And then the pain returned—the pain she thought she had long ago moved beyond. She told herself that she wasn’t giving him up yet. Sujata would have to fight hard, but that almost didn’t matter, for in due course Aloka would win. “Please he sure to call Thakurma tonight. A short call to say you’re well is probably all she needs to hear.” With that she turned to go.
“She’s such a dear,” Pranab called after her. “Yes, of course I’ll call her. Wait just a second and I’ll walk you to the gate.”
They started walking. In the lull she took in his new Adidas and how his chest heaved as he sighed. “Now that it’s getting close to going home,” he said, “I’m beginning to wonder. What will I find there, what is still left?”
“Remember what we used to say. The mountains will always be there. They’re our oldest relatives.”
He grew silent, and when he replied it was in a tone of wistful admiration. “You managed to bring the mountains’ blessings with you, rather than seek refuge in their memory. You opened up and gave yourself to this place. You’ve adjusted so well here. My years here, on the other hand, have been a waste. I never could let go of the old ways. I remained what I was instead of being what I could be, and for that I’ve paid a heavy price … .”
They’d arrived at the park entrance. She stepped to one side to let a woman with a baby stroller pass through. Pranab continued to repeat the same tired refrain: He’d sold his time in New York for paychecks, he’d lost his spark, he was diminished.
She suppressed a spark of irritation and instead replied, not unsympathetically, “But don’t we all pay a price when we uproot?”
“I used to think so, but it always seemed so easy for you, as if the old ways didn’t really matter.”
The irritation returned, this time stronger, but she merely smiled indulgently. She refused to allow him to turn this encounter into an argument. “I’ve flown out of my nest, that’s true, but Darjeeling is still there, deep inside me. It’s in my heartbeat. How can you be so sure I’ve forsaken the old ways? Let’s continue this discussion after we get there.”
He stood there. Lost in introspection so deep that it seemed to cloud his eyeglasses, he didn’t respond or look at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the Chi Gung practitioner as he folded his palms toward the already shadowing sky, drawing the last rays of light to him.
She said her farewell, but Pranab just waved at her. She strode toward the subway station with a distinctly unsettled feeling.
twenty-nine
“Shopping must be your calling,” Suzy said to Eva as they left Eaton Centre, one of Victoria’s largest shopping malls. “Do you realize I’ve bought all the presents in one afternoon? Had I come alone, I’d have needed two more days.”
A pink windbreaker, puffy as a parachute, augmented Eva’s beaming face.
Then it occurred to Suzy that she’d forgotten to buy a present for Pranab. When they were lovers, she knew Pranab’s tastes. He preferred gifts that were intensely personal, like the fine cotton handkerchief she’d embroidered herself and given to him secretly. He’d carried it in his breast pocket everywhere. He’d developed the habit of touching his breast pocket often.
As Suzy carefully stowed four full shopping bags in the trunk of her car, a primrose-yellow fabric shone through a rip in the paper. A dress for Aloka. In spite of all that had come between them, including this morning’s wretched phone call, Suzy still needed her sister’s approval. This dress would surely please Aloka. Suzy imagined the gift-giving session: Aloka rushing to a full-length mirror and pressing the silver-belted dress against her body as she did in her teen days. A bit of wistfulness would fleck her eyes, even as she delighted in her own exquisite image.
Now Eva asked, “Doesn’t your sister wear saris anymore?”
“According to Grandma, no. Aloka says, ‘It just isn’t New York.’ At home in Darjeeling she wore nothing but saris, even though salwar-kameez was very much in fashion.”
As she transferred the dress to another shopping bag, Suzy got a whiff of chocolate from the russet box of Victoria Creams. Only the best for Grandma, this hand-wrapped Roger’s chocolate, the city’s finest. Even though the woman was missing a few teeth, she had managed to hang on to her sweet tooth. Her trembling fingers would hesitate at the gold ribbons. She would open the box, take a bite of a chocolate, and utter, “Bhalo.” Good. She would impart much meaning to that one word.
Suzy had selected gifts for other relatives just as carefully. The Polaroid camera was for Aunt Toru, who at any gathering preferred to be behind the lens capturing the antics of others. Then there were T-shirts, watches, clocks, and fountain pens for uncles and aunts and their offspring, and a giant floor puzzle for a young cousin who had been a drooling one-year-old when she left Darjeeling. He’d be nine now. Would he hug her? Or would he feel shy and fly away? She would know soon.
She drove toward Sooke Road. When Celeste Restaurant’s neon sign came into view, she pushed aside her conjectures and eased the car into a side parking lot. Suzy and Eva walked through the restaurant door and a familiar voice greeted Suzy exuberantly.
“Welcome, sister!”
Ashraf, the Moroccan owner and milk-free tea drinker, stood there. He was nattily attired in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt. A confident smile creased his neatly trimmed bearded face. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
Suzy made the necessary introductions. As Eva and Ashraf discussed the boon of the recent pleasant weather, Suzy found herself at the threshold of an elegant beige dining area trimmed in gleaming metal and offset by plush blue carpeting with a moon-and-stars motif. It was contemporary, rather than conventional Moroccan decor. Yes, her tea belonged here, in this pleasant ambiance.
A faint bouquet of hazelnut oil, basil, and some unknown ingredients hung in the air as they settled at their reserved table. Suzy’s hand brushed the velvet trim of the tablecloth. It was smooth as a bird’s plumage. She peered up at the starry pattern cast on the ceiling by the chandelier, then back to the room. The subdued lighting, the wealth of space between tables, and quiet music were conducive to intimate conversation.
The waiter leaned over them and handed out outsized menus, elaborately bound in leather and edged with gold embroidery.
“This is really an elegant celebration before you go home,” Eva said. “If there’s anything I can do while you’re away …”
“Your support means a lot, Eva. Who else could I have talked to about Pranab?”
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
“Eight years.”
“Almost like my story. Ten years ago, I divorced my husband. He was a stereotypical Russian: drunk, long-faced, irresistible … . Now, listen to my foolishness. There was always this wild attraction between us, even though he’d been unfaithful to me more than once while we were married. In the last ten years, we’ve tried to get back together three times, but it has never worked. Time and absence warp all bonds. At any rate, I’m finally over it, I think. Old lovers are clothes that no longer fit.”
“Believe it or not, my clothing size hasn’t changed in eight years.”
Suzy believed that this time things would work with Pranab and, despite Aloka’s interference, the same spark would return between them. Pranab’s neat script, his choice of stationery, and his words of yearning were the proof that he still loved Suzy. It must have been his choice to get a divorce. What would it be like to meet him again? She mapped it out now: She’d sit on a boulder by Senchal Lake and wait for him, listening to the birds, her hair heated by the concentrated rays, watching the hilltops try on a new veil of light. Pranab would sprint down the hill and approach her. Two pairs of thirsty eyes, an anticipation disturbing the air, eventually broken by a whisper or a cry, a key moment dissolving into a deep realization.
Suzy looked up to see Ashraf hovering attentively. “The menu is just for browsing,” he announced. “Your dinner is being specially prepared by my chef. He has read about you i
n Coffee and Tea Journal and is very excited to have you pay us a visit. My customers can’t seem to get enough of your tea, especially your Darjeeling blend. It’s our good fortune that you’re in this town, teaching us proper tea customs. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Eva dipped a thin round of lentil cake into the green cilantro sauce. “Did you call Mreenal Bose?”
“Not yet. Grandma sent him here to see me, so I’m in no hurry.”
“I called him.” Eva’s lips curled into a smile. The pungent sauce? The subject? “I was just checking him out for you.”
“Are you interested in him, Eva?”
“His answering machine said he wouldn’t be back in Seattle till January first.”
“Oh, well. I’ll call him next year, then. Plenty of time.”
“Just remember, Suze, ripe persimmons don’t hang on a tree forever. I can really say that because I’ve botched up something recently myself.”
“You, Eva, botched up something? You surprise me.”
“It was an encounter of the losing kind. It still hurts a little, but I can finally talk about it. A couple of weeks ago I was invited to a party hosted by a friend, who’s a dressmaker. I didn’t want to go, because I’d had a long day, but you know me. Do the right thing, keep up the appearances, et cetera. When I walked into the party, I saw a man standing in one corner smoking a cigarette—a Russian. With my experience, I can spot Russians a kilometer away. He turned and our eyes locked. Just then the hostess came over and introduced me to him. Mikhail. He bowed as he shook my hand. I liked the way he carried himself. He turned out to be a furrier.”
“Is that why you were staring at a fur coat in a shop window this afternoon?”
“I love fur, but own only a pair of fur gloves that you’ve seen me wear. Mikhail told me an interesting story about how he got interested in furs. He used to wait in a long line in Moscow to get his turn to take a shower. People passed books and magazines back and forth. One day he got a book on the Russian fur trade. He read the whole book standing there and missed his shower, but he was hooked.” Eva took a breath, then continued with, “Mikhail seemed so genuine, so interesting, that pretty soon I was laughing and joking with him and had forgotten everyone else at the party. We talked for over an hour. Then I started to get that old, familiar feeling and I froze up. Eva, this is dumb, I told myself. You have to get out of here. And so I did. But I sure regretted it when I got home. I wanted to be with him so bad. The next day, much to my surprise, he showed up at my shop. He put down my fur gloves on the counter and said that after I left. he’d found ‘a pair of gloves unattended.’”
“Oh, how poetic. Did you get that feeling again? Did you go out with him?”
“I was petrified, not because of anything he did. I was just afraid of getting hurt again. We chatted for a while, then he gave me his phone number and asked me to give him a buzz when I was free, and went away. The same day the hostess called. She asked me what I thought of Mikhail. ‘Oh, I suppose he’s okay,’ I said. She laughed. ‘I knew you two would find each other interesting.’ Still I hesitated to call Mikhail. It’s so hard to trust again. Then my ex-husband flew in from Toronto on business. We met for lunch in Chinatown and spent three hours together. How he can talk and turn on the charm, even now. I forgot that he had cheated on me. He distracted me so much that even after he left I put off calling Mikhail for another couple of days. On the afternoon I was going to call him, I spotted him near the Parliament building. He was holding hands with a petite blonde.”
“You missed an opportunity,” Suzy said after a while. “Cheer up. There’ll be plenty more.”
“What bugs me is I didn’t act soon enough. I was divorced at thirty-four. At my age—I’m going to be forty-four—I don’t meet very many men who excite me. The Chinese way is to be married and have children early in life. My relatives still use the word ‘spinster.’ I feel so odd these days. It’s like I’ve crossed a bridge and left the land of courtship behind. When I look back, the desire is there, the heart is ready to spring, but my mind is like a stalled commuter car. It blurts out excuses, and it won’t budge.”
Aloka’s face flashed before Suzy. Aloka, at forty, was in the same age group as Eva; Aloka, who had been in love with Pranab for ten years, would have difficulty getting over him this late in life. Might Aloka hesitate with a new, exciting man and walk away from him, only to regret it later?
“Enough of my woes. Tell me what your grandma is up to.” Eva reached for the platter of sautéed snow peas.
“Grandma is remarkably modern and normally wouldn’t force anyone on me,” Suzy said. “But at her age, she might think that she doesn’t have much time left. The last thing I want is to hurt her feelings. Make that the next-to-the-last thing. The last thing I want is to end up in an arranged marriage to some traditional guy who expects his wife to cook his meals, bow to his every wish, and produce babies.”
She paused as Ashraf reappeared. He must have overheard the last part of her conversation.
“Sit down with us,” Eva said to Ashraf lightly. “You might have some advice for Suzy.”
It was clear that Ashraf had been waiting for the invitation, for he pulled up a chair and nodded in wise man fashion. Then, turning to Suzy, he said, “I’m sure your family is looking very hard to find a suitable match for you.”
Suzy sipped from her tall, frosted glass of Evian; it tasted appropriately chilly. “I can find my own husband.”
A mischievous smile flickered on Ashraf’s lips. “Parents have their ways.”
“That sounds like the voice of experience,” Eva said.
“Let me tell you my story,” Ashraf said. “I went home after thirteen years. The first couple of days were splendid. My father and I bantered back and forth, and as usual, he didn’t miss a thing about me. He saw streaks of gray in my beard and no gray hair on my head and said, ‘My dear boy, you talk too much and think too little.’ While my father showed me around, my mother got busy cooking. Then, one evening when I got home, I noticed that the living room was full of young women. At first I wondered where all these pretty things came from. Had my district changed all that much? Little did I know they had been gathered from all over the city.”
“Doesn’t seem like you objected too much.” Eva apparently was trying to get him to the point.
“The beauties fawned over me. ‘Oh, Ashraf, you’re so smart. You speak English so perfectly. Your beard has so much character.’ All except one, a tiny thing with a thunderbolt of energy, who was walking in and out of the room constantly. I ignored her and noticed her at the same time. At one point, when the other stars were stuffing their plates with appetizers, she slid next to me on the couch and whispered, ‘You know, Ashraf, I’m not interested in you. I came here only out of curiosity to meet someone who lived in Canada. Now that I’ve watched you for a couple of hours, I don’t think you’re any different from the men here. I’m going home.’ She got up with great dignity and walked to the door.”
“Smart, that one was,” Eva said.
“At first I was deflated.” Ashraf slouched, as though reliving the rejection. “Then I burst out laughing. Finally I stopped laughing and rushed to catch up with her. What’s the hurry?’ I asked her. ‘The lamb hasn’t been served yet.’
“She returned and sat down with me again, looking like an empress before her subject with a petition, while the other women whispered among themselves about us. I didn’t care. I grabbed every bit of charm I had in my system and told her stories of my travels through Canada. When that did nothing to perk her up, I sang the Canadian national anthem, which was silly on my part because I couldn’t hold a tune. Then I realized my father was right. I was trying to talk my way into this instead of thinking and planning my next action. I had to be much more clever. So Igot up. ‘Look,’ I told her, ‘I’ll show you a dance they do in Canada.’ And I started to tap-dance. ‘All around Victoria in the evening, they don’t walk the sidewalks, they tap.’ To be sure, it was a bit o
f an exaggeration, but fortunately I was a tap master. When she rose, I took her hand and demonstrated the steps. She picked them up rather quickly. From there we went on to do a folk dance we both had learned as children. Our hands clapping, we walked forward and backward. When at last both our feet clicked on the floor in unison, I said to her, ‘I hope I haven’t bored you too much.’ Her eyes became brighter than pearl dust. ‘Oh, no, Ashraf, I’m exhausted, but this is so much fun.’ That was a most memorable night and a learning experience for me, as well. I learned the secret to a woman’s heart. Get her exhausted. That, by the way, is also the secret to a man’s heart.”
“What happened to her?” Eva asked.
“We got married. The marriage lasted only a year.”
Was this a true story, a man’s fantasy? Why did it matter? Ashraf was trying to steer Suzy away from prearranged matrimony.
“The stage was set for you, Ashraf,” Eva said. “You walked in and became a hero.”
“That’s the eternal tug between men and women,” Ashraf said. “Who gets to be the lead on the stage. I always get a kick out of it.”
“I don’t,” Eva said. “I tend to lose.”
“As for me,” Suzy said, “I’m not one for ‘arranged meetings.’”
“E-mail us, Suze, with the details, will you?”
“We’ll be sure to e-mail you back right away,” Ashraf said. “Won’t we, Eva?”
“Thanks, guys.” Suzy pushed her plate away. “You two love experts have given me a lot to think about. And I’ll need you both before this is over with.”
An interlude like this was proving to be just the thing to fortify her for the journey ahead. This dinner had opened up a more candid way of relating with her friends, and though she would be leaving them soon and was experiencing a twinge of pain at the prospect, she derived some security from their nurturing.
Darjeeling Page 20
