Love Comes Later

by Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

  “Are those cuff links on the counter? And what’s with all the phones?”

  Abdulla could have smacked himself for the uncharacteristic sloppiness. Everything about him seems different since he arrived, so much so that he is starting to not recognize himself.

  “I’ll tell her you came by, Noor. You know how she is. I’m sure she’ll be back in a few days.”

  “All right.” Noor is eyeing the teacups drying in the dish drain. “Do you want me to call someone about that toilet?”

  Sangita peeks around the door and shakes her head vigorously, her coiled hair falling away from the top of her head.

  “No, I’m okay. Thanks!”

  Abdulla joins her at the door, and together they watch the slow sway of Noor’s retreat out the apartment door, not moving until the click-clack of five-inch Gucci heels in the outer stairwell has died away.

  The instant they hear the front door shut, they come out of the bathroom gunning for each other.

  “What is she doing here without her sister?”

  “I don't know. What are you trying to do, get us caught?”

  They are now toe to toe, which would be a less ridiculous face-off if she had her heels on. As it is, face-level is somewhere near his collarbone. Nevertheless, in the fury of his frustration, Abdulla has to let loose and give it to her. She tilts her chin up in defiance, but what Abdulla actually notices is not the defiance but the curve of her throat. As his fury recedes he realizes he is having a hard time deciding whether he wants to strangle or caress this vulnerable spot. For the second time that morning he hears himself sigh like a grandmother and grits his teeth to maintain his resolve.

  “Never raise your chin like that to an enemy,” he says, mock-clipping her with his fist. “You’re exposing your jugular.”

  She takes a step back, considering him.

  “Noor had a key and she let herself in. I thought you said you didn’t want anyone to know you were here.”

  His head snaps up at this, but she is already in the kitchen, dangling a silver key from a crystal strap.

  “You have it,” he realizes, relaxing a bit.

  “So she can’t walk in again like she just did, with no warning, and find you alone here.”

  “With you.”

  She shrugs. “With me.”

  “Clever,” he says, breaking into a slow grin.

  Sangita frowns and turns away.

  “Hey, I just gave you a compliment,” he says, following her into the kitchen.

  “Try it with my name.”

  His pulls down the coffee bean canister and pours some beans into the grinder, glancing at her once or twice. Apparently Noor gave her enough warning to pull on a hooded sweatshirt and yellow cotton pants. Across her chest it says: BITCH. He looks away, realizing he’s finding reasons to look even when the flesh is covered up. This is getting out of hand, he thinks bleakly.

  “Same fundraiser as the mug,” Sangita says, mistaking the lingering gaze. She slides onto a stool and picks at the grapes Abdulla brought back along with the bagels and newspaper, which she begins leafing through, ignoring him.

  He starts the coffee, glancing occasionally at her. He has to admit that if it weren’t for this girl’s cleverness a few minutes ago he would be in a lot of hot water now, and not just with Hind. Questions would be flying from both sides of the family about this clandestine trip of his that he still has no answers for.

  “Thank you,” he says, “Sangita.”

  She straightens up a little and gives him a look, then goes back to the paper with another shrug.

  “I don’t want Hind to get in trouble,” she says.

  “Neither do I,” he says, and immediately wonders what he meant.

  She looks up at him for a long moment, as if considering how to take what he's just said. He decides he meant just what he said, and he can see she believes him. Her nonchalance dissolves and is replaced by panic. And the weariness of keeping a secret that isn’t even hers. He can see in her eyes that she wants to unburden herself.

  “Tell me,” he says, leaning across the countertop, sipping coffee from the matching BITCH mug. “Please just tell me.”

  It comes tumbling out. A brother. Ravi. Who came for a visit. Hind’s fascination with his NGO work with children in India. Abdulla feels a tightening in his gut as she goes on about Hind always wanting to help others but never knowing how, and Sangita’s delight at finally having a sister to rein in Ravi’s boyish obtuseness.

  “They are lovers,” he blurts out, stopping her short.

  It isn’t a question.

  Sangita flushes, apparently knowing this was coming. “My brother is an honorable man,” she says. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  It is Abdulla’s turn to lose it and he does, bursting out with a maniacal laugh.

  “He is a man,” Abdulla says, stating what he thinks is the obvious, “and an American.”

  Sangita straightens herself and comes as close as she can to staring down someone still half a head taller than she is.

  “He is a man with principles,” she says.

  Abdulla shakes his head.

  “Hind is engaged –” Sangita begins.

  “That didn’t stop him from running off with her!” he shouts over her.

  Sangita sags against the counter top. “They went as friends,” she mumbles.

  His eyes fly up in what is quickly becoming a standard reaction.

  “This very contradiction has plagued me for so many nights in the ten days since Hind and Ravi left,” she starts, but trails off at his stunned look.

  He takes another gulp of coffee, breathes, and waves a hand, indicating that she should continue.

  “Finals, matriculation paperwork, and finding a job… I’ve had no time to think about this. I had to put my doubts away. So the two people I love the most in the world are together. What can be bad about that?”

  His coffee is gone. He feels his arm trembling as he resists the urge to smash his mug against the far wall. He wonders, has he ever felt so strongly for anyone that he would risk everything?

  “But you’re one living, breathing, powerful reason this is wrong, no matter how innocent they are.” She rests her forearms on the countertop as if she would like to put her head down and weep.

  Abdulla feels a softening toward this girl that he doesn’t know what to do with. Of course it is wrong, but so is the rest of it. The whole bloody mess is wrong and he knows it. And here is this girl clearly prepared to take the blame for others’ behavior. She doesn’t deserve this. But even so. . .

  “I wasn’t really sure about her,” he says. “But Hind is naïve to think she can possibly have this adventure without anyone finding out.”

  “Your family is going to kill them,” Sangita says, the sound of tears in her voice.

  “No. I told you, we don’t do that in Qatar.”

  She looks up at him, then down again. Perhaps she believes him. But there is still fear. To his amazement, Abdulla realizes he feels he the need to justify himself.

  “Don’t be absurd,” he says bitterly.

  “They’ll lock her up –”

  “Stop it, please.” Abdulla glances at his BlackBerry, partly so he won’t have to look at her. “What happened to being a friend to the Muslims?” he adds dryly. “I thought you knew all about us, that we aren’t the barbarians Westerners always claim we are and so on.”

  She looks back at him, still wary.

  “Sorry. The sheikh is right.”

  “Nobody is going to kill anyone,” he says finally, looking hard at her. “And by the way, didn’t I tell you to stop with the ‘sheikh’ business?”

  For the first time since they met, her mouth snaps open and shut without a speedy rejoinder.

  “You’re not Qatari. So call me Abdulla.”

  Speechless! He can't help breaking into a laugh, in spite of everything.

  But how can he laugh? Why is it he’s feeling almost jolly? Could it be that the dire news sh
e has had to confide in him is dire only in her eyes? He should be careful not to seem pleased, but still, he can’t help but brighten at the notion that she might have given him the exit clause he has been hoping for. But he can’t let on.

  “Anyway, we don’t even know where they are,” he says, adding: “But I’m sure our agencies can find them easily if she’s using her passport.” He watches her response, a tightening in her face. “Unless, of course, they are traveling on fake documents?”

  “Look, they aren’t running away together,” Sangita says. “They’re installing computers in a school for street children.”

  Abdulla didn’t expect that. He knows it’s true, and suddenly all the air escapes from his tough guy act.

  “All right," he says with a sigh. “I know what I have to do.” He straightens his unwrinkled cuffs.

  “You’re going to report them to MI6,” Sangita breathes, keeping herself from fainting by gripping the edge of the counter.

  “They have more important things to look after,” he retorts, striding to the door. “Don’t watch so many Arabic soap operas. We don’t involve other governments in our family affairs.”

  “However you bring it off, you could drag her back to Doha and she could be punished. Haven’t there been cases where the girl is kept a prisoner in her own home?”

  Shaking off her absurd paranoia, Abdulla tries to clear his head and think. Hind, by her indiscretion, has given him the perfect excuse to break off the engagement. No one could ever fault him for divorcing her – for that’s what it would be, even though they haven’t lived together yet, not technically. In the courts, and under Sharia law, she has been his wife from the moment they signed the contract at their milcha.

  He turns to look at her. She’s clinging to the counter top, trembling.

  “Don’t lock your knees that way, you’ll faint,” he says, feeling guilty for the sheer joy tumbling through him at the prospect of being free, contrasted with the fear he’s caused in her. Reaching out awkwardly, like a thirteen-year-old boy, he pats her on the shoulder.

  This startles her for a moment, but then she perks up a bit. Looking down at her knees, she tries to do as he says.

  “Okay, I have to get a hold of myself,” she breathes, gulping in a long breath. “It’s just that –”

  “No, no,” he says. “Not necessary.”

  “Let me say this.” She waits for him to nod. “I’m torn, you see, between protecting my friend and letting go of this secret that isn’t even mine. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I do,” he mutters in the face of her candor. “Give me some facts. When did she leave?”

  “Ten, maybe eleven days ago,” she says.

  “Car? Train? Boat?”

  “Plane,” she says, using the tips of her fingers to massage her neck. “They flew into Bombay.”

  “Mumbai,” he corrects her.

  Sangita eyes him from her slumped position.

  “My family has done business there for over thirty years,” he mumbles, entering some notes into his BlackBerry. “My grandfather was there first, as a pearl merchant.”

  “Really?”

  “Stop trying to change the subject,” he snaps. “Airline?”

  “I don’t know, Qatar Airways?”

  They go still.

  Surely Hind wouldn’t have been so stupid as to use the national carrier for her dream misadventure. She would attract attention, perhaps even be recognized. He would have no choice then but to repudiate her. And no one else would be likely to marry her then – at least not as a first wife. Hind knows all this full well. For a girl from a family of high social standing, it would amount to public humiliation. She leaves me no choice, he thinks, grinding his teeth, his fingers worrying the rounded scar beneath his watch. And then? Then it will all just start over again, he admits. They will not rest until they have found me someone. He pinches the bridge of his nose at the thought of going back to his father and uncles for a third time.

  “I managed to get through to the village earlier this morning,” Sangita is saying, “but they couldn’t hear me.” She’s trying to distract him. He follows her gaze to his hands, which he realizes have been twitching at his sides.

  He reaches for the phone and starts dialing calls and speaking in lightning fast dialect to one or maybe three people at all once.

  “They had reservations on Qatar Airways but never showed up,” he says, following her back into the living room. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispers.

  “What am I supposed to do? I can’t go to the embassy,” he says, squaring off with her, “for obvious reasons.” He looks her dead in the eye before setting off again to the other side of the room.

  Sangita stays perfectly still, not even flexing her shoulders, as he swings back toward her, his broad frame filling her sightline to the apartment door.

  “No one must know that Hind is missing,” he tells her, though she hasn’t asked a question. “For her sake as much as mine.”

  He must be the one to break the news to the family, to his uncle, so he can tailor the circumstances just right. That way no one will blame him for dumping her, and he’ll have bought at least another six months in the cycle before having to meet yet another girl.

  Abdulla firmly puts thoughts of Luluwa’s warnings and his grandfather’s shaky gait out of his mind. “Sooner or later they’ll know I’m here and expect us to show up at the house, or there’ll be questions,” he mutters as though to himself, again pacing the length of the living room.

  “It could be a few more days,” Sangita says.

  He pulls one hand through his hair, which despite its lack of length still pops up in tufts, as though this weren’t the first tug of the morning. Clearly, between the two of them, the girl has gotten more sleep.

  He considers Sangita for a moment. She is uncharacteristically silent, hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans, shoulders hunched up near her ears. She too is weighing the consequences of discovery and, if her silence and the guilt in her eyes are any indication, already blaming herself. Abdulla feels his head begin to pound.

  Wherever she is, Hind is doing what she wants. Isn’t this the right he has promised himself he will fight for when Luluwa’s time comes? Maybe the roommate is right and nothing is going on with the brother. Maybe Hind feels as trapped by their pre-determined fate as he does, but she has had the courage to do something about it.

  “Let’s go out,” he says, startling them both. The words hang in the air between them.

  Sangita raises an eyebrow as if to say “Where could the two of us go?”

  Where could two strangers who aren’t supposed to know each other and don’t have a clue about the whereabouts of their missing link go and not be noticed? Where could Abdulla hide in a city crawling not only with Qataris but with relatives from all over the GCC?

  He raises a forefinger and picks up his phone from the countertop. As he speaks to someone – the cultural attaché at the embassy – she idly rinses out the coffee mug and water glass.

  “Done,” he says, disconnecting the line.

  She hands him a new cup in a gesture he is beginning to find familiar.

  “They do medical appointments and social engagements too?” she asks, not entirely surprised.

  “Where might we go and not be noticed?” Abdulla waits, relishing the suspense. “We’re going to the Women’s Floor Dancing.”

  “The Olympics?” Sangita’s hand stills halfway through rinsing a glass.

  “Not great seats,” he warns, nipping in the bud any idea of ringside box seats or nearby celebrities. Fatima may have been reasonable in all other areas, but having the best tickets to shows had been one of her delights in life.

  “We want to blend,” he reminds her, and himself as well. “To disappear in a sea of anonymous spectators.”

  He can tell she likes the idea. But he is doing this for reasons she can’t possibly appreciate. He wants to have t
he advantage when finally bringing out the news about Hind. Even the smallest rumor of his own indiscretion would make it difficult for her to be judged severely. Not that this will be anything of the sort, he corrects himself. We’re waiting for Hind to return. Nothing more. A day and a half alone in the apartment is enough.

  “We’re going to the Olympics!” Sangita shrieks, jumping up and down, throwing her arms around him and squeezing, evidently not bothered by the fact they’ll be watching a ridiculously minor sport from terrible seats, much less that she is having physical contact with a non-relative male.

  Is it his imagination, or has his pulse just doubled at the brush of her body against him and the nearness of her perfume – orange, laced with a hint of jasmine? Instinctively he shrinks from the contact, but she is already across the room and jumping up and down in circles around the apartment. Despite himself, he smiles. Evidently they both could benefit from getting out of here for a while.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the taxi Sangita says: “I always wanted to be a gymnast. Turns out I’m not so flexible.”

  Abdulla smiles at her, and he can feel it this time reaching all the way to his eyes, relaxing his face, shaving a few years off his taciturn demeanor.

  The stadium is nearly empty save for the two of them and the parents, coaches and friends of the competitors, but the girl is loving every minute of the colorful twirling ribbons and the lithe bodies that tumble, dance, race their way across the mat. She watches the dancers with pure delight, while from under hooded eyelids he watches her, her profile, the even white teeth, the dimple in the curve of her cheek, the flash of red lips when she smiles.

  He stretches his legs as Sangita bites into yet another hot dog. She obviously enjoys eating. And he can’t think when he’s felt more comfortable around someone, easier in their presence. The silences growing between them aren’t awkward at all, but companionable. Then her spirit rises up, as when she vehemently disagrees with the judges’ scoring, once or twice drawing looks from the ushers, and he can only smile with admiration.

  After almost ten hours of sitting, and sampling at least one of nearly everything on offer at the concession stand, Sangita looks like a kid emerging from an all-day double feature festival. Unexpectedly, Abdulla is having so much fun he can hardly complain when she wants to stay into the afternoon, even sitting through the floor change for the men’s competition the next day. All of it fascinates Sangita. Or maybe they are both just relieved to be outside the confines of the apartment.