‘How long have you guys been together?’ I ask, remembering how little I know about them.
He sighs, sits back and lights a cigarette. Then he returns his gaze to the beach. ‘Forever,’ he says as he exhales his first mouthful of smoke. ‘Forever and a day.’
‘You speak as if it’s a prison sentence,’ I venture.
His eyes are still on the beach. ‘If it is, then it’s one in which I acquiesced,’ he says slowly. ‘In which I still acquiesce.’
‘You’re her puppet,’ I say gently. ‘Does it really make you happy? I know all the fucking, all the other girls – it must be great. But …’
He shrugs. ‘To be honest, I don’t need all that,’ he says. ‘I’d stay with her even if it wasn’t for that. No, it’s Sue who needs it all. She just doesn’t realise.’
‘So you go along with it for her sake?’
He nods. ‘I love her. What can I do?’
I stand up. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I say. As I descend the steps to the beach and march away in the opposite direction to where Sue is, I swear under my breath. Things are far, far worse than I imagined, and so much more complicated. I’m an idiot not to have seen how they were using me. And in spite of Dean’s apology, I now see him to be as guilty as Sue, or perhaps even more so. She, it seems, is at least acting on her own desires, acting out her fantasies, realising some kind of need. He is only going along with her so he doesn’t lose her, and that’s cowardice. He should put his foot down, tell her to stop playing mind games with innocent bystanders.
Before I know it I’m around the headland and onto the next beach, where few tourists stray – it’s rocky and uninviting. I pace up and down for a while, but there’s nothing really to think about – it’s over. I just need to tell Sue that, unless Dean does me a favour and gets there first. I don’t imagine she’ll be happy, but judging by the photos I can’t imagine it will be long before they find another sacrificial victim to lay on the altar of their warped relationship.
I sit down on a rock and lose myself in the sight of the sea. Ancient yet changing every minute, it offers me a lesson in perspective. My problems are so silly, I realise; it’s not as if I’m losing someone in my family or have discovered I have a terminal illness.
As I’m standing up to leave, a figure appears by the rock, and a hand is extended to help me down. I take it gratefully. It’s a fisherman, and I trust in his friendly open face that he means me only good.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I reach terra firma again. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘No problem, madam,’ he says.
‘A good catch today?’ I ask.
‘Not bad. Not bad.’ He grins, and I see that several of his teeth are missing. I look back out at the sea.
‘Do you see many dolphins when you go out?’
‘Sure, every day. There are many colonies here.’
‘Would you take me out to see some one day? I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘I take you out now, if you like.’
‘I’d love that.’
The sun is setting when I get back to the cottage, refreshed from watching dolphins play alongside our boat, as well as from talking to someone sane. Communing with nature has cleared my head and I’m resolved to pack and leave now, without discussion and also without recriminations. I’d intended to have a go at Sue and Dean, to tell them how unfair it is to fuck with people’s lives. But I know now that that will do no good; that nothing will change them. And so I’ll simply walk away.
I won’t go far, not least because Ajay, my new fisherman friend, has invited me to his house tomorrow evening, to meet his children – all seven of them. I’m flattered to be considered worthy of such an invitation, and intrigued at getting this chance to see at first-hand the home life of a Keralan family. So I will find my own cottage nearby, and stay for at least a few days more. In the meantime, I’ll email Mum and apologise. I feel terrible about the things I said to her, the way I behaved. After all, what did I know about Chris and his feelings for her? For all I know, they’re very happy together. And even if he’s not squeaky clean, as I suspected, then that’s fine too. She has to make her own mistakes.
I open the cottage door. Sue and Dean look up at me from the sofa. They’re naked; Sue is kneeling with her buttocks up in the air and, while Dean fucks her in the arse, she’s plunging a dildo between her legs. She smiles, gives me a come-hither look. For a moment I’m tempted, I’m sorely tempted. Watching their bodies thrill to each other turns me on more than I like to admit. But I remind myself of what’s at stake, of how they have used me. I don’t – I can’t – regret having met them, for they have helped me to find myself. I’m scared, however, of getting snared once more in their net, in thrall to the sex, and I shake my head at Sue and head for the bedroom to pack.
28
NADIA’S EMAIL COMES at just the right time, at the height of my despair and self-loathing, when I’m desperate to break away from Chris but can’t find a way. I fear I’ve become sexually dependent on him, can’t imagine ever finding a man who can satisfy me in the way he does. The thought frightens me more than staying here and being unhappy does.
Responding to mine, she too apologises for the row, tells me she hopes things are working out for me in Goa. I bite my lip, frown at the screen. ‘Things are not working out at all,’ I mutter. Then I realise the idiocy of talking to myself and go back to my room and call her from my mobile.
‘Mum!’ She sounds thrilled to hear from me, and I’m overwhelmed with love at the sound of her voice.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘In Kerala. Kovalam Beach.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘It’s gorgeous. I’ve … oh, it’s a long story. But I’m renting a cottage. I’ve made a friend, a fisherman who took me out to see dolphins. It was amazing.’
‘A friend, or more than that?’
‘Oh no, it’s not like that. Ajay is way too old for me. He’s just … he’s so nice. A widower. I’m going for dinner at his house tonight, to meet his kids.’
I must sigh then, for she stops, then asks, ‘Mum, are you all right?’
‘I … I … not really. No, I’m not all right.’
‘What’s happened? Is it Christopher?’
‘Oh, Nadia, you were right about him all along. He is a philanderer, and worse – he dresses it all up as some kind of philosophical-stroke-spiritual quest. I … I thought if I gave him another week, things might improve, but …’
‘Why don’t you leave him?’
‘It’s not that easy.’ I can’t tell her that I feel psychologically trapped by Chris because I can’t picture anyone ever satisfying me physically the way he does. Can’t tell her I feel like a sex junkie, always going back for more. The highs are too high, the lows too low. I’m paying too high a price, yet I can’t seem to break free of the cycle.
‘Why not?’
‘I … I didn’t know where you are.’
‘Well, you do now. Come to Trivandrum and I’ll pick you up from there. Just make sure to charge your mobile, and if you or I are out of signal, find a public phone and call the Hermit Crab Café and leave a message for me there.’
There’s nothing I can say to that, and in a way I’m grateful to her for being so bossy. However, part of me still fears what will happen to me if I leave Chris.
‘I’ll come for a few days,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘I thought you just said it wasn’t getting any better, that he’s still shagging around.’
‘But …’
‘OK, have it your way. Come for a few days and then see how you feel. It’s your life.’ She gives me directions to the cottage should there be some problem in getting in touch, then we hang up. For a moment I sit in the encroaching darkness of my room, wondering if I can go through with this. Then I give myself a metaphorical kick up the arse and start packing my things. When I’m done, I write a brief note to Chris that I will leave in reception on the way out. It’s truthful enough: it says that I’ve
gone to visit Nadia and will call to let him know when I’ll be back. ‘Thanks,’ it ends, ‘for everything.’
29
I’M SITTING IN Ajay’s house, which is little more than a shack in a clearing in the midst of coconut palms. There are only three rooms, with floors of beaten earth, into which this family of nine – Ajay, his seven kids and his aged mother – cram. The latter sits in one corner all night, shaking and muttering in her rocking chair. I don’t ask what her affliction is, assume Alzheimer’s. Nor do I ask which illness claimed the mother of these children. If Ajay wants to tell me at any time, he will.
The children seem to range in age from about three to eighteen; the oldest, I learn upon arriving, is Hari, a beautiful ebony-skinned boy with a frank gaze reminiscent of his father’s, but also a certain feminity to him that charms me. At first I see tantalisingly little of him; it’s Hari, mainly, who cooks, as his dad introduces the other members of the family and proudly takes me outside to show me how even the youngest are capable of shinning the tallest coconut palms to shake loose the fruit. Before we eat, one of the oldest boys is even persuaded to sing for us, and I sit enraptured as sweet notes pour out of him. I don’t understand the words, but it sounds like some kind of prayer, or a thanksgiving, and while he sings I find myself saying a little thank you to the powers that be that I have escaped Sue and Dean. Looking around at this contented little family makes me realise what I want in life, and it’s not what Sue and Dean were offering me.
Hari comes in to lay the table with countless little metal dishes loaded with curries and dhal, with pancakes and pickles and avial. I watch him; he’s confident, used to bearing the responsibility for his siblings while his dad earns a living out on the sea. His matter-of-fact assurance endears me to him just as much as his good looks. I’m not broody – far from it – but I know he’ll make a wonderful father and for some reason that thought turns me on.
The one area where Hari seems not to be so sure of himself, in fact, is in regard to me. He keeps shooting me glances across the table, tentative smiles, but he never addresses me directly except when I ask him specific questions about the dishes he’s served. And even then his answers are perfunctory, modest. At first I think he’s just not interested in me, but before the meal is out I begin to entertain hopes that he might be attracted to me as I am to him.
Walking back along the beach, I think about Hari, and then I think about Ajay. He’d be perfect, I think, for Mum, and I resolve to introduce them when she arrives. Perhaps a little bit of matchmaking is exactly what is needed to stop her returning to Goa and falling back under Christopher’s spell.
The following morning, not knowing how long Mum is going to take to get here – unsure whether she will be able to fly or will be catching the train – I take a stroll up to Ajay’s shack to thank him again for the meal. If I’m truthful, I’m hoping I might also see Hari again while I’m there. I’ve been thinking a lot about him since last night.
Hari’s not there, alas, and I’m shocked to find Ajay sitting alone at his kitchen table, head in his hands. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask from the open doorway. From behind me I hear kids playing and giggling in the coconut grove.
He glances up, cheeks wet with tears, and I rush to him and place my hands on his shoulders, kneeling beside him.
‘Ajay, what’s happened?’
He tells me, in faltering English, that he’s just found out that planning permission has gone through for two five-star hotels in the immediate vicinity and that the family stands to lose their home. Not only that, but local water shortages will be exacerbated, threatening the south Keralan ecology as a whole.
I sit and listen to him talk, ashamed more than ever before to be a tourist, unsure what to say to make him feel better. I feel disgusted but impotent, unable to reassure him that things will be OK, because I know they won’t. I know that the forces of global capitalism will win out, and that stands by individual travellers will have little impact.
When he’s calmed down, I tell him about my mum’s visit and ask him if we can come to see him. He’s flatttered to be asked and agrees. Then I head off back to my cottage.
As I’m halfway back along the beach, I hear a voice behind me. I turn and am surprised to see Hari there, the sun flashing in his eyes.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he says, and there’s a furious edge to his voice. Anger has driven away all traces of shyness.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I tried to console your dad, but it’s difficult, knowing there’s no hope.’
‘Who says there’s no hope?’ He’s combative now, and so sexy with it, I feel faint. I’m just about to start my spiel about market capitalism and tourism’s insatiable growth when he halts me with an authoritative motion of his hand, which only serves to heighten my ardour.
‘I’m actually on my way to Kochi now,’ he says, ‘to meet some people about getting a petition going about the development.’ He pauses, scrutinises my face. His own is alive with passion and righteousness and, although it doesn’t have the Greek god perfection of Dean’s, I think to myself that it’s the most beautiful face I have ever seen – both boyish and a little womanly at the same time. It’s all I can do to stop myself from reaching out and placing my palms on his satinesque cheeks.
‘I’m taking the backwaters,’ he says. ‘Borrowing a friend’s father’s motorboat. Would you like to come? It’s very – what’s the word – picturesome?’
‘Picturesque. Yes, I’ve heard about the backwaters. I’d love to come, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.’
An hour later, we’re chugging up part of the network of rivers, lagoons, canals and lakes that lie just within Kerala’s coastline. Although we’re not moving as slowly as the boats punted by long bamboo poles, we’re hardly speeding along, and I trail my hand in the water and surrender to the slow passage of time, admiring the surroundings – tall palms reflected in the water, cantilevered fishing nets, small settlements on skinny spits of land reclaimed from the water, with tiny vegetable plots. I watch as cashew nuts are loaded onto boats, as shellfish are dredged by hand, and as people tend to their pigs, cows, chickens and ducks. Occasionally we pass a group of children and, when they see a Westerner, they wave and shout, ‘Pen, missus, pen, missus.’ I feel guilty; if I’d have known, I’d have brought a whole stash of writing implements. It’s so refreshing that it’s those they are calling for and not money.
The journey takes hours, but Hari has already warned me that we will have to stay overnight in Kochi, and in fact I’m pleased that I will have some time to explore the former spice trading port and Portuguese capital of India. Of course, I’m hoping that Hari and his friends might let me be involved in their petition meeting – not that I think I can be of any help, but it’s a unique opportunity to see the whole issue from the insiders’ perspective. If they don’t want me around, however, I won’t take offence.
Mid-afternoon, Hari steers the boat to a shady spot on one of the banks and removes three or four little foil containers from his rucksack – a late lunch, leftovers from last night. We sit and eat, and he tells me a little more about his concerns for the Kerala coastline in the wake of five-star tourism. His family will have to move, he says. It’s an upheaval but not a tragedy. What he fears most is the impact of luxury tourism on the local environment.
I want to help him, I think, watching his lovely animated face as he talks. But I also just plain want him. The two are intertwined. I feel myself falling in love with him for his ardour, for his morals, which are part of who he is. Chris, for all his talk, turned out to be phoney, from what Mum said. Hari is the real deal.
Feeling brave, I make up my mind to declare myself. What’s there to lose? I’m sick of dissembling, of play-acting, of slippery things lurking below the surface. I want nothing but honesty with Hari. It’s what someone like him deserves. But before I can say anything, I realise he’s stopped talking and is staring at me.
‘What? What is it?’ I say, worried.
He smiles, a smile made up at least partly of sadness. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says.
‘Then why do you look so upset?’
‘I’m not upset. I would just like to hold this moment forever. Look at your lovely face for the rest of my life.’
‘I was just thinking the same about you.’
He leans forwards slowly, places his hand on my by now deeply tanned thigh. Our eyes are fast on each other. His are questioning, but I know that they already know the answer. His hand moves further up, and I slide myself beneath him, tugging at the zip on my shorts. I know this is moving fast, that I risk losing the romance to my need, but on the other hand it feels so right. It feels as if Hari is my missing piece and I must have him inside me in order to be complete.
He hangs over me for a minute, embracing first my mouth, then peppering my neck and cleavage with light little kisses that have me moaning with longing.
When I’ve pushed my shorts down with my hands and shrugged them down over my knees and off, I wrap my legs around his waist. I wasn’t wearing any knickers and my snatch presses against his lower belly, already wide for him.
He pauses, raises his head from my breasts and looks into my eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks gently.
I say, ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.’
At that he slides backwards, so that my legs are looped up over his shoulders and, holding my buttocks up with his hands, brings his face to my cunt. He jabs out his tongue, teases me for a few minutes. It’s like a bee darting at a flower, seeking the nectar. I can smell myself and I’m almost cloyingly sweet. I groan. This is what sex should be like. An exploration, a giving.
He lowers my bum to the seat in the middle of the boat, kneels in front of it and, taking his prick in his hand, feeds it into me, but not before I’ve had chance to angle my head and gasp in awe. It’s like a baton of glossy dark wood, neither too large nor too small, sturdy and perfectly proportioned. It almost shines in the sunlight, as does the pool of my pussy. I clutch silken buttocks as he drives into me, cry out. It’s like coming home.
Chilli Heat Page 20