“Let me ask you this,” I say. “Just one last question.” I know she can see that I am trembling, but I no longer have the energy to hide the signs of my anger. “What made you change your mind? Why did you decide to come back to me?”
She looks down at her left hand, spreading it open and then cupping it, holding it away from my view as she has done throughout these days together.
Then she glances up at me, and with a rueful, perhaps apologetic smile that I can just barely make out in the half-light of the room, she shrugs. Did I really think that lifting the shoulders was an easy motion? Never again. Bony to the point of fragility though her shoulders are, the way she moves makes them seem impossibly heavy, and she looks exhausted afterward, as if the motion has cost her much.
“You get sick like this, and loyalties change,” she says, almost under her breath.
She is dead wrong here, of course. Her loyalties have not changed all that much; otherwise, she would have explained why her mother left my father. Whatever Hana did to her, Rei still cannot bring herself to break her trust.
Yet at this point, at least, there is little that I can do. For whatever reason, she has no one else to turn to; she has been ill and she needs me, and she is not ready or perhaps even able to talk.
I stand up and, feeling my way through the dark, move toward the open windows.
IT IS LATER IN THE EVENING, not long after Rei has left, that the phone call comes.
“Hello?”
“Claw?” Then, as if sensing how I flinched at her use of my childhood nickname, she corrects herself. “Claudia? Is that you?”
I try but I find I cannot make a sound.
“It's Hana,” she says, with her usual gift for the obvious.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hana
California, 1999
SHE TAKES A FEW MOMENTS TO RESPOND. “HANA?” SHE says at last, and Hana can hear the breathy quality of her surprise clearly through the thousands of miles of telephone wire that separate them.
“I've been thinking a lot about you lately,” Claudia continues slowly. “How have you been?”
What had she been expecting? Claudia's no longer a nine-year-old, hostile to her daddy's new girlfriend; nor is she even a teenager, resigned but every bit as hostile still to his new wife. She always had been a loving, fiercely loyal child, but those very qualities had, Hana knows, conspired against a good relationship with her stepmother: not only did she feel compelled to hate Hana because of her devotion to her mother, there was the fact that Hana had confused and divided her loyalties between her parents.
Still, no matter how mature Claudia's become, no matter how loving she's always been, she can't have forgotten that Hana stole her father from her mother and then, after eight apparently happy years, left him.
Which is to say that there's no reason whatsoever for Claudia's friendliness.
Whatever the source of her warmth, though, perhaps it opens the way for idle chatter. Such as, for starters: what's happened to Henry, is he happy, is he still gardening, and how's his bad back?
But there are far more pressing matters at hand. “Fine,” says Hana. “I've been fine, thank you for asking.” Although she tries to swallow, her mouth is too dry. “I'm looking for Rei.”
A hesitation, and then: “But she's not looking for you.”
So here it was. It's hopeless, of course. Despite all of the arguments she's amassed and prepared, Hana is tempted to thank her now and hang up, and so save herself the attenuated anguish of more disappointment. After all, while Kei had been invariably kind and soothing when Hana called to voice her worries about Rei, for months she would not issue more than vague reassurances about Rei's general health. She had, she told her mother, made a promise to Rei, and that was all there was to it. Until yesterday, when Hana, distraught with fear, had demanded yet again, Who's taking care of Rei? Is she all by herself?
She's with Claudia, Kei had said, the words lumbering out of her mouth. Hana could hear how she was already regretting them even as she spoke. Claudia's taking care of her.
And that was all Kei would say; that was all the help she would proffer. So why should a woman who was, once long ago, Hana's stepdaughter step in, when even her firstborn wouldn't? Especially when it means a betrayal of sorts of Rei, whom Claudia has always protected as if she were her daughter rather than a sister of the most tenuous kind?
Still, Hana can think of nowhere else to turn. She has no choice but to attempt to convince her. “I know, but—”
“I'll help you,” says Claudia, interrupting. “I'll help you find Rei.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claudia
Boston, 1999
“CAN YOU LOVEBIRDS SPARE A CIGARETTE?” WHEEDLES A man standing at the corner. Vikrum roots around in his pocket for change and hands him a couple of quarters; we bid him good night and walk another four blocks, discussing the upcoming elections all the way. But as we step into the dark warmth of the restaurant, I find myself recalling the panhandler's words.
“It's odd that that man called us lovebirds, isn't it?” I say, after we have taken our seats. “When we weren't holding hands, or even walking close. How could he tell?”
Vikrum leans forward. “What you and I have,” he says, “is so warm and so bright that it's obvious to everyone. Everyone within a mile of us knows that we're in love.”
I reach out and cup his face, smooth and warm, with my hands. He turns his head and lightly kisses the inside of each of my wrists in turn.
“A pair of lovebirds,” I say. “That's us.”
“Speaking of pairs,” he says, “how's your other other half? You haven't mentioned Rei for a while.”
“Good.” Removing my hands from his face, I busy myself with the unfolding of my napkin. “Rei's good.”
“Let's all get together,” he says, in one of his bursts of enthusiasm. “Maybe we could go for a drive, the three of us, out to an orchard. Pick apples, pet goats, go for a hayride.”
I move my head in a gesture that's more of a neck stretch than a nod. When was the last time we had the luxury of a whole day together? Then, too, Rei's telling silence on the subject of Vikrum weighs on my mind; then there's the welfare of two small children to consider.
“Someday,” I say, echoing him. “Maybe,” I add in a low voice.
I had thought I spoke too quietly to be heard over the music, but I must have miscalculated. He looks, as Rei would say, as if his crest (such a phallic image—do women even have crests, and if not, does that mean we do not get disappointed to the same extent that men do? Perhaps because our expectations are so much lower?) has fallen.
As always, when Vikrum's shoulders slump and his eyes look down at the floor or just gaze, unfocused, straight ahead, I can feel it physically, as a tightening in my chest. Despite all that I resolved in Rei's presence, I cannot help myself. Keeping him happy, as much as it is in my power to do so (and yes, it's heady, so much is it in my power to do so), is almost a reflex with me now.
“It's just that Rei does travel a lot,” I say.
The explanation is weak, and comes too late besides. Vikrum nods, pulls out another smile.
He and I sit at our favorite table in our favorite meeting place, an Afghanistani restaurant named Akhbar's; our favorite waiter, an unfailingly well-dressed old man named Omar, hovers nearby.
Sopping wet and laughing, Vikrum and I first came running into Akhbar's more than a year ago, when a summer storm caught us by surprise. Ever since, we have waged a personal and (given that the restaurant world in Boston, as everywhere else in the late nineties, is governed by an unforgiving Darwinian code) almost certainly doomed campaign to keep the place in business.
The food is at best mediocre; the lighting, dim to the point of watch-out-don't fall-over-that-table darkness; the cleanliness of the silverware, definitely suspect. I love the restaurant anyway. Although Rei would no doubt cite my affection for Akhbar's as yet another example of how I champion the un
derdog, it has dips that are edible, ceiling fans that move lazily above our heads, and waiters who recognize us—so what if, as Vikrum always teasingly reminds me, that is only because they hardly get any other customers, and almost certainly no one who comes back more than once.
His teasing about the waiters aside, Vikrum may like Akhbar's even more than I do. It is always the first restaurant he suggests we go to; whenever I say we should try someplace else (this is, after all, a city filled with underdog restaurants), he coaxes, sometimes even getting on his knees and sticking out his tongue to do his best imitation, which is very fine indeed, of a dog begging, until I have to laugh and agree.
When I ask, he says he likes it because it is tucked away in a corner of a pretty street, not far from my apartment, because he enjoys calling it Akhbar's Bar (not only does the name allow him to practice his Bahston accent, the restaurant doesn't have a liquor license), and because he can make fun of the music they play in the background, cheesy pop songs from the seventies. Music that I think he may secretly love—I often catch him singing the same tunes afterward.
If it sometimes occurs to me that he might also like this place because he never has to worry about bumping into any of his wife's friends here, or a colleague from work—well, that's an unworthy thought, which I always manage to stifle more or less quickly. Besides, when I hear Vikrum belting out Diana Ross tunes in the shower after we make love, it is clear to me, too, that Barless Akhbar's plays the best music, bar none, in the city.
STILL OVERCOME WITH REMORSE at having canceled both of our dates last week, Vikrum has promised me a surprise for tonight. Although I told him a dozen times not to bother, after we have finished eating he unveils it, using a scarf rather than a veil, a red one that he drapes over my water glass. He mumbles some words and waves a hand; when he pulls the scarf away the water has been turned into wine. It is a neat trick, which I appreciate equally for its Biblical reference and for the fact that I prefer wine to water, but when I clap my hands with delight, he shakes his head at me, staving off the applause.
“Just warming up,” he says. He has prepared entertainment. A rare and wonderful treat indeed—new magic tricks that he wants me to see.
Omar and a couple of the other waiters have been hovering by the kitchen door; drawn by the show, they have been edging closer and are now steps away from the table. I beckon them with a wave of the hand. “Come watch with me.”
Omar beams. He goes to the kitchen, pokes his head through the door, and whistles. When he comes back to our table it is with reinforcements. Our table is surrounded by waiters and what might be delivery boys—maybe six of them, all told.
It's okay, Vikrum loves a good audience. Soon he's even turning to ask Omar if he'll help out. When Omar, blushing and grinning with pleasure, nods, Vikrum stands and leads him so that he faces us.
“Pretend you're about to get your picture taken,” Vikrum tells him. “Pose for us all.”
Omar—I would never have taken him for such a ham—strikes a matador's pose, his waiter's napkin thrown over his shoulders like a cape, his noble profile turned toward us, his hands on his hips and his chest thrust out, olé!
“That's perfect,” says Vikrum, “absolutely perfect. Now hold that, please.” He waves the magic scarf in front of Omar, and when he pulls it away there is a single rose, dewy and blood-red, between Omar's grinning teeth.
Laughter and applause from the other waiters. With a puzzled look on his face, Omar reaches out to grab the rose.
“Be careful,” I say, laughing as well, “aren't there thorns on that rose?”
Vikrum clucks his tongue. “It's true,” he says. “You've got to watch out for those.” Gently he takes the flower from Omar's mouth and then makes a big production of pricking his own fingers with it. “Man, are those sharp!” he says, shaking out his hand. He waves the scarf over it (hey presto), and holds it out for my inspection. The thorns are gone from the stalk.
“To our brave matador,” says Vikrum, presenting the rose to Omar with a flourish, while the small crowd cheers. “For risking the drawing of blood for our viewing pleasure.”
Next, Vikrum brings out a jar. Within it is an earthworm, lazily writhing and coiling on maybe a quarter inch of soil.
“This trick requires no magic words or gestures,” he tells us solemnly. He covers the jar with his scarf. “In fact it is beyond my own modest powers to accomplish it. What we require is the participation of a beautiful young lady.”
I roll my eyes at him, but I am the only woman in the room; when he holds it out to me I take the jar.
“If you would be so kind,” he says, “please kiss the top of the jar five times.”
Five times rather than the more traditional three. Vikrum has tailored the trick for me. He keeps his hand on my shoulder as I bend my head for the kisses.
“As you all will now see,” he says, “as we all should in fact always remember—with the love of a good woman, anything is possible.”
When he pulls away the scarf from the jar, there is a collective gasp. In the place of a blind worm there now sits a monarch butterfly on a branch, a proud glow of gold in the dimly lit room, slowly opening and shutting its wings.
“My God,” I say.
“It's for you,” he says. “You can keep it as a pet in the jar.”
I am about to speak but he beats me to it.
“But knowing you, of course, you'll release it in the arboretum first thing tomorrow.”
I nod happily, my head bobbing up and down to express not just my assent to his statement but also an affirmation of a question that has been troubling me, almost unbeknownst to myself. These past two years have not been a mistake.
When I first met Vikrum, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of relief. It was as if I had been missing him my whole life, as if I had been searching and pining for him all along, but had not known it.
No matter how long I live, I will never love anyone more.
“AND NOW,” he says, “for the final act.”
An audience member gives an audible sigh. At some point someone must have gone and whistled to the kitchen staff as well, for several men in aprons have now joined the wait staff gathered around our table. Who would have guessed that so many people work in a restaurant visited by so few? I make a mental note: we need to leave a big tip indeed.
Vikrum places a plate before me, and over the plate the magic scarf. Holding up the center of the scarf with one hand to make a tent out of it, he mutters some words, which sound suspiciously like the lyrics of the song “Hey, Jude” said extremely fast, and waves his other hand in the air. He pulls the scarf away, and there on the plate rests a square box, large enough to fit a medium-size pumpkin, gift-wrapped in lemon-yellow paper and a dark blue bow.
Murmurs of appreciation from the audience.
“For me?” I say, drawing in my breath.
“But of course,” he says, bowing.
“Oh, you really shouldn't have . . .”
I undo the ribbon and tear off the paper; the box is also yellow. Primed by the rose and the butterfly to a high state of expectation, the waiters and the kitchen staff are craning their necks to see what lies inside. A laugh rises up around us when I lift out another box, this one orange, from the interior.
I look over at Vikrum, and he smiles and nods.
“I seem to remember a girl once telling me,” he says, bending his head down to whisper in my ear, “that anticipation is all too often the best part.”
A couple of the waiters clap when I kiss him.
Inside the orange box is a red one, and inside the red, a purple. I am bouncing a little in my seat from the excitement; the crowd around us is whispering among themselves, making guesses, placing bets. Vikrum sits back, his face in the shadows, and watches me.
The fifth and tiniest box is smaller than the smallest baby's fist, a plain and simple white. Inside it is an object I roll out onto my hand: a slim circle of gold, which has attached to it something that pic
ks up what little light there is in the room and sends it back to us, magnified and refracted, so that I seem to be holding a minute star in my palm.
The waiters and kitchen staff fall abruptly and completely silent. Bewildered, I look up at them; as if at some hidden command they are beginning to disperse, many of them on tiptoe. While it is too dark to tell for sure, most of them seem to be averting their eyes from mine—did Omar just give me a wink?—but without exception they appear to have smiles on their lips. In just a few seconds Vikrum and I are alone in the room. When did the seventies pop music stop? How could a restaurant in Boston, even an extraordinarily unpopular one, be so still?
Vikrum has been watching me intently. “What's the matter?” he says at last.
His voice is soft, but it still makes me jump.
“Wh—” My throat feels oddly strangled. I clear it and try again. “What is this?”
“Don't you know?” he asks, tenderly.
“No.”
With a smile he takes the circle of gold from me. Then he places the ring—for that is what it is, the word comes to me as he is passing it back to me—on the third finger of my left hand. It's an exact fit.
“Does that help?” he asks, teasing; he is even laughing a little. But his hands, which never waver, which are steady and sure even as they throw knives at scantily clad beauties and pull shiny coins out of the tiny ears of babes, are trembling as they hold on to mine.
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