‘You nearly lost that bunch. Hold on tight, man!’ warned Roman.
‘Thanks, mate,’ replied the lad without looking up. He jerked his thumb towards the shop. ‘Got to do this delivery and me girlfriend’s waiting down the road. She’s going to kill me – says she won’t be waiting longer than five minutes. Got to send her a message now. Can you help, mate? Just go in with the flowers, say they’re from the Sunflowers Florists down the road, all right? She’s going to kill me. Gotta run. Cheers, mate!’ He sped away.
Roman entered the shop with the flowers. He paused, searching for a note from the florists among the blooms. As he slowly approached the counter, he saw her, slim in a cream turtleneck and denim jeans, her black hair untidily bunched around her shoulders, noticed the droop of her neck, the curve of generous lips as she mocked and teased a large Indian lady dressed in a sari. He paused again, considered for a brief, mad moment saying the flowers were from him, but was intercepted by a grey-haired woman.
‘Sunflowers Florists delivery from across the road,’ he revealed hastily.
‘Who are they for? There’s no card,’ she accused as she peered into the bouquet of a dozen red roses. He shrugged apologetically.
‘They couldn’t be for me. They must be for one of them.’ The stern woman carried the bouquet to the counter. He waited uncertainly.
The large woman in the sari gushed, ‘Let me see! Let me see! Lovely roses! For whom?’ Her curious eyes devoured the flowers. ‘For whom?’ she repeated. Not for a moment did she entertain the thought that she might be the lucky recipient. Mr Chatterjee was not given to frivolous gestures.
‘If you think they could be yours, take them, there’s no card,’ suggested the grey-haired woman.
Another Asian woman looked at the blooms and declared, ‘Must be for you, Durga.’
Durga. He memorised the name, sliding over its unfamiliar edges.
The large woman looked at her, avid eyes snapping. ‘Who is this admirer of yours, hanh, Durga?’ She wagged a finger. ‘Trying to keep secrets from us, na?’
‘They can’t be for me, either. No one sends a rose to a cactus,’ replied Durga. Her voice was attractive and low. He hated shrill voices. Kathy’s had become very shrill in the end. Cactus. Had she just said ‘cactus’?
‘Then for whom are these flowers? Durga says they can’t be for her, Swarna says they can’t be for her, you say they can’t be for you and I’m saying they can’t be for me,’ wondered Heera, turning to Eileen.
‘Blimey, that’s women for you. If you don’t send ’em flowers, they complain. If you send ’em flowers, they complain. What’s a man to do? What’s all the fuss about? Share ’em three apiece and get on with it,’ advised the customer who had previously been buried in the rack of nightgowns but had since moved on to the inspection of old record albums. He winked at Roman.
‘Phone the florist,’ suggested Eileen. ‘That’s the logical thing to do.’
Roman continued to stare at Durga. Instant attraction didn’t happen in real life, it was the stuff of the chick films Kathy had dragged him to watch with a popcorn bag in one hand and a large Coke in the other. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt silly and weak at the sight of a woman, flames leaping, sending incoherent thoughts and snatches of poetry to his head. San Francisco, Kathy and the Arizona retreat were a fading drumbeat; he was mesmerised by the curve of a stranger’s lips.
Heera returned to the group, embarrassed.
‘Well?’ said Eileen.
‘They’re for me. They’re from Javed,’ acknowledged Heera shyly. She stood holding the bouquet, lost in the perfection of the flowers, sniffing their fragrance and gently caressing the petals. With brimming eyes she hugged the blooms to her face, returning to breathe deep of their scent.
‘Flowers from Javed?’ There was a world of inflection in Swarnakumari’s voice. A flame once extinguished was best forgotten, she brooded. Even if Javed had been Heera’s young love, it was a long time ago. Her parents should have kept a strict watch, and then it would not have happened at all. Now that Heera was happily married to Bob, after saying, ‘Hello, how are you?’ there should be nothing more for her to say to another man who was not a blood relative, she decided, convinced Mr Chatterjee would not approve, either.
He had not spoken during his visit to the shop other than to inquire after Mrs Wellington-Smythe, she realised with a jolt. She did not understand why he had arrived there unannounced; he had appeared preoccupied and tense, giving her no opportunity to properly introduce her shop colleagues.
In truth, Mr Chatterjee’s face as he wandered through IndiaNeed had registered not only incomprehension but also the unexpected entry into a brave new world that had made him feel irrelevant, as if the life he had lived had been revealed as no life at all.
‘Heera, when you’ve finished, could you take a look at those old cigar boxes I found?’ called Eileen.
Heera accompanied her behind the curtain, carefully holding the bouquet, as two burly men entered the shop, dragging a large, heavy object. ‘Afternoon, got a delivery. Could you sign for it?’ said the taller of the two, drumming his thigh impatiently. Swarnakumari was curious; the shop rarely took delivery of large items. ‘Dunno. Just did what I were told. Cheers,’ drawled the man on his way out in reply to her question.
As Roman watched, the group of women slowly encircled the object abandoned in the middle of the shop. Durga stood a few feet away and he stared at her, at her dark hair and eyes; she was a stranger who felt a mere breath away. He paused, overcome by self-irony; it was too soon after Kathy. He was already running from Teresa, and he should continue to be cautious and prudent, but once he had seen Durga, delicate as the leaf he had examined earlier, he sensed the image of her would be forever his to own and pin on the wing of a Petrarchan sonnet.
It had been different with Kathy. Kathy was not to blame, nor he; perhaps they would blame it on San Francisco. If they’d never moved to the Bay Area from the New England small town, why would he be here, in wind-swept Cambridge on a chill autumn day? It had been a Faustian bargain, unlike any at Macy’s. A rueful smile chased his face, as he remembered his enthusiastic endorsement of Herb Caen’s Baghdad by the Bay in the early days. No longer would he gaze up for the moon and settle for those towering confections of steel, enough of the cable cars and fire sirens, the plaintive foghorns and the Pyramid. No more eclectic bookstore, rollerblading in Golden Gate Park, mingling in the crowds on Labor Day weekend on the ferry to Angel Island or the Halloween party in the Castro, the sweating bearded Cinderellas and Tinkerbells at the Moby Dick or Twin Peaks, the lighting of the Christmas tree at Union Square. No more Nutcracker at the Opera House or envious amble past Neiman’s and Saks, poetry at St Paul and Peter’s Church, jazz in North Beach. No more cherry-tree blossoms in the Japanese Tea Garden; no longer would he allow himself to think of the Wharf and chowder and sourdough bread, Red’s Java diner, nor the Anchor Steam beer straight from the source and the Farmer’s Market at the Ferry Building. Nevermore did he want to read another Chronicle arts critique, nor a restaurant review, nevermore scurry for seductions by wine and books and food and the conversations of strangers.
Caught in the dance, they had failed to see they had toppled off the floor. When she argued for a new French-designed pre-heated toilet seat and ordered pre-wrapped counter pick-up presents for his friends, he should have seen that together they had already staled their infinite variety. He had wanted to read, write, teach, recite poetry, and Kathy, now as slim and indispensable to her interiors firm as dental floss to her teeth, hair burning brightly from lunch, talked with animation only of her therapist and wax, both Brazilian.
Her hysteria was timed to December, so inconvenient in the run-up to Christmas that, when she bravely continued to arrive at work, her employer increased her benefits package in gratitude. Roman obligingly timed his own less dramatic breakdown to the end of the semester, moving to a Buddhist retreat in Arizona.
‘I go
to the back of the shop only for two minutes and there is a problem already. Swarna, you should at least have asked what these men were delivering! What is this big thing lying here right in the middle?’ asked Heera in exasperation as she poked at the object’s edges. She tugged a lever, and with a loud groan it opened like an accordion and settled amicably with four spindly legs folding out underneath.
‘Looks to me like a bed,’ volunteered the customer, peering over an album of Diana and the Supremes. ‘You know, one of those collapsible ones.’
‘But what’s this on the mattress? Some fool’s written in ink, Pamela and John forever,’ cried Heera, vexed.
‘What are you going to do with it? It doesn’t look new at all,’ scoffed Swarnakumari.
‘No, it doesn’t. Pamela and John have spent forever on foam. And it will collapse if you sit on it,’ warned Durga. ‘It is a collapsible bed, though,’ she added reasonably.
‘Those are the same two names as on the sorting table,’ said Eileen.
‘That’s so naughty,’ admonished the customer, uneducated on either plot or characters, but keen to appear enlightened.
‘Naughty’. The word smacked of the nursery and the smack, thought Roman. He would use it one of these days; shuffle from one foot to another, a leg crossed over the other, and with a pained expression on his face and clasped hands he would concede, confess, ‘I’m naughty,’ and await his punishment. He was also waiting for an opportunity to add ‘Oops’ to his vocabulary. After a year out in the West where men were wild, and the saguaros grew tall and strong, where the giant cactus lived for two hundred and fifty years and grew to seventy feet, where time and space rolled out into the desert, there had been no opportunity to say ‘Oops’. Now he was ready. He would learn about civility and tea, crumpets and horses, rain and tweed, the grumble and apple crumble, ale and Britannia, conservatories and the colour magnolia, country rambles and brambles.
As Durga turned, her dark brown eyes met warm hazel eyes. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.
‘It’s unreal. I’d heard about English charity shops and sweet old ladies, but this place is weird,’ Roman spluttered.
She looked at his springy dark hair, fresh, open face and rangy frame, at his mouth and tanned skin. Her smile widened and deepened, somersaulting over the collapsible bed, tumbling in the mattress, bouncing high on its springs and vaulting gracefully back.
‘I’m Roman Tempest,’ he said, offering a hand.
‘Then I must be Indian Storm,’ she replied, feeling the firm warmth of his grasp spreading into her own. ‘Why Roman?’
‘My parents loved Roman Holiday. Isn’t it a cool name?’
‘Yes. But it’s also cheesy – Mills and Boonish. Like a tall, dark, handsome stranger in a romantic novel.’
‘I am a tall, dark handsome stranger,’ he replied. ‘And romantic.’
‘I’m Durga,’ she said.
‘I’m Visiting Faculty, teaching an MPhil course in American Literature. Who are you?’
‘I’m a Townie now, but I did an MPhil in Modern Society and Global Transformation, Social and Political Sciences. Starting a researcher’s job in television in London in a fortnight,’ she answered.
‘Aren’t you the florist?’ interrupted Eileen suspiciously.
‘I’m Hermes at your service, madam. Messenger of Zeus. Or rather, of Sunflowers Florists, Mill Road. Behold my invisible cap, winged boots and caduceus. It’s a long story,’ he continued, but it was too late. Eileen shook her head dolefully and marched away.
Turning to Durga, he chuckled gleefully, ‘She thinks I’m nuts, doesn’t she?’
‘She thinks everyone is nuts,’ replied Durga. ‘What is a caduceus?’
‘The rod that Hermes carried, entwined by two serpents. He received it as a gift from Zeus when he invented the lyre. He used the shell of a tortoise for the lyre, by the way.’
‘Now I think you’re nuts,’ she confessed.
‘But nice? Please say I’m nice. You British love the word “nice”, don’t you? It covers everything, just like a tablecloth, or should I say “sari”? Hey, do you think I’m “interesting”, too? Because that’s not good,’ he said, reprovingly. “Interesting” is dangerous,’ he concluded.
‘Are you like this all the time?’ she asked.
‘I wasn’t before. Now I know it’s as important as carrying a dozen red roses.’
She laughed, and he felt he had always known the sound.
‘I get the feeling folks around here think Americans are brash and pushy, but I’m acting on impulse – I don’t usually do this – could I take you out to dinner and tell you all about the florist? It’s a riveting story, I promise, and will last until dessert,’ he pleaded.
She was silent. Sensing her hesitation, he retreated, ‘Okay, got the message. Step back, Roman, step well back. Naughty, naughty boy. That was too brash, too pushy. I’ll back off before I do something stupid. I’ve already been stupid, haven’t I, but I’ve also been nice, so there is something you could do for me, now that I’m here. Could you direct me to an old bookshop that’s supposed to be on this road somewhere?’
‘You must mean Browne’s,’ she said, trying to suppress her smile. ‘Turn left when you come out. It’s a few doors down, you can’t miss it.’
He was forced to move closer to her, as Swarnakumari brushed past, intent on fetching a measuring tape for the bed. ‘Do you have a picture of a desert, or a cactus?’
‘In here?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Well, why not? If you can have a collapsible bed, why not a cactus? Sounds reasonable to me.’
‘Why don’t you just go to a garden centre and buy a real one?’
‘The sensible solution. Of course!’ He smacked his forehead in a mocking gesture. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Sure, I can do that, but I want a picture. Is that too much to ask? Can’t I have a look, no, what’s the right word, can’t I take a “little peek” among these cups and saucers, anyway? How about a guided tour of Buckingham Palace?’
Pausing in front of the men’s winter coats, he confided, ‘Have you ever felt so lonely for what you think you might lose that you think you need something tangible to remind you of it?’
‘You mean like crutches?’ she asked.
‘Crutches?’ He looked startled before recovering. ‘Never thought of it that way, but if you desperately want to talk about crutches, then I guess I need them, or maybe I just think I do. I’m from the East Coast. A smalltown boy who singed his soul in the big city, born again. Sounds very Jehovah’s Witness, doesn’t it? How interesting! My life was deadlines and dates and publishing papers. I was Icarus, flew too close. I also lost Kathy. We went to the School Prom together, that’s how long I’ve been with her. She told me in the end that I made her unhappy every single day, and I thought all I was doing was loving her. That was the shock that shook the pear tree. Something was very wrong with my life, and I had to take it apart. I spent a year in a Tibetan Buddhist retreat in Arizona, and I found silence and space. Sounds very New Age-ish, and it was only a year, but it has changed my life. Anyway, back to Cambridge. It’s driving me crazy. I want a desert outside. I need those crutches – a picture, something, anything that helps me meditate on the colours of the desert. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I think I do, but I’m not sure I can help. I don’t think you will find anything in here.’
They wandered through the clothes racks, unconsciously distancing themselves from the others.
‘A picture of an Echinomastus erectocentrus var. erectocentrus would do just fine,’ he said humbly, enjoying the bizarre intimacy of standing close to her next to a shelf of leather handbags while the rest were discussing the bed resting like a sleepy pregnant elephant in the centre of the shop.
‘That sounds obscene. Is it?’
‘That’s a needle-shaped pineapple cactus,’ he continued with a pained expression. ‘Me? Obscene? Haven’t you ever seen a barrel cactus? It’s an amazing flame of ora
nge. Or a fish-hook, hedgehog, rainbow, the prickly pear and cholla, the night-blooming cereus, Arizona Turk’s head, golden beehive, pima pineapple, the organ pipe?’
‘I think that’s called showing off.’
‘I’m trying to show you that a man so desperately homesick for a cactus can be a safe dinner companion,’ he wheedled as they passed the china plates. ‘And scintillating company, too.’
‘That’s it, tour over. As you can see, no desert, no cactus.’
‘I thought you said you were a cactus.’ He regretted his runaway tongue.
‘What? Did I say that? When?’
Roman decided not to pursue the subject. There was something about her softness surrounded by prickles that was like a cactus.
‘Do you think they need some help?’ He watched Heera attempting to fold the bed, and strode forward. ‘I guess no one wants bedtime stories just yet. Where’s this Sleeping Beauty going?’ he asked, as he pulled the lever.
‘There is really no space in the shop,’ observed Eileen disapprovingly.
‘Precisely. We’ll put it outside,’ decided Heera.
‘Outside the shop?’ asked Swarnakumari, alarmed. ‘Someone might take it away.’
The idea had crossed Heera’s mind, and was in fact part of a plan. It was an easy – if illegal – way to dispose of unwanted items, for even the charity shop did have to reject and eject on occasion. Roman called on the male customer to assist in the removal of the bed; together they placed it slyly to partially conceal the Catnap window next door, and leave the IndiaNeed display visible. Unlike the vinyl-loving customer, Roman felt this was his cue to leave, but it was no ordinary departure; he no longer felt like the same man of the morning. He had something urgent to say to her, but it was too soon. He was reluctant to have her eyes spell a cool goodbye to the cactus-crazy American searching for a bookshop on Mill Road. Her indifference would be hard to carry away in the wind.
The Cambridge Curry Club Page 12