Table of Contents
MINA
SAGE
MARLENE
FLORENCE
AMANDA
LENA
KITTY
WANDA
MANKIND
RASHMI
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
MANKIND
and
OTHER STORIES
OF WOMEN
Marianne Ackerman
TORONTO • BUFFALO • LANCASTER (U.K.) 2016
ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 139
To Alice Munro
our mirror
MINA
1
MINA, AN ASPIRING writer, asked Lenore to look at her work. An imposition, to be sure. Who has time to read novels these days, never mind a work-in-progress? Especially if the prospective reader is busy writing — or not writing — her own.
The request caught Lenore in a weak moment. She was out on the town with her book club, a speckled group of women her age (thirtyish) with careers in progress, including a couple of new mothers whose reading time was minimal. Their savage demolition of a hefty prizewinner cut right through the clouds of panic and jealousy that hang over the writing life. Seeing how other people treat literary success lifted her spirits, put her in a generous mood toward hopeful unknowns — like the waitress, Mina, who “couldn’t help but overhear . . .” and had also read the blockbuster, without pleasure.
Moreover, Mina had read Lenore’s latest short story on a popular literary blog. The other women, who had not read it, were impressed, although not as impressed as Lenore. In the space of a few minutes, Mina uncorked their second bottle of Chardonnay, poured a round, extracted a promise from Lenore to take a look at her work, and emailed the manuscript from her phone.
Weeks passed. After several updates and whimsical J reminders dropped into her inbox, Lenore forced herself to open the most recent attachment (revised since their chance encounter), skimmed the first few pages and fired off a comment: the beginning began too late, unless the style was experimental, in which case it was outside her field of expertise.
Mina waited twenty-four hours before writing back. She began by apologizing for the bother and thanked Lenore for taking the time to offer incredibly helpful feedback, which would be put to good use immediately.
Lenore felt terrible. How selfish and arrogant to have brushed off an unpublished writer like that. She read the rest of the manuscript and invited Mina to lunch.
They met at café within walking distance of Lenore’s Mile End apartment, which, though not rated for its menu, had a fireplace. While they waited for salads, Lenore made a few helpful comments about the manuscript, which Mina accepted gratefully, without encouraging discussion. After that, they talked about everything but writing. How Lenore had found her apartment, how Mina’s parents had come to Montreal from India, music, movies, a forthcoming literary festival, the celebrated authors who’d been invited, the local names who had not. By the end of lunch, Lenore wondered if she should invite Mina to be part of the book club, but did not act on the idea immediately.
It was fall, the literary season, a busy round of book launches and readings. Lenore had a habit of arriving late and leaving early. Mina spotted the pattern and took to waiting by the door. After several missed attempts, she finally made eye contact and they ended up going for drinks.
Lenore talked a lot about the film scene. At the time, she was friends with the legendary bad boy director, George, whose first feature had created a stir at the Sundance Festival. George had an eye for emerging talent. He invited potential stars to screen tests and had a stack of talent on file. He and Lenore had met at university, in a creative elective called Elements of Style. She’d worked on the script of his breakthrough film. It was clear she and George spent a lot of time together. Mina paid close attention, noticing how carefully Lenore skirted around the personal, as if she had something to hide.
There was no question about it. Lenore stood out among the many attractive women in George’s entourage. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair and unusually green eyes. In repose, her fragile features exuded a complicated beauty. Her smile was crisp. She self-identified as a writer, something Mina respected deeply. At one point, she was tempted to say the script was the best part of the film, but feared the judgement might reflect badly on George and jeopardise her budding friendship with Lenore, or at least require explanation. She did not want to divert conversation away from more interesting subjects, such as what it was like to be in a famous film director’s orbit.
Mina had strong opinions on the subject of fame. She had come to believe it was the ultimate goal of creativity in the 21st century, an achievement you could grasp. Take to the bank, so to speak. It was her reason for getting out of bed in the morning. In those days, Mina did not find it easy to get out of bed, which is why working at a bar suited her. She came home at 3 a.m., keyed up and ready to write. Her confidence was at its height, the self-censoring voice within, on mute. She wrote quickly, seldom reread and only rewrote based on concrete suggestions from experienced writers, such as Lenore. She was prepared for struggle and rejection, but deep down Mina believed great art was not a reward for hard work, although hard work was essential. It was a gift, something that jumped out at you or fell from the sky. Somehow, being with Lenore made the dream more real.
* * *
About George. He was unconventionally good-looking. He did not make a conscious decision to define himself through taste. He was dynamic. He got projects off the ground. These qualities naturally caused him to be invited to parties, where he met people. Especially women, which is how Mina got to know him, at a warehouse on Van Horne, the launch of a crowd-sourcing campaign for his new feature film project. She arrived late after her bar shift and dove into the crowd, assuming Lenore would already be there. She wasn’t, but George recognised her and came right over. They’d met briefly at a literary reception. George couldn’t remember the circumstances but he did remember Mina. He claimed he’d made a mental note to call her, but had lost her number.
She laughed. He asked why. She replied without thinking: “Because mental notes aren’t written down. They’re thoughts.”
He made his right hand into the shape of a gun, pointed two fingers at his temple and pretended to fire. Then he wrapped his arm around her slender shoulders and steered her toward the bar. In the long conversation that followed, he invited her to take a screen test for his upcoming movie, which had a role for an Indian beauty. He was developing a storyline around an immigrant triangle: a Hindu, a Muslim and an atheist.
Impulsively, Mina finished his sentence. “. . . walked into a bar . . .”
He looked puzzled, continued talking about the project.
* * *
Mina felt terrible about sleeping with George, although not immediately. While she was making out with him that night, she thought of Lenore. There was a large black and white photo of them in the bathroom of his studio, arms wrapped around each other, a beach in the background. He didn’t seem like Lenore’s type. He was rough, quick. He laughed a lot, before and after. He unabashedly smoked cigarettes, a habit that in their circles was seen as a form of weakness, to be conducted shamefully, on balconies or in toilets.
It was not until the next day that anxiety set in. She was sure Lenore would find out about the skirmish and take revenge by re-reading and commenting negatively on every line of her work-in-progress. This would put her off writing, forcing her to admit that waitressing was her true profession, thereby destroying her life. There was a second reason for feeling bad about sleeping with George right after the party. Now that th
ey had crossed the line, she was pretty sure he would withdraw his offer of an audition on the basis of potential emotional complication. She would never hear from him again. Both her writing and acting careers had disappeared, in one careless swoon.
Nothing like that happened. The next day, his assistant called to set a date for the screen test. It went well. She was advised to get headshots and an agent. George took her out to dinner, drove her home, invited himself in. He fell asleep afterwards and stayed the night.
Weeks passed during which Mina avoided literary events. She scanned the blogs and googled Lenore’s name regularly, hoping to find out that her former mentor had signed a big book deal or moved to Toronto, conditions under which she might avoid the embarrassment of being shunned. Eventually, spring came. Lenore’s name appeared in the line-up of the literary festival held annually at a downtown hotel. She would take part in a panel discussion about the impact of e-books on literary style, beside an incredibly famous writer from New York. Under normal circumstances, an essential event. Mina resolved to confront her fears. She could not put ambition on hold forever.
The venue was packed. She found a seat at the back and prepared to take notes. When the Q & A was over, panellists and people who’d asked knowledgeable questions drifted downstairs to the bar. Mina went with the flow, chatted with a poet she knew faintly and ended up standing just behind Lenore, who was in conversation with the big name writer. Eventually, the big name drifted away and Lenore continued talking to someone else. It would have been easy to sweep Mina into the conversation, which was about the famous writer’s latest novel. In fact it was almost unavoidable. Instead, Mina was left on the periphery. Finally, she couldn’t stay still. She smiled gaily at a distant waiter, and shot off to an imaginary conversation, out of sight of Lenore. A minute later she was standing on the street.
So, Lenore knew about her and George! What was there to know? She had gone for a screen test and slept with him a few times. Actually, quite a few. She was almost sorry it had gone that far, even sorrier she had accepted his Friend request, though she’d made him promise not to post pictures of her or mention her name, saying her family abided by traditional Hindu codes and did not approve of women exposing themselves on social media. George complied. But he kept posting crazy artful pictures of parts of her body and dropped so many hints that it would have been easy for someone like Lenore to figure out what was going on. She peeked a look at George’s Face book page. He and Lenore were not Friends. Had Lenore seen them together? How else could she have figured out what was going on? Unless George told her. And by the way, what was going on?
Mina herself did not have an answer to the question. She had gone from distant awe to up close and naked without the intervening step of dating. She was pretty sure there was no future in a bad boy legend, at least not the personal kind. She said nothing about him to friends and relatives, fearing the former would spread information and the latter would nurse expectations. Without third-party input, she found it hard to take their relationship seriously.
As for George, he had never expressed the slightest hesitation regarding Mina. He said her screen test was amazing. Overnight, she became an integral part of his project. Probably, the star. He was extremely busy. He slept at her apartment whenever he was free. Desire and film chat filled the space where talking about the relationship might have taken place. There was simply no opportunity for the starts and stops, misunderstandings, tears and reconciliations by which a one-night stand evolves into courtship.
2
One day, after he had taken her to every hot, curry-scented dive on Jean-Talon Boulevard and insisted on watching Bollywood movies in bed until Mina couldn’t stand it any more and spoke up for a wider menu, he asked to meet her family. He said it was difficult to get “under the skin” of the characters. He needed more.
What?
Context.
Mina was sure George already had a firm idea of what her parents would be like. Her mother would emerge from the kitchen in a waft of savoury smells, dressed in a beautiful sari. A kindly, gentle man, her father would rise to greet him from a deep sofa, surrounded by shelves of hardcover books, hand-carved elephants and gleaming brass vases, all of it swimming in a cloud of incense and pipe smoke. Walking embodiments of exotica, they would speak warmly and knowledgeably about their colourful homeland. Once steeped in their aura, he would stand back as his movie leapt from the page.
Problematically, Mina was born in Quebec. She had visited Mumbai a few times, always on overwhelming occasions such as weddings and funerals. For her, the place was a vivid childhood secret, as common as a warm bath, beyond description. As for her mother, she hated cooking. She had a business degree and a serious weakness for high heels. Her father read crime novels and liked golf. Settling in Montreal in their mid-thirties, they had founded a successful real estate firm, worked in the same office, ate TV dinners in front of the TV. They lived in the penthouse of a nondescript high-rise, socialized with business peers and clients, spent two weeks in Florida every winter. On only one point could Mina’s parents possibly be considered typically Indian: they dearly wished she would bring home an appropriate boyfriend and marry him. Another, possibly more serious, reason for her reluctance.
After weeks of pestering, George wore her down. She set conditions. He had to promise to tell her parents he was Greek (easy enough, as he was Greek). He was making a documentary film on the Indian diaspora and would be going back to Athens as soon as the shooting wrapped up.
George laughed. He wanted to know why. She did not want to come right out and say, because they mustn’t think we’re serious, although the truth was hanging in the air. Instead, she assured him they would speak more openly to a European, that a documentary was more serious than a movie. George protested. He said he’d spent no time in Athens, hadn’t been to Greece since he was nine and had only sketchy memories, mainly of his grandmother who took him over, the airport and the ferry ride to the island on which she had grown up. The rest he knew from postcards and stories.
Mina remained firm. Details don’t matter, she said. He would understand as soon as he met them.
* * *
In preparation for the filmmaker’s visit, Gita Chaudhari took her best sari out of mothballs. She called on a bothersome cousin to help with the cooking, paid her train trip from Toronto and sent her packing the afternoon of the dinner.
Pungent aromas wafting from an expensive though little-used kitchen all day sent her husband into paroxysms of nostalgia for his Bombay childhood. Vikram had never regretted marrying a professionally-inclined woman. He appreciated his wife’s many fine qualities, in addition to ambition. He knew he would probably live a decade longer than his brothers, who had married wonderful cooks and grown fat by forty. But he had a weakness for kitchen smells. When the buzzer rang, he was sleeping on a hard Italian sofa, dreaming of the monsoon season, a groaning table spread before him, lip-smacking samosas, hot bhajias, pakoras with green chutney, roasted bhutta rubbed with lemon . . . Somewhere in the distance, a high-pitched shout: “Vikram, get the door.” A siren call, luring him away from his mother’s breast. At sixty-four, he was too wise to give in to lust or tyrannical orders. He rolled over, ready to tuck into the feast.
Moments later he felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. George and Mina were standing over him. His first thought was, I’m dead. Who are these people? Why is Gita wearing one of her wedding saris?
After the tumult of Mina’s adolescence, Gita had learned to hide even the whiff of a plan from her headstrong daughter. She kept her observations to herself: the filmmaker was young and quite good-looking. No ring on any finger. She had decided the subject of the evening would be his project. She would play her part as an authentic member of Montreal’s Indian diaspora, the film would go ahead, Mina would become famous and fall in love with the man who made her dreams of glory come true. Who knows, she thought, I might even get a part.
For once, Vikram’s runny mem
ory came in handy. Still in the fog of dreams, he outdid himself, presenting the city of his boyhood as a mythical place deserving of its old colonial name, Bombay, where nothing ever changes. Gita, who’d spent her formative years in a London boarding school after the death of her mother, kept her contributions factual. She was careful to steer the dinner table conversation back to the guest’s film, offering sociopolitical tidbits and statistics found on the Internet.
When they couldn’t eat another bite and it was time for tea, George followed Gita into the kitchen, claiming Greek boys always follow the cook. He took out a notebook and started quizzing her on the dishes, but she said they were family secrets and could not be divulged, even for the purposes of a film. Obediently, he put the notebook away. In her best casual voice, she asked about Greece. Where did he live? What did his parents do?
George was familiar with the elasticity of truth surrounding courtship matters. He had no trouble playing along with women’s games. He was good at inventing clever, charming explanations for little incongruities. Not a problem, as long as things worked out in the end. And if they didn’t, he’d cover his head with his arms and run for the door. But lying straight-faced to a mother was something else. If he lied now and things worked out with Mina, he would pay for it later.
Standing in Gita’s kitchen, he had a moment of clarity. He realised he did very badly want things to work out with Mina. He did not need to say much. Gita understood. George would be the instrument of grandchildren. The meagre scrap of family she’d been granted as a child would expand and become the source of memories for future generations. It was enough that George existed, that he wanted Mina, and that he was standing in her kitchen. In time, Mina would do her part.
Handing him a tray of sweets, she said: “Be careful with my daughter. Be firm. She never knows what she needs.”
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 1
