by Jerry Pinto
Bertha nods. Augustine is relieved. He’s catching on.
Bertha: You go?
Augustine: I go whenever I am in need of spiritual sustenance.
Louisa would probably have let it go at that. She was a wise woman and she knew that religion was best in small doses. Too much and the boy was no good. There was disquieting evidence in the family itself; their own Cousin Letitia had demonstrated that. Letitia had been the God-fearing woman who went to church every Sunday but she had chosen to live in sin with her Francis. Francis had been willing to marry her in church but it was she who had not wanted marriage. The world knew how often he had asked. The world knew how often they had sex because that was when Letitia would be in the line for confession. The world knew that their first child had been born a bastard. The world knew but did not understand that an atheist-communist-unionist like Francis wanted marriage and a good Catholic girl like Letitia did not. And then they had a son who was a bastard and a son who wasn’t. Very often, Louisa’s aunt Matilde, Letitia’s mother, had said that she would prefer a communist-atheist-unionist like Francis as a child and wondered how her God-fertile womb – a nun and a priest and three angels sent to heaven apart from the five other children – could have borne something as vile and frightening as her last-born with the gentle hands that nursed her in old age and illness. It could get very complicated, this God thing, this love thing.
Bertha knew this too but she did not apply Letitia and her story to their lives. She did not believe in application, so she persisted:
Bertha: How often?
Augustine: Once a year.
Louisa decides that she would have to step in or lose the boy on a technicality.
Louisa: Well, that is between you and your confessor.
Augustine: No, it is between me and God.
On the way home, Louisa was not kind.
‘If you do not want your daughter to marry, you should have let me know,’ she told Bertha in her most stately Portuguese.
‘How can you say that?’ Bertha asked.
‘Because you were quizzing him on his religion. In these days!’
Bertha protested that she had the right to ask whether her daughter was going to a God-fearing man.
‘And how much will you put into your daughter’s hands?’ Louisa asked savagely. For the matter of dowry had not been discussed. Both sisters had hoped that since this was a love match, there would be no demand made. Both sisters knew that demands were almost inevitable since no Indian wedding was an affair that concerned two people. It took in the family and the family would speak where love would prefer silence. And if a woman did not have any money coming to her, if she was in her late twenties, if she was known to have been ‘moving around’ with a young man for several years, she had very little bargaining power.
‘Here you have a brahmin boy – okay, maybe not a first-class brahmin family, but brahmin, from a good village, with a good job, who wants to marry your daughter . . .’
‘Then why . . .’
‘He may not have asked. He may need a push or two. Which man doesn’t? He earns well. Andrade says he’s going to do even better. And you are worried how many times he goes to church? Enough if he goes one more time, at the time of nuptials, that’s what I say. But don’t ask me, who am I? You know more than I do.’
It was a classic move in the game. If you are older, you can always play this one and sweep the board. Your wisdom has been ignored, your opinions have been spurned with contempt, and you accept this without demur. You know that you have no value in the world. That immediately puts your opposition in the terrible position of having to bring you back into the argument, of having to beg for any further advice; and as soon as an apology is issued, you can put it down for future use. You were slighted. If you were not, why apologize?
After the ladies had left, Augustine simply got on with his work. Perhaps his hand reached for the telephone once. Perhaps he didn’t even go so far. He had always had the admirable ability to cut out anything that did not pertain to the problem at hand.
‘Can you imagine?’ Em said. ‘We met that evening and went out for a Coke float and to the pictures, and he didn’t say a word. Though I thought there was a naughty flicker in his eyes and I got ready to ask for his Wassermann report.’
‘His what?’
‘I didn’t even know what it was but Gertie said I should ask for it if he ever asked me to go to a hotel.’
I looked it up; it was a venereal disease test and not even a reliable one at that. It could show that you were carrying syphilis when you were actually suffering from cholera or tuberculosis.
Imelda did not, finally, ask Augustine for his syphilis certificate. But she did continue to be puzzled and a little unnerved by the mischief in his eyes.
She discovered the cause of it later that evening.
I got home and Mae was crying and Tia Madrinha was looking stern and Daddy was reading more intently than usual. When I kissed him, he said, ‘Congratulations.’ I didn’t know what he meant. Then Tia Madrinha said, ‘You may ask your young man to ask your father’s permission.’ Daddy said, with a rare spark, ‘Ask my permission when you two went and sought his hand in marriage for my daughter?’
I couldn’t believe it. For a moment, I felt such rage, I could have horsewhipped the fatty and her sister.
‘How could you do this to me?’ I asked. (All right, all right, I screamed.)
‘Because we love you,’ said Tia Madrinha. ‘And tongues are wagging.’
‘Whose tongues?’
To which there was of course no reply. But then TM rose like an empress from the throne and said that she was Going Home. It was clear that she was not. It was clear that she wanted to be made to stay. Darned if I’d do that.
‘Thank you so much for calling,’ I said.
She misunderstood.
‘One day you will indeed thank me for calling on him,’ she said. ‘But I do not have to reply to you. I shall give witness before God. And He will be the best judge of my actions.’
Then Mae started snivelling and I turned on her like a Fury. At this, TM stomped off and then Daddy put down his paper and said, ‘For the love of God, Imelda, go and bring that woman back or we shall never hear the end of it.’
So I ate humble pie and brought her back and swallowed my rage because Daddy was looking quite ruffled and I suppose if I have to –
The entry breaks off but begins the next day:
Gertie says that if you say to yourself, ‘Every day in every way I get better and better,’ you end up getting better. So all morning I told myself, ‘I have the chin of that lovely girl in Anarkali. And I have the poise of Merle Oberon.’ I said it to myself and in the end, when I looked, I still had my own chin. I will never be able to cut an emperor dead at twenty paces in defence of my love as that dancing girl did. And I can’t be Merle if I am made to go to church in the morning and confess that I have sinned against my parents and my godmother. So when I called, I don’t think I was all cool and ironic. I almost squeaked when I heard his voice on the other end. The usual bark, of course: ‘Mendes.’ I have tried so hard to modify this but to no avail. And then when I said, ‘It’s me,’ he started to laugh quite immoderately. But something about the stern quality of my silence must have communicated itself so he swallowed his mirth and suggested that we meet for lunch. ‘I don’t think I could talk about this over lunch,’ I say and my tone is edged with a hint of frost. So he says he will spring for tea for two at whatever time I say and at a location to be picked by me. So I say, ‘Five thirty at Bombelli’s then,’ and I hang up.
When I get there, he’s already reached. It’s five forty-five. He knows he has to give me fifteen minutes of grace because I have to travel into town and he’s just a quick hop away, but he’s there. He’s deep in some specifications. I can tell. I hated specifications when I was at ASL, m
iles and miles of numbers and if one of them goes wrong, the static won’t precipitate or something. I hate them even more just then. My life is in disorder and he’s looking at specifications. I feel bruised by the world.
Then he looks up and sees me and his face changes and he comes over and walks me out of the restaurant and to the sea.
(NB: What is it about the sea? Is it because it’s there?)
We walked for a bit and then he took my hand and he stopped me and we stood there in the middle of the rush and the push and the chanawallah and the hijras and the laughing babies and gossiping ayahs and the balloons and the clouds and the glitter on the waves turning it all to metal. And then he said, ‘Do you want to do this?’ I didn’t know what to say. Then he said, ‘I do.’ I thought the girl was supposed to say that. So I did the only thing a fella could do. I nodded. And then he put his hand on the back of my neck. I thought he was going to kiss me in the middle of the rush and the push and the etc. But he just left his hand there and I remember thinking, ‘So might a man calm a horse.’
I didn’t even know I was crying until he gave me his handkerchief.
Yes, I blubbed. Angela Brazil would have been so ashamed of me but I just couldn’t stop blubbing. A policeman came up to us and asked poor LOS what he was up to. LOS said that he was innocent and I had to raise my tear-streaked face and say that I was all right and we were getting married. Only, I seem to have got the tenses wrong so the poor man thought I was saying we were already married. He looked at our hands and I saw that LOS had nice hands. Sort of capable. If we are ever going to have a nuclear bomb fall on us and if we survive, he will be able to build a hut and strangle a huge cockroach. But no rings on those hands. Or on mine.
My parents were taken to the police station.
It must have been an augury of things to come.
Then came another note in the diary. Just two lines:
The two old biddies asked ANDY to introduce them.
Irony of ironies!
‘Why?’ I asked Em. ‘Why was it ironic?’
‘Because he was in the running himself for Imelda Carmina Ana . . .’ she said and winked. ‘Yes, I know. But I was a hot number then even if I didn’t know it myself. Now I look at the pictures and I think, “Whoo, she is pretty,” but then? I was too busy worrying about whether the cow was eating grass when I got up from my chair. What things women have to worry about! Thank the stars I didn’t have to do my arms and legs. My, I went with Gertie once and she shrieked every time they pulled at the wax.’
‘Andrade?’ I drew her back to the story.
It began when Audrey said that David had invited her for a drink.
‘Who’s David?’ Imelda had asked.
‘Not any old David, silly. The David,’ Audrey said.
‘Which is the David?’
‘The one in the movies.’
‘You didn’t know David?’ I asked Em.
‘We didn’t go and see too many Hindi films. When Awaara came out and Anarkali, I think, yes, we went for those. And that film about the rickshaw puller which left me so sad for a week, I could hardly eat. But not so many that I would know who David was. But Audrey said that she was keen to meet him. I said she should go then. But she said, all girly-girly, that she couldn’t possibly unless I went along. So I shrugged my shoulders and said I would go. We met in a nice quiet little place which seemed to have been done up to look like a European restaurant. You know, fat candles, white-and-red-checked tablecloths, brave chrysanthemums and a girl in peach satin singing the blues. Only the waiters were Indian and one of them was picking his nose. He saw me look and he wiped his hand on the back of the tray. But I suppose they were all boys from the muluk and they didn’t know better. I stopped looking at them and focused on the girl singing. She was tapping her cheek with a rose. I thought that was overdone but she got lots of tips so I suppose it worked so who was I to argue? Audrey and I had got there early, so we just sat there, enjoying it all. What they call ambience these days. I kept thinking, “This is a real restaurant. If anyone took a picture of me now, whoever saw it would know I had been in a real restaurant.” Then David arrived. He was a little gnome of a man and seemed friendly. He asked me if I would like something to drink. I said I would like a Coca Cola. “You’re a Coca Cola girl, I see,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant but he said it in a way that suggested it might have many meanings. I was trying to decide whether I was in trouble or not when suddenly Audrey got up and said, “I’m going home,” and she left. “What happened?” David asked me. He looked a bit hurt, like a child who has been abandoned on the playground. I should have felt sorry for him. He was bald and gnomey and sad so I said, “Let me go and find out.” I thought I could catch up with her. He said, “No, let’s just talk. Tell me about yourself, Coca Cola Girl.” I thought Audrey might be ill. I began to get worried. I looked at the door. I began to get up. He smiled again and said, “If you leave now, everyone will think I am a naughty man.” I sat back down but then he said, “But I am a naughty man.” In that one second, he changed from a hurt little boy into something greasy.
‘“I must freshen up,” I said and rose again. He made a grab for my hand. I pulled it away sharply and went to the loo. The singer was in the bathroom. I washed my face and saw that she was looking at me. “You have a nice voice,” I said. “Thank you,” she said. “And now you walk out of the bathroom and go straight home.” I told her I had ordered something. I felt I couldn’t leave if I had ordered something. “What did you order?” she asked. “A Coca Cola,” I said. “Forget it,” she said. “Anyone can drink it. Now you write a little note to him saying that you were ill and had to go home and give it to me.” I wrote it and put my name at the end. “Chhee, chhee, don’t sign it, silly. No, better still, I will write it.” Then I made such a mistake, I still remember it with shame. I asked, “Doesn’t he know your handwriting?” She looked at me for a long moment and then she said, “I sing here.” Before I could say anything, she added, “And I was trying to help you.” I could have wept. “I know,” I said, “I’m sorry.” I went outside and Andrade was there. He stepped up to me and asked, “What’s the matter?” but I couldn’t wait to talk. I just wanted to be alone. It was all too much. Audrey wanted to meet David but Audrey ran away. Then David started to act up and so I ran away. Now Andrade was waiting for me and I had to start running. And then Audrey popped out of nowhere and she looked at me. I couldn’t take it any more so I started crying. She didn’t say anything so I started running. She stopped Andrade from coming after me.’
‘But what was that all about?’ I asked, confused.
‘I asked Audrey the next day but she refused to tell me. It was only when she settled on that sweet-faced Marine who whisked her off to Wisconsin that I got the story out of her. You won’t believe this but Andrade wanted to try his chances with me. So he asked her to take me to meet David. He knew David would try something and then he would step in and save me and I would, I suppose, fall over myself in gratitude and fall in love with him.’
‘That’s . . .’
‘Wodehousian? Thought so. But that’s what Aud told me.’
‘And what was her role in all this?’
‘Andy knew I wouldn’t go alone so he got her to play along, to say that she wanted to meet David and to take me.’
‘But why would she play along?’
‘Oh, we all knew she was in love with Andy.’
‘She was in love with Andy and so she helped him to get you to try and fall in love with him.’
‘The heart has its reasons . . .’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I know. I thought it was pretty stupid myself. But when I pushed her she said that she knew it wouldn’t work and I would get angry with him and then she would have helped him and she could get a chance.’
‘You thought it was a good enough reason for playing along with th
is kind of shit?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t use that word.’
‘Right, so speaks Miss Clean Mouth.’
‘The words I use are always clean.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘There are lots of words you can use without evoking images that belong in the toilet and not on the tongue.’
‘I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the words toilet and tongue used in the same sentence.’
‘Oh? Nothing like that in the Olympia Press?’
‘Em!’
‘No offence, no offence . . .’
We were wandering again, like lost tourists. I tried bringing her back to the subject of her ambivalence about marriage, but we’d reached a dead end.
Some days later, she showed us a letter to Angel Ears. It filled in some details:
Ever since the day of the inquisition, I have been converted, as if by some alchemy only known to the engaged, the spoken for, into a watering pot. I cry at the least provocation but I am glad to say I do not blub. I simply tear up but only in one eye. Do you find that odd? Do you really want to marry a woman who cries with only one eye?
I know I want to marry you. But I wish we were the first to ever get married. I cannot help feeling that the institution has been somewhat corrupted and corroded by the misuse of others. We could show them, by a beyootiful and myoochooal respect for each other, how things must be conducted.
Have I ever told you how much I love you? Well, darling, I am telling you now, she said and began to drip like a spout.
‘You cried a lot when he popped the question?’ Susan asked her one day.
‘I don’t know why I kept crying. Mad things would set me off. Someone would ask me whether I wanted to be a June bride and I would find my face wet. Inside, I was like a monsoon, I was always moist so I didn’t know I was crying when I was crying. Once I was sitting in a bus thinking I’d like him to have an engagement ring with a stone the colour of his eyes and I began to cry. A sweet old Muslim woman was sitting next to me. She took my hand and held it for a while. Then she said, “Duaa kar, beti. Duaa mein badi taaqat hai.” I told her why I was crying, that I was getting married. I must have got the tenses right this time so she asked, “Nahin karni shaadi?” I told her I wanted to. “Bachpan ke liye ro rahi ho,” she said, smiling. Maybe she was right; maybe I was crying for my childhood. My innocence, if you will.’
