Bright Lines

by Tanwi Nandini Islam

  “All right, then. I am going downstairs. Bye.”

  He waited for another ten minutes, in case Hashi forgot a spool of thread or a face cream. She did not return.

  * * *

  Anwar sprung out of bed to shower. Hot water stripped away last night’s musty scent. He dressed himself in his favorite periwinkle blue polo, khaki pants, and always, his leather Batas. Where was the key? He rummaged through his pockets, conscious that he’d worn the same pants yesterday. No key.

  He jumped up to reach the handle of the ceiling door. He pictured himself a basketball player and jumped to pull it open. No use; he was five feet ten (on a good day). He propped up the usual chair to get into his studio. He knocked on the wall he shared with Ramona.

  No answer.

  Anwar knocked again. Still, no answer.

  He heard a rapping on the wall. “Come!” said Ramona.

  Anwar turned the knob to Ramona’s bedroom, but it was locked. “Unlock the door, Ramona.”

  She couldn’t hear him.

  “Open the door, woman! Unlock!”

  “What?”

  This could go on forever, he thought. The key wasn’t next to the refrigerator. Where had he put it after they had made love? He retraced his steps from the door to the chair, where he’d fallen asleep. He knelt down to inspect the ground. Nothing.

  “The key, I cannot find the key,” said Anwar. He fumbled in his desk drawer for his Spanish dictionary to find the word for key. Those damned two-L words intimidated him. How on earth do you pronounce llave?

  He checked his watch—they were wasting precious time. It was already nine thirty. Hashi wouldn’t be so busy today, after a weekend of weddings. She’d come upstairs to check why he hadn’t stopped by for breakfast. He felt his erection would cut a hole in his pants. He began sweating profusely and didn’t want to stink before seeing Ramona. The key was nowhere to be found, not even in the pocket of the pants he’d worn for ten consecutive days.

  “Fuck me,” he said. He climbed back down the ladder to search his bedroom for the key, knowing it was not there. Hashi could enter at any moment. He tried to calm his brain. Where could it be? He looked up at the ceiling, to his studio, to a god, a god of love—

  He made the bed, which he never did, before he decided to knock on Ramona’s front door.

  Ramona opened the door wearing a NY YANKEES jersey, bare legs, hair mussed, horrified expression. “Why are you coming in through here?”

  Anwar stepped inside and tried to kiss her neck.

  She swatted him off. “No, you can’t come in this way. This is the stupidest thing you could do.”

  “I can’t find the key. I can’t leave without fucking you.” He kicked the door closed behind him.

  He rocked her onto the bed and pushed himself upon her. He wanted her to suck his fingers clean. “I want to feel you,” he said, quivering.

  “You do feel me,” she said.

  He drove himself into her wet, bloody, yawning pussy. Stop, he told himself. This is dangerous, you are stupid, a stupid old man—

  “We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t,” moaned Ramona. Each time she said it, she pushed herself harder against him.

  My woman, my house, he thought, unfurling her fingers. In that moment, he shed all of his troubles inside her.

  * * *

  “You could use a shower, Anwar.”

  “That’s the word on the streets.”

  “Let me make you some tea,” said Ramona, jumping out of bed. “Use the shower if you want.”

  “I’ll take a shower at my place. You have mediocre water pressure, correct?”

  “Not funny.” She left him and went into the kitchen.

  Anwar felt rejuvenated and ready to get to work. It was now eleven o’clock. He had to get out of the house before Hashi took her lunch, which would be at half past one.

  “I should get going!” he called to Ramona.

  She returned carrying a tray topped with a pink ceramic teapot and two steaming cups. “Do you want milk and sugar? Or honey?”

  “I’ll take it as you have it.”

  She grabbed the honey jar from the nightstand. She squinted, seeing something in it. “It’s the key!” she exclaimed. She held the jar up to the sunlight. The key was suspended like a fossilized bee in amber. She handed it to Anwar.

  “Quite sticky. I’ll wash off the honey. I need to get out of here before Hashi realizes I’ve never left,” he said, sitting up. He grabbed his shirt and started buttoning before realizing the juices on his navel had soiled his clothes. “Shit, this was a fresh shirt!”

  “I’ll wash it. Now go!” Ramona opened their shared door. “Hasta luego.”

  He looked at her and nodded.

  Anwar sighed relief as the door shut behind him.

  He showered and rinsed off the key and erased traces of Ramona. He felt giddy and dirty, all at once. He was starving. Would pretending to have come home for lunch as a surprise be wrong?

  Yes, you old bastard, Anwar scolded himself in the mirror.

  He tiptoed downstairs, until he made it outside. He hurried away from the sound of Hashi’s laughter and her clients’ gossip.

  * * *

  At the apothecary, Anwar set up a flimsy plywood board to cover the unsightly broken window. He’d have to get Ella to help him fix it, or call a guy, as Bic always said. Bic had dozens of these guys, for accounting, buying property, plumbing—and Anwar couldn’t think of anyone except Ella. He passed the day mindlessly. A customer or two came, but no one bought anything, nor did he try to convince them to. I’ve crossed an invisible line. He felt abandoned by his old friend. There was no conjuring Rezwan, even when he smoked. He spoke the beginning of Surah al-Noor, a fearsome prologue to the verses on light:

  Adulteress and the adulterer—

  punish each one of them with a hundred lashes;

  and may you not have pity on them.

  * * *

  When Anwar arrived at home around eight, a dim nightlight was plugged into the kitchen wall. The table was set for one person. A plate of cold rice, lentils, mustard oil mashed potatoes, and beef curry lay under a piece of tinfoil. Where was Hashi? The girls? He heard no radio from Hashi’s downstairs, no stuttering from Charu’s sewing machine, no sign of Ella. Anwar ate his meal alone, chewing the rice, which tasted like paper, and the beef, which tasted like rubber. Not for the lack of flavor in Hashi’s food, but for the lack of flavor in his mouth. He wanted to see Ramona. She’d be leaving for her shift soon. He had the key. She was just on the other side of the wall.

  He wondered what to do, until he fell asleep sitting up.

  An hour later, he felt a tap on his arm, the sort of tap to see if he was warm and alive, and he tried to will himself awake in the dream he was already forgetting.

  “Arré!” Anwar shouted.

  “Uncle? Sorry to wake you.”

  “Rezu—forgive me, forgive, I am bad, very bad,” slurred Anwar.

  “It’s Ella.”

  Anwar’s eyes widened. “Ellaaa? Ella! I was worried. I know you don’t need my worries, but I offer them to you.”

  She stood close to him and wiped his nose off with her sleeve. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “Don’t worry about me, child. I’ll be on my way upstairs.”

  Ella squinted at him. She appeared unconvinced. Anwar patted her arm and motioned for her to go out to the backyard.

  Upstairs, Hashi was not yet in bed. Anwar found himself climbing up to his studio, beckoned by the promise of Ramona on the other side. He said a prayer in front of their door, and kissed the key. Aware that this was a brazen act, he let adrenaline chart his course. He turned the key and walked through the wall.

  A candle flickered. He caught two shadows first. Short, yet elegant fingers caressed Ramona’s hair, parting the coff
ee brown waves in the middle, just along her spine. Each vertebra poked through her back as little stones molded in clay. This man, who must be the brilliant and stout Hugo, smelled as though he’d been soaking in lemony dishwater.

  Anwar felt his fist punch her spine before he could stop himself.

  “Agh!” yelled Ramona, turning around. “Anwar, what the fuck are you doing? You can’t just come in here—”

  Hugo, or who Anwar assumed was Hugo, leapt over Ramona with unpredictable dexterity, and slammed him back toward the door of his annex. Anwar fell to the ground. He crawled to escape the hulking man advancing.

  “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you—who are you?” stuttered Anwar.

  The man picked him up by his shirt collar and growled, “I’m her husband, you goddamn piece of shit. How dare you put your fucking hands on her? I’ll kill you.” He punched Anwar’s face. Anwar winced at the splitting of skin. He tasted his own blood, for the first time in twenty years. He tried to scratch at Hugo’s face, but felt his own rage consumed by the man who straddled him, as Anwar had straddled Ramona.

  Hugo began squeezing his fingers against Anwar’s throat. His fingers were sticky.

  Anwar stuck his tongue out to taste. “Honey?”

  “You fucking faggot Indian son of a bitch. How dare you touch my wife?” Hugo struck Anwar’s cheek with the back of his hand a couple of times, and then banged his head up and down against the floor. From far away, Anwar heard, Stop!

  But he couldn’t follow the voice.

  “Anwar.”

  His eye was already swelling shut. Through the bloody slit, he saw Hashi.

  In and out of consciousness, Anwar heard his worst nightmare come to life, as if he were underwater:

  “I—I—I think that it is time for you to find another situation, Ramona. All that has happened is something beyond our control. It is not good for me. Or my children,” said Hashi.

  “I’m sorry, Hashi.”

  “You have two weeks.”

  Anwar tried to stir himself up, but couldn’t bear to open his eyes.

  “As you wish.”

  He didn’t hear anything else.

  * * *

  At midnight, Anwar woke up on the floor of his studio. He’d soaked the dhurrie rug beneath him with blood. “Hashi!” he shouted. He willed himself to roll onto his side. He felt as though he’d broken a rib or two. He propped himself up. Smashed bits of glass were everywhere. The entire kitchen was trashed—bottles of oil broken on the floor. Anwar realized that for the first time in all these years, Hashi had seen his studio, his home away from her.

  Anwar summoned the courage to descend to his bedroom, to face Hashi. He took one rung at a time.

  Hashi had left the chair for him to land on.

  But there was no Hashi. He heard the sound of water from a faucet. The bathroom door was tipped open, and he let himself inside.

  Hashi had lit candles on the four corners of the slate-tiled tub. Her breasts, smallish and deflated, floated over the surface of the water. She leaned against the rim of the tub, her eyes closed. She had a white mask on her face, giving her the countenance of a mummy. He saw himself in the mirror: battered, black-eyed, and ugly.

  She didn’t move, didn’t speak. He wet his fingers in the water and dabbed her cheeks in a circular motion. The mask became mud on his fingers. She slipped underwater.

  Anwar tried to pull her up, but she resisted. Particles of poppy seed whittled away and floated on the surface. She pulled herself up and out of the bath, splashing him wet. She stepped past him, and walked over to the sink. She rushed through the motion of ablutions; it was time for the last prayer of the night. Rinse the mouth, thrice. Clean the hands and feet, thrice. Don’t forget behind your ears.

  He took in her nakedness, her body slender as a girl’s, at ease.

  Anwar hated the wetness of wuzu. Watery pools lay stagnant, breeding mosquitos and disease that killed believers the world over. He followed Hashi out of the bathroom, into their bedroom.

  She did not speak or acknowledge him. He took a seat on the bed. Everywhere there were photographs of them throughout the years, from when they’d first arrived to Charu’s last birthday. He didn’t notice these artifacts of their life together anymore. But now, seeing a picture of the four of them posing in front of the home they’d built—it jarred him. He clasped his hands together, as if praying with her.

  He watched as she laid her prayer rug on the floor. She pulled out a nightie from the closet, a worn embroidered thing that brought more comfort than he ever could. She stood on the rug and began her prostrations. Each time she knelt, her knees popped. She bent all the way down, touching her forehead to the rug. The soles of her feet were callused and dry. Anwar wished to rub them for her. He was ashamed by his arousal at her surrender. He pinched the tip of his interloper cock to chill out.

  Hashi prayed into clasped palms, whispering fervently, until Anwar realized she was weeping. She collapsed on one side, almost in slow motion. She folded into a fetus position. Anwar knelt to stroke her back, but she became rigid and pulled her body away.

  “Let’s go to bed, my darling.”

  She shook her head no.

  He found a shred of strength, using all the muscle in his legs, to lift her up to the bed. Her body became light and she didn’t try to stop him. He laid her down on her back and hovered over her, though it pained him to sit up. She stared past him at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry.” Anwar wrinkled his forehead in pain. “Please, say . . . anything.”

  “All the dust from the ceiling,” whispered Hashi. “We breathe it in. Everything turns to dust.” She pulled something out from under his pillow. “I found this.”

  It was the checkered shirt he’d been wearing this morning.

  I should’ve just washed the damned thing in the shower.

  “I remember I bought this at Macy’s, with my first paycheck from that terrible Manhattan salon. You have taken pretty good care of it, even though this button you’ve sewn on is white; the others are tortoiseshell. You know, these days, I go out for lunch. Not in restaurants. But I’ll pack some food, then sit in the park, or stop by and talk to old Dr. Duray. On my way out of the house, Ramona came down to the salon with a load of laundry. I was on my way out to visit one of my favorite clients, Gladys. She’s a minister over at Emmanuel Baptist Church on Lafayette. She is my age but broke her hip when she missed a step walking out of her house. Bedridden. Can you imagine? So, I paid her a house visit. I washed and blow-dried her hair, waxed her arms and legs, did her brows. I kept her company for about an hour, until her goddaughter came home after school.

  “When I came back to the salon, Ramona was folding her laundry, chatting on her cell phone. And there was your shirt, just folded into neat rectangle, stacked on top of all her undergarments,” cried Hashi. “The bitch heard me come in and threw her laundry into the basket—mussing all the folded pieces along with the unfolded ones. She said something into the phone, in Spanish, and rushed past me with barely a hello. I looked up the word in your Spanish-English dictionary. Esposa del propietario. Landlord’s wife.”

  Anwar did not know what to say. He’d been caught, by a moment of stupidity. Why had Ramona left the shirt out for the world to see? Why did he have that damn dictionary, knowing he’d never learn Spanish?

  He wished that he’d never gone through the damned wall.

  “I have loved you since you first met me. I thought of you as the handsomest friend Rezwan Bhai had ever brought to our house. I wanted you to be in our family.” She knew that any mention of Rezwan would work its magic on him, for he had the resolve of a noodle.

  “Forgive me. I am a terrible man. A terrible husband. I swear to you—it was the shortest affair in the world.”

  “I do not keep secrets from you. But, from here on, you can keep yours.”

 
; They stared at each other for a long time. For how long, neither of them knew. They read the lines written on each other’s faces—lines carved out of sharing a life together for twenty-five years.

  They read each other’s minds:

  You are tired of me. You hate me. I love you. I hate you.

  Hashi looked at him, until she could no longer keep her eyes open, tired from a day of working, cleaning, crying, discovering and confirming the worst. Her eyes fluttered closed, then open again, until Anwar shut her eyes with the palm of his hand. He kept his hand on her forehead until she started snoring.

  He hugged the cotton kantha quilt over his body. Hashi had stitched it years ago, when she was in twelfth standard. Yellow and red threads stitched together thin layers of worn old saris, which had belonged to generations of women. Each separate layer was so fine he could pull it through his wedding band. The stitches on the quilt were perfect and small. He missed that longing, thinking of her as a teenage quilter. He buried his face into the kantha. Each stitch was a small part of a long dotted line. The multitude of lines secured all the layers. So they could never fall apart.

  * * *

  Three days and one man with a van later, Ramona and Hugo packed up her life into six cardboard boxes. They left the place spotless and empty, save for an envelope with a set of keys. Anwar would not realize they had left until days later.

  17

  By the thirteenth of August, Ella wondered if she should rack up the nerve and go up to Maya’s apartment. Once, she’d gone to A Holy Bookstore, but Sallah S. hadn’t been in. But what if it made things worse for Maya in the end? Her father might lose his shit. Anwar claimed he hadn’t seen Maya since the night Charu got caught. With only two weeks until summer’s end, Ella had taken to spending more time at Anwar’s Apothecary. He’d asked for her help replacing the storefront window and creating another batch of the destroyed Magic Jojoba shampoo. Poor guy. Ella felt a pang of sadness thinking of Anwar’s innocence—he believed the whole business a random attack, a few “brick-happy” teens. But Anwar had never had problems in the neighborhood. Ella had a strange feeling about this unusual vandalism. She kept his team-signed Brooklyn Dodgers baseball bat under the counter in case anyone came around to mess with them.