by Mahesh Rao
She checked herself. It was a ludicrous moment that had long passed. She felt that she almost had a duty to plow on.
“Fahim, are you still doing freelance work?” asked Ania.
“He’s got some exciting plans,” said Mussoorie in a lilting voice. “Have you told her?”
“There’s some stuff brewing,” he said. “I’m thinking of starting my own venture.”
“What’s a venture?”
“You know, a media start-up.”
“You should speak to Dimple about that . . . ,” she said, the words emerging from her mouth before she had a chance to stop them.
“She does PR for start-ups,” she said, finishing the sentence.
“Of course, I remember,” said Fahim. “How is she?”
“She’s well,” said Ania, “extremely happy.”
She thought of the weekend spent at Altaf Masood’s constituency home, the strangely joyous way in which they had all danced around each other. There had been gentle teasing as they had warmed their hands over braziers; there had been so much sweet tea. She felt another swell of sadness and stood up to leave.
“It really is so late,” she said, “I must say goodbye to Serena.”
She left the room and then returned a moment later to get her purse. She saw Mussoorie lean over to whisper in Fahim’s ear, but he drew sharply away from her, his features hard with scorn. It was almost a look of revulsion.
They looked up in the next instant to see that Ania had returned and noticed. She remained standing as they all listened to Serena’s footsteps coming down the passage.
They waited for her. No one spoke. There was nothing to be done.
* * *
—
“WELL, TO EACH their own,” said Dileep.
The Khuranas said this often, as a surface acknowledgment that matters of taste were, after all, so subjective. They didn’t believe a word of it. Their judgments were the result of an instant but complete appraisal—and they knew they were always right. Nothing amused them more than what they considered to be clownish displays of wealth; nothing would stop them from lending their own refinement to the buffoons in question if they saw a solid advantage. The thought of owning a private plane filled Dileep with horror—the waste, the bother—but he knew the value of being seen disembarking from a Learjet at a secluded airstrip, a lone paparazzo lurking behind a hangar.
He disliked yachts, where he ran the danger of being confined for long periods of time with objectionable characters. He was also convinced that they were breeding grounds for virulent bacteria, which would only result in a boatful of passengers vomiting in the wood-paneled aisles. And he hated not being in full control of what arrived on his plate.
But there were important reasons why a short spell on an Australian zinc-mining tycoon’s superyacht was desirable, connected to the way myths were made in the modern age. The Australian had many admirable qualities but, above all, he knew not to grub about for reciprocal favors the moment he had spent some money, and he was loyal to the people he considered his friends. Dileep had a sense that the Australian would go much further still.
The yacht had to anchor out of port as it was too large to dock in the marina. At the end of his stay Dileep said his goodbyes, delighted that he would soon be alone again on firm land. As he boarded the launch, Saint-Tropez was soaked in its own special twilight. He shifted in his seat to face the shore and lifted his face up to the wind. They sped past the thicket of sails and masts, and beyond them on the shore, the ochre roofs, the yellow dome of the clock tower, the splashes of woodland on the hills.
The launch docked at the hotel’s private jetty, and he was shown to his suite by a hospitality executive in spotless Riviera white, her friendly inquiries perfectly timed. The room had drawn in the dusk, and the lamps cast shadows over the pale surfaces. After she had left, he reached deep into his case and pulled out the envelope he had collected from Mr. Nayak. He placed it on the desk and turned away, determined to put it out of his mind.
It was the hour when sand-flecked towels were trailed over terra-cotta floors and salt was washed off sun-warmed skin. From the terrace he could see the tumble of the hotel gardens, the stone steps that led to the beach, the sea streaked with gold. And somewhere in the distance, candles were being set on tables outside waterfront restaurants; women in boutiques peered at trays of diamond rings through the great fringe of their false eyelashes; day-trippers took pictures of the fancy boats, nursing their cocktails.
A young woman in a white bikini came running up the steps pursued by a man. He grabbed her arm and twirled her into an embrace. Her laugh was full and dirty as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her up the rest of the steps, her legs gripping him tight, feet flexed, her hair falling over their faces. Dileep watched them and felt one of his rare pangs of desire.
He came back into the room, took off his clothes, and lay down on the bed to think of his wife. They had come to Saint-Tropez nearly thirty years ago, driving up into the hills in a convertible, as though they were in a film, believing that they deserved to be in a film. He had bought her a scarf as a joke, blue anchors on white silk, a parody of the kind of vacation they were supposed to have. And she had worn it in the same spirit, a jaunty knot between her collarbones.
They had stopped in a village for lunch, walking through a square where the farmers were selling sausages and cheese. At the end of a cobbled lane braced by medieval walls, they watched a woman put her shopping down on the pavement. She reached under her blouse, unhooked her bra, whipped it out, and dropped it into her basket. With a large handkerchief, her hand laboring under her blouse, eyes closed, she mopped her breasts and under her arms carefully, almost sensually. The look of relief on her face was captivating. They watched, not bothering to hide their fascination, both realizing that the sight had ignited something urgently carnal between them. They held hands and continued their exploration, their palms burning. In the mid-afternoon heat they found a cool stone courtyard where a waiter brought them stuffed artichoke hearts and clams cooked with saffron. She wet her finger in her mouth and drew a line through the fog on his wineglass.
His face was creased in concentration as he held on to the image, working his penis hard, frantic for the release that he seldom allowed himself. He saw his wife now on the steps, where the girl in the bikini had been, her skin sparkling with drops of seawater, ducking, twisting, escaping his grasp. And then he had both arms around her, his face lowered into her neck, the swell of her breasts. He tasted the salt on her skin, and when he looked up, they were both lying on a hospital bed, his arm caught in a tangle of tubes, as he continued to probe her unresponsive mouth with his tongue. She lay like a dead woman, her skin already losing its suppleness and warmth. He pressed on, sucking her lip, pushing his head into the crook of her neck. He lifted himself up and looked at her face—he could see that she was not breathing. He pulled open her eyelid, and the eye stared at him, cold and yellow. When his orgasm came, it was an acute pain that shot up through his stomach, like a vicious spasm after some sort of medical procedure.
The room was in darkness when he woke a couple hours later. He shivered and pulled the bedcover over his body. Night sounds drifted in through the open terrace door: a woman’s high-pitched laugh, a short burst of jazz. He turned over onto his side. It was exactly as Serena had said. Mr. Nayak’s words took form and significance long after he had spoken. And he was right: in this place where they had once experienced those perfectly formed moments, he felt closer to his wife than he had for years.
He forced himself out of bed and slid the contents of the envelope onto the desk. A bottle of powder, a copper amulet, a curl of burdock root. He placed a photograph of his wife facedown on the blotter and sprinkled the gray powder over it; as instructed, he left the amulet and the burdock root a few inches away, close to an open window. He turned off the lamps even though this h
ad not been an instruction: it seemed the correct thing to do.
He pulled on a robe and sat in the armchair, prepared to wait. He was not a character in a cheap supernatural thriller. He was not a fool. It was clear to him that the curtains would not billow, the lamps would not flicker, the sound of footsteps would not trail through the suite. And yet, he expected something to happen. The thunder in his rib cage proved that.
Eventually Dileep fell asleep again, his chin lolling against his chest. When he started awake, his eyes took a while to adjust to the different types of darkness. He counted out a few breaths before telling himself he had been a complete idiot and turning on the desk lamp.
She was there. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands placed in her lap, as though this were a difficult first meeting. On her face there was a look of profound sadness. Was it regret? Was it a plea for forgiveness? His tongue was thick in his mouth; his throat had seized up. There was nothing he could say out loud to her. His hand opened as though she might slip her hand into it. But she didn’t move. He continued to look at her face in terror, searching her eyes for a clue.
* * *
—
ANIA HAD BELIEVED it to be a foregone conclusion. But so much time had gone by without Nikhil making a real play for her. Her occasional moments of self-doubt had been short-lived as she was far too fluent in this idiom—candid glances, infinitesimal pauses—to have misinterpreted his intentions. He was merely another example of the deteriorating male specimens all around her, too feeble to face the prospect of rejection. She had spent long enough supporting and encouraging others; the time had come to help herself.
She booked a suite at the Regent and sent him a message telling him to be ready for a small private party.
“How small?” he replied.
“Just the two of us.”
“Awesome.”
She tried to take his response in her stride.
When she walked into the hotel lobby, he was already there, pacing like an expectant father. A piano tinkled in the background and huge orchids glowed in the pale yellow light. When he hugged her, his face nestled near her ear.
“A private party, huh?” he said.
She smiled but stayed silent.
As they walked past the staircase that swept up to the mezzanine, he paused to read the details of a mining-industry event that was being held there.
“Hey, wait a minute, I’ve got an idea,” he said. He grabbed her hand and led her up the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s some sort of convention going on here. I just want to do something, mess their shit up.”
“Why? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“It’s no big deal! It’ll be funny, just watch.”
He shepherded her through the double doors toward the registration desk in the large hall.
“Good evening,” he said to the woman behind the desk while scanning the rows of name badges. “That’s me.”
He pointed to a badge that read “Mansukh Gulabchand.”
“Good evening, Mr. Gulabchand,” said the woman, pushing a form toward him. “If you could please sign here. And your name please, ma’am?”
Ania’s eyes darted over the names, all of which were male, as far as she could see.
“There you are,” said Nikhil, picking up a badge that read “Lovely Walia.”
“Welcome, Miss Walia, please sign here.”
“Stay here and mingle,” he said before she could protest again, “when you see me walking out, head down to the elevators as fast as you can.”
She watched him skirt the room and head toward the bar, before suddenly veering off and infiltrating a group of men. A note of caution rang in her head, as clear as a bell. His lack of regard for consequences had always been part of his reckless charm; taking her on those sudden dashes into unfamiliar corners of Hong Kong, casually flouting rules and laws. They were both secure in the knowledge that in their world consequences could be delayed, mitigated, ignored. But this silly charade was a distraction from her plans. She felt provoked, even though Nikhil’s eyes were on her at every moment, and when a waiter offered her a glass of wine, she drank as much of it as she could stomach in one go.
“Didn’t we meet at the Minerals Expo in Canada?” asked a man standing next to her.
“Yes, I think we did,” she said.
As the man continued to speak, her gaze darted around the room. There were guffaws that set out to make themselves heard at the other end of the hall, handshakes that were a test. She could no longer see Nikhil. And then he suddenly reappeared, throwing her a knowing look. His satchel bulged. She turned away from the man while he was in mid-sentence and reached the hall doors at the same time as Nikhil.
“A bottle of the finest cognac for my lady,” he said.
She took his arm and said, “You really are insane.”
They hurried down the staircase, a blur of maroon carpet and brass stair rods, dodged past the members of a wedding party, crossed the lobby, and made it into an elevator just as its doors were closing. Her heart pounded with the ridiculous thrill of it, and all recollection of her previous annoyance erased.
A breathlessness pressed upon her as the elevator rose through the endless bulk of the hotel. She would not look at him. Earlier, in the midst of that ridiculous escapade, he had constantly performed for her. Even as he stood on the other side of the room there had been a tautness between them, a trance-like knowledge that he would soon be her lover. She could sense that he was on the cusp of falling in love with her; she closed her fist around that instinct and kept it close; it made her impatient, restless, greedy.
He had barely kicked the door shut when she pressed herself against his body, looking into his grateful eyes. His satchel dropped to the carpet with a loud thud. For all they knew, the bottle could have smashed, the cognac richly pooling in the thick pile.
There was almost a cruelty with which she took her pleasure, a complete self-absorption that Ania saw as the reward for her pursuit. The bed was wide, its posts solid, like a great boat. There were little gold threads on the ceiling. The silk on the headboard was cool as it grazed against her arm. His face was pinched, almost as though he was in pain. When he opened his eyes, his irises seemed to engulf her. And then she stopped seeing or thinking.
Later, as she lay on her side, sated, her hands tucked between her thighs, a single violent shiver ran over the length of her body. The blackout curtains ensured that the room was in complete darkness. All she could hear was Nikhil’s slow, steady breath.
And then her phone lit up, and she lifted her head to see that the call was from Renu. She declined the call, but the phone began to vibrate a few seconds later. Again, Renu. She glanced at Nikhil, still asleep, a childlike softness about his lips. It was an innocence, a vulnerability that filled her with a rush of tenderness. She slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom with her phone, sliding the door shut, fumbling for the light switch.
“Bua, you’ve not stopped calling, is everything all right?” she asked as soon as Renu picked up.
“No, I’m awfully upset; it’s all so horrible.”
“What’s happened?”
“Of course, I didn’t believe it, but even the colonel has now confirmed that it’s true.”
“But what?”
“Nikhil has been having an affair with Nina, can you believe it? Nina Varkey. It’s too dreadful to even talk about but I had to tell you. I still can’t face the fact that it’s true and not idle gossip. But it is true. Just awful. Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Isn’t it awful? How could he? Of course she would do it. But him? How could he? Of all the people in the world. Was there really no one else? I mean, she’s my age and he’s your age. And more than that, it’s her. Nina. It makes me sick to think about it.”
“Are you really sure?”
“That’s what I kept saying. But yes, it’s definitely true. People have seen it with their own eyes. The colonel told me.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t really talk now. I have to go. I’ll call you later. I will.”
Ania shivered and turned away from the mirror. A sour taste filled her mouth. She pulled on one of the hotel robes that hung in the bathroom and turned toward the closed door. For a while, she stood motionless in front of the hard curve of the enormous bath, her feet feeling icy on the tiles. The room was a sickly white. She slid open the bathroom door as noiselessly as she could. Beyond the spill of light she could just about make out his sleeping form, the soft hump of the covers she had cast off, the paleness of the side where she had lain, the sheet now stone cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY
IN A CITY where Victorian façades were blasted out of sight, old timber bungalows razed and swept aside, Indo-Saracenic towers and pavilions torn down and sold for scrap, the restoration of a hundred-year-old opera house was a momentous event. The grand opening night of Mumbai’s Royal Opera House succeeded in luring out patricians who rarely stepped into the vulgar glare of the new world. They were chauffeured out of their hidden driveways; they descended from their sea-facing art deco apartments; they leaned on their canes and confronted their doormen, demanding to know what had happened to the palms in the foyer.
It had taken years of painstaking work, as the opera house’s girders threatened to collapse and balconies had begun to list. The building had to be shored up, floor by floor, the roof repaired, columns reconstructed. Architects and restoration specialists pored over old books and photographs. They studied every frame of a film that had been shot in the building forty years ago and questioned anyone who had any familiarity with the halls of the old theater. Console tables were sourced from a private collection in Gujarat. Tiles and beveled glass of the correct vintage were brought in from dealers all over the country. The insides of the royal boxes were papered in shades of ivory and gold.
