Once she thought she was pregnant. She had gone to a clinic. She knew there were tests you bought in a box, sticks you were meant to pee on, but she wanted to be sure, she wanted to see a doctor. At the clinic she was directed to undress in a room and sit in a chair with moulded stirrups for her legs. Their purpose became apparent when the assistant pressed a button and the chair tipped back and lifted her legs apart. A paper curtain was positioned to screen everything past her navel, so she was unable to see the doctor who approached. He put his gloved hands on her stomach, pressing here and there, then poked two fingers in her vagina and felt about inside her. Afterward, when she had dressed, the assistant gave her to understand that she wasn’t pregnant. She rode the bus home not knowing what to think or feel, but later the same day her period started, as if triggered by relief.
Now, in the park, Ana walked on a little. She was not afraid. She liked the dark. She liked the textures of the trees, the way the warm air seemed to swim. Deeper in the gardens, the small lake wobbled with dim reflections, and in the trees she heard cicadas. She thought back to the time she had gone to a summer festival with Daisuke and then, on returning, lay watching TV and drinking a bottle of white wine. She remembered the night clearly: a golf tournament was on, Tiger Woods was playing and from the trees behind the house came the bleating of cicadas. She knew nothing about golf but was content to lie there watching. Then Daisuke, a little drunk, had said something unexpected. ‘You’re so free,’ he told her, turning from the screen.
‘No I’m not,’ she said.
‘It’s because you’re talented.’
The remark perplexed her. She did not feel talented. She did not know what he meant, but he didn’t elaborate. And nothing happened between them, though she would have liked it to. Nothing happened that night or ever. She regretted this, now that she thought about it. To think that after that exchange they had just lain there side by side, drinking wine and saying nothing, watching golfers hit golf balls on a golf course somewhere.
*
‘Do you like men?’ Priya asked as they drove to the mountain spa. She swivelled to look at Ana, who was sitting in the back. Priya’s likeable colleague Ken was driving them in his car. By ‘men’ Priya meant noodles, but her tone was deliberately teasing. ‘I love them,’ she went on. ‘Especially cool men, in the summer.’
Priya flirted from long habit even though she was now engaged. When they got to the spa and went through to the women’s section, leaving Ken to go the men’s, Priya’s voice lost its sparkle, becoming flatter, merely pleasant. As they soaked in the outside pool she spoke about Sanjeev, her fiancé. They had fallen in love while travelling in Europe – which was the storyline, as she said, of many Indian films. But then he had gone to Princeton and she had come to Tokyo. They had gradually grown distant, and she had dated Japanese men. After graduation and several failed relationships, she had gone home to ask her parents to start looking for a match. Deeply bemused, they had reasoned with her, ‘Dear Priya, how do you expect us to find anyone better than Sanjeev?’
‘I admitted they were right,’ she told Ana with a laugh, basking in the glow of her fiancé’s success.
Afterwards they found Ken reading a newspaper on a bench. He wore the hotel’s plastic slippers and his hair, with the styling wax washed out, had gone silky and flat. They had to dash to the Nissan because of the pouring rain. They drove back through the wet, stopping off once at a service area for Ken to buy a can of coffee from a dispensing machine. Nearby, a stumbling drunk was startled to see Ana. ‘Ara!’ he said, staring. ‘Ningyo ka na to omotta. I thought it was a doll!’
‘You know what he said?’ Ken asked.
‘Yeah,’ Ana said and they both laughed sheepishly. When Ken dropped her back at Arjun’s, she kissed each of his clean bright cheeks, causing him to blush.
Early the next morning, Ana met Takuya again. They walked through the fish market on their way to a sushi bar for breakfast, and Takuya pointed out the best specimens on offer. Ana walked quickly, especially past the shellfish, which were so mauve, so vagina-like, they might give Takuya ideas. But he was busy explaining a new rule in the market, that visitors had to keep a certain distance from the fish. ‘There was an incident,’ he said, wearing a disappointed look. ‘There were some foreigners. They tried to hug the tuna.’
At the tiny sushi diner, the chef put the sashimi portions directly on the bar, which he wiped with a cloth between one round and the next. They ate several types of fish and some hacked-off squid, which was so recently alive that the pieces were still moving, puckering in protest on their beds of rice.
‘By the way,’ said Takuya as they left. He walked with his basketballer’s gait, his feet splayed oddly wide as if to corner Ana. ‘Miura-san sent a message,’ he said, meaning Shigeko, whose surname was Miura. ‘She mentions her regards. Actually, she is feeling sad that you do not see her.’
Clearly he knew about their disagreement. Shigeko had been annoyed when Ana refused a client, and won the argument by kicking her out. Ana could still picture Shigeko’s face that evening, her smile fixed and brittle, her eyes strangely bright.
‘It makes it difficult for her,’ Takuya went on. ‘Because, as you know, the role of a hostess is to bring happiness to people.’
‘Is it,’ she said flatly, annoyed by the lecture.
He smiled indulgently, spread his hands and said, ‘You should meet her. It’s not too late. You can say sorry.’
‘I’m not sorry.’
Taken aback, Takuya fell silent.
‘Thanks for breakfast,’ she said, then left him to his day. It was still early in the morning and she walked aimlessly at first, at length finding herself on Omotesando Dori, a fancy shopping street. She was looking in the Prada window when Arjun telephoned.
‘How was your date with eel-hands? Or is it eel-dick? Whatever it is you call him.’
Ana laughed. ‘Okay.’
‘Are you going out tonight?’
‘No. Unless you want me to be out.’
‘Are you sure, Ana? You’re not bringing some boy home?’
‘No.’ She snorted. ‘I’ll see you at the apartment.’
*
That night and the coming nights, a typhoon swerved in close, dousing Tokyo with heavy rains. They went out anyway, defying the weather. One night Arjun invited Nitin, a friend of his, to dinner. Nitin was not from college and Ana had never met him, which made her suspect Arjun of trying to set her up. If this was the idea, it didn’t work out. Having organised the evening, Arjun quickly became annoyed, starting with Nitin’s choice of a budget Italian restaurant. ‘Really, this is the place you pick?’ It looked basic but okay, with plastic tablecloths.
Nitin rolled his eyes at Ana. He was delicately built and had a fine aquiline nose. He worked in capital markets, where (so Arjun said) the guys took home the biggest pay-packets in town. This was why it rankled Arjun that he ate so cheaply. Nitin, for his part, enjoyed needling Arjun. ‘Arjun, why don’t you try the house bolognese?’ he said. ‘Oh, you don’t eat beef? Oh, and why would that be, Arjun?’
‘Because, you know why. My family —’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘Because I still adhere to some precepts.’
‘You do?’ Nitin faked surprise. He was like a cat with a stuffed toy, wanting to tease and tear. ‘Which precepts are those again? When we go out clubbing?’
Ana waded in. ‘Everyone draws a line for himself – or herself.’
‘How true, Ana.’ He grinned, and she feared what he might say next, but he merely asked a waiter to take their dinner order. Two bolognese, one parmigiana and, yes, the garlic bread to start. Then he resumed the conversation, saying, ‘How very true, Ana. I draw my own line. It moves as I do.’
Arjun’s mood was foul through dinner. Later, when they had parted from Nitin and were walking home, he said he would take her out again to make up for the night. They would go somewhere fancy, a converted brewery on the harbour, a p
lace he really loved.
True to his word, he made a booking there next evening and met her beforehand at the closest station. She spotted him striding across the tiles in the high cavernous hall. ‘I love the space of it,’ he said, waving a hand at the height above. ‘Space for thinking big. I come here a lot.’ He had also been reading a lot, he added as they walked to the restaurant. He rattled off authors – Richard Branson, Bill Clinton. ‘A little Shakespeare too. I’ve been educating myself. I’ve had the luxury of leisure.’
They reached the brewery and were seated at a table that was spread with a white cloth and laid with gleaming silver. Soberly, Arjun asked if she had noticed a change in him. It was true he looked different, as though his face was smoother, the set of his jaw more confident, but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly the change had been. ‘I had my tooth fixed, see,’ he said, baring his teeth at her. ‘I can now afford to care about such shallow things.’
Behind them on the harbour, the rain was coming down heavily. It was the night when the typhoon was almost upon them, and it was there at the restaurant table Arjun told Ana what really happened with Fatima. ‘Her parents sent her to meet a man, a family friend in Tokyo. He was old, she came back and told them. Old and short. But they chatted online, all smiles. All flattery, you know? I had to go away for a while; I was working out of town. When I got back she called me. She was married, she announced. To the older guy, just like that.’
The lights of the harbour struggled bravely through the weather. Arjun told his story – how he had returned to India, hiring four computing experts to teach him one on one. Rising early and working out, then taking his first classes. Eating the lunch his worried mother prepared for him. Stopping for a nap and then studying again. For three months he had worked like this.
‘Ana, do you know, my parents had told me once that they’d rather I marry an Indian. But they said I was free to choose. I could bring home a Japanese girl, a Chinese girl, any girl as my wife. They said they would still be happy. They said, we will all be friends.’
‘Ana, Fatima called me once. She was drunk. She slurred her speech. It was three months into the marriage. She said, he is sleeping with prostitutes. He thinks he can do what he wants. I’ve caught him countless times but he doesn’t care. I’ve made a mistake, she said. I’m getting a divorce. I’ll call you tomorrow. Yet the next day no call came. I called her parents, they hung up. I talked to her brother, I said I could fly to see them. No, he told me. Don’t. He said she never considered me. He said his family was broad-minded, they would have considered a foreigner if she had talked to them, if that was what she’d wanted.’
Holding his fork like a small trident in his fist, Arjun stared unseeingly at the rain-smeared lights.
‘Forget her,’ Ana said.
‘But there were times – I know she felt it. And if she could feel it then, she could feel it always. I could – I told myself – I could inculcate that love. After I saw that, I thought, okay, I’ll wait.’
Then he described when he had last seen her, or rather the last two times, both soon after she married. After carefully composing her final college dissertation, he had met her away from prying eyes on a windswept Yokohama beach, handing over the finished essay in electronic and hard copies. He had seen her at graduation; she was there in a silver dress. On her arm was a man she introduced to people as her cousin. All the cameras, Arjun said, sought her in that crowd, searching for her beauty, her white moon of a face.
*
The typhoon had been predicted to hit Tokyo that night. But, as often happened, it swooped away at the last hour, thanks to a quirk of topography that favoured the capital. Next morning when Ana woke, it was to the clearest day she had seen in the city. The air was dry and hot, drawing everyone outdoors. The park was full of pregnant women, children and their maids. This was also the day when Ana’s visa came by mail, in an official envelope she tore at hastily. There it was in black and white, her permission to work. She promptly celebrated by doing something she never did: sightseeing. Taking the train to Asakusa, she visited the temple and neighbourhood laneways where old people moved with tiny, precise steps. She ended the tour with an iced tea in a snack bar. She drank it looking onto the storefront opposite, at a spinning mannequin that, ‘Sale’ sign notwithstanding, cocked its knee and posed with new-season confidence.
That night she and Arjun fried gyoza in a pan. They ate the dumplings on the couch while talking of old times. ‘Do you remember, Ana, when that friend of yours came to visit? You had her in my room. I came home to find her in my bed, this plump girl snuggled in the duvet, her big boob coming out a little. She woke up and said sorry. I said, no, no, don’t worry, I’m about to get in with you.’
Arjun laughed. ‘I did not say that. I was very well behaved, very polite. In those days I was bright and young, not eating meat or drinking.’ Recklessly he added, ‘Now I’m a tiger.’
Switching the TV on, they watched some CNN footage of floods in Romania, which prompted Arjun to mention a Romanian girl he’d met. She was working at the strip club he had visited that one time. ‘She was exhausted, you know? I keep thinking about her. I feel so sad for her.’
It suddenly struck Ana that he was talking about her. It was for her he felt sad, equating her with the tired stripper. ‘Arjun,’ she told him firmly, muting the TV. ‘I was a hostess.’ On the screen, torrential rivers wrecked bridges and embankments. ‘Are you listening to me? I was a hostess, not a stripper, not a prostitute. It isn’t the same thing, which is what I told Shigeko.’
‘I know, I know. I’m an ass.’ He grinned, hugely relieved. Then his phone rang and he boomed, ‘Priya-san, hello. And how is your great life? Oh, ex-cellent news.’
Priya had emailed photos of the ring and her fiancé. Viewing the files on his laptop afterwards, Arjun said, ‘They’re nice pictures. Actually, they look idiotic, smiling away like that. He seems so amazed. You know she said no to him so long. Then he made it in the States. He has a green card, has the package.’ He frowned and prodded the last dumpling. ‘Do you think it makes a difference, the material things, I mean?’
She now grasped his dilemma, which was that he needed both a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ answer. Pining for Fatima, he wished his wealth would bring her back, while at the same time his idealistic self – the youth in overalls Ana had known in college – hoped it would not work, hoped love could not be bought.
‘Sometimes,’ she conceded. ‘But I think more often not.’
He went out on the balcony and looked up at the sky. His phone rang with a work call. ‘Kiran,’ he said in answer. And, coming in, he opened his laptop and started speaking Hindi. A server had gone down; connecting remotely, he tried to bring it back up. It was by then almost midnight but he called all of his team. In an aside, he told Ana, ‘If I’m not sleeping or having sex, neither will they.’
Leaving him to it, she stretched out on her futon. As he went on working she heard the odd word: ‘Server! Ping! Nankaimo. Tiga, tiga, okay.’ In between work calls, she heard him speaking to his parents. Yes, he told his mother, I’ll book to come back for Diwali. Then it was back to his strange muddle of Hindi, English and Japanese. Ana went to sleep thinking of plans for the next day. She would go back to the shops on Omotesando Dori and with her hair in a chignon ask for a sales job. She would use her best Japanese, especially the honorific form that was used by shop girls as it was by hostesses. She would go store to store until someone said yes.
‘Nankaimo, nankaimo,’ Arjun was saying. She drifted off, comforted as if by a bedside story, one of servers like grandfathers in a subtropical summer. She did not know what time it was when he fixed the problem; it was as if he would be there always, tapping at his laptop. Then it was morning and he had gone to work already, and she rose to fold the futon neatly away.
Meanjin
Supernova
Omar Musa
The telescope sat slightly apart from the clutter of the room – aloof, cool
, shaded by a closed curtain. Azlan Muhammad ran a chubby hand down the length of its metallic form as he whistled a loud and tuneful melody. He paused to thumb the plastic toy rocket superglued to it before covering it carefully with a cloth. He belched, scratched an arse cheek, then traced a circuitous route through the stacks of books on the concrete floor, nimble for a man of his size. He had important things to do, after all.
Coffee first, though. He made it strong, sweetened by condensed milk, making sure not a drop spilled down the side of the cup. He hated that. ‘Coffee first, and the rest’ll fall into place’ – he could hear his old boss’s thick Aussie accent, even now. Azlan turned on the radio, his eyes still trained on the telescope. A serious voice was commenting on the imminent election. The lead-up had been full of skullduggery and intrigue, and there was a sense of excitement that after more than fifty years in power, the government looked to be in its death throes and the opposition was gaining traction. Today was election day.
Azlan cared little about the messiness of his house, but the surface of his body was sacrosanct. He showered and brushed his teeth fastidiously. Drops of water shone on his hair and big belly before rolling down to the concrete floor. He had once prided himself on a full, Samson-like head of black waves, but he’d taken to cropping it short as it receded slowly to the back of his head. He swore the receding had started around the time his daughter, Rozana, had been born, and he’d tried his best to cover it up by combing his remaining hair forward. But there comes a time, he had told Rozana, where you just have to give in. She was only eight, but the way she had thrown back her head and laughed with such gusto had already seemed so mature and defiant.
Azlan looked at the clothes he’d laid out for himself on the single bed: a traditional Malay outfit – the baju Melayu. He struggled into the matching dark red, long-sleeved shirt and trousers, doing up the imitation diamond studs at the chest. The long-sleeved baju strained at the belly, but how proud and striking it looked. He admired himself in his mirror. He’d hardly ever been able to wear his national dress during his life in Australia, other than to that awful work function where he had been cajoled to wear it, to show ‘diversity’, of course. He tied the kain songket carefully around his waist like a short sarong, its pattern of gold threads shimmering and bending in the light. Last of all came the jet-black songkok, tipped jauntily on his head.
The Best Australian Stories 2015 Page 12
