Oleander Girl

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  “Wow, didn’t know you owned something this chic! Isn’t it a Prada? They sell those in India?”

  I give him a smile. The suit has a story, but it isn’t mine to tell.

  Last evening, when I was packing, Seema had come and perched on my bed.

  “Boston! Wish I could go with you. I always wanted to visit Boston, but we never had the time—and then we didn’t have the money. What will you do there?”

  If it weren’t for Mitra, I would have told her. There was no guile in Seema.

  “Sorry,” Seema said. “I know you told me you promised someone special you wouldn’t talk about it. Bet I know who that is! Rajat-babu. He’s the one who gave you that gorgeous diamond ring, right? I hope you remember to turn it inside out when you’re on the subway, like I told you. You don’t want people to see something so expensive. You love him very much, don’t you? I remember how dashing he was. All the girls used to be after him. I think it would worry me if my fiancé was so attractive. What are you packing?”

  I showed her a green silk salwar kameez with gold embroidery at the neck.

  “Wow! That’s very fancy.”

  “It’s for an important meeting—”

  “With white people? It’s too gaudy! They won’t take you seriously. Wait just a moment.”

  She ran to her bedroom and returned with the pantsuit. It was rich, understated, perfect. It made me realize more than anything else how far the Mitras had fallen. I looked at Seema in her shapeless polyester pants stretched over her enormous belly, holding up the suit with a tremulous smile, and understood a little of the anger Mitra must feel.

  “You can borrow it. I’ll probably never manage to fit into it again, and even if I did, where would I wear it? Only, let’s keep it a secret. Mr. Mitra might get upset if he found out. He gave it to me for our first anniversary in this country. This year he’s so preoccupied, he probably won’t even remember the date.”

  She brought out shoes, a purse, earrings. The shoes were a bit tight, but I couldn’t resist them. In the mirror I looked transformed, a sophisticate that men would line up to claim as their daughter. How could I thank Seema for such generosity? How could I console her for the longing in her eyes? We wrapped everything in a beach towel that said peace out and hid it in my carry-on.

  It is snowing when we reach Rob Evanston’s office. My first snowfall, and I’m too nervous to enjoy it. Inside, the furniture is overstuffed and has a mournful look. Evanston does not seem to be doing too well. The only occupant of the office is a stocky young redhead in a sweater meant for someone of less robust proportions, buffing her nails. She puts away her nail file with reluctance and informs us that Mr. Evanston is running late with his morning meeting.

  The wall is crowded with photos of houses designed by my potential father. They are all of a type: large and rectangular, with crisscrossed wood beams and chimneys that rise up like fat exclamation marks. I dislike them all. I wonder if this means I will dislike him, too.

  Finally, Mr. Evanston enters in a flurry of wind and snow and apologies, throwing down an armload of plans on a sofa in a manner that suggests his morning meeting has not gone well. He invites us into his office. Seated across from him at his table, I find it hard to concentrate on my spiel. Is this my father, this balding man with light brown hair and pale blue eyes, a little overweight, earnestly promising to do an outstanding job for us? He looks so—foreign. I can’t relate to him. I must be staring; he looks at me with a puzzled smile. The photograph on his desk shows him standing outside a house similar to those on his wall, his arms around a red-haired woman and a plump girl—the same girl who was at the reception desk. The woman holds on to a boy who looks as if he’s trying to squirm away. It strikes me that I might be on the verge of making all these good people significantly unhappy.

  “Honey? Babe?” Vic is calling.

  With a wide, fake smile, I launch again into the description of my dream house. Halfway through, I realize I’m describing my grandfather’s house. A flood of homesickness chokes me. Suddenly I don’t want to be here.

  Mr. Evanston busily takes notes, interrupting only to point out features—the flat terrace, the enclosed courtyard—that wouldn’t work in this climate. His daughter comes in with coffee and cookies and such a look of hope on her face that I feel worse than ever about my deception. I plunge into the part about Berkeley, but when I mention my mother, Evanston shakes his head.

  “I don’t recall anyone named Anu. I did have several South Asian friends at Berkeley, though. And even a girlfriend for a while, a Pakistani. Her name was Shahnaz.” He smiles ruefully. “Halfway through her studies, her family found out about us and married her off to a distant cousin from Toledo. Broke my heart. But maybe it was for the best, because the next year, I met the missus. We’ve been married eighteen years now. After graduation, we decided to move back East—her family’s from this area—and I’m glad we did. People are more dependable in this part of the country. The only thing I hate is the winter. By the way, you can’t plant oleanders here. The snow will kill them right away. And speaking of snow, it’s supposed to be coming down pretty hard this afternoon.”

  I believe his story. It’s too mundane to be untrue. The men are discussing the weather.

  “Really? Heavy snow this late in the year?” Vic asks.

  “Yep. Freak snowstorm coming this way all of a sudden.”

  Failure has carved a pit in my stomach; I can’t gauge how deep it goes. I’d like to leave the office so I can nurse my wounds in private, but I must continue with the charade. Mr. Evanston goes over blueprints of houses he has designed, pointing out features he’s particularly proud of and advising us on the best appliance brands. Finally, Vic extricates us with our first true statement of the day: we have a long drive ahead.

  Outside, big, wet flakes are pouring from the sky. Vic glances up with some anxiety. Inside the car, I can’t stop shivering, even though the heat is on. I huddle in the black coat Maman gave me, but it’s no match for the American Northeast. I’ll have to start my search all over again, and now I have less than three weeks left.

  “Are you upset that he isn’t your father?” Vic asks.

  I nod and turn away, not ready to talk. I am disappointed—and am not. I badly want to find the man to whom my mother had written that romantic and tragic love letter, which I carried in my purse. I know with the passing of each day, my chances of discovering him are growing slimmer. But I hadn’t wanted Evanston, so comfortable in his mediocrity, to be him. What was it I longed for in a father? What doomed, romantic idea was I harboring?

  We drive slowly on the slick road. Vic leaves me alone to worry. In the failing, melancholy light, the buildings look old and empty. A traveler’s advisory comes on the radio.

  “Shit!” says Vic. “We should probably stay in Boston tonight. This is not a good car for a snowstorm.”

  Panic makes me clutch his arm. “No! We’ve got to get back tonight.”

  He glances over in surprise. “I know you’re short on money—I’ll look for the cheapest motel. Heck, I’ll even pay for it.”

  “Money’s not the issue. You don’t know how people think back in India! I can’t spend the night alone with you. Well, not with you—ah, you know what I mean. Engagements have been broken for far less.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s dangerous to drive any further. Tell your fiancé what’s going on with the weather. He must trust you—and surely your safety matters more to him than a foolish social convention.”

  I recall how Rajat had spat Vic’s name out in anger, and I’m not sure. Exhaustion hits me. The last few times we spoke, we seemed to be at cross-purposes. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Rajat was keeping something from me. We love each other, I know that. That’s why we’re getting married, isn’t it? But I can’t remember back beyond the tension to the tenderness. I just know that I am not up to facing more of his anger tonight.

  “Oh, very well,” Vic says, peering into my face. “If
we must get back to New York, I’ll give it my best try, in spite of having been dubbed the villain of our little drama. The worst part is, I don’t even get to do anything fun for it!”

  But an hour later, after the car skids and ends up inches short of a guardrail, even I have to agree that we must give up. I’m afraid that we will not find a place to stay, here in the middle of nowhere. But, ah, the wonders of America! A motel appears almost immediately, like an enchanted palace out of a fairy tale, its red-and-blue sign blinking through the fast-falling sleet. We struggle through the snow to the front desk, where a bored clerk hands us keys to two rooms. They’re the cheapest available, but to me they’re still shockingly expensive. I try to hide my consternation as I calculate how deeply they’ll cut into my resources.

  Once in my room, I phone the Mitras, hoping to get Seema. But of course Mitra picks up.

  “Strange! It’s not snowing in New York.”

  I’m infuriated by the insinuation in his voice. “Take a look at the Weather Channel,” I retort, then hang up. My teeth chatter. The room is freezing, but I can’t figure out how to work the thermostat. Seema’s beautiful suit is bedraggled, the legs distressingly muddy. I would love to take a hot shower and collapse into bed. But first I must take care of my most difficult task. As I dial Rajat’s number, I notice that my phone battery is low. And of course I have no charger with me.

  On his way to the warehouse, Rajat makes an effort to stare out the window, but each time his eyes are drawn to the back of Asif’s head. He tries to keep his mind on the momentous task ahead, but he can’t stop replaying Sonia’s voice from the phone call last night. Ask your driver why he hasn’t given you my letter, she had said before he had replaced the receiver with a shaky hand. He had been shocked to learn of the existence of this letter (what could possibly be in it?), but more shocked to realize that Asif was capable of such duplicity. He has decided not to confront the driver until after the meeting. He needs to keep his wits about him, and bringing up Sonia’s letter now will sabotage any hope he has of remaining calm.

  They were eating breakfast this morning when Subroto, the foreman, called home. Papa’s face tightened as they conversed. The Muslim workers had filed a discrimination complaint with the union. They were planning to picket outside the warehouse today. The union had supported them in this, though they hadn’t yet agreed to their demands for a full-fledged strike. But if the situation wasn’t defused immediately, that would be the next development. Mr. Bose needed to come in right away to pacify the union leaders.

  The blood pounded in Rajat’s ears. He had caused this problem. He’d been a fool, dictatorial when leniency was needed, weak where strength was required. For a moment he thought it would be best to let his father go, as the foreman suggested. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Papa having to clean up Rajat’s shit. Plus, if his father took over now, the men would lose all respect for Rajat, the spoiled rich boy who ran to daddy when things got too hot. He’d never be able to work in the warehouse again. Then it would just be a matter of time before he slid back into his old lifestyle with his carousing friends. And that lifestyle had no place for Cara in it.

  He reached across the table and gripped his mother’s hand. “Let me go. Give me a chance to repair the mess I made. I’ll do exactly what Dad and you tell me—but I have to show the workers that I’m man enough to face them.”

  Those other fears, unspoken, hummed inside him. It seemed to him that his mother felt them along her own nerves. It had always been this way between them. He felt her thoughts, too. She was weighing the risks at the warehouse against the shame that would spiral him downward.

  She chose him. When had she not? As he watched her whispering fiercely to his father, he promised himself that this time he would repay her trust.

  Having made their decision, his parents gave him detailed instructions. He must remember he was the ambassador of the Bose family. His job was to listen, take notes, and bring back the union’s demands. He was to be polite no matter what they said, to show no emotion and offer no opinions. He was not to apologize; nor was he to defend his actions.

  “But they’re in the wrong, and they know it. I fined the Hindu workers, too. I—”

  “It’s no longer a question of who’s in the wrong,” his father said. “Now we must only focus on how to defuse this situation. The union doesn’t really want that. They would prefer to assert their power through a shutdown. Some of them might try to incite you. Get you to say something rash. Maybe even get into a fight.”

  “That would give them the ammunition they need to start the strike,” his mother explained. “They might even have someone ready with a hidden camera—that’s what they did to the Manchandanis last year. Be alert.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Rajat promised. He felt like a warrior. Energy rushed through him.

  As the lift doors closed, he saw his mother’s hand find his father’s and grip it tightly.

  Rajat’s buoyancy lasted only until he got to the car and saw Asif. The driver was waiting in the circular driveway, dusting the Mercedes, chatting with another chauffeur. His uniform was perfectly ironed. His sunglasses gleamed. His teeth sparkled as he laughed at something the other man said. When he saw Rajat, he wished him good morning and opened the door with a flourish. As though he were a film star playing at being a chauffeur. As though he hadn’t deceived Rajat, hadn’t stolen something crucial and intimate that belonged to him.

  “Take off those ridiculous sunglasses,” Rajat snapped.

  Asif’s features stiffened. Wordlessly, he did what he was told. Rajat could see the skin stretching tight across the man’s knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

  Had Asif read the letter? He couldn’t have. He didn’t know enough English. Still, the suspicion wound itself tight around Rajat’s throat.

  Since Rajat can’t talk about what’s bothering him, he finds other ways to express his displeasure. When Asif is about to take a back way to the warehouse, he insists on going along the main road. When they get caught at an intersection where the lights aren’t functioning, Rajat curses aloud. A part of him despises himself for this behavior—he has always prided himself on treating retainers well. But he can’t stop himself.

  Why hadn’t Asif handed the letter to him right away? What had he done with it?

  Finally, they get through the backed-up traffic. With luck, they’ll be at the warehouse in another ten minutes. That’s when the phone rings. It’s Korobi. He’s glad she caught him before he got into the meeting with the union officials. He couldn’t have stopped to talk to her then.

  Because he has so little time, he gets directly to the point—as much as one can with the driver listening.

  “What happened in Boston? Was he the one? Can you come home now?”

  “No, he wasn’t.” He can hear the disappointment in her voice. But there’s something else. Is it apprehension?

  “Maybe you should come back to Kolkata anyway,” he says. “Everything’s gone wrong since you left—it’s like you were my talisman.”

  “Oh, Rajat. I’m sorry you’re going through so many troubles.” She sighs—mournfully, he would like to think. Does she sound distracted? “You know I can’t go back yet. I’ve invested too much in this. I’ve got to stay until I’ve checked out at least a couple of other possibilities.”

  They’re interrupted by a beeping.

  “Oh, dear. I think my phone battery’s dying. I don’t know why. I charged it last night. And I didn’t bring the charger.”

  “Aren’t you back in New York yet?”

  “Actually—I’m still outside Boston.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice goes high, though he tries to control it. “Isn’t it night there already? Why aren’t you back?”

  “We got caught in a snowstorm. We had to check into a motel.”

  “You and that man? He’s there, too?”

  Irritation sharpens her voice. “Where would he go?”

  The phone
gives more beeps. It’s going to fail any moment. He knows he shouldn’t ask, but he can’t stop himself. “Is he there? In your room? Is he with you right now?”

  There’s a cold silence. “No, he’s not,” Korobi finally says quietly. “He’s in his own room. Don’t you trust me?”

  Of course he trusts her. The snowstorm is not her fault. What else could she have done? Still, suspicion eats at him.

  It’s because he doesn’t trust the guy she’s with. Slick Vic. But, no. It’s really because he doesn’t trust himself. Because a part of him can’t rest until it discovers what Sonia wrote. Because a part of him is thinking, right now, of his final conversation with Sonia.

  Before he can put any of this into words, they’re disconnected. He calls her back, but there’s no response. Is her phone dead, or did she hang up on him? He curses again, punches the seat, feeling Asif wince.

  No time now. They’re at the warehouse gates; a large group of men swarm around the car, waving placards and shouting. boses unfair to muslim workers, the placards announce. Rajat’s palms are clammy. He has to wipe them on his pants. A concerned Asif asks if he should turn the car around. It doesn’t seem safe for Rajat-saab to go in there. The men have worked themselves up to such a frenzy, they’re incapable of listening to reason. Now they’re banging on the car windows. Not so hard that it’ll break the glass, but hard enough to show who has the power.

  Rajat has seen these men regularly for the last few months. Has made it a point to speak pleasantly to them whenever the occasion arose. But today they glare at him as though he’s a stranger—no, not a stranger. A familiar enemy. One of them shouts through the window at Asif, “Brother, quit eating the salt of these Muslim-haters!” Asif wears his impassive chauffeur expression and looks into the distance. Against his will, Rajat must admire how calm Asif is. He himself is far from calm. But he thinks of his parents, who are taking a chance on him, and rolls down the window.