
I groan. “Princes marry princesses, Kali. Not the daughters of doctors. Why don’t you date someone at work?”
“I don’t meet guys at work. How many straight men do you think work in layout for City Chic magazine? Zero. Zilch. Nada.”
“You haven’t even dated this guy.”
“I wish you could’ve met him. His brother is named after a king. Raja.”
The blood drains from my face. “What’s their surname? Dev and Raja who?”
“Prasad. Dev Prasad and Raja Prasad, princes. I can’t believe it.”
I grip the edge of my desk. “Princes?”
“Sons of the late Maharajah Ranjit Prasad. Raja and Dev could be the most eligible bachelors in all of India.”
How can Raja be a prince? What did I expect? That he would walk around with a crown on his head? How does a prince act, anyway?
“Your fiancé, have you heard from him?” Kali gets up and adjusts her dress, what there is of it.
My face heats up. “As a matter of fact, he’s here. He wanted to be back for my birthday.” Lies, lies.
“Well. It’s about time. What’s his name? Come on.”
“Raja.” I think of Mrs. Mukerjee, waiting to tell the world.
Kali’s eyes widen. “Not the same Raja—”
“It’s a coincidence. Raja is a common name in India.”
As soon as Kali leaves, I pick up the phone, my hand shaking, and call my good friend Harry Kumar. “Harry, I’m in big trouble. I need to talk.”
Seven
On my thirtieth birthday, Kali shows up in a low-cut summer dress, saffron yellow this time. In a fog of Calvin Klein perfume, she dumps several packages on the dining table and glances around with a shrewd eye. “Where is he, huh? Mr. Perfect Raja? Hiding in the bedroom? Hello! Mr. Dream Man!” Her heels clack on the hardwood floor as she makes her way to the kitchen.
“Kali, pipe down. He’s at work. Had a meeting at … Bank of the West.”
She narrows her gaze. “Why haven’t I seen you dating this guy?”
“Well … You, uh, moved to the city only a month ago, didn’t you? You wouldn’t know him.”
She grabs the shiny brown bag of coffee grounds. “Caffeinated Peet’s, Major Dickason’s Blend. A man after my own heart. Are you going to start drinking coffee now?”
I shake my head. “He’s the coffee aficionado. I’m a tea woman.” Thank you, Harry, for providing your coffee.
She already has the fridge open. “Aha! I knew it. He drinks real organic whole milk. No more unsweetened soy milk.”
“What does it matter what he drinks?”
“Real men don’t drink soy. He bought a bottle of chardonnay.”
She races out to the living room and grabs Harry’s blue Ralph Lauren shirt from the couch. “He’s a size Extra Large.” She brings the shirt to her nose and inhales. “Smells good, too. Polo cologne?”
“Chanel for Men.”
“He has taste. What’s this?” She drops the shirt, dashes to the fireplace, and sniffs the two dozen long-stemmed red roses in a crystal vase. “Oh, they smell wonderful. There’s a note. To my one and only rose, on her birthday. He’s so romantic. Beautiful handwriting, too.”
“What did you expect?” I clasp my hands in front of me as she opens the closet in the foyer.
“He’s a size thirteen boot. The man is a giant.” She squeals.
“Remember, he’s my man, not yours.” I trail her into the bedroom. She points at the suitcase on the chair in the corner, then rushes over and grabs a pair of Harry’s black Ralph Lauren briefs. “Does he look like the male model on the package?”
“I don’t study underwear pictures, Kali.”
“Well, I do.” She picks up a pair of jeans. “A Tommy Hilfiger man? Oh, Lina.”
I snatch the jeans from her, drop them in Harry’s suitcase, and slam the lid shut. “That’s as far as you go, Miss Nosy.”
She goes to the dresser and grabs the shiny black stone, Star Galaxy. I should’ve hidden it in a drawer.
“What’s this? It’s beautiful. Where did you get it? Did he give it to you?” She holds the stone up to the light. “Look at the weird white speckles.”
“Yes, he gave it to me.” I snatch the stone from her and put it on the dressing table. She focuses on the computer beneath the bay window with a view of Coit Tower. It’s a clear, true blue San Francisco morning. On a day like this, imaginary men come to life.
She picks up a printed e-mail in blue and pink type. “Only two days until I hold you in my arms again… .”
I snatch the paper from her. “That’s private.”
“Why are you keeping him a secret? I won’t tell, promise.”
“He’s nobody you know. I met him at a function for foreign dignitaries … a party thrown by a … prominent client.”
“I’ll meet him today, then he won’t be a secret anymore.”
Harry’s belongings will have to do, for now. What will happen when my family realizes Raja won’t be here for my birthday party?
At one-thirty, my parents and friends arrive. Ma and Baba drove all the way up from Santa Barbara. They’re staying with friends in Berkeley. Ma made samosas and pakoras. Donna from work and a few others trickle in, and then my best friend Harry Kumar arrives alone. I take his coat, stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Where’s Jonathan?”
“I figured your family wasn’t ready for him yet.” He winks, stunning in Ralph Lauren shirt and form-fitting jeans.
“You could pretend to be just friends,” I say, disappointed. I like Jonathan. I was the one who set up the two of them on their first blind date.
“I don’t pretend, Lina. I’m not comfortable giving you all my stuff—”
“It’s just for a while. You’re not actually impersonating my fiancé,” I whisper.
“Then who will?”
“I’ll find someone.” I kiss his cheek, inhale his cologne. I’ve often fantasized about him, but where will that lead? He could be a movie star in Bollywood, India’s equivalent of Hollywood. He once auditioned in Mumbai—formerly Bombay—but nobody would hire him because his Hindi accent was too Americanized. He became a commercial airline pilot instead.
We congregate in the living room, where Ma lights a single candle on the chocolate cake. I make a wish, blow out the candle, and we feast on the snacks. The afternoon passes in a soft rhythm of friends and family, until Baba proclaims in a loud voice, “Where is this Raja? Why is he not here?”
“He’ll be home shortly.” I throw Harry a help me look.
“He’s practically moved in,” Kali says in a low voice.
Harry ducks out to the liquor store, and a few minutes later, the telephone rings.
“That’s him!” Kali shrieks, scrambling for the wall phone in the kitchen. Her face goes gaga as she says, “Hello, yes, lovely to talk to you, we’ve heard so much about you.” Then she covers the mouthpiece and shouts, “He’s got an emergency at work! Can’t come now.”
Baba shakes his head. Ma’s lips turn down in disappointment. My heartbeat picks up as I rush to the phone.
“He has an utterly cool voice.” Kali hands me the phone, her hand still over the mouthpiece. She runs back to the living room. I hear her talking to the family. It’s him. You should hear his voice. Deep baritone. God, he sounds fantastic …
“Hello, Raja?” I say tentatively into the telephone.
“Lina.” Harry’s voice reverts to normal, which is still deep and smooth. “You have to do something about this problem.”
Eight
I dream of my deceased fiancé, Nathu. He strides toward me in his khaki pants and windbreaker, his shoulders hunched against the cold. We’re visiting the Japanese Garden in Golden Gate Park. I
run into his arms, relish his particular scents of cloves and citrus. He loved mandarin oranges.
I was sure he was dead, but here he is in the flesh, the gentle man who wouldn’t kill a spider. He put bugs outside, where they smashed into car windshields instead.
“Why did you make us have a memorial service for you?” I ask as we walk hand in hand.
“I tried to tell everyone I wasn’t really gone. Nobody listened.”
“But the accident on Highway One. You spun out near Mendocino. They found your car mangled at the bottom of a cliff!”
He shrugs. “Yeah, it was me, but there was a mix-up. I didn’t really die.”
“I canceled the engagement. That was two years ago. You left me to clean up the mess, like I was in a Lifetime movie that played over and over—”
“I’m sorry, Lina. I tried to contact you.”
“We were all so sad. What you put us through. Your mother returned to India for the funeral rituals. You were cremated. I’m sorry I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I was too broken up.”
“It’s okay. It was all a mistake. I’m back, and I want you to find a man.”
I let go of his hand. “What about you? You’re here.”
“You need to move on.” He bends down, picks a beetle off the sidewalk, and pops it into his mouth. He crunches, the sound grating my eardrums.
Horror hits me. “You’re not Nathu. He really is dead, isn’t he? This is a trick.”
I wake up clutching the bedcovers.
Nine
The next morning I look for Harry at the Treehouse Cafe not far from my apartment. Brooding ocean fog blocks out the sunshine.
I weave through the crowd of nose-ringed, black-haired students hunched over round tables. Here and there, a shimmering thread connects two lovers, their gazes locked in love. A memory touches my heart—Nathu grabbing my hand, holding my palm to his cheek. The ghostlike thread between us always trembled, as if it knew Nathu would die.
“Lina, over here!” Harry waves, stretching his long, jeans clad legs under the table. He’s hip and masculine in a black turtleneck. If he weren’t so handsome, he’d be pretty.
I order my usual Earl Grey and bring the steaming cup to the table. I sit across from him.
“So, My Love.” He vocally places capital letters on the words. He grips my fingers and gives the back of my hand a soft kiss. “Where shall we marry? India or here? I could fly us to Maui.”
I pull my hand away. “I know I’ve got myself into deep dog doo—”
“Deeper than dog doo. Elephant doo.” He sips his usual double-tall mocha with whipped cream.
“Okay, Ganesh doo. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I really do.”
“My love poetry is improving, don’t you think?”
“That last poem was Emily Dickinson.”
“Hey, you needed a fiancé. Don’t complain.”
“I’m not. I’m thanking you.”
“You’re welcome, but why keep lying?”
“I’m not.” I run a finger along the rim of my teacup. “I’m stretching the truth like a rubber band.”
“Pretty convenient having a fake fiancé to boss around.” He takes a long sip of his mocha. A ray of sunlight breaks through the fog, reflecting off his hair. I never noticed the red highlights.
“If I don’t, my aunt might send Pee-wee to America.”
“Why don’t you marry him?”
I screw up my nose, as if I actually smell the elephant doo. “He has yellow, crooked teeth and a squeaky voice. He practically drooled on me.”
Harry shrugs. “Maybe he’s a nice guy. You didn’t give him a chance—”
“Would you sleep with Pee-wee?”
He grins. “Well, depends on how big his—”
“Spare me the details.”
“You have to stand up to your parents. Tell them to back off.”
“My great-aunt will be here to meet Raja. This astrologer, Pandit Parsai, predicted problems. He said my fiancé was ephemeral. ”
“Knows what he’s talking about, this pandit.”
“I’m letting my parents down by not getting married and having kids. My father gets indigestion. Ma dreams of a grand wedding with all our family and friends in attendance. In India, everyone knows everything about everyone else. It’s a big soap opera.”
“You live here. Do whatever you want.”
“I feel a connection with my family, Harry. I love them. I want them to be happy, and I want to be happy too. But the two things seem to be mutually exclusive.”
“You do what you need to do for yourself. Your family will come around.”
“Nothing will please them. My father wanted a son. I was his firstborn, a girl. We’re all girls!”
“You gotta get a grip. This is about Nathu, isn’t it?”
“Not again.” I lean back and roll my eyes toward the ceiling. I say nothing about the dream. I have crazy nightmares all the time. They don’t mean much.
“You don’t want to talk about him, but he rules you. A dead guy.”
A dead guy. I want to believe Nathu faked the car accident to escape and start a new life. He’s relaxing on a tropical island, sipping piña coladas and digging his toes into the warm sand. “Nobody rules me. I direct my own life.”
“Come on, Lina. You can’t lie to me. How long have I known you?”
Since we were both freshmen at Santa Barbara High School, when Harry still conducted his love life in the closet. “Too long.”
“You’re scared. I see it in your eyes.”
I gulp my tea and say nothing. “Must be a reflection of your own eyes.”
He leans forward and takes my hands, more tenderly this time. A new, slim gold band glints on the third finger of his left hand. “Honey, not every guy is going to drive off a cliff, okay? It was a freak accident.”
My mouth goes dry, and I hate myself for letting the past ambush me. “Oh, Harry. Why couldn’t you have been straight?”
“I was born crooked, baby.”
To my surprise, I find myself close to tears. “Nathu was perfect. He didn’t even leave the toilet seat up.”
“You’re romanticizing him. Remember the nights he’d forget to check in, and you’d call me to talk because you were worried? Remember the way he used to drive, even with you in the car? He had a death wish, and he was willing to drag you into the afterlife, too.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. “He did like to take risks.”
“You loved him, but was it Nathu you loved, or your idea of Nathu? You thought he might be seeing someone else.”
My stomach squeezes. “There was nobody else.” Leave me to my imagination, I’m thinking. Let me believe Nathu was who I wanted him to be.
“He forgot to call late at night, showed up in the same wrinkled clothes he wore the day before. You know the truth, and it hurts. That’s why you won’t give anyone else a chance.”
“Ouch.” Harry has always been blunt, but that’s what I love about him. “What am I going to do?”
“Try widening your net. Nobody will ever live up to your expectations.”
“You do, Harry, but you’re taken.” I look around the room, as if my imaginary man sits nearby in disguise. “I know I need to get out more, but every good-looking guy has some neurosis or narcissistic complex. Every nice guy is either married or looks like a variation on Pee-wee Herman or Danny DeVito.”
“Danny DeVito isn’t bad-looking.” Harry finishes his coffee and stands up. “I can’t help you much longer. Jonny and I are planning a commitment ceremony in two weeks. You’re my maid of honor.”
I’m stunned. Two weeks? Commitment ceremony? I’ll be the Old Maid of Honor.
“Congratulations,” I manage to say. I scramble to my feet. “I’m so happy for you. Are you sure he’s the right one?”
“He leaves his underwear lying around, but we love each other.”
“Wonderful news.” My smile hides a nagging emptiness.
“Th
ank you for setting us up. You have a sixth sense about these things.” Harry speaks in a blithe, buoyant tone, which makes me feel even more bereft.
“It’s all in the math.” My mouth is dry.
“After the ceremony we’re moving to Paris. I’ll be based there on Air France.”
Harry’s words fall on my feet with a thud. “You’re what? You’re leaving?”
“We’ll ship our furniture by sea. We’ll only have suitcases. We’ll also have to give up our apartment a few days early. If it’s not too much of an imposition, could we stay with you?”
“Of course. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Oh, in that case we’ll stay in a hotel—”
“I won’t hear of it.”
“Thanks a million. Look, honey. Come visit us in Paris. Flights are cheap now.”
“Harry” You can’t leave me. “What will I do?”
He shrugs. “Find a fiancé, or don’t. It’s a free country.”
I stand and watch him stride out, all heads turning to watch his smooth gait. He’s a model on a runway, and here I am, invisible. I’ve spent my life being happy for other people. Joining their hands, helping them on the road to their shared futures, while my future slips into the ditch.
Ten
The day passes in a haze. I see three new clients, one a millionaire land developer who wants a perfect blond to drape over his arm; Mrs. Mukerjee calls to say Sonya liked her last date, but the man wants a younger woman. He’ll have to date an embryo.
All afternoon I field calls, enter data, and find myself staring more than once at a blank computer screen.
Around four o’clock, a call comes in. Nothing but static. Probably a Japanese golf company CEO looking for a voluptuous American wife. A distant voice shouts Hello, Hello. He can’t hear my reply, so I hang up.
When I have a few minutes to breathe, I spread out files and photographs of male clients, and then Donna walks right in, drops an envelope in my in-box, and sits across from me. She has the pale skin of a vampire and the porcelain features of a Nordic queen. She’s divorced and has a five-year-old boy in kindergarten.
Imaginary Men Page 5