“Not on my phone, but I’m sure Google will have something.”
Sandeep pulled out his phone and googled “Victoria Terminus ceiling.” Russ pulled his chair closer to look at the phone, and the length of Sandeep’s left arm pressed against the length of Russ’s right. He turned to face him and found, quite unexpectedly, his tongue inside Russ’s mouth, which tasted a little like peppermint and—was it orange candy?—yes, like the orange candy he used to have as a boy. Russ’s eyes were closed; he closed his eyes as well. He could hear the kids playing in the fountain, but the sound seemed distant and quaint, as though they were in a countryside by the river.
“Well, that was nice,” Russ said when they pulled apart. “So, let’s see this lovely station of yours.”
The chubby boy was back again, staring intently.
“Ignore him,” his mother shouted from across the fountain. “He’s just curious.”
They both laughed and Russ made a jerking motion, as if to catch the boy. This led the child to emit a delighted shriek and he sprinted across the fountain, again into the hands of his mother.
“You have a good day,” Russ called to her.
To Sandeep he asked, “What do you want to do next?”
“Anything you’d like. I’m open.”
“Well, since you don’t drink coffee, and I don’t drink alcohol, do you want to go to the Savoy nearby for afternoon tea? It’s really good, if you haven’t tried it yet.”
“I’d love to. But I don’t think I should spend that much money.”
“Says the person who studies at Yale and vacations in Tokyo,” said Russ mockingly.
“Hey, don’t make fun. I had to say something to catch people’s attention. You’ve no idea how much casual racism there is on these sites. But no, I shouldn’t spend that much money.”
“I completely understand,” said Russ. “How about this: you pay what you’re comfortable paying and I’ll cover the rest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course, why would I offer otherwise? I do make a doctor’s salary, you know, and today is such a lovely day. And you are such lovely company.”
In spite of himself, Sandeep blushed. “But are we dressed properly to go to the Savoy?” he asked.
Russ leaned back and looked Sandeep up and down. “You look marvelous.”
The hotel was a five-minute walk away. Its large marquee, crowned by the statue of a sentry, tempted passersby with promises of opulence, and when one walked into the foyer, a world of luxury opened before the eyes, in which broad-shouldered men in fine tailored suiting and shapely women in elegant dresses leaned gently towards each other, while servers glided around and were at one’s side to carry out wishes one hadn’t even articulated.
“Welcome to the Savoy,” a hostess greeted them. “How may I help you?”
“We’ve come here for your afternoon tea,” said Russ.
“Very well, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m afraid not, but I was wondering if you’d be able to accommodate us.”
“Give me a moment, please,” she said, and departed to check with a colleague. True to her word, she returned in a moment. “Please follow me, gentlemen,” she said, smiling a professional, wrinkle-free smile.
They walked into a large room with a stained-glass cupola at its center, glowing in the sun. Below the cupola was an indoor gazebo, and underneath this was a pianist playing on a Steinway. Brocaded and upholstered armchairs and regal wooden tables covered with silk tablecloths were arranged around the gazebo. They were led to a table for two.
“Have you gentlemen dined with us before?”
“I have, but my friend hasn’t,” said Russ.
“Welcome back, sir,” she said to Russ, seating him, and to Sandeep, “I do hope you enjoy our service, sir.”
“I already am, this place is beautiful,” said Sandeep, a little too earnestly.
The hostess smiled even harder—it must hurt to smile so much—and said, “Your server will be with you shortly.”
“Welcome to the Savoy, gentlemen.” A man in sharp business attire came up to their table, carrying leather-bound books, which were actually their menus. “I’m David, and I’ll be taking care of you this afternoon.”
“Thank you, David,” said Russ. “We’re simply here for your high tea.”
“Perfect. Would you like the Traditional Afternoon Tea or the Traditional High Tea?”
“Do you want a minute to decide?” asked Russ.
“What did you have the last time you were here?” asked Sandeep.
“The Traditional High Tea, I believe.”
“And what’re you getting now?”
“The Traditional High Tea, I believe.” Russ smiled.
Sandeep couldn’t help smiling back. “Two Traditional High Teas it is, then,” said Sandeep, addressing David.
“Very well, sirs, which kind of tea would you like?”
“I’ll go with Ceylon,” said Russ.
“And I’ll have Darjeeling,” said Sandeep.
The server collected the menus and began to walk away. “Actually, David,” said Russ. David turned around and nearly hopped back to their table. “Would you mind adding the Deutz Rosé to our order?” Sandeep raised his eyebrows, and Russ said, “Don’t worry, it’s on me.”
“Would that be by the glass or by the bottle, sir?”
“I think the bottle will do.”
When the server left, Sandeep said, “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t. But today feels like a special day, and I thought, why not?”
“You really shouldn’t be paying so much money on my behalf,” said Sandeep.
Russ took Sandeep’s hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” he said. “I thought you were okay with me paying. We can cancel the bottle.”
“No, it’s fine.” Sandeep felt stupid for having protested. Here was someone who was noticing him, not just noticing but being kind and generous to him. “I’m just—well, thank you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
Sandeep turned towards the Steinway. “Do you know this piece?”
The melody floated above the murmur of voices and the gentle clanging of silverware on ceramic. “I’m afraid I don’t,” Russ said.
“It sounds like Chopin to me,” said Sandeep. “There used to be a jewelry ad in India that had this music. I find it so beautiful. And sad.”
“Why sad?”
“Well, doesn’t it sound a little sad to you? Listen.”
They listened together. The music leapt from a note promising a happy progress, but, inexplicably, it stumbled upon one minor key and then another, each filled with longing, and all this revealed only the naïveté of that earlier impression. Russ didn’t say anything but looked at Sandeep in a way to say he understood what he meant. Finally, someone who did.
David returned with an afternoon tea stand carrying little finger sandwiches and scones so yellow they looked like dollops of butter. Alongside these were white clotted cream and blood-red strawberry preserve. The tea service was all in silver. Another server approached them with a large tray, on which were placed an assortment of petits fours—chocolate éclairs, strawberry macarons, lemon tarts, vanilla cannelés—and, as though this wasn’t enough, an additional server approached them with a trolley table, which carried a selection of cake slices—gateau, pavlova, cheesecake, carrot cake. They ate and talked and the hour passed by. When they could eat no more, the bottle of Deutz Rosé came. The sommelier poured a sip for Russ, who pronounced it excellent. They were offered two glasses of rosé and they leaned back in the comfort of their armchairs.
Sandeep was glad Russ had suggested the hotel and the rosé. He wanted to thank him, but saying “thank you” would seem so formal now.
“The Brexit vote count is tonight,” Russ was saying.
“And?”
“And we’ll definitely remain.”
“I haven’t yet met a singl
e person who thinks differently.”
“Precisely.”
The rosé was making Sandeep a little sleepy. On the one hand, he wanted this luxurious experience to never end. On the other hand, he wanted Russ to take him home and fuck him out of his mind. He thought of his last and only date: they had watched a Meryl Streep movie on the laptop in his room while nibbling on cheese and crackers, left over from some college event.
“What are you thinking of, Mister?” Russ asked.
“I am thinking—” Sandeep almost blurted out what he was thinking. “I’m thinking that I’ve never had a first date this good.”
“Let’s drink to that,” said Russ, holding up his wineglass.
Russ was telling Sandeep about the time the Brexit bus nearly hit him—“that would have been a fun lawsuit”—when he felt his pocket. “Who’s calling me?” he muttered, pulling his phone out. “They’re not supposed to call me on Sunday. Hello, yes, who’s this?” He mouthed “Hospital” in Sandeep’s direction.
Sandeep nodded.
“Yes, yes,” said Russ on the phone. “What does the cardio report say?” He got up from his chair, mouthed “One minute” to Sandeep, and stepped out of the room.
Sandeep’s eyes followed him. He hoped the call wouldn’t be long, and he hoped that Russ was not being summoned to the hospital. He was hoping to spend the evening and the rest of the night with him. Surely the rosé would help, and it wouldn’t hurt as much as the last time. He just had to relax and all would be fine. He looked at the armchair where Russ had been sitting and saw his large umbrella lying on the floor. He picked it up, examined it, and then put it back on the floor, lest Russ suddenly return and catch him admiring it. Although, why shouldn’t he be admiring it? It was a handsome umbrella.
And when Russ returned, they would pay the bill, and Sandeep would say something to indicate that he was open to going to Russ’s place. His own Airbnb had a shabby feeling about it. Besides, he didn’t have any lube. Russ looked like a man who would be prepared for such occasions. He would tell him to go slow at first. Russ wouldn’t mind, he hoped.
But what if he did? Relax, Sandeep told himself, and drank the last of the rosé. He looked at the umbrella and was strangely aroused by it. Should he get the check so they could speed things up? Where was Russ? When five minutes passed and Russ did not return, Sandeep decided to WhatsApp him. He opened the app on his phone and saw that Russ was no longer on his list of contacts.
Surely his WhatsApp was acting up. He went on the dating app where they had started chatting and saw that Russ’s profile had disappeared from there as well. He could feel his heart beating faster. He got up from his armchair and asked a server to point him in the direction of the men’s room. The men’s room had large spotless mirrors and a calming aroma that had no effect on Sandeep. Russ wasn’t in any of the stalls. Nor was he in the lobby.
Sandeep returned to the table, and David, sensing perhaps that something was amiss, brought the check. Sandeep looked at the amount and tried to hide his shock. He put down the credit card linked to his mother’s bank account.
“My friend had to leave,” he blurted. “He’s a doctor. He got a call from the hospital.”
David merely nodded in reply. He returned with a receipt that Sandeep signed. The image of his mother, sitting at the dining table at home and going through the credit card bill, flashed in front of his eyes. He brushed it aside.
“Would you like a copy of your receipt, sir?”
What was the point? “Yes, sure.”
Sandeep walked to the lobby and then through the revolving door and found himself expelled from paradise onto the busy sidewalk of the Strand. While he was still wondering what to do, a young man from the hotel came running to him.
“Sir,” he said. For a second, Sandeep thought that Russ had been found inside the hotel in a delirious state, or dead, and that this was all a grave mistake. But the man only said, “You left your umbrella.”
Sandeep looked at the large black umbrella with its sharp tip and overcame the urge to impale the messenger with it. He took the umbrella and said thanks.
He began walking, not knowing where he was going. He was furious. He felt humiliated. Why would anyone go to such lengths to fool somebody? Or was there genuine misunderstanding and Russ had hated something about him so strongly that he’d simply walked out? Then he remembered he still had Russ’s number. So what if it costs a fortune to call? He had already paid a fortune.
He dialed the number; his call wouldn’t go through. He opened Skype on his phone and called from there. The 2G was awfully slow. The phone finally rang but no one picked up. He tried again. No response.
He wanted to smash his phone on the pavement. How could he not have seen this? How was he so stupid? So many things Russ had said or done should have alerted him: when he ordered the bottle of rosé, for instance; or when he suggested they go to the Savoy; or even the fact that Russ had replied to his message only after he had updated his bio with information designed to impress. Russ’s bio in itself should have warned him, but instead he had thought that here was a white guy trying to prove he wasn’t racist and not knowing how to do it. He wanted to shout, and in fact, he did, to the alarm of those walking near him on the sidewalk.
THE NEXT MORNING, he woke up to a call from his mother. He was still working out what to say to her.
“Did you see the news?” she asked.
Maybe she hadn’t checked her online banking. “What news?”
“You’re at the place where history is in the making!”
He opened his laptop. His social media had exploded. He skimmed through a Guardian article a friend had posted on Facebook. And he felt . . . he felt strangely happy. Good, he thought. This is exactly what should happen. Take that, Russ. Or whatever your actual name is.
“Maybe now they’ll give the Kohinoor back,” his mother said. “I initially felt bad. And then I thought—my god, why am I feeling bad for the British?”
They were laughing.
“Also, my bank sent me an alert yesterday, but I only saw it this morning. Can you check that you didn’t misplace the credit card? I see this huge charge from the Savoy. I’m guessing it wasn’t you.”
The Savoy had a receipt with his signature on it. “Ma,” he said. “It was me. Let me explain.”
Mohit Manohar was born and raised in India and is currently a graduate student in the History of Art Department at Yale University. His fiction has received a Ward Prize and a Francis LeMoyne Page Creative Writing Award from Princeton University. He is working on his dissertation on medieval India and a novel set in contemporary India.
EDITORS’ NOTE
When this story first showed up in our queue, we knew it wasn’t quite ready for publication and yet we just couldn’t let it go. There was something raw and alive about it, and the voice held such intimacy, anguish, and—the real surprise—humor. It also covered some unpromising-seeming subject matter that turned out to be rich with metaphor and subtle beauty: torturous medical procedures, feral cats, and urban snow. After hanging on to the story for a while, unsure what to do, we took a chance and asked the author if she’d be willing to revise. When she sent the story back nearly three thousand words shorter but missing none of its original charm, we realized that this first-time writer knew what she was doing all along. Our response to the revision was a definitive and jubilant yes!
We later learned that Valerie Hegarty is an accomplished painter and sculptor. She’s also been filling notebooks with writing for her whole life. She’s wanted to be a writer since fourth grade, she says, but never sent her work out until now. She took a risk by submitting this very personal story, and as editors we were gratified by her trust, her artistry, and her hard work.
There was always something improbable about this publication. Not just because it was by an unpublished author and first came in at an unwieldy ten-thousand-plus words, but as Valerie herself has said, “My story is about two things you should nev
er talk about to the person sitting next to you at a dinner party—that you have cancer and two cats!” And yet here it is, not only beloved by its editors at the New England Review, but also proudly situated among the PEN/Dau Short Story Prize’s dozen debuts.
Carolyn Kuebler, Editor
Ernest McLeod, Fiction Editor
New England Review
CATS VS.CANCER
Valerie Hegarty
I THROW THE bandage in the trash can with the clumped kitty litter. I ask the kitty lying with me on the bed on top of the covers, “Did you do your best today? Did you show up and do what you needed to do today?”
The kitty rolls lazily onto her back and stretches out her arms and legs like she’s in rigor mortis. She was recently neutered and I rub her shaved belly and mending incision line. She is purring. She is black with long white feet and white front paws, a white chin and half a white nose.
“Kitten mittens!” I say, rubbing her belly. “Cat jammies! You did a great job today, kitty!”
I adjust the ice pack under my bra. When I lifted my bra up in front of the mirror earlier, there was blood on the outer surgical bandage. I remember the nurses said if I see some blood, that’s normal.
THE FIRST TIME I saw the kitten was a month earlier, after I started renting an art studio on the basement floor of a warehouse building in the far reaches of Brooklyn. I worked on a painting for a few hours and then took a break to look out the window. The basement studio window was eye level with an alley. Looking back at me on the other side of the glass was a little black kitten. I looked away, dismayed. When I looked back, hoping she’d be gone, there were two little black kittens looking at me. I looked away again uneasily and when I looked back there were three little kittens—two black ones and a black one with a white nose and white paws. Again I looked away, this time on the verge of panic, and when I looked back there were four little kittens looking back at me through the window—two black ones and two black ones with white noses and paws. I turned away, went on my computer, and googled “What to do when you can’t save the world.” I read several posts, turned out the light, and left for the day.
Best Debut Short Stories 2020 Page 5