by Katy Gardner
“Cool.”
“Of course I’d have been happy with a beach and my book,” Gemma was saying slowly. “But that’s what Esther wanted to do and it’s Esther’s gig.” She busied herself with the pipe, turning her face away so that I couldn’t see her expression. “Like most other things,” she added quietly.
“Do you know what,” said Coral reaching out to touch her hand. “I think it’s going to be your gig, too.”
It must have been the lack of sleep or the heat or the effect of the dope, but suddenly I wanted to scream. To stop this from happening I sucked at my lips and jumped up.
“I’m going for a walk,” I said. “I need to get some air.”
ONCE outside I took a deep breath and turned in the direction of the main road. I walked fast, my body rigid. My face felt tight and puckered; my thumbnails were digging so hard into my palms that it hurt. I kept splashing into the scummy puddles that lay across the lane, but I was so consumed by annoyance and humiliation and hurt that I hardly noticed. How could Gemma have embarrassed me like that in front of Coral? Even she, with all her inexperience, must have known how stupid the Pir Nirulla plan made me look, especially the way she put it. And if she found my ideas so risible, why did she agree to them?
I turned abruptly onto the main road, registering a row of scooter rickshaws waiting in front of a line of shops. It was typical Gemma behavior, I was thinking. Rather than say what she really thought, she pretended to go along with me, then made nasty little digs which implied I’d pushed her into it. She’d never face things full on. Every time we came close to having a fight she’d shy away, like a reluctant gymkhana pony at a gate, eyes fixed to the ground as she cantered resolutely in the opposite direction. Then later, it would all come out, in the most complicated, twisted ways. For me it was so different: fighting was as natural and untraumatic as breathing, my temper extinguished as quickly as it flared. It was like that for everyone in my family: people spoke their minds and then moved on. We were noisy, rumbustious, always shouting and disagreeing and debating.
I crossed the road and started to stomp toward the rickshaws. Perhaps that was the problem: Gemma’s house was always too quiet. Her parents had never argued, or if they did it was furtively, behind closed doors. I walked more quickly, suddenly swamped with guilt at the thought of her horrible, unhappy family. I shouldn’t get so annoyed with her, I told myself. I should be patient and kind, keep my emotions controlled. After all, life had always been so much easier for me; it was only fair.
The door slammed with wall-juddering force. Gemma stared at it, but said nothing. For a second or so she assumed Esther would reappear, her face contrite—as usually happened after she lost her temper. Then she heard the crash of the door downstairs and realized she’d gone. On the floor in front of her a small gecko was scuttling toward her hand.
The dope was stronger than the stuff she was used to. Her thoughts were drifting, time speeding and slowing in a way that she liked. The gecko reached her little finger, and started to nibble it.
“What did you mean?” she said after what seemed like a long, vacant gap. “About it being my gig, too?”
THIS time I was not going to wait in line. I walked purposefully toward the booth marked “First Class and VIPs.” The clerk sitting inside was young, with a dapper mustache and an open-necked, floral shirt. Staring beseechingly into his eyes, I bit my lip.
“Please, I was hoping you could help.”
“Madam?”
“I’m in a terrible fix. I have to travel with my small daughter to Orissa on the next train, which I’ve been told is full. My husband is meeting us at the other end, and I really don’t know what to do.”
“A passage for Monday is possible . . .”
“No, no. That’s almost a week away. That won’t do at all.”
I gazed at his mouth, then looked away. Considering the pledge I’d taken last term to the aims and solutions of the University’s Radical Feminism Group it was somewhat disturbing how naturally this came to me.
“You see, I don’t have an . . . appropriate place to stay here. I’ve never traveled alone before so I really am forced to throw myself into your hands.”
My voice was sounding clipped and high, like a nice English gal in a 1950s film.
“Surely there must be a spare ticket, a cancellation, or something?”
The young man looked into my face and swallowed so heavily that I could see his Adam’s apple slipping up and down.
“One moment, madam.”
Five minutes later he returned with two first-class tickets for Orissa. The train left the next morning.
7
Gemma lay on her bed, staring up at the sky. She had been dreaming fragmented, angry dreams of her mother and had woken with a start to find herself alone. In the leafy green light filtering through the balcony’s railings she could see her backpack, sandals, and the battered pages of Middlemarch splayed facedown on the floor.
She was too hot. She kicked off the sheet that Coral must have spread over her as she slept and stretched out her legs. After Esther had gone they’d talked for hours; as she remembered the things Coral had told her she started to smile. It was good that Esther had stormed off like that. Things were always better without her.
It must have been getting late, for the sky had turned golden and the air had a hazy quality she hadn’t noticed before. From the floor below, she could smell onions frying. She placed her hands on the warm cement of the balcony and peered over. If only she could breathe properly, but the air was so hot. She was still itching, too. Glancing down she saw that the rash had spread up her arms and was now encroaching the soft skin between her breasts. She scratched her neck, then reached inside her damp bra, her fingers scrabbling at her sticky skin.
“Just let it happen,” she whispered. “Just go with the flow.”
Above the sprawling urban landscape the sun was about to set. In the few minutes that she’d been standing on the balcony the sky had burst into spectacular color. Over the rooftops a thin smudge of smoke was rising, the sunset smearing it with the appearance of flames. Just looking at it filled her with fear and excitement for the changes about to come. It was so vivid, so bright, almost too much.
“Hello!”
She jumped, and looked round. Facing her on the other side of the muddy lane was a half-built block of flats, steel rods rising from its concrete roof like antennae. As she gazed across to the flat roof opposite she noticed a young woman standing watching her, her hands on her hips. She was wearing a bright pink sari, a shiny yellow blouse, and, tucked behind her ear, a huge white flower. Long black hair swung down her back. She must have been hanging out the laundry, for arranged on a line behind her was a brightly patterned stretch of cloth.
Tentatively, Gemma attempted a smile. The woman paused, unsure, then suddenly grinned. Still staring into Gemma’s face she jerked her head enquiringly, then almost seemed to wink. There was a tiny gap between her teeth, her diamond nose-pin glinting in the light.
As they smiled at each other Gemma felt the tightness within her loosen. Her heart lifted a little and as it did the softest shimmer of a breeze shifted her hair around her face. Something about the way her new acquaintance was standing, with such graceful ease and humor, made her want to laugh.
“Namaste!” she shouted. “How’s it going?”
The woman spluttered, her features collapsing into laughter. For a second or so she covered her face with the end of her sari, her body shaking with repressed hilarity. Then, composing herself, she turned back to face Gemma. Fixing her with her eyes, she slowly pulled her arms up over her head. Gemma could see dark patches of sweat under her arms and the outline of ribs escaping from her blouse. She seemed to be fiddling with her hair. For a moment Gemma was confused. Then she saw that the woman had plucked another fat flower from the back of her head. Still smiling, she walked to the edge of the building.
“Apnar jonno!” she cried, and threw it high in the air.
The flower traveled about halfway between the buildings then fell sharply, bound only for the ditch. But then suddenly, as if caught by the angels, it rose on a gust of hot air and Gemma was leaning far out over the balcony and plucking it from the breeze.
It was a lily, heavy with scent, its white-flecked flesh brushing her fingers with silvery pollen. Gemma held it in her hands, gazing at it. It was a sign, she thought; a message from the gods.
AFTER getting the tickets I caught another rickshaw to the Victoria Memorial, and sat for a while on the worn grass of the Maidan looking across at the guano-splattered old queen. I felt much better, now that I was out and about and organizing, my anger at Gemma a dim memory. As the day progressed I convinced myself that she hadn’t meant to hurt or humiliate me. I should be more patient, I remembered. It was her first proper trip away; she was bound to feel nervous. And she’d always been haunted by fears that I couldn’t understand and she didn’t choose to communicate. Even when we were kids she had a tendency to be elusive, sliding artfully away from questions which she didn’t like; more recently I sometimes suspected her of deliberately withholding information. But it didn’t really matter. She hadn’t meant to upset me, I told myself; it was just a simple disagreement over an abstract idea. And it was kind of Coral to let us stay with her. In fact it was a shame we couldn’t stay for longer, but I was sure Gemma would understand why it was best not to wait another whole week for the train.
After the Maidan I browsed in the shops, then bought myself some chapatis and dhal in a restaurant around the corner. I was soon joined by a portly gentleman who told me his brother had a house in Ealing and his son was studying engineering in York. I chatted with him for a while, then headed back. It was lucky Coral had mentioned the name of the park, I thought as I climbed into another rickshaw. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue how to get back to the flat; I’d be completely lost.
I arrived back at the apartment block about forty minutes later, so grimy from the pollution that my nails were black and my eyes stung. I paid the scooter driver and picked my way across the garbage-strewn road. It was dusk now and the pavement was alive with people. If Gemma and I had fallen out I had only myself to blame I thought as I reached the entrance of the apartment building. I was being irritable and intolerant; I should try to be a better friend. After all, why should I expect her to be as adaptable as me?
I decided to jog up the stairs rather than take the creaky elevator to the seventh floor. It was an invigorating climb; on each floor barred windows revealed a panoramic view of the twinkling city. When I reached the top I paused to catch my breath. Then composing myself, I turned to the door. I didn’t have a key, I suddenly realized.
To my relief, the door was ajar. Pushing it open I quietly stepped inside the flat. Despite the soft light drifting from the balcony the room was almost dark. For a moment or so I stood disorientated by the door, trying to locate the electricity switch. Then suddenly, from out of the gloom, I heard a quiet voice.
“It’s like, a blessing? . . .”
Something about the intonation of the words was deeply familiar. My fingers groped over the wall. There was a long pause and then the voice said: “The way I see it, there’s a reason for everything.”
It was Coral. And, I realized with relief, I’d found the light switch. I flicked it on, composing my face as I looked across the room. The light flickered uncertainly, casting a sick yellow light over the room. Suddenly I noticed Coral sitting in the corner, her hand still clutching the phone.
“Gotta go,” she said, glancing up at me and smiling. There was another short pause, then she put the receiver down.
We looked across the room at each other. She had changed into loose cotton trousers and a bright pink cropped top which showed off her flat stomach and, just above the line of the trousers, a tattoo of a phoenix, rising from indigo flames. It looked great, I thought with a rush of admiration and envy; how come I didn’t have a tattoo?
“Hi,” she said. “Been anywhere nice?”
“Oh you know, just around about the place—exploring the city.”
“And?”
I walked across the room, flopping down onto a cushion beside her.
“It’s fab. Filthy though. Even my bra’s turned gray.”
She smiled and nodded at me with her unreadable eyes. In the glare of the bare electric bulb she seemed older again, her eyes and mouth etched with fine, spidery lines which I hadn’t noticed before. She kept shifting and changing, I thought, her age and identity impossible to pin down.
“Listen,” I carried on. “It’s really great of you to let us stay here tonight. You’ve been a total star, what with saving our bacon on the train and everything.”
She shrugged. “It’s all part of the service.”
“So what have you been doing?”
“Ah, you know, just hanging out. I’ve done so much heavy duty stuff lately it’s good to just sit and let it all settle for a bit. Y’know?”
I wasn’t sure that I did. I nodded noncommittally. There was a pause.
“Look,” I said slowly. “I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I was being a real jerk.”
“No worries. It’s history.”
“Was Gemma upset?”
She put her hands around her knees, hugging them close to her chest. “Don’t think so. You guys just have to sort whatever it is that’s bothering you both, that’s all.”
I blinked at her, my throat constricting. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s something going on, isn’t there?” She stared at me. “The way you are together,” she said. “I mean, even I can see it.”
I breathed in sharply. The way she was looking at me was making me feel increasingly queasy.
“There’s nothing going on,” I heard myself say tightly. “We’re just knackered, and Gem’s not used to being in the heat, that’s all. We’re best friends. We always have been.”
Coral gazed at me coolly. I had no idea what she was thinking.
“She’s been telling me all about how you guys have known each other since kindergarten and how you always hang out everywhere together and everything?”
“Yes?”
“And, like, how you went off to college and . . .”
I swallowed. Perhaps she was trying to be helpful, but she was making it worse.
“What did she say about me going to university?”
“Ah, you know, nothing much. Just that you always get what you want.”
My cheeks flushed scarlet. I put my hands over them, trying to cool down.
“Yeah, well, she was meant to be our school’s great white hope. Then she fucked up her exams. It’s really hard for her.”
“That’s one way of putting it. I mean what she said was that . . .”
“So anyway,” I said, standing up hastily. “Where is she?”
“She went out.”
“Went out?”
“Slept all afternoon, then said she needed some air.”
“Where did she say she was going?”
“Don’t ask me. She said something about some woman she was going to visit . . .”
“Some woman?”
Coral shrugged again. “I was doing my meditation so I didn’t really take it in.”
I walked slowly across the room to the balcony. From the dusky gloom of the lane below I could see Gemma walking slowly back along the lane. Something about her seemed different, but in the half-light it was hard to work out what. I stepped quickly back into the room.
“I’m going to meet her.”
I stood on the sixth-floor landing, staring down the stairwell. After a few minutes the top of Gemma’s head appeared several floors below.
“Gemma!” I called softly. I could hear the slap of her flip-flops on the stone stairs and her puffy breath. She didn’t reply. Perhaps she was still narked with me, I thought anxiously.
“Gemma!” I called again. “It’s me!”
<
br /> For a moment there was silence, then a woman dressed in a blue-flowered sari with a large white flower behind her ear appeared on the penultimate landing. Her face was pink, her shoulders slightly slumped. She looked up at me almost coyly, then lifted her hand and waved. For a moment I had no idea who she was, then suddenly I realized.
“Jesus Christ! What are you wearing?”
“It’s a sari.”
With one final step, she reached my level.
“Shit, look, it’s coming undone.” Glancing down at the material, she started to fuss at the pleats, tucking them in at the front and smoothing them with her hands. She was wearing a half blouse, too, I noticed, and underneath the sari, a long white petticoat.
“Where did you get it?”
“It was brilliant! I was up on the balcony, feeling really hot and bothered and everything and I met this woman—on the roof . . .”
I stared at her. The sari suited her rounded figure, making her seem voluptuous rather than dumpy. With the flower behind her ear and bulging blouse she looked like a Bengali housewife.
“. . . and she gave me tea in her house, and then for a laugh, I got all togged up in the local gear. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I smiled vaguely. To be honest I was irked that she’d had such an interesting time without me. I brushed the unfamiliar emotion aside.
“Look, Gem,” I said hastily, reaching out and taking her plump white hands. “I wanted to say sorry. I was in a terrible mood this morning and for some stupid reason I got really pissed off by that conversation about sati. I don’t know what got into me. It must be PMS, or something.”
Gemma looked down at the floor.
“That’s okay. You’re just getting hassled by being here and everything. It’s normal.”
I paused. Being hassled by India was not the reason why I’d been annoyed. Could she never take any share of blame? There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then, repressing my urge to have the last word, I shrugged.
