by Preethi Nair
‘It will be nice to see what you do, baby, and you won’t even know we are there.’
It was hard to keep coming up with objections.
‘Agreed then,’ his mother asserted. ‘What date is it?’
‘Thursday twenty-second. Won’t you still have lots to do for the wedding?’
‘All done by then. You’ll come as well, no?’ she said, turning to my father and asking him out of politeness. ‘Dillip can’t come, he normally has his golf committee meetings on Thursday evenings, no, Dillip?’
Her husband nodded.
About to have both my worlds collide and destroy each other, I quickly said, ‘Dad’s not really into exhibitions or art.’
‘What?’ he grunted.
Please God, please make him say no. You can’t do this to me.
‘To see Nina’s Japanese painter. You’ll come? It’s on a Thursday night.’
‘Can’t see Japan man. Astitva Ek Prem Kahani is then.’
That’s right, he never missed that, eight o’clock Thursday on Zee TV. He was in front of that box regardless of whatever else happened in the world. Thank you, God.
I took Raj to one side.
‘Raj, it’s a really important artist and I can’t lose him so when we’re there, you’ve got to act like you’re not my fiancé. Work doesn’t like it if we bring our family along to these events.’
‘Completely understand. You won’t even notice us, if you want we’ll pretend we don’t know you.’
What a nightmare. This was all I needed – his mother screeching at the exhibition. There was no way she was going to pretend she didn’t know me.
‘Promise me, Raj, that you’ll speak to her. It’s very, very important.’
‘I promise, baby. We’ll be invisible.’
We got to the restaurant and the waiter showed us to the table and handed us our menu. There were a selection of hors d’oeuvres to begin with followed by curried vegetables and potatoes on a bed of filo pastry drizzled in olive oil, or pan-fried fillet of salmon with mint and coriander sauce. The only thing that could really pass off as Indian were the desserts: kulfi ice-cream, gulabjam or rasmalai.
My dad sat studying the menu. ‘No samosa, paneer, chana dhal, roti?’
I kicked him under the table.
‘OHH … no samosa, paneer, chana dhal, roti. Good, good, all the greasy foods makes peoples fatties.’
We tasted it all. It was fine. However, several times Dad looked as if he would be sick but remained unusually quiet while he ate.
‘Delicious,’ Raj’s mother exclaimed.
‘It’s a good menu, isn’t it, Dad?’ I asked when we had finished.
‘Yes, it was the good. Very good,’ he managed.
The heated towels came at the end and this was the part I was dreading. Dad took the towel out of the plastic wrapper and instead of just wiping his hands, he flannelled his face, rubbing it vigorously and making sure he did behind his ears.
Raj’s family looked at him completely bewildered and then looked at each other.
‘Ah, good, very good,’ he said, handing the towel back to the waiter.
Then Dad asked him if he had any paan. The waiter didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. ‘Just give me the mint and water to wash the taste,’ he said.
They dropped us back home. My dad headed straight for the freezer, defrosted another container in the microwave and heated it up. He sat in the sitting room waiting for An Audience with Cilla Black and I hovered around hoping for an opening where we could just sit and talk. There was none and so I waited for Cilla with him. When she finally came on, he clapped. Clapped really hard, knowing that my mum wasn’t there to hear his adoration for her.
‘Oh, the Cilla, the Cilla,’ he repeated as he stood up clapping as if he were part of the audience.
She took the mike and opened by singing, ‘Surprise, Surprise …’
He bellowed along with her as if he were on stage singing a duet: ‘… the unexpecteds hits you between the eyes …’
‘I’m not a lawyer any more, Dad, and I’m having mega doubts about marrying Raj. There, I’ve said it.’
‘Shhhhh, Nina, let me sing with the Cilla.’
The trees in Green Park seemed happy that spring was finally on its way; winter had seemed endless. The benches were occupied by couples enticed out by the unexpected sunshine. I know it was something that I shouldn’t have done, but I put my engagement ring in my pocket before arriving at Artusion. It slid off almost too effortlessly and I justified it in my mind by thinking that I wanted to keep both worlds completely separate.
I was expecting to find it heaving with people ready to sample food but it was quiet, and then I thought it wasn’t the kind of establishment like my Uncle Nandan’s restaurant, where people queued for miles if you said anything was free. The restaurant was shrouded in darkness and appeared to be closed. I rang the buzzer and Michael came to open the doors.
‘Come in, Nina.’
He was dressed informally in a black T-shirt and jeans. It was really nice to see him again.
‘You’re looking well,’ he said.
I acted like I didn’t hear the comment, as well was far from what I was looking; it had been yet another sleepless night worrying about Raj’s mother’s presence at the exhibition.
The restaurant was empty so I commented on that instead. ‘And the others?’ I asked.
‘What others?’
‘I thought that there would be a few more people.’ Maybe I had misheard him when he invited me or I was getting into my dad’s habit of just hearing things I wanted to. I mean, I saw what I wanted to.
‘No, it’s just you, if you’d like to sit here,’ he said, pulling out the chair. I caught myself glancing at his hand to see if he had a ring and as soon as I found myself doing this, I diverted my thoughts. Michael went into the kitchen and brought out a platter of Japanese canapés. I couldn’t believe he had gone out of his way to sort out the food just for me to try; it was a very kind gesture.
‘The chef came in this morning to make them. This is maki, and this is nigiri, katsu …’
‘I’m not really familiar with Japanese food,’ I replied, adding quickly, ‘I mean the first time I ate it was when we were in Tokyo.’
‘You really were in Japan, then?’
It was the first true acknowledgement from Michael that he knew Foruki’s real identity.
He waited for my answer and I didn’t lie.
‘No, I have never been to Japan.’
‘It’s the name of a restaurant?’
‘No.’
‘Help me out here, Nina – how have you been to Tokyo if you’ve never been to Japan?’
I wanted to help him out, but if I did, I would involve him in the deceit. And although he already knew, it wasn’t spoken about, so therefore it didn’t matter. And why him? Why couldn’t it be Raj who I was about to spill my heart out to?
‘Nina?’
The way he called my name like that, so softly, made me feel even more desperate to tell him.
‘My friend Ki and I were in Tokyo. Not Tokyo as you would know it but in her bedroom. That’s what we did, she loved to travel and we pretended we were in some part of the world, not in some back bedroom that smelled of raw fish and Domestos staring at cheap red paper lanterns. It didn’t matter at that stage anyway, she was ill, really ill, and she couldn’t eat any of the food, couldn’t swallow, and I was trying to make things better for her but I couldn’t.’ And though it must have sounded like the ramblings of a mad woman, he let me continue, without interrupting, without needing to add his comments.
After I’d told him all about Ki, I glanced up at him, tears in my eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I didn’t know what I was sorry for: sorry for unburdening myself, sorry for deceiving him, sorry that I was in tears, sorry that it wasn’t Raj sitting there.
‘How old was she when she …?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘I�
��m sorry too,’ he said simply.
The warmth in his eyes was sincere and I wanted to tell him all of it – all about the plan which had spiralled out of control.
‘This all started because I promised her I would paint again. I never meant for it to get this far, you know I’ve never really lied, not on this scale anyway.’
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
He was right, I didn’t have to tell him a thing, but I began at the beginning with leaving my job; Matisse’s quotes; the serendipitous meeting with Gina; the suit routine; going to the framer’s; Mangetti’s interest in the buddha painting; setting up the office. With each piece of information it felt as if a huge burden was being lifted from me. The only bits that I missed out were Raj and the wedding, because at that moment it didn’t seem part of my life. That part was like it was happening to someone else and I didn’t want him to know that I was getting married.
Michael looked dumbfounded. ‘And you haven’t told anyone else? How have you managed to keep it all in?’
‘By pretending it was happening to someone else, maybe? Pretending that Foruki is real, that it was all going to somehow come together and I could pull it off if I really focused. It is the first time in my life that I have taken a risk on any scale.’
‘Might as well start big then,’ he smiled.
Michael knew Tastudi Mangetti, he knew most of the major players in the art world and he told me to be careful. Mangetti was renowned for being ruthless and getting his own way; if he ever found out he would make sure I would never work in the art world again. He asked me what my strategy was but there was no real strategy, just to get Mangetti to buy a few paintings and to sell the rest so I would have made a sizeable amount to tell my father about, and then I would kill off Foruki. By then, the art world would have moved on to the next artist.
‘And what about you? What happens to you, Nina?’
‘I haven’t allowed myself to think beyond the exhibition.’
He was surprised that there wasn’t more calculation to it. But that was the point, it wasn’t ever meant to be calculated; I had taken one step and events had escalated and I went along with it all because it was the first time I had ventured outside my comfort zone and also because it had been a very long time since I had felt passionate about something. And now it had got to a stage where it had become a personal challenge and I needed to know that I could pull it off.
Michael told me how he had gone to art school in New York but knew early on he would never make money from his work so he looked for another outlet to express himself through. He teamed up with Emanuel Hikatari whom he had met through a friend and together they had gradually built up a reputation for finding new artists. They had taken risks with many unknown artists who were later spotted and made into commercial successes. I knew he was taking a huge gamble with me because if it ever came out in public that he knew Foruki was an invention, his reputation would be ruined.
‘I’ll understand if you want to back out, Michael. Really I will.’
‘No, I’m not even thinking about that. I want to help you. What you’re doing takes guts.’
I didn’t know about guts, stupidity maybe. ‘Do you think creativity takes courage?’ I asked.
‘I would say that not being creative also takes courage. It’s hard just to go through the motions and not do what you really want to do.’
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
My phone began ringing. It was Raj. I looked at my watch. I’d completely lost track of time; he was probably waiting for me outside the cinema.
‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ I said, answering quickly.
‘You have to go?’ Michael enquired.
‘I’m sorry to leave in such a rush, Michael.’ I hadn’t tried any of the food, we hadn’t talked about the contract, the exhibition or any of the PR. ‘We’ll talk again soon.’
He said he would do whatever he could to help me.
‘Thank you,’ I said getting up, ‘you’re very kind.’ What I really wanted to do was throw my arms around him and thank him for really listening to me but I couldn’t bring myself to, so I shook his hand and left.
Raj was waiting at the cinema and seemed irate, pacing up and down. I’d never seen him like that before.
‘Where have you been?’ he shouted.
‘I’m sorry, I was at Artusion, trying to plan the exhibition.’
‘On a Sunday? Anyway, the film has already started; we’d better go in.’
The film was The Green Mile, and despite really wanting to see it I couldn’t concentrate as I was thinking about the conversation I had had with Michael. It had been a relief to talk to him, to feel unburdened … and then, feeling incredibly guilty, I held out my hand and took Raj’s.
He squeezed it and whispered, ‘I’m sorry if I shouted at you earlier, baby.’
I spent most of that week in the office, making more phone calls, sending out press releases. Michael called every day to see how things were coming along and if he could offer any assistance. I really did try to keep our conversations strictly professional but at times the conversation would veer off to other realms and I would find out things about him, such as he lived in New York but was in London until the restaurant was up and running. But it was the little details about him that I loved finding out about. Like how much his family meant to him – how he would try to get back to Ireland as often as he could to see his niece and nephew; that he liked to drink cinnamon coffee every morning and in this time would plan his day. Jean hadn’t been too concerned about seeing his family; Nantes wasn’t far at all but he only saw them twice a year and he never sat and planned anything in the morning. He had always been rushing around, spontaneous and impetuous. I didn’t even know what Raj was like in the mornings. And in these moments, when I caught myself thinking about three different men, I would seek refuge by burying myself in my work, and in Foruki.
Michael called to say that he was sending someone over to the studio to take pictures of the paintings for a brochure and he would come by the studio himself at some point, drop the contract around and help me pick out the paintings to exhibit. I also had wedding jobs to do like call around and find a wedding cake as this was the only thing Raj’s mother had entrusted me with, but I couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to do it.
On Wednesday I received an RSVP from my Auntie Shilpa accepting Foruki’s invitation to see his work. At first I didn’t understand but then at the bottom she had put ‘Will food be available in the canapé?’ Then it dawned on me that when sending out the invites there must have been some kind of mix-up – I had sent exhibition invites to the wedding guests. With visions of my relatives turning up at Foruki’s launch, I began to panic; all this work only to have relatives come and cause havoc. I rushed home to retrieve the guest list and my dad’s address book.
‘Who’s a there?’
‘It’s me, Dad. What are you doing at home? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’
‘Feeling a bit sick,’ he said, listening to Cilla’s CD. ‘And you?’
‘I’ve forgotten some important documents that I brought home to read and the client needs them sent off today.’
He wasn’t listening but I needed to get him out of the sitting room so I could get the address book that was by the phone along with the guest list.
‘Dad, is that the bathroom tap I can hear?’
‘Go switch it off, no wasting water here,’ he indicated with his hand.
I went upstairs. It would take a burglary to move him.
‘Oh my God,’ I screamed.
‘What?’
‘No!’ I gasped.
‘What?’
I remained silent while he made his way up, huffing and puffing.
‘Have we been burgled?’ I asked, looking around his bedroom.
‘The burgled where?’
‘Here.’
‘Don’t be the fool, Nina; this is the mess. You are not cleaning in the house, you doing not
hing so I wait for Kavitha and then she …’
Before he had an opportunity to finish I ran downstairs, grabbed the address book and shouted, ‘Got to go, Dad, will see you this evening.’
I got back to the office and began calling up all my relatives asking them if they had received an invitation to Foruki’s exhibition. Most of them didn’t know what I was talking about and congratulated me, thanking Bhagavan that I was finally getting married. Others who had received invites to the exhibition wanted to know why they couldn’t come after all. It was a lengthy process to sort it all out and took the rest of that day – hours that I didn’t have.
That evening, my dad and I had been invited to Raj’s house for dinner but he said he was sick with a stomach bug and didn’t want to make it worse. Raj’s mother had her checklist and itinerary out and asked if I had managed to organise the cake.
‘Yes. Raj and I will go and see them on Saturday.’
‘I’ve organised a band to play at the reception,’ she said.
‘Indian music?’
‘No, no, none of that. A good band, play at Daddy’s golf functions. Latest pop songs.’
‘If Nina wants Indian music I’m sure we can arrange it,’ Raj insisted.
She ignored him. ‘Pretty much all done then. When is your mother coming back from India, Nina?’
‘This Saturday.’
‘And she said she was speaking to her priest, no?’
‘Yes, I think she’s already done it but I’m not too sure.’
‘Just in case he can’t do it, I’ve organised someone. Our priest can step in at the very latest moment; Daddy and I know him very well.’
She knew everyone very well: should my mother’s priest be taken ill she had a stand in; there was a stand in for everyone except the bride and groom. This wedding was going to happen no matter what.
The next morning I went into the studio to try and sort out which paintings to put in for the exhibition. There were only eight paintings which I felt were good enough to be included – I couldn’t put just eight paintings into an exhibition. I had more than that but the others were experiments, some dabblings. Perhaps the best idea was to lay them all out and that way I could see how far Foruki had come.