“But isn’t this about your brother and his wife? What if he meets the perfect woman for him, but she doesn’t speak your mother’s language?”
“Then the woman is not appropriate.”
I can’t be attracted to Raja, because his attitude is going to make me throw up. “Okay, Kannada and—”
“She must be educated in the sciences and the arts, interested in world affairs, and she must cook well.”
“A real Renaissance woman, huh?” Two strikes against Kali.
“She must excel in domestic affairs.” Three strikes.
“Housecleaning? Don’t you hire domestic help?”
He blinks, then regains his composure. “She must be willing to run the household.”
Superwoman. “If she’s educated in the arts and sciences, and she’s this amazing scholar, how will she find time for cooking, cleaning, and taking care of a family?”
His lips tighten.
I write furiously, my handwriting messier by the minute.
“She must be capable of bearing children.”
“Aren’t most women?” I look up at him, we lock gazes, and suddenly there’s an embarrassing intimacy between us. I glance at the automatic writing on the page, my cheeks hot.
I feel him watching my hand move across the paper as I write. “And we do not want a woman who was previously married or who already has children. This creates complications.”
“Complications. Of course.” When I clobber him, he’ll have real complications.
“Very well. I shall expect your results in two days.” He stands.
“Wait a minute. I haven’t agreed to do this. What about what the woman wants? What do I tell her? You didn’t fill out a questionnaire. What are Dev’s interests, hobbies, his stats”
“He loves food, wine, reading, movies. Finishing his MBA, as I mentioned. He speaks five languages.”
“Impressive. What does he want to do after college?”
“He’ll join the family business.”
“What if he doesn’t want to?”
“That is not an issue.”
“Maybe he should come in with you next time. Then I can ask him a few questions.”
“Not necessary.” A veil of darkness crosses Raja’s face. He’s about to speak when Donna pops her head in the door. “Lina—” Then she sees Raja Prasad, and her mouth drops open. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You aren’t interrupting.” I shove my chair back, and it tips over. I’m on the floor. Raja stands quickly but gracefully. In two strides he’s beside me, reaching out a hand to help me up. I smooth my hair. “I don’t make a habit of falling over like that.”
“Perhaps the chair needs repair.” Raja gives a pleasant smile.
“Oh, right! The chair. Of course. It’s old and decrepit.” My ears must be on fire.
Donna sidles in, watching Raja Prasad in awe. “Mrs. Mukerjee is coming today—”
“This is Raja Prasad,” I say. “Prince Raja Prasad. We met at my sister’s wedding in Kolkata.”
Raja glances at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Whoops—I wasn’t supposed to know he was a prince. Now he knows I’ve been inquiring about him. He probably pictures me giggling and gossiping with my girlfriends.
Donna shakes Raja’s hand too long. “I’m really, really incredibly happy to meet you. You don’t know how happy—”
“The pleasure is mine.” He’s diplomatic to the molecule.
“Oh, wow.” She sways before withdrawing her hand.
Raja turns to me. “Dinner Friday evening. You can give me your decision then.”
Donna smiles widely.
“If you need to reach me for any reason, I’m staying at the Hilton,” Raja says.
“Fine … the Hilton.” I shuffle the papers around on my desk, and a couple of file folders slip onto the floor. Dinner?
“Seven o’clock? I have a car in the city. Where should I pick you up?” He strides to the door, waits for my answer.
In desperation, I search my mind for excuses. I have a big date with the TV. I have to paint my toenails. Clean my windows. I can’t bring myself to tell him I have a fiancé. I would have to lie, and for some unfathomable reason, I can’t lie to Raja Prasad. He’s a walking truth serum.
“Seven o’clock will be fine,” I hear myself say, and then, to my horror, I give him my address.
After he leaves, Donna deflates in the chair and fans herself with a file. “Whoa, I can still smell his cologne, Lina. The man is hot.”
“He’s not all that.” My heart is still racing. I feel as though I’ve just run a marathon.
“Oh, yes, he is.”
“He makes a lot of assumptions about people. It’s infuriating.”
“Did you tell him about Mr. Phantom?” She nods toward the line of gifts and flowers on my shelves.
“It’s none of his business. Besides, this isn’t a date.”
“Think about why you didn’t tell him, Lina.”
My cheeks heat up again. “I have no interest in Raja Prasad. He’s practically engaged.”
“Then why did you agree to have dinner with him?”
“I told you. It’s business. This is about his brother.”
“Yeah, right. If you don’t want to go, I’ll go. God, I’ll go. What should I wear?”
“It’s just business. He’s traditional. He has no idea what an independent American woman is like.”
“You can show him.”
“Uh-uh. Not me. I may come up with a few prospects for his brother, and that’s it.”
I have to talk to Kali.
Eighteen
Kali drives me to Golden Gate Park for an emergency jog.
“Dev’s brother wants to find him a suitable wife,” she shouts. “I could shoot them both in the pills!”
In the language of Austin Powers, she means a swift kick in the balls.
“So … you spoke to Dev again?”
“Once, for five minutes. He’s still in India, returning to the States next week. It was a bad connection. If only he would meet me again, he’d know. We have chemistry, cross-mojonation.” She picks up the pace. Her banana-yellow shorts and tank top leave no curve to the imagination. Her breasts jiggle with each step.
I’m sticking to a T-shirt and fleece jogging pants. “A cross-cultural relationship might not work out, especially because he’s a prince. And who knows—he could be a chauvinist. You remember the guy I met at Durga’s wedding?”
She nods.
I tell her more about my first meeting with Raja.
“You spoke to Dev’s brother? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Raja’s sexist. Dev probably is too.”
She waves an arm and turns left past the Japanese Tea Garden. “Dev’s a good guy. His family runs two orphanages.”
I try not to show my shock. Orphanages? I remember the scruffy kitten, and I wonder what else I don’t know about Raja Prasad. “Kali, have you told Dev about my engagement?”
She frowns. “It didn’t come up. We didn’t talk for long. I’m sorry, should I have told him?”
Okay, time to take a risk, go for broke. Kali must know the truth. She’s my sister. I share everything with her. I have to come clean. As I talk, weight lifts from my shoulders.
She stops, her chest heaving, hands on her hips. “You made up everything? What about the call from Raja? His stuff all over your apartment?”
I tell her about Harry.
“But Lina, why did you lie?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and then I couldn’t take it back. Everyone’s so happy. Ma, Baba—”
“You’re too much. Auntie Kiki’s coming soon. What will you do?”
“I’ve been trying to find a suitable man.” I tell her about my disastrous dates. “Please don’t tell Dev, or Raja Prasad. Until I figure this out. I do want to find someone, but—”
“They’re bound to find out. What if your suitable man isn’t named Raja?”
“I’ll gracefully inform the family that I’ve broken off my engagement with Raja, and now I have a new fiancé.”
“What about Raja Prasad?” Kali asks. “Do you like him?”
My face heats. “We’re from different worlds. He came to my office and asked me to find Dev a wife.”
“He what ?”
“He wants me to arrange the match.”
“Did you tell him about Dev and me?”
“You haven’t even dated him. Besides, Kali, your relationships pass like tropical storms.”
“Whoa. Tell me what you really think.” She strides past me toward the parking lot. I run after her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. If you really like this Dev, then you should meet him again.”
She stops at her red Toyota Corolla and jabs the key into the lock. “You’ll be introducing him to other women.”
“Don’t you think his brother ought to know about you? If Dev really likes you? Raja says he wants a Renaissance woman who speaks five languages, but who’ll have babies and stay home and care for the family.”
She yanks open the door. I run around to the passenger side and jump in before she drives off without me.
She rests her head on the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t mind all that.”
I sit back. “All what?”
“Maybe I want kids. Dev says he might move back to India after his MBA. Maybe I want to live in India.”
“I didn’t know—”
“I never did that well in school. I can barely speak two words in Bengali.”
I wrap my arms around her. “Neither can I. Look, maybe you don’t speak five languages, but if you and Dev have cross-mojonation, then you ought to meet him again. Go for it.”
She straightens up. “Really?”
“What if I arrange the meeting? Between you and Dev Prasad? Then you could meet Raja as well.”
“Would you really do that?”
“Yes, I’ll do it. If you two are meant to be together, then I’m fulfilling my obligation as a matchmaker.”
Nineteen
On Friday, the phone won’t leave me alone. I send the calls to voice mail. I’m jumpy. By four o’clock, I’m a basket case. I’ve all but forgotten I need to find my own real fiancé.
I have nothing to wear. Prince Raja Prasad is taking me to dinner. Does he expect me to wear a sari? What will I tell him? I’ve decided to take the job, but only if Dev meets Kali, who’s foolishly infatuated with your brother?
I can’t do it.
I think of Raja Prasad’s long eyelashes, his confident manner. His edgy looks. He’s a traditional Indian man who wants a traditional Indian wife.
It’s only business.
I imagine him showing up in full prince regalia, a couple of humble servants unrolling a red carpet as he escorts me into a plush restaurant where his entire extended family waits, his mother pursing her lips in disgust.
Or maybe he’ll take me to some hole-in-the-wall South of Market, just to live as the natives do. I hate this. I can usually control my situation. I can control my fake fiancé, make him appear and disappear. I know what most men want when they step into my office. I assess the way they dress, their mannerisms and mode of speech.
Raja Prasad confounds me. His presence fills the room, making me clumsy and distracted. I drop pens. I trip, spill my tea. On my knees, I use a paper towel to clean up, but the tea is already seeping into the carpet.
Donna comes in, drops a pile of folders on my desk, and kneels to help. “Guess what? You’ll be proud of me. I gave you a little help with Mr. Prince.”
“What do you mean, ‘help’?”
She sits back on her heels. “He called yesterday, after you left. Told me what he wanted, and I spent the whole day doing research.”
“What do you mean? What did you do?” I’m suddenly queasy.
“Look at you. You’re a mess.”
“What did you do?”
“I accepted his offer, of course. For both of us. We’re a team, aren’t we? It’s good money. Twice the fee. I e-mailed him some prospects today.”
“You gave him profiles? Of women?”
“I’m so proud of myself. I worked like a maniac. Raja Prasad will do that to a girl, won’t he?” She winks.
Hair falls in my eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve done!”
“He’s only here for a short time. We have to find a wife for his brother right away.”
“Donna, you should’ve spoken to me first.”
She gives me a knowing look. “I’m handing it over to you now. You have a good time tonight, okay? And keep your cool. Mr. Prince has you flustered.”
“I’m not flustered. I’m never flustered. I’m always perfectly composed.” Splotches of tea stain my white shirt. “It’s my sister, Kali. She met Dev in India. She’s infatuated with him. I promised to set them up on a date, but now—ah, well. It’s not your fault.”
Donna’s mouth forms an O. “I screwed up. I’m sorry …”
I push the hair back from my face. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. I can still set up the meeting.” When I tell him about Kali, he’ll flip. But I have to do this for her.
Donna gets up. “Get going. I’ll take care of things here.”
I try to remember her words as a mantra. Have a good time tonight. What is a good time, exactly, with a man like Raja Prasad?
At home, I purge my closet of its usual suspects. The maroon dress has to go. It makes me resemble a bruised apple. The eighties lime green dress with the linebacker shoulder pads? The miniskirt with white go-go boots? A frilly peasant blouse from my seventies kick? My wardrobe needs a serious makeover. Once again, clothes are strewn on the bed in a pile for the Salvation Army. What if I show up in ripped jeans and a “Bite Me” T-shirt, just to piss off Mr. Chauvinist?
I stare at the red lace teddy. Maybe I should wear nothing but that and high heels. We’ll end up naked in his hotel room. He’ll dim the lights, bring two glasses of champagne to the bedside table, then—
What am I thinking?
I’d better choose a fancy outfit. We must be going to an expensive restaurant. Do I own anything elegant? Perhaps the black cocktail dress that fits with a certain tightness in the hips and rear. Too boring and predictable? If I wear a nice jacket over it and don’t sit down too fast, I should survive the evening without any rips. Screw the stockings.
Good for you. Taking a stand.
“Oh, no, not you again.” I groan, not wanting to imagine my phantom fiancé standing behind me, but his breath caresses my neck.
Are you two-timing me? This seems serious.
“Business dinner.”
Then why don’t you wear a suit?
I’m already struggling to squeeze into the dress. I perform amazing feats of yoga to stretch the fabric over my waist, and then I stop.
“You’re right. A suit. It’s business. Just business!” I yell at myself in the mirror. What if I wear the red lace teddy under the suit? I’ll feel sexy, and Raja will never know.
Are you sure you don’t want him to know?
I squirm out of the dress, put on the teddy beneath a black suit jacket and pants. Snazzy, with a low-cut blouse. My most daring combo, but I still don’t have much cleavage. So what? Do I want Mr. Chauvinist to look at my boobs? I slap my forehead. I don’t care what he looks at. I want his hulking shape, those broad shoulders, perfectly formed biceps, those penetrating eyes, to find me completely unappealing.
But he pursued me across continents. What does that mean, exactly? He’s here for his brother, not me. And I’m here for Kali.
I yank a brush through my frizzy hair. Did he really choose me, or was I merely convenient? I shouldn’t read too much into his decision to look me up. I gave him the name of my company, after all—
The phone rings, and adrenaline rushes through me. I press my hand to my chest. I’m having a heart attack. I pick up the receiver, hold it in midair. What if it’s him, canceling the dinner? I
can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed when my mother’s demanding voice cuts through the line.
“Lina? Where are you? Are you there?”
I picture her standing in the marble foyer, the domed ceiling overhead, sunrays from the skylight falling on her black hair. She’s probably wearing jeans, and she has a cup of tea in her other hand. I don’t know why she doesn’t sit in the kitchen. She always uses the cordless telephone in the hall.
I put the phone to my ear. “Yes, Ma. I can’t talk long. I’m going out.”
“Going out? So Raja has returned from traveling?”
I wince at the sound of Raja’s name. “No, he’s still away. This is a business dinner.”
“What kind of business?”
“What kinds are there, Ma?”
“Why is Raja not back yet? Are you sure you’ve made the right decision?”
“You’ll meet him.” I try to push aside the image of Auntie Kiki pursing her lips. “Please, Ma, I’m in no mood to be interrogated tonight. What do you want?”
“You are so rude to your mother. She calls you to chat, and all you can say is, ‘What does she want?’”
I hate it when she refers to herself in the third person.
“I’m sorry, Ma.” I sit on the bed.
“I’m calling about Baba.” She lowers her voice, which still echoes. My parents live in a sprawling mansion, and still she can’t find privacy. “He’s ill again.”
“Ill with what?”
“You know how his stomach is. We went out for dinner last night, and he came home with the pains.”
“Indigestion, Ma. He always has indigestion.”
“Stomach pains could mean a lot of things, Pupu.”
Oh, no—not that name again. I wish I could stuff the word into a capsule and launch it into space. “If you think it’s something worse, he should see a doctor.”
“Shhh,” she says, as if he can hear me from the second floor. “He is a doctor. He makes the worst patient. He took antacid, and now he’s resting. Perhaps, I’m thinking, he was having another type of pain.”
“What are you talking about? You mean like another ulcer?”
“Psychological pains. He’s all the time worrying about you and Kali. Mainly about you.”
“I’m giving Baba indigestion? I’m not even there, Ma.” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. I want to yank out my hair. How does she always manage to twist the situation to make it my fault?
Imaginary Men Page 8
