Imaginary Men

by Anjali Banerjee

  We talk about the landscapes we pass, the people, the sky, the city. I’m floating, living in the moment for the first time in two years.

  At Milton’s Diner, we find a window booth. The restaurant is abuzz with an eclectic mix of San Franciscans, all fuzzy and fresh in the morning. I order the tofu scramble with onions, and Raja orders an omelet. After breakfast, we drive south, away from the city. The farther we go, the more relaxed the lines of his face become. We park at Shoreline Park, beneath a slightly pink, smoggy sky.

  “How did you know the way here?” I ask.

  He reaches over me, his arm brushing my leg, and opens the glove compartment. “Maps.”

  I barely breathe with him so close, and he pulls out a pair of binoculars. “What are you going to use those for?”

  “Bird-watching.”

  Another surprise. We walk in silence on the path along the canal, and I fall into step beside him.

  He points at pelicans, their shapes gangly and prehistoric as they guzzle fish. “White pelicans, very rare. And there, a snowy egret. They wear golden slippers.”

  “So they do! Amazing.” I hand back the binoculars. “You’re an astronomer and a naturalist.”

  He fixes me with a studied gaze. “I’m interested in many things, including you. I was watching you at Durga’s wedding.”

  I blush, the heat creeping from my ears up to the roots of my hair.

  We drive to Berkeley, wander through Urban Outfitters, Bancroft Clothing Company. We order samosas at Vik’s Chaat House and eat them with our hands, licking the curry sauce from our fingers. We browse through Serendipity Books, and meet at the entrance at precisely the same time with books in our arms.

  We drive back to Palo Alto, stop at the Stanford Museum. The air is cool and controlled inside, bringing goose bumps to my skin, or maybe the goose bumps are from Raja’s proximity. I feel small and fragile around him. I picture my imaginary man pacing in the apartment, flicking the TV channels.

  We wander past the Rodin exhibits; marvel at a massive black cast of The Thinker; stare at Degas sculptures found in his studio after his death, at Andy Warhol’s piles of Brillo pad boxes constructed from wood and paint, and a Japanese tea set from the eighteenth century. We find an Egyptian mummy from two thousand years ago. The hieroglyphics call her “Chantress of the Sun.”

  “The coffin is so small.” I press my nose to the glass display case. “Like she was a child.”

  Raja comes up behind me, his chest against my back as he leans over me, so close, to see the mummy. Across two thousand years, Chantress of the Sun is casting a spell on us.

  Twenty-seven

  We have afternoon tea at C’est Café and watch people. At a table under an umbrella, I take in university life—Calvin Klein’s Obsession perfume, cigarettes, nose rings, and skimpy, midriff-baring outfits.

  “Tell me about your fiancée,” I say.

  He chokes on his tea. “My fiancée?”

  “What’s her name.” I can afford to watch him through sunglasses. He can’t see the expression on my face. “I mean, should you even be out with me?”

  He clears his throat and takes another sip of tea. “Her name is Sayantoni. She’s a princess.”

  A princess. The word cuts through me. She must be beautiful. I run my finger around the rim of my teacup. I want him to say he’s not really engaged. It was all a rumor. Now his woman has a name.

  “What’s she like?”

  “I don’t know her well. My father knew her father.”

  “But you’ve gone out with her.”

  “I’ve met her.”

  “You’re with family when you see her?”

  “Yes. Her parents arrange the meetings.”

  “And you go along.”

  He sits back, his face shaded by the umbrella. “I respect my mother’s wishes. She wants to see me happy.”

  “If you don’t know this woman, how do you know you’ll be happy with her?”

  He gulps his coffee. “We come from similar backgrounds. She understands what’s required.”

  There he goes again, describing a Stepford Wife. The ghost princess drives a wedge between us. “Was she promised to you, like a child bride?”

  He laughs. “Of course not. You know the Brahmo Samaj don’t believe in child brides.”

  “But you agreed to the match.”

  “Not yet, although her family would like my response soon.”

  “Oh,” I say faintly. “Do you … know what you’ll do?”

  “I haven’t decided. Although … she comes from a good family.”

  I’m from a good family too. “Are you in love with her?”

  He breaks into a startled smile. “You are direct.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Love takes time. It’s learned.”

  “So you’re not in love with her … yet. But you think you might be in love with her, someday?”

  “Perhaps.” He grins. I’m amusing him.

  “You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

  “Perhaps, but such was not the case with her.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Ah, well.” He looks off down the sidewalk. He has to think about it?

  “I mean, she’s a princess, right? Does she look like a princess?”

  “In a traditional way.” He shifts in his seat. “Anyway, it’s of no consequence. She’s willing to become a good wife. That’s what matters.”

  “To take care of your family.”

  “She’s very respectful. Well educated, well read—”

  “A perfect ornament for your palace.” Oops, what did I just say?

  He doesn’t answer, and I don’t blame him.

  “Sorry.” Jealousy claws at my gut. “What would she think if she knew you were with me?”

  “Lina—” He leans in close. His breath warms my cheek.

  “Did you know I had a fiancé once? He died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry—” He touches my chin, turns my face toward him.

  “Yeah, well. I think he may not have been exactly faith—ful.”

  “Then he was the wrong man for you.” He angles his face to kiss me, softly at first, and then his lips are demanding and direct. The kiss radiates through my body. His face is flushed, his eyes half-lidded.

  I pull away and straighten up, my breathing shallow and quick. I can’t compete with an Indian princess.

  Twenty-eight

  Harry and Jonathan hold their commitment ceremony outside at Bear Valley, at the Point Reyes National Seashore. Hills of pink and yellow wildflowers roll away to the edge of the forest. An ocean breeze wafts through the crowd. I stand in a semicircle with the maids of honor in blue dresses and sandals.

  Harry and Jon stand on a platform in front of the priest. They both look stunning in tuxedoes, their hair slicked back. A bright thread of love shimmers between them, connecting their hearts.

  A lump lodges in my throat. I hate weddings. I’m not the type to be hitched, at least, not anymore, and I can’t understand why I get emotional at these shindigs.

  People of all persuasions are here. Most of gay San Francisco must’ve shown up—the city is missing half its population. I didn’t know Harry and Jon were so popular. The priest recites the commitment vows, and the two men respond with relish.

  “… in sickness and in health, until death do you part …”

  I blink back tears. I imagine Raja Prasad marrying his princess. Will he have a typical Brahmo Samaj wedding? Why did he bother kissing a dark, thin, neurotic, single American woman who can’t cook Bengali food?

  He thinks I’m honest and forthright, but I’m a fraud.

  When the ceremony ends, Harry and Jon kiss, and Jon lifts Harry off his feet. They throw the birdseed into the air, and Harry throws a bouquet. Donna catches it.

  “You’re next!” I hug her.

  “No, you are.” She mouths Raja Prasad.

  I shake my head. “Just business. I’m introducing his
brother to my sister.”

  “There, see? Two brothers will marry two sisters.”

  “No chance.” I ask Donna to come with me for moral support.

  “I get to meet the fab Dev? Of course.”

  “You’re a doll, Donna. I owe you my life.” I make my way to Harry and Jon and embrace them both.

  Harry’s face glows with happiness. “I can’t wait to get out of this place. Paris, here we come!”

  “Take me with you?”

  “Any time, honey.” But I don’t figure into his plans. He’s smiling into his future with Jonathan.

  Then the crowd moves in, hugging and shaking hands, and I drift away from the throng. A bubble of isolation surrounds me. I watch couples holding hands, some mothers wearing T-shirts, “Proud Parent of a Gay,” kids running around.

  I walk away from the group, down the path to the sea.

  Twenty-nine

  When I arrive at Madras Cuisine, Raja, Dev, and Kali are already seated in a booth. No sign of Donna. Kali’s in a silk blouse buttoned to her neck. Her hair twists up into an Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s style. She’s desperate to impress Raja, the Important Elder Brother.

  Dev stands and kisses the back of my hand. He’s slightly shorter than Raja, with narrower shoulders and a wider face, but there’s no mistaking the Prasad features and charm. We make the introductions. Our stiff formality could starch all the red cloth napkins in the restaurant.

  Kali’s doing the demure, looking-down thing. I try not to roll my eyes as I take a seat next to Raja. His elbow brushes mine.

  Dev’s gaze pierces me. I wonder if he’s searching for similarities between Kali and me. He pours Heineken into a glass, spilling a drop on the white tablecloth.

  I glance from Dev to Kali and back. No shimmering thread connects them, no body language that hints at the two becoming lovers. Doesn’t matter, I tell myself, if Kali says they have cross-mojonation.

  Dev lifts his glass. “Here’s to making perfect matches.” His tone is acid, but we raise our glasses. Kali leaves an imprint of red lipstick on hers.

  We talk, throwing formal questions and answers like hot potatoes. What does Dev do? What are Kali’s interests? What does she hope to accomplish in life, and what’s she looking for in a husband? She responds in a patient, polite tone, like a programmed robot. Although she loves her job at City Chic, she really wants to settle down and raise children.

  “—Dev is finishing his MBA, and then he will return to work in the family business,” Raja says.

  “Maybe I prefer to remain here,” Dev says.

  Raja shoots him a look. An invisible storm rages between brothers. I have an urge to run for shelter.

  Kali stares down at the napkin in her lap.

  Where’s Donna when I need her? I check my cell phone. No message, so we order without her. I barely notice the meal, a combination of South Indian masala dhosas—crepes with curried potato and vegetables inside—dipped in a coconut or hot tomato curry sauce. The conversation swirls as I watch Dev, who never once looks at Kali. He keeps casting me questioning glances.

  “When would you like to get married?” Kali asks Dev.

  “Not too soon. I came tonight mainly out of obligation to my family.”

  Kali’s face reddens.

  I twist the cloth napkin in my lap. At least he’s honest.

  Raja clears his throat, the skin around his lips turning pale. “His auspicious wedding date falls in five months.”

  Kali chokes on a sip of water.

  I’m going to throw up. I stand, place my napkin carefully on the table. “Will you excuse me a moment?” I dash to the bathroom, a small green-tiled room with a noisy fan and the smell of Lysol disinfectant. My mind whirls, my brain dampened by sulfites from the wine. Poor Kali.

  I set up this meeting. Maybe there’s still a chance to save the evening, but how? Suggest Kali and Dev take a drive together? Does Dev have any real interest in her?

  I splash cold water on my face, pat my hair, and take deep breaths. I step into the hall and bump into Dev. His cologne is sharper than his brother’s is, and there’s a hint of alcohol on his breath.

  He stands back, blocking the hallway. “Are you all right?”

  “Peachy keen.” My trademark words.

  “I apologize for the remark I made to your sister. I like her. She’s lovely, but I need time to consider my future. I have many options, and marriage is a big step.”

  “No rush. Take your time.” I think of the missing silver threads.

  He steps back. “I hope Kali doesn’t find me rude.”

  “She thinks she’s falling in love with you. She doesn’t know what she really wants.” I squeeze past Dev, and my legs wobble all the way back to the booth. Plates of dessert cover the table. I try a spoonful of coconut burfi, made from coconut and cashews and cardamom, and crunch down on the sickly sweetness.

  Dev comes back and sits down, and then Donna rushes in, a pale goddess in a white dress. “So sorry I’m late! Emergency at home. Long story. Lina, you have permission to kill me. What did I miss? Raja, great to see you again. Kali, you look beautiful. And you must be Dev—”

  He takes her hand. She gazes up at him, and she and Dev take off to a distant planet. A translucent silver thread shimmers between them.

  Thirty

  Harry and Jonathan have been staying with me for two days. Their furniture is bobbing across the Atlantic Ocean on a ship bound for Europe. Harry folds laundry on my couch, and I’m plucking my eyebrows when the doorbell rings. I put down the tweezers and mirror and stare at the door, then at Harry. He stares at me. Jonathan is whistling “I Can See Clearly Now” in the shower.

  “See who it is,” I whisper.

  Harry carries a folded undershirt to the door and squints through the peephole. “It’s him!”

  “Him? Him who?”

  “Him.”

  “Oh, no!” I screech. “He’s not here. He’s in New York.”

  “Then it must be his evil twin.”

  “Don’t you open that door.” I jump to my feet and gather the laundry from the couch. The cold morning leaps into my bones. Folded clothes slip from my arms and fall on the floor. The doorbell rings again, more insistently this time.

  “You’re just a friend visiting,” I say as I pick up a pile of briefs from the chair. “Better yet, hide in the bedroom, and I’ll get it.”

  Harry is already opening the door. I’ll kill him.

  Raja Prasad storms in. I’m standing in the middle of the living room in my sweats, a folded pile of Jonathan’s sexy Jockeys in my arms. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Your engagement is not what I think?” Raja glances at me, at the pile, at Harry, and then back at me. “Word gets around. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  How could I have expected people to keep their mouths shut? “Oh, Raja. I’m not really engaged!”

  “Oh, really? I returned early, stopped by your office, and Donna said you’d left. I read the postcards. Every one of them. I won’t ask why you didn’t tell me.”

  “Those postcards were fakes!”

  Harry reaches out to shake Raja’s hand. “I wrote them, of course. Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. All good.”

  Raja shakes his hand, but his face is hard. “I’d heard nothing about you, until recently. Seems all of India knows, but I’ve been out of the loop.”

  “I apologize.” Harry turns to me. “Lina will come clean, won’t she? She’ll tell you everything.”

  Baba will crumble into dust. Ma will sequester herself until the end of time. Kiki will marry me to Pee-wee. “It’s complicated,” I say.

  Raja turns to Harry. “You must be her fiancé, the man who travels incessantly.”

  “I do travel quite a bit.” Harry winks at me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say to Raja. “It’s a long story. It’s about my parents, and my auntie Kiki. They so desperately want me to settle down, marry,
and have kids.”

  Raja turns to Harry. “Do you not realize how difficult your absence has been for her?”

  “She was all broken up,” Harry says.

  What’s going on?

  “How can you take this so lightly?” Raja says. “How could you leave her behind for so many months? If you’re to be a good husband, you’ll have to stay with her. It is unacceptable to leave her alone.”

  “Whoa. You have it all wrong. This lecture isn’t meant for me.” Harry holds up his hands.

  “You must accept responsibility for your actions.”

  Jonathan saunters out of the bedroom, biceps flexing, only a towel wrapped around his waist. His dark hair is still wet and matted against his neck. “Lina, have you seen my underwear?”

  “Here.” I hold out the pile in my arms.

  Raja’s face reddens, confusion in his eyes.

  “Raja, this is Jonathan.” My mouth goes dry. I feel the ice creeping through the apartment.

  “I thought your fiancé’s name was also Raja,” Raja says.

  Jonathan gives Raja an appraising look. “You’re the only Raja we know, and I’m very pleased to meet you,” he says, then goes to Harry and plants a kiss on his lips. Jonathan says, “I took a great shower, I wish you could’ve joined me,” to Harry, and then a strange light of understanding comes to Raja’s eyes. His face transforms into an expression of dismay, surprise, and a myriad of other emotions. I know his thoughts. How could you deceive me, Lina Ray?

  I find my legs, drop the underwear, and run to him. I grab his hands, but he yanks them away and strides for the door. I’m babbling. “Let me explain. It’s a big hoax. In India, there was so much pressure. I made up someone.”

  He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Harry. His name is Harry. Not Raja?”

  “No, I … used your name. The first name that came into my head. Please, I’m sorry.” I follow him out the door and down the stairs as I try to explain, my words like boomerangs hitting me in the face. Outside on the curb, he hails a taxi, and then he’s gone.

  Thirty-one

  At work, I remove the postcards from Harry and throw them into the recycling bin. Then I sit at my desk and watch morning brighten across Chinatown. The sun hangs at the wrong angle in the sky. One minute I shiver, and the next minute the sweat droplets pop out on my forehead. The thermostat must be on the blink, or maybe my internal climate control has gone bonkers. I’m going through early menopause. Yes, that’s it. The hot flashes are starting, and I haven’t even had a chance to mate. What is it about love?