by Preethi Nair
Oh God, it was my things, work had sent me all my things. Don’t panic, breathe deeply, remain silent, say nothing, do not lie.
He looked at me, waiting for a response. ‘Why they doing this?’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Dad, we’re moving offices.’
‘No problem in the company?’ he asked, putting down his glass.
‘No, no problem. Actually, we’ve got more clients, we’re expanding so we need to move to bigger premises.’ That would account for the change in telephone numbers and the technical difficulties we were experiencing.
‘Doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘What, Dad?’
‘Why they’re not sending box to the new office? Why they’re sending it here?’
‘Feng shui.’ I said the first thing that came into my head.
He looked at me, puzzled.
‘Because they want us to have a clear-out of our files and our personal belongings so we don’t bring old things into the new office. It’s feng shui.’
‘He’s the office manager?’
‘No, feng shui is an idea about clearing space and bringing new energies in. When you get rid of something old, something new comes in its place.’
‘I always know this,’ my mother shouted out from the kitchen. ‘I’m telling you, since we tidy television sets and put them all in attic there is change, maybe energy will bring Nina’s marriage. To bring them down, it’s unlucky. Bhagavan will tell you.’ See, even she was prone to a bit of truth bending; nowhere in the Gita did it say ‘Thou shalt keep broken television sets in the attic’ or ‘Broken television sets left in attic will lead to daughter’s marriage.’
Dad mumbled that they wouldn’t stay in the attic long, just for enough time to stop the taxman snooping around, and then he muttered, ‘I have to fix the television sets and drive the bus for a living, but Fongi Shu, he tells the peoples any rubbish and he makes the money. He’s not Indian, no?’
‘No, it’s Chinese, I think.’
‘The Chinese peoples, they are the clever, very clever.’
My resolve not to tell lies was obviously not working, and seeing as I’d just told one, another one wasn’t going to be so bad.
‘It’s been a really busy day at work. That new client is very demanding and I might have to be a bit more hands-on.’
As I heard myself saying the words I knew he wouldn’t understand, but these were the only words he latched on to. He put his newspaper down again and looked at me, probably imagining me hugging my clients and them doing ninety-degree rotations away from me too.
‘What I mean by hands-on, Dad, is helping the client a bit more: so, say if he is organising an exhibition in Mayfair, I might go and help him in his studio.’
I knew it made no sense but my dad only chose to hear words that he liked, hence Mayfair.
‘Good, good,’ he mumbled.
My mother was listening from the kitchen. ‘Ma, I was just saying to Dad that one of my clients is going to want me to help with an important exhibition he has so I might have to help him a bit in his studio.’
I knew it was volunteering far too much information but I had to get her bloodhound nose off the trail.
‘Has Raj called?’ she replied.
‘What!’ Here I was trying to set her off the track and she was going on about the accountant. As I went back into the hall to take off my coat she followed me.
‘Why don’t you call him? You are seeing him tomorrow, no?’ she said before giving me a chance to reply.
‘I’m not calling him, why should I?’
‘We don’t want him to forget you, Nina. A boy like that probably has a hundred girls to choose from.’
I wanted to ask her if she was ever disappointed; disappointed at the way her life had turned out, if she ever felt passionate about anything other then her circular rotis. But instead I said that I was seeing Raj in twenty-four hours and I was sure that if he wanted to speak to me before then, he would call.
No sooner had I said that, the phone rang.
‘Hello Nina, it’s Raj.’
‘Just a moment.’ I turned to my mum. ‘Ma, is that burning I can smell in the kitchen?’
‘No, beta, I switched off the gas.’
‘I think Dad’s calling you.’
‘I’m not,’ he shouted.
‘Ma, can I speak to Raj on my own?’
‘Sorry about that Raj,’ I sighed as my mother reluctantly shuffled back to the kitchen.
‘That’s OK. Nina, I just wanted to know if you were still all right to meet tomorrow?’
‘Do you feel like going to a gallery instead?’ I asked. There was a pause. ‘I mean it’s all right if you don’t want to, we can go to the cinema, it’s just that I was thinking that …’
‘No, no, a gallery is fine. Shall we meet at the Tate?’ he suggested.
I liked the fact that he suggested the Tate. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. ‘There’s a Matisse exhibition on at the moment.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
I was impressed. ‘Around three o’clock?’
‘Three o’clock is fine, Nina. Shall we meet in the café?’
And he knew about the café.
I told him I’d meet him there.
I went upstairs to call Jean.
‘Thank God, Nina, I have to see you to explain.’
‘Do you know that there’s a Matisse exhibition on at the Tate?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘There’s a Matisse exhibition on at the Tate.’
‘Is that where you want to meet me?’
‘No. I just wanted to know if you knew that?’
‘No. Will you meet me, Nina, just to talk and listen to what I have to say?’
‘Will you promise to leave me alone if I do?’
He said he would and so we agreed to meet the next day at seven.
I woke up very late the next morning. It must have seemed like an eternity to my mum who was hanging about outside my bedroom door.
‘Yes, before you ask, I’m going to see some paintings with him.’
‘Paintings?’ she repeated.
‘Paintings?’ my father interrupted as he was passing. ‘If you want to see paintings you can see the paintings here …’ He indicated the numerous pictures of incarnated gods on the landing, hung on Seventies retro wallpaper.
These were the moments when I wanted so desperately not to be related to him.
As I got ready to leave for the Tate, my mother stopped me.
‘You can’t go like that,’ she said, thinking about the hundreds of girls dancing before Raj – the competition. I was wearing a pale blue polo-neck, jeans, a long black coat and had no make-up on.
‘What will he think when he sees you?’
‘He will think he hasn’t been the fooled. Fooled, I tell you,’ my dad shouted from the sitting room.
‘Put at least a bit of colour on your lips. I know you don’t need the make-up. I know that Bhagavan has given you a very pretty face, but it is to show you have made some effort.’
‘It’s not about looks, Ma, it’s about what’s on the inside.’ This was half the problem with the list system; for me it was all too superficial. Everything was to do with the outward appearance – what you looked like, how much money you had, what job you did. Also, it wasn’t as if you could go on hundreds of dates with a guy to get to know him and then say no, you didn’t like him. This would be another red mark against your family name.
‘But please, beta, do this for me.’
‘It’s the weekend, Ma,’ I said and then, feeling a little guilty, I went back up and put some lipstick on.
Raj was already sitting at a table waiting for me when I got to the cafeteria. I knew it was him by the way he was fidgeting with his cup. As he looked up I didn’t think ‘wow’ but it wasn’t a heart-sinking disappointment either like it could have been, and I could see how the other ninety-nine women would find him attractive. As I walked closer to him his af
tershave smelled stronger and stronger. He got up to greet me and it was slightly awkward as we didn’t know whether to shake hands or kiss each other.
‘Hello, Nina, how are you?’ he asked, missing my cheek and kissing my ear.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
His height at over six foot had been greatly exaggerated. He was slightly smaller than me and had a gap in between his front teeth, which I was sure that my mother would say was symbolic of good fortune. He’d also overdone it with the gel in his hair and it made it look greasy.
‘You’re very tall,’ he commented.
I didn’t know what to say to that so I smiled.
‘I’m always nervous about doing this,’ he said.
And then he went on at great lengths about how he felt. I caught the first part of it which was that he had now got a system in place when meeting the prospective date but then after that I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying, and I knew it wasn’t right but I was comparing him to Jean. Jean’s eyes sparkled, Raj’s didn’t. Raj’s lips were much thinner; Ki said she never trusted a man with thin lips. It was the occasional grunting laugh that brought me back to the conversation.
‘So how about you?’ he asked.
How about me what? I had missed that first part of the conversation. ‘Well, as you know, I’m a lawyer, as you know …’
‘You’re funny, Nina. I meant how many times have you done this?’
‘Done what?’
‘Meeting, on the arranged system?’
‘Ohh, this?’ I wanted to tell him about all the weirdos I had to see before meeting Jean, and about Jean, but I didn’t as I knew if word got back to the honchos who were responsible for matching up the CVs, mine would be marked with a red pen and my mother’s reputation tarnished forever. ‘A few,’ I replied.
‘You’re very beautiful, Nina, I would have thought you would have been snapped up just like that,’ he clicked his fingers.
There it was; cheesy line number one. Only one person in the world had ever made me feel truly beautiful on the inside and out; what did he know? Raj sensed my irritation. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It came out wrong … nerves ….’
Feeling guilty at taking my frustration out on Raj, I replied, ‘No, it’s OK. Thank you.’
It transpired that he really had no need to be nervous as he had been on about twenty dates, had got as far as two engagements, but for one reason or another, neither of them worked out. His perseverance was commendable.
‘Third time lucky,’ I said like a fool.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, smiling.
We talked about each other’s jobs, families and interests, and on paper the honchos seemed to have done their job well – he was a suitable match in the eyes of my parents at least. Raj then asked if I wanted to see the Matisse exhibition. I didn’t want to say that I had visited it all week.
‘I would love to. Do you like Matisse?’ I asked, surprised.
He nodded.
As he got up I was distracted by the T-shirt underneath his blue jumper. It was on inside out so that the label was showing. It was probably nerves, haste or just clumsiness, but I found it almost endearing. I was definitely warming towards him, almost despite myself.
‘“Creativity takes courage,”’ Raj said as we entered the room.
‘How did you know he said that?’ I replied, astounded. Was this a sign? No signs all year and then a bloody shower of them.
He laughed and this time I didn’t hear the grunting sound. ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Nina,’ he said confidently.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Ask as many as you like,’ he replied.
‘If you went to a casino, would you put all your money on one number?’
‘I wouldn’t go to a casino.’
‘But if you had to, what would you do?’
‘I would cover all eventualities – put as many chips on as many numbers – that way you can’t lose.’
We looked at the paintings together and his favourite was The Red Studio, the same as mine. To my surprise I found I could have spent much more time with him, but I was aware that Jean Michel would be waiting for me and that I was already running late.
‘Is there somewhere you have to be, Nina?’ he asked, spotting me checking my watch.
‘Yes, I’m really sorry. But I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
‘Look, Nina, I’ve met lots of people and I know that I like you and I’d really like to see you again. Tomorrow?’ he asked, pinning me down with a date.
I took a moment to think about it: I did want someone who was calm, who knew what they wanted, someone who was practical yet could understand me on some level. Above all, someone who was the total opposite of Jean. And how did he know that about Matisse?
‘Is it OK if I call you and let you know this evening?’
‘You can call me whenever you like,’ he replied.
I had said I’d meet Jean at seven but it was seven-thirty when I got to his apartment building. The concierge opened the door for me and smiled. I took the lift up and rang the buzzer.
Jean answered the door. He looked tired and just for one fleeting moment I wanted to forgive him and tell him that I had really, really missed him.
‘I thought you weren’t coming. I’m so happy to see you, Nina.’
Be strong, I kept telling myself.
‘Come in, cherie, come in,’ he said, coming to kiss me. ‘Cherie’ sounded stupid. I turned away so he caught part of my ear.
The lights were dimmed, candles were lit and he had made dinner.
‘Why didn’t you use your key?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know, let me think … because I might find someone else here?’
‘Nina, I’m sorry, I was drunk. We got a deal with …’
I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. ‘Drunk …? Drunk …?’ If he had said he was angry with me and wanted to hurt me, maybe then I could listen, but drunk?
His eyes searched mine for something he could tell me that would make it better but they couldn’t find anything. He reached out his hand to touch me.
I wanted to tell him about my week, giving up work, finding a studio, but didn’t know where to begin and, besides, I felt I couldn’t pour my heart out to him any more.
‘Do you know that it takes courage to be creative?’
‘What?’ he replied, perplexed.
‘Creativity takes courage.’
‘Does it?’
‘I don’t know.’
He grabbed my hand, told me that he loved me, that he was sorry and would do whatever it took to make it up to me, that it would never, ever happen again. That we could start over. He said he would do absolutely anything to make me happy. And I wanted to believe every word of it, I wanted to believe it was all going to be all right, but I couldn’t because it wasn’t all right. And what if my dad was correct? What if love was fleeting and understanding was what was really important. If Jean understood me, I mean really understood me, he wouldn’t have done that. What if in a few years he found someone else again? I took a deep breath, moved my hand away from his.
‘You’ll need these back,’ I said, handing him his keys and then heading towards the door.
‘Nina, I love you,’ he shouted.
I closed the door behind me, fighting back the tears. The sad thing was I loved him too, but it wasn’t enough any more.
When I got home my mum was sitting downstairs with the contents of the jewellery box sprawled across the floor.
‘All for you, when you get married,’ she said glancing up at me. ‘Raj’s mother called to tell me it had gone very well.’
‘Yes, it went well, Ma.’
I didn’t need love, I decided then, I needed understanding; so I called Raj and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk in the park with me.
I wished I had had the luxury of a whole string of dates with Raj before having to make a decision but arranged
introductions didn’t always work like that; well, especially in our family they didn’t. So if you see someone twice, especially in the space of two days, it’s a given that you’ll be walking around a fire with them and feeding each other sickly sweets on your wedding day, unless, that is, you want to deal with a distraught mother who says you have brought shame and disrepute on the family.
But how exactly events precipitated themselves that Sunday is beyond me. The walk in the park had gone well and by the end of the afternoon Raj wanted to know if there was possibly a future for us. At that time I couldn’t answer the question but by the evening I was somehow engaged to him.
It started in my absence when my dad was going through my things looking for my car insurance papers. He had taken my car out and bumped it, and true to his impatient nature couldn’t wait a couple of hours for me to get back and sort it out. While rummaging through my things, he came across letters from Jean. Letters that had been sent earlier that week, telling me how sorry he was and how much he loved me.
Putting together the fact that I wasn’t married at twenty-seven, the Zee TV lesbian talk-show incident, and believing Jean to be a woman, he almost had a heart attack as he finished reading how much Jean loved me.
He screamed at my mother, calling her to witness the evidence, and told her it was all her fault, that she had spoiled me and let me get away with ‘the murder'. They were both pacing the house, waiting for me to get home.
Raj had given me a lift back and, thank God, I hadn’t asked him in. My dad opened the door before I had even had a chance to put the key in the lock.
‘We’ve found out about you and the Jeannie,’ he shouted. ‘It is shameful. How will I hold my head in the community if anyone finds out?’ he ranted as I walked in.
My mother was weeping in the corner, refusing to look at me.
‘You don’t understand, Dad …’
‘No, Nina, you can not deny it,’ he said, pulling out the letters from his pocket and throwing them at me.
‘It’s not what you think, it’s …’
‘How can you do this to us, after everything we have done for you, it’s … it’s …’
‘It’s a man, Dad. Jean is a man. You met Susan, my friend Susan, who was pretending to be Jean who’s a man.’