by A. X. Ahmad
The youth scowled, thrust his hands into his pockets, and slouched away.
S.K. stepped forward and smiled ingratiatingly. “Don-Sahib, I am happy to sit and talk with you, but Shabana needs to finish her makeup…”
“Of course, of course. Beti, you should know one thing about me.” Don Hajji Mustafa took off his sunglasses, and it was as though a window had been opened onto a fiery place. “This is not just a business for me. It is a family. I will be like a father to you. If you have pain, I feel that pain. If you have problems, they are my problems.”
“Thank you, Uncle—”
“And because we are a family, we trust each other. We do not go outside the family. I know you understand what I am saying. You are a smart girl. Now, work hard on this film, and make us all proud.”
Shabana salaamed again prettily, and Ruksana followed her back up the hill. As soon as they entered the tent, Shabana slumped into her chair and stared at the mirror.
“Oh God, my makeup is ruined. That man gives me the creeps. What was all that about? Family? They say that the Don was an animal, worse than an animal, a rabid dog.”
Ruksana felt a sudden rush of victory when she saw that her sister’s composure had been disrupted, but before she could say anything, a voice came from the tent flap.
“A rabid dog? My uncle won’t like hearing that. He doesn’t mind being called a chutiya, a gandu, a maderchod. But a dog? He hates that.”
Shabana jerked around. The Don’s nephew, Lateef, stood smiling smugly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his blue tracksuit.
Ruksana moved forward protectively. “Listen, get out of the dressing room. You have no right to be here. I’m Shabana’s manager, I’ll tell S.K.—”
“And what? That faggot is down there right now, kissing my uncle’s arse.” Lateef moved closer, loose limbed and suddenly confident. “We just welcomed you into our family, and you call my uncle a rabid dog. Tsk, tsk.”
Ruksana changed her strategy, making her voice soft and placating. “Now, Lateef, she didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it at all. A simple slip of the tongue—”
“You’re her sister?” The youth stared at Ruksana, now without sunglasses, her head uncovered. “The two of you look—”
“Never mind me. You need to leave, please.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Ruksana. But everybody calls me Ruki.”
“Ruki, huh? Well, Ruki, if your sister didn’t mean it, we can kiss and make up. After all, we are family now. What is a kiss between a brother and a sister?” Lateef jiggled his hands in his pockets. “One kiss, and all is forgotten.”
Ruksana glanced back at Shabana, who quivered with fear.
“Or I could talk to my uncle, right now. He listens to me, you know, he does.”
“Okay, okay.” Ruksana turned to her sister. “How about it? One kiss, and he’s gone, right?” She looked at Lateef. “And don’t mess her makeup.”
“No.” Shabana jerked backward. “I won’t. I won’t.”
“Shut up. Just do it.”
The boy stepped closer, and Shabana flinched, then offered her cheek. Lateef leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. Then he stepped back, a pleased look on his face.
“Well, sister. That wasn’t so bad, was it? See, I don’t bite. I’ll be seeing you.” He turned and sauntered out of the tent.
Shabana leaned forward and spat onto the floor. “Oh my God. I’m so humiliated. Ruki, I can’t believe you let him—”
“Maybe you should have kept your big mouth shut.”
“Cheee.” Shabana spat violently, her whole body shaking. “I want to die. I want to die right now.”
Ruksana could feel the scar on her cheek begin to throb again. “Sister, you talk too easily about dying. What do you know about death?”
“Get out of my sight.” Shabana’s face was red now. “Go.” She reached up and pulled out a strand of hair.
“Don’t start with all that pulling nonsense. We don’t have time to do another weave.”
“Leave me alone! Go away!”
Just then S.K. walked in and saw Shabana’s reddened face, spit dripping down her chin.
“What the hell is going on? What happened?”
Ruksana shrugged. “Nothing. Shabana wants to die, that’s all.”
Chapter Ten
Are Mohan’s friends at Club Izizzi?
Ranjit leans against the frosted glass bar, rows of backlit glass bottles shining behind him. He looks around again, sipping from the vodka and tonic he’s been nursing for the past half an hour. It’s almost eleven, but the large dance floor is empty, and only a few couples sit on the U-shaped white banquettes at the edges of the room. No sign of a group of Indians.
He managed to sleep for a few hours, but he’s still exhausted, and the vodka isn’t helping. He wants to ask the dreadlocked barman what time things get busy here, but that will involve shouting above the thumping bass music. Instead he sips his vodka and watches the flickering projections that fill one high wall. They follow the logic of some forgotten dream: the lips of a Japanese geisha nibble at a red cherry, a flight of birds rises above a ruined temple, a tiger’s sinewy body is barely glimpsed, sliding through a thicket of tropical bamboo.
So this is where Mohan liked to come on his night off, to unwind and become something more than a doorman. Ranjit can imagine him here, amongst the dreamlike projections and the house music, his lemon-yellow shirt unbuttoned to his navel, his hair slicked back with gel.
Hanging out here with his friends, did Mohan pretend to be unattached and chat up other girls? The cops said that he and Shabana had been lovers for quite a while, but Ranjit has a hard time imagining it: sure, Mohan is good with waitresses and shop girls, but what would a famous actress see in this hick from small-town Haryana?
He imagines Mohan having her apartment cleaned, emptying out her refrigerator, bringing back her dry cleaning. And apparently, in return, Shabana had let him occasionally spend the night, using him to fulfill her needs. Or has Ranjit got this all wrong? Was theirs a love that transcended money and class? Did they eat and laugh together in that kitchen, re-creating some earlier, simpler world?
Whatever their relationship was, it has ended horribly: Shabana, dead, sprawled out like a rag doll, her face gone, her hair spread around her in a black, lustrous fan.
Raising his glass, Ranjit takes a swig of vodka.
The club has begun to slowly fill up with people, some heading for the bar, others sprawling on the banquettes. Ranjit sips his vodka, watching the men, some in tight T-shirts, others in untucked plaid shirts, boots and lumberjack beards, the latest downtown look. The women wear tiny dresses that show plenty of cleavage and a few coy tattoos, their shiny, long hair falling to their shoulders. He knows that in a few hours, this crowd will have lost their luster and will be out there hailing cabs. The lucky ones will snag a partner, while others will go home alone, puking all over some unlucky cabbie’s backseat.
The bass music rises to an oceanic roar. Waitresses appear, silver buckets of champagne held high in one hand, lit sparklers in the other. People move onto the glass floor, dancing in stuttering, fractured gestures, jerking their necks around like parakeets.
A girl alone at the bar is pushed down toward Ranjit by the new crowd. She is very short, with an afro of curly black hair, the spaghetti straps of her tan dress revealing smooth brown shoulders. She must be twenty or twenty-one, and there is something catlike about her upturned nose, small mouth, and perfectly arched eyebrows. Most incongruously, her eyes are a deep sea green. In another few years, she could be overweight, but right now she is as perfectly rounded as a ripe peach.
Clinking an empty glass onto the bar, she orders a fresh drink. “A sidewinder, please.”
Despite her height—five one, maybe—she has the small woman’s gift for sexual projection, her dress stretched tight over muscular thighs, her stilettos adding at least four inches to her height.
She g
lances at Ranjit and smiles abstractedly, and he smiles back, both attracted to her and appalled by his attraction. He wonders for a second if this is Leela. No, it can’t be. Mohan said that she was Indian, and this girl looks Hispanic, or Brazilian.
The dreadlocked bartender hands her a tall drink, smiling ingratiatingly. “Here you go. Have I seen you here before?”
Without answering, she sips her drink and wrinkles up her pretty nose.
“Yo. I asked for a sidewinder. What’s this?”
“It’s a sidewinder.”
“No, it isn’t. You need to use fresh tea.”
The bartender’s smile is frozen as he takes away her drink. Ranjit turns toward her. “Your drink has tea in it?”
“Supposed to have vodka, cinnamon, and fresh-brewed tea. Not some Lipton’s crap.”
“I agree. I hate tea bags.”
“Most people don’t know the difference, but I’m picky. No Lipton’s for me, I like a good Darjeeling.”
He is surprised at her humorous, matter-of-fact tone. Most good-looking girls in Manhattan are cold and distant. “I’ve been looking for a good cup of tea in this city, but I haven’t found—”
“Hey, Lenore! What are you doing in this place? You look great.”
A tall, Italian-looking man is walking up to the woman, his eyes widening in exaggerated surprise. His thinning hair is brushed straight back, and he wears a tailored seersucker suit. The girl turns toward him, and the man leans in as they start a conversation.
Ranjit feels a stab of disappointment, then shrugs. Despite his new clothes—a peaked black turban to match his new black embroidered shirt, dark trousers, and ankle-high boots—he feels like a fish out of water.
This is a waste of time. No one is coming. Finishing his drink, he heads to the restroom, and on his way out, he looks at the bar one last time.
The man in the seersucker suit is leaning into the woman, his arm around her bare, brown shoulders. He says something, and she shakes her head in disagreement. When he leans in to kiss her on the lips she jerks her head away, crushed up against the bar by his weight.
Ranjit is just drunk enough to do what he does next. He crosses over to them in a few long strides, a big, cheesy smile on his face.
“Hey,” he says to the woman. “Where have you been, honey? Been looking all over for you.”
The man turns, sees Ranjit’s turban and beard, and seems confused, but the woman catches on immediately.
“Oh, there you are,” she says, smiling, and moving away from the man. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Ranjit ducks past the man and stands beside her. “Is this a friend of yours?”
“Business acquaintance. He was just leaving. Right, Joey?”
The man smiles uncertainly, then smooths back his thinning hair with both hands. “Yeah, well,” he growls, “I’ll see you at the club, baby.”
He walks away to a banquette across the room where two tall Russian women instantly make a fuss over him, ruffling his hair and playfully pulling at his lapels.
“Thanks.” The girl smooths down her tan dress, and Ranjit tries not to stare at her. “Usually I can handle them, but this creep was really pushy.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m Ranjit Singh, by the way.”
The girl stares up at him, her small lips parted in surprise. Across the room, the projection on the wall changes to a sumptuous sunset, tinting her face orange.
“You’re Ranjit?”
“Yes.” Confusion clouds his brain. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Leela. Leela Rampersad, Mohan’s friend. We were supposed to meet here.”
“You’re Leela? But I thought you were…”
“Indian? Well, I am. Half, anyway. I’m Guyanese: my mom’s black, my dad’s Indian.” She gestures at her tight, curly black hair. “It always throws people off. Mohan didn’t tell you what I looked like?”
Ranjit feels his face redden. “No. And I guess he didn’t tell you that I’m a Sikh?”
“He just said that you were tall, which you are. Trust him to leave out the key details.” They both laugh, and she continues, “Where are all the others, do you know? Mohan’s always late, but the rest are usually at the bar…”
How could she not have heard? The murder has been all over the news.
Leela glances at the tall Italian man across the room, and there is a spark of fear in her eyes. This may not be the best time to tell her about it.
“Hey, would you like to get out of here?”
She puckers her small lips and nods. “This place isn’t fun anymore. All these Wall Street creeps. I’ll just freshen up and meet you outside, okay?”
He watches her walk away, head held high. The projection of the tiger is back on the wall, and she vanishes against it. The tiger slithers between the stalks of bamboo, headed for some unknown destination.
The tall Italian man had called Leela “Lenore.” Ranjit registers the fact, then shrugs. People in this city lead complicated lives.
Walking outside, he passes the long, drunken line to get into Izizzi. There are clusters of single men and women, already flirting with each other and swaying to the faint thump of music.
Standing under a streetlight, he breathes in the hot night air. The Meatpacking District used to reek of congealed blood and diesel, but now smells of perfume and the rich odor of grilling steaks. A few meat wholesalers still survive here, but most of the brick warehouses have been turned into trendy bars and restaurants. On a Friday night, it will be hard to find a quiet place where he can talk to Leela.
Just then she emerges from the club, walking quickly. In the sodium vapor light from the streetlight he can see how short she is, clattering over the cobblestones in her high stilettos.
“Would you like to go for a drink?” He suddenly remembers a quiet place. “There’s a good bar at the Hotel Gansevoort, a block from here.”
She shakes her head. “That’s very nice of you, but I think I’m going to call it a night. I’m really tired, I probably shouldn’t have come out tonight.” She extends a small hand with manicured pink nails. “Maybe we can do this some other time? And maybe Mohan will actually show up, too.”
So she definitely hasn’t heard about the murder; he has to stall her departure. “Mohan told me you’re a nanny. Working with kids must be exhausting.”
“Uh-huh. A four-year-old boy. He’s sweet, but sometimes he’s a handful. Well, good night. I’ll just get a cab.”
“Look, why don’t I drop you? I’m driving.” Ranjit had asked Ali Khan to sign out a cab for him.
“I live all the way in Richmond Hill. Little Guyana. Probably out of your way.”
He takes a step closer and smiles. “I’m in Jackson Heights. It’ll be no problem for me to swing over. Really. You look beat.”
She hesitates, swaying a little in her high heels. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m parked over there, by the West Side Highway.”
She shrugs, a pretty little gesture. “Okay, I guess. Thanks.”
As they walk toward the river, her heel catches suddenly in the cobblestones, and she trips. He catches her upper arm, holding her up, and for a second her soft, warm body brushes against his.
“Whoops, thanks.” She smiles embarrassedly, he lets go of her arm, and she picks her way carefully down the street. When they reach the parked cab, he walks around to unlock the driver’s door, but she just stares at him with her sea-green eyes.
“This is your car?”
“Yes.” It is his turn to be embarrassed. “Didn’t Mohan tell you? I drive a cab.”
“He said you owned an import-export business.”
“Close. I work as a security guard at an import place.”
She chuckles. “He’s such a bullshit artist. And all this while I thought you were some uptight, rich business guy.”
“That I’m not. Welcome to my chariot.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, she leans forward and examines his hack lic
ense.
“What a terrible picture. You look like a terrorist.”
“I assure you, I’m also not a terrorist. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’ll reserve judgment till I see how you drive.”
She smiles at him, and there is a flash of a different, relaxed person. Turning the key in the ignition, they drive down Horatio Street. The windows are down, and he can smell the musty odor of the river, and something else. He has caught a whiff of it from time to time, when a young couple gets into his cab, starry eyed and in love.
Despite everything that has gone terribly wrong, he smells, with this girl beside him, the warm, human scent of possibility.
Chapter Eleven
They work their way across the island, and even though his medallion light is unlit, people try to flag him down. Each time this happens, he says, “Morons,” and Leela laughs, but otherwise she seems content to sit in silence.
They take the Midtown Tunnel and head east on the Long Island Expressway, and Ranjit is suddenly at a loss for words.
As they pass the Calvary Cemetery she stares out of the window at the thicket of tombstones, crowding right up to the highway. The streetlights play across her composed, catlike face, lighting it and erasing it. She’s just a kid, he tells himself again. Find out whatever you can, drop her home, forget about it.
They are reaching Flushing when he finally speaks.
“So, you know Mohan well? You guys get together often?”
“He’s a nice guy.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Not like the other guys.” She points into the darkness at the tall, abandoned observation towers in Flushing Meadows. “Those are so weird. Like flying saucers.”
“Yeah, I think they’re from the World’s Fair. From 1964.”
“Oh.” She lapses into silence, and he realizes that for her, the sixties are ancient history.
He tries again. “And you know Mohan from the Dakota?”
“Hmmm.”
“Must be a tough place to work, huh? All those super-rich people?”
That seems to work. She sits up a little straighter.
