by Hari Kunzru
‘I mean – don’t you want to put a note in with it?’
‘Oh,’ he sniffed uncertainly. A note. Right. A note.’
What to say to Gaby? Please don’t leave me. I have medium-term plans for us up to and including marriage and babies? He wasn’t even certain that was what was on her mind, but, having spent several hours on the plane turning over the details of their phone conversation, there seemed to be no other possibility. That phrase. We need to talk. No one used it in any other context. She would have to choose now, when he had so much else on. The PEBA pitch was tomorrow morning. He had to fly to Brussels tonight. There was simply no time to do relationships right now.
It was an eloquent necklace. It was intended to speak for itself. But Kika was right – there should also be words. He took a compliments slip from a drawer and wrote in large marker-pen letters:
It seemed to have the right tone. Attention grabbing. Challenging, if there was another man in the picture. Why did she have to have a job where she met actors? They were such bastards.
Kika looked at the note. She looked back at Guy.
‘Julia’s resigned,’ she said. ‘The letter’s on your desk. I think there’s one from Yuri too. Oh, and Yves Ballard called.’
‘Fine,’ said Guy. ‘No problem. No problemo.’
An hour later he came down, newly fortified, to address the Village Council. The workplace-as-rural-community paradigm had always appealed to him, and, though these office meetings were naturally weighted towards his own role as Headman (he spoke, his employees listened), he felt they gave a democratic flavour to Tomorrow* which was surely good for cohesion.
The workforce had assembled promptly in the brainstorm zone. Guy scanned the rows of young faces, the bodies whose fashionably casual clothing shaded into informal businesswear as one passed from creative to financial personnel. He felt proud, elevated. There were people from several ethnic minorities. There was, if you counted Carrie’s leg, a disabled person. It was a microcosm of society. His society.
‘Hi, everybody. Settle down please. So, I know there’s been a certain amount of uncertainty lately. We’ve all been putting our shoulders to the wheel, and we’re just moving into the time-frame when we’re really going to start seeing some results. I’ve just come back from what I feel is a really defining meeting in Dubai, where, in a way, I saw everything that traditional old-economy businesses are doing wrong. Total linear thinking, no perspective on the time-energy landscape whatsoever. But although we won’t be working with Al-Rahman’ – here there were audible groans – ‘I’d like everyone to give themselves a big round of applause. We’ve all worked very hard, so come on, give yourselves a hand.’
Looking at each other glumly, the employees of Tomorrow* clapped.
‘Well done. That’s right. You know, guys, I’ve come back from Dubai feeling more certain of our goals than ever. The meeting there, and this very backward herd-mentality company’s failure to mesh with our philosophy, was a total vindication of what we’re doing. Like I always say, we’re not a company, we’re a visionary network, and with that in mind I’d like to take this opportunity to announce a new programme. As you know, what we do best is imagineer the future for our clients, but it’s time for us to turn our skills inward and look at our own future. Call it the tomorrow of Tomorrow*. We’ve been very outer-directed and now it’s time for us to cherish our in-house experience. So as of today we’re going to clear the decks and embark on the project of creatively visualizing our own hopes and dreams. We’re making ourselves the client, if you will. I’d like each of you to ask yourself what do I want to be tomorrow? How about in a year’s time? How about five years? And where will we be? That’s an important one. Should Tomorrow* retain its physical location in east London, or is it time perhaps to take off in a metaphorical spacecraft? Should we, for example, build temporary architectural structures for each project? Or scatter in survival podules around the world? How do we become more like ourselves? Can we learn to shoot our creative essence further and with greater force? These are all questions we need to address, and now is the time to address them. As some of you know, I’m going to fly to Brussels tonight to make the PEBA pitch. I think the work we’ve all put in on that one speaks for itself. So I’ll be doing PEBA and while I’m away I want you to think about the tomorrow of Tomorrow*. In two days’ time I’ll facilitate a meeting in which we’ll assign working groups to the best of the ideas that arise from this process. OK, thanks everyone, that’s all.’
It was, in many ways, a brilliant speech. A re-energizing speech. He felt he had hit them right between the eyes, turning employee doubt into new opportunity. There were a good number of responses, though not all as positive as he would have liked. Paul, the finance director, wanted to know if he was certain he wanted to direct all company resources towards the tomorrow of tomorrow project. The new senior designer asked whether it meant they had no client work. This was of course true, but Guy told him sternly that prioritizing creativity had always been company policy, and if he wanted to work for an outfit which didn’t value blue-sky thinking, he should look elsewhere. That shut him up.
With things back on track at the office, it was time for the hardest part of his plan. He went back up to his creative space and set the phone directly in front of him on the desk.
Eurobastard. It wasn’t big or clever, but it was the only nickname he had ever found for Yves. Guy had become very involved with Europe, both as an idea and as the place where his funding came from. Transcendenta had its offices in Amsterdam, in a seventeenth-century townhouse overlooking the Herengracht. Guy had visited frequently since they agreed to back him, and he was, if he was honest, a little in awe of Yves and his partners, a Dutchman, a Belgian and a very beautiful Spanish woman called Inés who always seemed to be away when he came to town. There was an air of calm about them as they moved through their world of blond wood and oriental rugs, a calm stemming from proficiency in several languages, control over the disbursement of large sums of money and trust in the social importance of their work. At first, during the period when they left him more or less alone to run Tomorrow*, Guy viewed this calm as a sign of wisdom and consequently bracketed ‘Europe’ with ‘Japan’ as a geographical subdivision of the future, an exciting land of the imagination where tomorrow was happening today Lately, as the climate had soured and some of his plans (the newswire, the relationship with the German car manufacturer) failed to materialize, Transcendenta had shown an increasing tendency to interfere. Their own finances were, the rumour went, far from secure. Calm had turned to coldness. He had been dodging Yves’s phone calls for months.
Now it was vital to mollify him. After Al-Rahman it would not be an easy call.
On the plane home from Dubai, Guy had finally accepted that perhaps he could do without the in-house video production team. The coolhunters could probably go too – they just seemed to spend all their time in Brick Lane photographing people’s haircuts. But even with radical surgery there was a possibility that Transcendenta might not wish to continue funding. There had been a board meeting in Amsterdam. Yves claimed to have faced stiff opposition when arguing Tomorrow*’s case.
Against all this there was PEBA. The contract was potentially huge. It offered the opportunity to brand the entire combined European customs and immigration regime. Logos, uniforms, the presentation of a whole continent’s border police. If he secured that business, everything else – Al-Rahman, Pharmaklyne – would instantly go away.
Just as long as they didn’t cut the credit line.
He was gearing himself up to face Yves when the phone in front of him rang. He put down his credit card, moved the framed Mr Pink photograph to one side and answered. It was Kika. Yves was on the other line.
‘You must be psychic,’ said Guy, trying to inject his voice with warmth and enthusiasm. ‘I was about to call you.’
‘Really?’ said Yves.
‘I just wanted to talk to you about PEBA. We’re feeling really
psyched up about it here.’
‘That’s great, Guy. I’d expect nothing less. I wanted to talk to you about that too. I have good news.’
‘What?’ He thought he might have misheard. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. I’m going to come to Brussels. I’ve pulled a few strings and organized a dinner tonight. Just a small thing, but I think it will help our case.’
Our case, thought Guy. Our case?
‘The two of us, plus Director Becker, the Director-Designate of PEBA and the Chair of the SIS Liaison Committee. Everyone very much likes what they hear, and these people want to meet you before the formal pitch tomorrow.’
Guy was genuinely shaken. ‘Yves, that’s amazing. That’s – that’s wonderful! So they’re really on side, then?’
‘On side? Oh, yes, on side. They are very enthusiastic, yes. Monika Becker the most, I think. She is very big on presentation issues.’
Yves gave him the details of the meeting and warned him to leave plenty of time for the journey. There were travel disruptions all across Europe. Guy, still not quite believing the turn the conversation had taken, told him with genuine feeling that he was looking forward to seeing him. He put the phone down and punched the air.
Gabriella lay on her stomach on the bed, listening to Rajiv Rana dressing. As he pulled up his trousers, he muttered to himself in Hindi, his belt buckle clattering as he fastened it. She did not turn over to watch him. At the door he stopped and said, in the tone of someone leaving a business meeting, ‘No doubt I will see you in the morning.’ She did not reply.
She lay still for a long time. Then, feeling cold, she crawled under the covers. She must have slept because when she next opened her eyes the alarm clock read 1:08 a.m., and the noise from the bar had stopped. She switched off the bedside light and rolled on to her side. Out in the corridor there was a muffled thump and the sound of people arguing. She could not hear what they were saying, but had the idea one of them was Rajiv.
Under her window a woman laughed. She thought about Rajiv and Guy and other men, things they had said or given to her, things they had wanted her to do. So many exchanges. Such complexity. Tomorrow she would ring her office and tell them she was coming back. It would be a waste of time for her to stay
In the morning she cleared her things off the bathroom shelf, packed her case and went down to the dining room, where she took a table on her own by the window. She was sawing at a segment of grapefruit when she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the hotel. A minute or two later Vivek rushed in and asked whether anyone had seen Iqbal. Soon crew members were rushing around, making phone calls to each other and generally behaving as if the sky were about to fall on their heads. Leela’s mother had arrived.
Gaby pushed the grapefruit aside and went to reception to take a look at the woman who could cause such panic. The small curio-cluttered space was crowded with people, so the first thing she saw was the luggage, a six-foot Vuitton pyramid whose base was an enormous steamer trunk and pinnacle a tiny vanity case. Its owner was in her fifties, quite tall, and had probably once been beautiful, but surgery had pulled her face into a taut mask, accessorized with tattooed eyebrows and an incongruous retroussé nose. Her long black hair was streaked with red, and she was dressed, as far as Gaby could see, as a teenage drag queen, in shiny snakeskin-effect jeans and a tiny t-shirt with the word Angel picked out in sequins across the front. As she received Iqbal’s fulsome salaams, she smiled theatrically The effect was vampiric, debauched.
To everyone’s astonishment, just as Iqbal was embarking on a pompous speech of welcome, Leela Zahir came scampering down the stairs.
‘Ma!’
It was a great entrance. Dressed in an electric-blue salwar-kameez, she was virtually unrecognizable as the despondent chain-smoker whom Gaby had seen wandering by the lake. This morning she looked like a film star, all hair and chiffon and perfect understated beauty At first the crew appeared stunned, uncertain, but, as their heroine rushed into her mother’s arms, they erupted into spontaneous applause. They would be able to start work again! The film would be completed!
Gaby watched the two women perform their reunion for the crowd, Iqbal rubbing his hands, Rocky Prasad and his DP hugging like schoolboys whose team just scored the winning run. Leela was clinging to her mother’s neck, nuzzling her like a child.
‘Ma, you look so tired. Was it a dreadful journey?’
‘Beti, I can’t even tell you.’ Mrs Zahir raised her voice a little, so everyone was included. She stroked Leela’s cheek, her unnaturally smooth face registering a certain strained intensity which might have been the remains of a tender expression. ‘Things are terrible. Even in first class it is terrible. Arré! When you make a complaint all they will say is so sorry this is down, that and the other is down. Shocking how we all rely on these computers. Really.’
‘Oh, Mummy.’
‘But you have been ill. They have been phoning me with tales about biting insects, losing voice, all sorts.’
‘I was feeling so sick, Mummy But when I heard you were coming I got much better. I will be able to shoot now you are here.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘Madam, I too am rejoicing,’ said Iqbal, rolling his eyes and holding up his palms to the heavens.
‘Iqbal-saab, could you do something about these bags?’
‘Of course, of course.’
Rajiv Rana sauntered downstairs, wearing tight jeans and a denim shirt, unbuttoned to display his depilated chest.
‘Ah, didi! You are a healer! It’s miraculous what an effect your presence has on the young.’
He embraced Mrs Zahir like an old friend, making no eye contact with Gaby, who watched with distaste as the other woman simpered, brushing his collar with her fingers. It occurred to her that perhaps they had been lovers. The idea disgusted her.
‘Rajiv-bhai,’ purred Mrs Zahir, ‘you look as good as ever.’
He laughed expansively. ‘Now that you are here, Faiza, we will be able to work.’
‘That’s excellent news for all concerned. Now perhaps someone will show me to my room?’
Mrs Zahir decided she was displeased by the hotel. Its location was remote. The bellboys who were making faces at one another as they struggled upstairs with her cases were neither handsome nor well groomed. Even the clutter of memorabilia failed to charm her, but then old-fashioned things rarely did.
Her room, with its uneven boards and floral wallpaper, was barely habitable. There was a large wooden-framed bed and old pictures of men in skirts and hairy cows and such like on the walls. More dusty nonsense. A friend had recently recommended a Vastu practitioner to her, a good-looking Hindu boy who also worked as an astrologer. He was American-educated, bang up to date, and had recently been matching her biorhythms to the rhythms of the universe, one by one. It was very soothing. She decided to phone him for advice. Perhaps the room should be cleared for the duration of her stay Perhaps even painted.
Annoyingly Mr Vastu was not answering his phone. So Mrs Zahir changed out of her travel clothes and ordered some tea. Outside, engines were revving as cars and vans ferried the crew round the loch to the castle. Some flunkey knocked on her door to tell her that her daughter was ready to go to the set. She sent a message that she would follow on later. She needed to lie down and compose herself. She needed to think.
The little bitch was up to something, she was sure of it.
The journey had been gruelling. Air-traffic control at Mumbai had melted down and the backlog of flights trying to leave had caused immense delays, even after the airport reopened. Amazing to think all of it was because of Leela. At first this whole computer tamasha had looked like a disaster, but the more she found out about it, the more she came to see it as an opportunity. Leela had been a household name in India for some years. Now her face would be known all over the world. Mrs Zahir had always harboured ambitions of cross-over. Her daughter had pale skin, a skinny body. No desi bignose or ghee-fed fatness to the
girl. It was an international look. This virus business could turn out to be the perfect springboard.
Then Iqbal had phoned saying she was ill. And after Iqbal, Rajiv. For Rajiv to call! Faiza knew the situation must be serious. On the phone he had sounded worried. He said he did not believe there was anything wrong, just that for whatever reason she did not want to work. When Faiza spoke to her, she had sounded ill enough, telling stories of cold draughts and stomach aches. Faiza decided to be soothing. No sense in pressurizing her without knowing the cause. She was, after all, the key to everything. Only when Leela started to work seriously was Faiza able to sever ties with Zahir. The ape knew his only hold on them was his money. Without it the two of them had no other income but Leela’s acting. It was a situation that needed to be handled with care.
When Rajiv phoned back, Faiza counselled caution, but she agreed that this was not the time for the girl to be making trouble. When Baby Aziz had money in a picture, the time for trouble was never. Waiting for her travel agent to call back with fares, Faiza regretted letting Leela go away alone. It was an experiment she would not be repeating.
At the start of Leela’s career, Faiza had never left her side. Though she had given up her own ambitions to marry Zahir, she had kept in touch with the industry. She was not, she told the magazines, the kind of mother to live vicariously through her daughter. It was simply that, having been in the business herself, she was aware of the opportunities. Leela had talent just bursting to get out. To stunt its growth would be criminal. So she had overseen every photo shoot and interview, had chosen Leela’s clothes, her activities and her friends, spending day after day on baking-hot sets and night after night at parties and launches, showing her around, pestering producers and directors to give her a break.
Of course the child did not appreciate her work. In private she would cry, ask why she had to do the things her mother told her. She did not want to talk to all these old men. She did not want to wear such tight blouses, such filmy saris. It was an uphill struggle. What other daughter cried at being taken away from her school-books to go to a party?
