Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

by Le Carre, Georgia

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything?’ Raja asks.

  His voice startles me and I jump.

  Shane doesn’t look at Raja. ‘What’s good to eat here?’ he asks me.

  ‘The Neer dosa with chicken curry, I think,’ I say awkwardly.

  ‘Is that what you’re having?’

  I nod.

  He glances up briefly at Raja. ‘I’ll have two portions of that and a bottle of beer.’

  Raja shuffles away, his eyes brimming with curiosity. From now on, Raja will never look at me in the same way again.

  ‘I’m not a gangster, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Shane says.

  ‘So, what are you?’

  He shrugs carelessly. ‘I’m just a regular guy. I own some businesses.’

  ‘And how do you know Lenny?’

  ‘My brother used to do business with him.’

  ‘Is your brother a gangster?’

  ‘He used to be.’

  ‘And you? Were you one too?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He grins irresistibly. ‘I’m doing what the fireflies do when they flash. I’m sweet-talking you.’

  Raja comes with the beer and a glass, and Shane ignores the glass and takes a mouthful straight from the bottle. ‘So: are you on for Friday?’

  ‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny will kill you if he finds out.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand. Lenny is sorted.’

  ‘How?’ I demand.

  ‘Let’s just say he’s had an offer he just can’t refuse.’

  ‘What kind of an offer? I thought you said you weren’t a gangster.’

  ‘I’m not. But I know people Lenny wants to trade with. As to what kind of an offer, you’re better off not knowing Lenny’s business.’

  I frown. ‘You’re not going to get him into trouble, are you?’

  His jaw tightens. ‘Lenny’s old enough and ugly enough to dig himself into trouble without any help from me.’

  ‘But it’s not some kind of trap you’re luring him into?’ I insist.

  His face softens. ‘It’s not a trap. It’s just business.’

  And immediately I know. He is telling the truth. I hardly know Shane but I trust him. ‘OK, I believe you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What time Friday?’ I ask.

  He throws his head back and laughs, a triumphant, satisfied laugh, and my gaze travels helplessly down his strong, brown throat. He’s special. I know then that we are not going to be just friends, even though this is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me to avoid at all cost. Men who are too beautiful have too much choice. And a man with too much temptation is like a pig in shit. It will roll around in it all day long.

  Our food arrives, and Shane watches me ignore the fork and knife as I tear the crêpe-thin Neer dosa with the fingers of my right hand, then dip it into the creamy chicken curry, bringing it to my mouth.

  ‘Does it taste better like that?’ he asks with a crooked smile.

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I admit. ‘You can wash your hands in the men’s toilet.’

  ‘No need,’ he says, spreading his fingers out in front of him. He has beautiful hands. They are large and masculine, the nails square. ‘I’ve eaten things off the floor and survived.’

  I watch him rip the delicate white dosa, dunk it in the curry and put it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully then raises one impressed eyebrow. ‘It’s good,’ he pronounces.

  I smile. ‘I think so. It’s a dish from Mangalore.’

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Yes, as often as I can.’

  He looks around at the deserted restaurant. ‘Is it always this dead?’

  ‘Yes, every time I have been here. Most of their business is at night. But, to be honest, I like it like this. It’s got vellichor.’

  He takes a pull of his beer. ‘Vellichor?’

  ‘A place that is usually busy but is now deserted. You know, like that strange wistfulness you get in used bookshops. The dusty cries of all those forsaken books waiting for new owners.’

  His lips twist. ‘And you like that?’

  I shrug. ‘It suits me—my frame of mind.’

  ‘You’re a very strange girl, Snow Dilshaw. But I like you.’

  God knows why, but I flush all over.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he invites, finishing the first plate and pulling the second plate toward him.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything. Start with where you are from.’

  ‘I grew up in India. My mother is English and my father is Eurasian.’

  He makes a rolling gesture with his left hand. ‘Must have been an amazing childhood.’

  I shrug. ‘It was different.’

  ‘Tell me what it was like,’ he asks.

  ‘My father was an industrialist, a very successful one. He traveled a lot, and since my mother insisted on accompanying him everywhere, my two older siblings and I were left in the care of our many servants. Until I was almost five years old I actually thought my nanny, Chitra, was my mother. She did everything for me. I even crept into her room and slept in her bed when my parents were away.’

  He raises his eyebrows in shocked disbelief. ‘Wow, you thought your nanny was your mother?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I loved her deeply.’

  Shane stares at me with such shock and curiosity it is obvious that he must come from a very close-knit family where there is no doubt who the mother is.

  ‘That’s sad,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, finding out that the beautiful, perfumed, blonde woman with the chilly eyes and milky pearls that whispered against her silk blouses was my real mother was very confusing. Of course, I was in awe of her. Everybody was. In a land where everyone was dark-haired and mostly dark-skinned, she seemed to be very special. No matter where we went everybody stared at her.

  ‘I remember once the two of us were waiting to be picked up by our driver outside a shop and there was a street procession passing in front of us. Basically all manner of society was being presented, schoolchildren, teachers, soldiers ... One of the groups was singing, blind beggars holding onto each other for support. But as they passed us one of them broke years of professional disguise to swivel his supposedly blind eyes and stare at my mother.’

  Shane frowns.

  ‘So even though I could see clearly that she was very special, I never took pride in being her daughter. I guess even as a small child I already perceived a lack of love in her. Sometimes it even seemed she could hardly bear to be in the same room as me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been terrible,’ Shane says softly.

  ‘I don’t know that it was. I think growing up in a fatalistic society just makes you accept the unacceptable more easily. Once I asked Chitra why my mother loved me so little. She looked at me with her great, big, sad eyes and said, ‘She might be an enemy from a past birth.’

  Shane’s eyes fly open. ‘Wow! That’s some heavy shit.’

  ‘Not really. Chitra is a Hindu and she believes in reincarnation. According to her even though you have no recollection of your past lives, your spirit recognizes your enemies and your lovers from other lifetimes, and reacts accordingly.’

  ‘What about your siblings though? Was it the same for them?’

  ‘If I was my mother’s enemy from a past life then my brother, Josh, was a great love. When I was six I heard her tell him, “I dreamt of you every night when you were inside me.” There was just nothing he could do wrong. Once he stood on the dining table and holding his little penis sprayed the whole room with his pee. It even hit our cook and she had to run to her quarters and bathe. But when my mother was told about it, she only pretended to scold him. He ran off to his bedroom to sulk. I still remember how my mother had gone upstairs and sat in his room for ages to cajole him into coming downstairs for dinner.’

  ‘Let me guess, he turned into a nasty little boy
who pulled your hair and made you cry.’

  I smiled. ‘Pulled my hair? He took it a few steps further. He set it on fire. It was the only time I saw my father lose control. He put the fire out with his bare hands and afterwards he tore a branch from a tree and whipped my brother with it until my mother came running out of the house screaming hysterically and threw herself over my brother’s body. I can still picture my father standing over them panting and wild-eyed. But enough about me, what about you? Tell me about you,’ I urge.

  ‘We are gypsies. My mother is from a Romany gypsy family and my father is an Irish traveler.’

  ‘Oh wow! That’s really interesting. You must have had some childhood too.’

  ‘I did. I had a wonderful childhood. At least, until my father died. Then it all kind of fell apart for a while.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he says, and quickly changes the subject back to me. ‘So, when and how did you end up in England?’

  ‘I ran away from home when I was nineteen,’ I say shortly.

  His eyes fill with curiosity. ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  He frowns. ‘You’ve only been in this country for one year.’

  I nod.

  ‘How did you get mixed up with Lenny?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t talk about it.’

  He stares at me, his eyes unreadable ice chips, and I drop my gaze

  ‘But you are with him willingly.’

  I nod.

  ‘I want you to memorize my phone number and address.’

  He tells it to me and makes me repeat it.

  ‘If at all you need me, just call me or come directly to my home. There’s a spare key under the mat. Ring the supervisor’s bell and tell him your name and he will let you in. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Seven

  SNOW

  When I hear the letter flap clatter back to its closed position the next morning, I run to the door to find two letters on the floor. One is a utility bill. The other I hold in both hands, my stomach clenched with excitement. With shaking hands, I tear it open and my eyes graze the first paragraph.

  Oh my God! They accepted me!

  I hug the letter quietly to the middle of my chest and feel a tiny fountain of joy bubbling inside me. The reindeer moss sees the water and knows things are about to improve.

  If only there was someone I could tell my happy news to, but there is no one. I have no friends in England, and I have cut all ties with everyone in India. Of course, I can’t tell Lenny because he wouldn’t approve at all.

  When I pass the mirror, I look at my reflection and almost don’t recognize the woman standing there looking back at me. Why, I look so alive. And then I am full of defiance. Why shouldn’t I celebrate my good news with someone?

  I pull on a light summer coat and run out of my apartment. I skip down the flight of steps and onto the pavement. I think about taking a taxi, and then I decide that, from now on, I’m going to save every penny. I am closer than ever to my goal.

  I walk down to the Tube station in a happy daze. In the carriage I smile to myself. A woman catches my eyes and, instead of looking away, smiles back. I grin at her. She smiles again then looks away.

  Shane, it seems, is only nine stops away from me.

  The magazine seller outside the station points me in the right direction, and I happily float towards where he indicated. Shane’s building isn’t quite as exclusive or as nice as Lenny’s, but I didn’t expect it to be.

  I know Shane doesn’t have much money.

  He drives a motorbike, and when I asked him outright how he knew Lenny he vaguely mentioned running a few businesses. In fact, I imagine his chateau, if it is not a farmhouse, to be a bit of a run-down job, but I don’t care. He is my friend.

  I stand outside his apartment block with my finger hovering over his bell and have a moment of doubt. He did tell me to come whenever I felt like it and that he is almost always around before lunch. What if he’s not in, or he has a woman friend over? The thought is slightly sickening. With an odd flutter in my tummy, I ring the bell.

  Shane’s voice comes through the speaker. He sounds aggressively surprised.

  ‘What are you doing here, Snow?’ he demands.

  ‘You said I could visit if … if … I wanted to,’ I stammer.

  The buzzer sounds and I push the door open. I cross the foyer toward the lift, but all my earlier enthusiasm has evaporated to nothing. He didn’t sound happy to hear from me at all. I get into the lift and press the button for his floor. When the floor indicator passes the first floor, I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand.

  Idiot!

  This is not India where people just drop in on each other without calling ahead. I remember now, how it used to enrage my mother when my father’s Indian relatives would simply turn up and call at the gate whenever they felt like seeing my father. It was their custom, but not hers.

  And Shane is British, like my mother. I should have called first.

  Suddenly, I feel tearful. The little fountain stops bubbling and reindeer moss withdraws into itself again. Oh God! I’ve ruined everything. The lift door opens at his floor and I rush to press the button to close the door. For good measure, I hit the button marked G a few times too. Hurry up and close, I pray, but as the doors start to shut, a huge male hand curls at the edge of one of the closing doors.

  ‘Whoa,’ Shane says appearing fully at the entrance of the lift. ‘What the fuck? Were you going back down?’

  I shrink back. ‘I’m sorry. I should have called first. It was rude of me. I forgot. These English customs; I’m not used to them. You might have guests, or you might be busy.’

  He stares at me incredulously for a second. ‘You came to visit me?’ he asks.

  I nod miserably.

  He holds the door of the lift open, and reaching in pulls me out by my wrist. I bite my lip to keep from crying, but the tears are already stinging at the backs of my eyes. I can’t believe I am now going to cry, to add to my humiliation. I swallow hard and start blinking the tears back. Oh God, he’s going to think I am the biggest cry-baby in the world.

  For a moment he seems frozen with astonishment. Then he reaches out suddenly and pulls me towards his hard body.

  ‘I don’t have guests and I’m not busy,’ he says into my hair.

  Like a fool, I start crying in earnest. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying. I have no reason to cry. I’m such a colossal idiot,’ I babble.

  ‘I love it that you dropped by,’ he says softly.

  ‘Really?’ I sniff.

  ‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’

  The little fountain in my heart starts bubbling again.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sounded unwelcoming,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t know what to think. You took me by surprise. I was not expecting you, and I automatically thought something bad had happened to you.’

  I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Crying like a fool for no reason.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he says kindly.

  ‘OK,’ I agree, smiling gratefully.

  ‘Come on,’ he says and takes me to his apartment.

  The first thing I notice are the toys scattered on the floor.

  His smile is mocking. ‘In case you’re wondering, they’re not mine. They’re my niece’s and nephew’s. I’m babysitting for the next two hours.’

  I listen, and the apartment is pretty silent. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Sleeping, thank God.’

  I chuckle. ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Liliana is four going on thirty-four, and Tommy is a three-year-old who, uniquely, channels monkeys. He climbed the cupboard the other day to reach for a packet of sweets.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘They’ll be awake in an hour and you can meet them then.’

  He wants me to stay and meet the children. ‘I’d love t
o,’ I say shyly. ‘So, they are called Liliana and Tommy.’

  ‘Well, he’s still called Tommy,’ he says dryly, ‘but, she decided last week that she no longer wants to be known as Liliana, but Margarite Hum Loo.’

  I laugh. ‘Margarite Hum Loo?’

  ‘Yes, and you can’t shorten it and call her Margarite either. It has to be the full whack or nothing.’

  I smile. ‘Why that name?’

  ‘No idea. You can ask her yourself when she wakes up.’

  ‘I will,’ I say still chuckling.

  ‘I’m just about to make myself a meal. Join me?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’ll regret it.’

  Laughing, I follow him to his kitchen. It is done up in warm tones of honey and yellow.

  ‘What will you have to drink? Milk? Juice? Water?’

  ‘Juice will be nice.’

  ‘Orange, apple, or—Liliana’s favorite—mango crush.’

  ‘I’ll try the mango crush then.’

  He takes a glass out of a cupboard and pours a thick orange-red liquid into it.

  A cat comes to rub its face on my legs. ‘You have a cat,’ I exclaim, surprised.

  ‘Yup. That’s Suki,’ he says, scooping rice into an opaque plastic cup. He pours it into a silver colander.

  ‘Do you need some help?’ I offer.

  ‘Let’s get the rules clear right from the start. This kitchen is my domain,’ he states.

  ‘Good, because I can’t cook to save my life,’ I say.

  Sipping my drink, I watch him rinse the rice under the tap, drain it, and pour it into a pot. He pours bottled water onto it, salts it, puts a lid on it, and leaves it to cook.

  ‘You sounded happy when you rang my bell,’ he says, fishing out a live lobster from a pail of water with ice cubes floating in it.

  ‘I was,’ I say distractedly as I stare at the lobster. Its claws are tied, but all its little legs are waving frantically. ‘I mean, I am. I received some good news this morning.’

  He picks up a big knife and puts the lobster on the chopping board. ‘Yeah?’

  My eyes widen with horror. ‘You’re not going to kill that lobster and eat it, are you?’