Imaginary Men

by Anjali Banerjee

  She slams her teacup down on the saucer and glares at her parents. “I’m not moving to India. You said I would move?”

  Her mother winces.

  Her father’s expression doesn’t change. “Uma, you’re adept, if you put your mind to it.”

  “I’m not cleaning some guy’s house because he’s too lazy to clean up after himself. I live here. I grew up here. Why would I want to fly back and live in some backward place where people don’t even use toilet paper?”

  I stare at Uma. She could be my alter ego.

  Mrs. Dewan gives us an apologetic look. “You see why I believe she’ll do well in India? She needs discipline.”

  The blood drains from my face. How could Donna have misjudged this girl? She doesn’t belong with Dev.

  Raja stands. “Thank you for your time.”

  We scramble to our feet.

  “That’s all?” Mr. Dewan says. “When will she meet your brother?”

  “I hope never.” Uma bites her lip and shifts from foot to foot. Either she’s impatient to leave, or she has to go to the bathroom.

  “We’ll be in touch.” Raja takes Uma’s hand and kisses the back of it in his usual smooth gesture. The parents follow us to the door and wave as we walk down the street, then they disappear into their darkened home.

  An unexplainable melancholy wafts through me as I look back at the house, now bland and unreadable behind its closed curtains. Have Uma’s parents lost her? Why does she still live at home? I can imagine the verbal abuse she rains on them, and how they take it because she’s the only family they have here.

  Raja stops next to the Lexus, but doesn’t get in.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m sorry about Uma. She wasn’t anything like her profile. Sometimes American-born Indians reject their heritage. It’s hard not to. The pressures are all around you. Kids leave home early. They’re legally independent at eighteen. I bet her friends all have jobs and apartments—”

  “This does not excuse the way she spoke to her elders. Her poor mother, pining for her family. Can her daughter not see her pain? Ah well, sometimes people are not who we think they are.” He offers his arm. “Shall we walk? The day is young.”

  Here we are, in the middle of the avenues. We’ve just met a strange young woman who isn’t who I thought she was. Mr. Sen wasn’t who I thought he was, and neither is Prince Raja Prasad. He’s offering his arm and asking me to walk.

  “Where will we go?” I gaze at drab lawns struggling up between driveways, the houses so dark and still, it’s hard to believe anyone lives in them.

  “I thought we might try the beach.”

  Twenty-four

  Ocean Beach is a wide strip of golden sand imprinted with the tire tracks of off-road vehicles. A couple walks in the distance with a dog that zigzags along the water’s edge. Gulls soar overhead, and whitecaps churn in a dance against the hazy sky.

  Raja takes off his shoes and socks, tucks the socks into the shoes, and carries them. I follow suit. The sand squishes between my toes, and I dig my feet in as I rush to keep up with his strides.

  “I’ve been out here so many times, but I’ve never walked on this beach,” I say.

  “We often miss what’s right in front of us.”

  It sounds like a quote from some book, but it’s true. I examine his profile, the breeze pushing back his hair, the lines of his face rugged against the foggy sky. I want to ask how he got the scar.

  We wade in ankle-deep water, white foam rushing over our feet. He steps over a charred driftwood log floating soggy in the surf. My feet are going numb, so I move up to the dry sand.

  “You intrigue me.” He gazes at me as if I’m a new species of starfish. “You live alone. You’re unmarried.”

  “Lots of single women live perfectly normal lives here in America.” My ears heat up. My face is probably already red and scoured by the wind.

  “Is your life perfectly normal? Or perhaps your life is too normal. You forget to walk on beaches.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “And you’re cold. Come on, let’s run.” He breaks into a smooth trot, and I follow, running and running until we both collapse, gasping for breath.

  Raja sits in the sand and squints out to sea. “This coast reminds me of Puri.”

  “I’ve been there once. On the Bay of Bengal. My family stayed there when I was a kid.”

  “We have a vacation home there, a house with steps right down to the beach. I go there to think, to listen to the sea. The beach stretches for miles, and the sand is white and hot.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “You must come. You’re welcome to stay at our home.”

  “Wow—are you serious? Thanks. I’m honored.” I’m tongue-tied. Why does a prince want me to visit his vacation home? Maybe it’s customary to invite everybody. Horror—maybe he doesn’t expect me to accept the invitation. “I couldn’t, though. I mean, it’s expensive to fly to India, and I’m not sure I can take more time off. You know—”

  “You’ll love the ocean there. I remember when I was a boy lying in bed beneath the mosquito net and listening to the surf.”

  “It’s nice to have a place to go. When things get crazy, I mean.”

  “I watch the fishermen take to sea in their wooden canoes. Somehow, they manage to ride the rogue waves, but it’s a dangerous business. They often drown. I swim there anyway. Do you ever swim?”

  “In southern California. Not here. It’s too cold, and there are riptides—”

  “I thought you liked swimming out far.” He leaps to his feet, grabs my hand, and yanks me toward the water.

  “What are you doing? You’re crazy!”

  “It’ll wake you up.” He heads straight for the sea, grabs me around the waist, and lifts me easily in his arms as he wades into the surf, the freezing spray, and then we both go down. I come up gasping. He dunks me again, and I’m shivering.

  “I’m wide awake now,” I gasp, my soaked clothes clinging to my skin.

  He rides a shallow wave. “You only live once!”

  “We’ll get hypothermia! What if the current pulls us out? There’s no lifeguard.” But I flop on my belly, teeth chattering, and bodysurf in. He takes my hand again. I feel like Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity.

  The water warms around me, and then euphoria washes over me, or maybe I’m drowning. That must be it. I hear you experience euphoria right before losing consciousness. I float for a minute, hyper-aware of the sea. “Do you think there might be sharks too?”

  “If there are, we’ll ride with them.” I feel his powerful arms around my thighs, drawing me under. Someone’s screaming, then I realize it’s me. I’m screaming with laughter, and then he throws me in the air again, and I hit the water with a great splash. Not that I’m heavy or anything.

  When Raja stands, I see the muscular outline of his body beneath his clothes, and I realize how much bigger he is than me, and a thrill rushes through me, and then I realize that if I can see his whole body, he must be able to see mine too. Too late to duck.

  His gaze sweeps from my knees to my head, and I dip beneath the water, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He grabs my arm. “Your lips are blue. Let’s get out.”

  We run back to the car, our clothes slapping our bodies, our ankles covered in sand. We’re sea creatures trying to shuffle along on land.

  “I should go home and change clothes,” I say.

  Raja puts his hand over mine. “Come to my hotel. It’s closer. They have laundry service.”

  Twenty-five

  At the Hilton, Raja ushers me into the bedroom, says he’ll be right back, and disappears into the separate living room, complete with wet bar and fireplace.

  I stand shivering, clasping my hands in front of me, my clothes dripping on the carpet. Okay, breathe. It’s just a hotel room in pale blue, with no hint at Raja’s inner self except the faint scent of his spicy, exotic aftershave.

  I can’t help glancing sidelong at the bed. Kin
g-sized hotel mattress covered with a shiny blue bedspread. What did I expect? An Indian brass bed with elephant-head knobs and a silk canopy? A harem of scantily clad women waving massive palm frond fans, waiting for their master to return?

  I try not to picture Raja Prasad sleeping in the bed. Does he lie on his side or sprawled on his back? Does he snore? Does he even sleep? Maybe he has wild sex every night with a different woman. If so, what kind of women? Does he think I’m going be one of them? Maybe, but right now my teeth chatter and my lips are numb. Some women like cold. Ice cubes and all that. I prefer warmth to hypothermia.

  There’s a book on the nightstand, and a tumbler on a coaster with what looks like a shot of whisky in the bottom of the glass. I imagine his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he gulps the whisky. He’ll wince as the sharp alcohol burns his throat. Sexy.

  My teeth chatter, and my fingers are numb. He’s rooting around in the entryway closet. What’s he doing in there? I focus on the book: India: An Area of Darkness. There’s a closed suitcase on an armchair, a laptop computer on a desk. A suit jacket hangs over the armchair.

  “Please, have a shower,” Raja says behind me, making me jump. He hands me a folded white robe. “You’ll find clean towels in the bathroom.” He points.

  “What about you?”

  “There’s another bathroom.”

  Another one? Of course. I rush into the bathroom, lock the door, and peel off my clothes. Goose bumps cover my body. I can’t stop shaking, but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I’m smiling and my eyes shine. Am I feverish? Maybe I’m catching pneumonia.

  I glance into the tile shower. Two showerheads. Come in here with me, Raja. Keep me warm, I’m thinking, but he’s not going to hop into the shower with some Americanized pretend-Indian woman who resembles seaweed. I don’t live with my parents. I rarely follow their advice. I can’t wear virgin white at my wedding, but then, nobody wears white at Indian weddings. In India, white is the color of mourning.

  I spend way too long beneath the delicious heat of the shower. I use the sandalwood soap and shave my legs with Raja’s razor. I lather Mysore shampoo into my hair until I smell like a giant coconut. I imagine Raja naked in the other bathroom. Is he showering in there? Does he have extra soap, razors, and shampoo? Is he thinking of me naked in here? Does he wish he could be in here with me? I nearly drive myself crazy fantasizing, and then I realize my imaginary man is absent again.

  When I emerge from the shower, I feel I’ve shared a new intimacy with Raja Prasad. Today I’ve seen an impulsive side of him. He dragged me into freezing surf, then walked waterlogged through the Hilton lobby. He didn’t care that people stared, that we left puddles in our wake. Strange for a man obsessed with appearances.

  I battle my reflection in the mirror, tell myself I’m here to get dry and warm, but I can’t help noticing his Sonicare toothbrush, a match to mine.

  “Are you all right?” he says outside the door. “Do you need another robe?”

  “No. Thanks! I’m just coming out.” I throw on the robe, tie the sash. The robe goes down to my ankles and the sleeves flop over my hands. Call me Shirley Temple in men’s clothing.

  He’s whistling a Hindi tune in the living room, where I find a fake fire crackling in the hearth. He’s wearing jeans and a gray turtleneck sweater, and I could swear he belongs in the Indian version of the L. L. Bean catalog.

  “Your clothes are in the laundry,” he says. “Would you like to borrow mine?”

  I go back to the bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans that nearly fall off my waist, tie them with a belt and roll the bottoms up several times, then pull on a T-shirt that falls past my knees, tuck it in, and tug a thick black woolen sweater over it. I’m ready to walk the runway at a celebrity fashion show. The Woman Swimming in Raja Prasad’s clothes.

  When I return to the living area, Raja grins, amusement in his eyes. He hands me a glass of sherry. “To warm you up. Sit.” He points to the plush couch, and I curl up on it, happy to feel the heat of the fake fire on my skin.

  I sip the sherry and savor the liquid rushing down my throat.

  He sits beside me. “If Dev is to meet Kali, it must be soon. I’m traveling again next Saturday.”

  My heart drops, then plummets through the earth, and I scold it for being so fickle, for leaving behind my imaginary man tonight. I need my phantom fiancé, because I can’t fall for Raja. He’s nearly engaged. We rolled through the surf together, nothing more.

  He drapes an arm over my shoulders. My heartbeat picks up. I’m aware of his size, his strength. But of course, he’s leaving. Just as men always leave. Just as Nathu left. Okay, Nathu died, but that’s a form of leaving.

  I cross my arms over my chest and babble about anything and everything. Stupid things, like the way waxed dental floss leaves a residue on your teeth, so you should use unwaxed floss. He lets me talk, watches my lips move.

  “I don’t want to leave,” he says, leaning close. The heat rises from his skin. I reach for my imaginary man, but he falls off a cliff and disappears.

  Twenty-six

  The next morning I’m in yoga class, stuck in the downward-facing dog position. The blood rushes to my head. Inhale, exhale. Six A.M. is too early for exercise.

  “It’s all about the breathing,” the instructor says over the monotonous drone of meditative music. She’s a rubber-bodied brunette who twists herself into a variety of pretzel shapes to make us all envious.

  “So Raja took you to his suite?” Donna whispers beside me. “Tell, tell.”

  “I’ve never known a guy who would swim in Ocean Beach with all the riptides! Maybe he has a death wish.”

  “He loves life. He’s spontaneous,” Donna says.

  “Or he had a momentary lapse of common sense.”

  “A lapse that extends to washing your clothes and offering you sherry?”

  “You’re right. He was romantic. And he runs orphanages to help little girls. I don’t get it. He’s so proper. He dresses in expensive, tailored suits and wants everything perfect. He wants the perfect wife for his brother, and probably for himself too. But there’s a caring, wild man underneath all that propriety.”

  At the instructor’s command, we step forward and rise into mountain stance.

  “Sounds like a dream man to me. So you had caring, wild sex?” Donna whispers.

  “Ha! I wish we had. He let slip a small fact. He’s practically engaged.”

  We all lunge forward into warrior pose, front leg bent at the knee, back leg extended.

  “What does that mean? Engagements are reversible. You have to get the scoop from him.”

  “It’s none of my business. It was wrong of me to go to his hotel room.”

  “Oh, wrong of you! Now you have a conscience? You went anyway. For a reason. There’s always a reason.”

  “I got caught up in his—”

  “—to-die-for good looks and charm? That’d be enough for me.”

  As we unwind through the relaxation poses, I imagine Raja Prasad as a wild man in Puri, at his home by the sea. I picture him jumping into the wooden boats and floating out with the fishermen. Does he perform religious ablutions in the morning? Does he chant his prayers? Does he brush his teeth three times a day?

  After class, in the gym shower, I close my eyes and juxtapose his image against every guy I’ve dated. Dr. Dilip Dutta, Patrick Malloy, Pramit Lall. They shrink into tiny hobbits, and Raja grows into King Aragorn, handsome and noble.

  I towel off and dress in jeans and a sweater. There has to be a comparable man. I had fun taking windsurfing lessons with a freckled sailor. We laughed and hiked and dined together, until I discovered he was laughing and hiking and dining with two other women, one Korean, one African-American. His Rainbow Coalition.

  Raja would never do such a thing. He’s loyal to his mother, his brother, his life in India. He’ll be loyal to his wife, too.

  Back at my apartment, I’m alone and restless. I forsake my usual cup of te
a and make coffee instead. Why not take a risk, go out on a limb? The hot liquid tastes bitter, so I douse it with sugar and the organic milk that Harry left behind.

  I sit at the breakfast nook to read the newspaper, but I stare out the window instead, at the Chinese women, their long hair pulled back into shiny, black buns, strolling up the sidewalk, carrying bags of produce home from Chinatown shops. Then a knock comes on the door.

  My heartbeat races. Oh, God, oh, God, it’s him. No, it must be a solicitor. But there’s a big sign downstairs: NO SOLICITORS. It’s Kali, Donna, Harry.

  On the way to the door, I nearly kill myself with anticipation. I glance at my reflection in the hall mirror. I look like an Indian Medusa. I run my fingers through my hair.

  Another knock.

  “Coming, coming!” I peer through the peephole. Oh, God, again. Raja stands in the hallway clad in black turtleneck and jeans.

  He looks rested, his hair neat.

  I step back to get my bearings. Breathe in, breathe out. He was a dream, but now he’s not, or maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe this is a dream within a dream within a dream. Where’s my imaginary man when I need him?

  I open the door. “Raja! I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “I’ll be just a minute.”

  “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  I pull on my shoes, my heart racing. It’s been a long time since I felt this way. Flustered. I’m downstairs in record time.

  “You look beautiful,” he says.

  Warmth travels up through my insides and radiates along my limbs. He’s attracted to me. Me, the Indian-American woman with frizzy hair. A silly smile spreads across my face. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

  He nods, as if women say this to him every day. Then we’re out on the street, walking together as if we’ve always walked this way. The Chinese women smile as they pass, their arms laden with bags of bok choi and bamboo shoots.

  My heart beats fast, and the colors of morning seem brighter. I’m filled with well-being. Our strides fit together perfectly. He doesn’t walk too fast for me today.