When she was twenty-three she met Kishore, a nondescript guy with curly hair. He was thirty and from a ‘good’ and powerful Indian family. They fell in love over a plate of marsala tosai, she signed a six-page harshly worded pre-nup contract, and they got married in one of the biggest society weddings in Calcutta. Political figures and Bollywood celebrities attended the glittering occasion.
Now she has given him three kids, he cheats on her all the time, sometimes even openly, but she won’t leave. She won’t give up the mansion, the servants, the swimming pool, the invitations to all the best parties, and the overseas shopping trips.
My brother, on the other hand, has told my mother in no uncertain terms that he will marry only for love. It is the only time that we agree on an important issue.
My brother and I don’t get on. From the time we were children, he didn’t want me around. I never understood why he resented me so much. He had everything. He was the favorite of both my parents and got absolutely everything he ever wanted.
Even when Papa lost all his money and all that was left was the house, which fortunately he had transferred into my mother’s name, and the money he had stashed away in her account, I was immediately pulled out of Calcutta International school. It was decided however, that there was enough money to pay Josh’s school fees and eventually to send him to America to finish the last part of his education.
Our very large house was sold. Some of the proceeds went toward Josh’s education fund, and some was put toward buying a smaller house. When Josh flew away, I was left in the house with my parents, the cook, the gardener, and a cleaning lady who came in daily. All my fine school friends had dropped away one by one. They were either too busy, or had left the country to finish their education. Papa locked himself into a room and let the TV blare. Without my brother and with the loss of her grand lifestyle, my mother became a very unhappy woman.
For a long time after our slide into disgrace, staff from my father’s offices and factory used to come to the front gate pleading for their unpaid wages. Once, I asked my mother why we didn’t just pay them at least something.
‘Elizabeth,’ she said tight-lipped. ‘If you had your way, you’d have us all begging in the streets with them, wouldn’t you?’
As time passed, Papa’s unpaid staff grew more and more desperate. They started shaking the gates and shouting insults. My mother used to stand at the window behind the curtain, and look down at them as the gardener chased them away by hitting their fingers with a broomstick and scolding them.
In fear of their anger, my mother arbitrarily decided she did not want me to finish my education, even at the local school. I was very upset, but I didn’t want to go against her, since things were already so fraught at home. So I sat in my swing and read. Tons of books. I read the classics. I read translated works. I read Indian poets. But my life seemed meaningless. I felt like a prisoner. Trapped and without a future. I wanted to live.
I don’t know what made me decide one day to run away. Perhaps because I could not see my mother ever allowing me to pursue my dream of being a pre-school teacher. I opened Papa’s safe—I had known the combination since I was fifteen—and stole the money I needed. My passport was ready from the time I was first sent to international school. I took a taxi to the airport and got on a plane.
I was nineteen when I arrived in London. It was autumn and the air was chilly, but I remember I was so excited and so filled with adrenalin I did not feel the cold. In my T-shirt, I traveled to Victoria Station. From there it was easy. I got into the Tube station, bought a ticket, and took the Victoria Line, then got off two stops up at Oxford Circus.
Central London’s Oxford Circus was a shock. The bustle, the energy. I could not believe it. The world seemed a big, beautiful, bright place, and I was so happy. I walked to the YHA hostel. I had checked them out on the Internet and I knew they had beds for £18.00. It was a lot in rupees, but I expected to find a job as soon as possible.
The YHA was a fun place decorated with brilliant jewel colors. It looked more like a kindergarten than a budget hostel. And I loved it. There were two beds in my room. They had bright apple green pillowcases and duvet covers. One was already taken. I put my bag on the other and thought I would burst with excitement.
There was free Wi-Fi, so I went down to the Internet room. It had purple beanbags, which I thought made the place look funny and warm. I sat down at the computer and sent Papa an email telling him that I was in London. I apologized for taking the money from the safe, but I promised him that I would pay the whole thing back as soon as I got myself a job. I told him I loved him and my mother and then I signed off.
When I went back to my room, my new roommate was already there.
‘G’day,’ she called. I had never heard the greeting before. Later, I would learn that it was short for ‘Good day’.
Suddenly, that old flicker of discomfort is back. And so is that sensation of gnawing apprehension. I sigh deeply and close my eyes. Her face is so vivid that it could all have happened yesterday. I know I’ll never forget her as long as I live. I’m fine. I’m fine now. I survived.
I go to the kitchen and switch on the kettle. I don’t want to remember any more. Not today. I don’t want to have to take those pills. I want tomorrow to be a fun adventure. I want to see the fireflies. I want to run away from here. From Lenny and the sickening, unspoken agreement that I have to pay his kindness back with my body for as long as he wants. Which could be forever. I put a tea bag into a mug.
The phone rings. I stand in front of it and let it ring twice more before taking the call.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Lenny says.
‘Hello, Lenny.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good. Look, I've got business over in Amsterdam tomorrow, so I’ll pick you up and take you to dinner tonight.’
‘Uh. Not tonight, Lenny. I’m really very tired.’
There is a malevolent silence. ‘Oh yeah? What have you been up to all day?’ His voice was deadpan, cut from rock.
‘Nothing. I cleaned the flat, had lunch at a cafe, and then I went shopping. You know how shopping always exhausts me.’
‘Did you get something nice?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What?’ There, there’s the reptile lazily sunning itself on a warm stone suddenly striking. He’s caught me out. When his secretary goes through all the boutique accounts and the credit card bill, there will be no purchases with today’s date. He will know I lied. I haven’t lied to him before.
‘A red dress,’ I say. And then quickly add, ‘I used the money you gave me the other night.’
‘Good. Wear it when I take you out on Monday night. I’ll be back by then, and we’ll do dinner somewhere nice.’
I grip the phone hard and keep my voice light. ‘That’ll be nice.’
‘All right. Call you when I get back.’
‘Have a good trip.’
I switch off the phone. I’m playing with fire. Things are unraveling too fast. I almost got caught there. Lenny is unpredictable, his violence legendary. A ruthless, wild raptor. If he even scents another male trespassing on his territory, I will see the incandescent, uncontrollable fury that I have only glimpsed so far.
Once, a drunk man touched my bottom in a club. It could have been an accident, but I jumped because it had startled me. Lenny saw my reaction and he turned and calmly nodded to one of his henchman. The big brute immediately went forward and kicked the shit out of him right in the middle of the club.
I was so shocked I froze, but when I got control of my limbs I turned to Lenny and cried, ‘Stop him! Stop him!’
And Lenny clicked his fingers and his other henchman stopped the assault.
I looked at the man, bleeding and groaning, and then I looked at Lenny, and there was absolutely no expression on his face. It was nothing to him. And I was afraid. For the first time I became afraid of Lenny. And I knew he had not done that to punish the
man, but to frighten me.
I don’t love Lenny. I never have. I just let him use my body because I didn’t know what else to do. I was so broken, and he had taken care of me. I had no one else. When he put his hand on my thigh that night, I couldn’t bring myself to stop him. And then, before I knew it, he was on top of me and we were having sex.
But it has to stop.
Even if it means my dream of becoming a pre-school teacher is delayed, I have to take back control of my own life and find a job to support myself so I am no longer beholden to him. Perhaps I could rent a room cheaply. Better that than let him use my body anymore. I wasn’t strong enough before, but I know I’m ready now. I know I have to act soon. But there is a tight feeling of apprehension in my body that sets my teeth on edge. Secretly, I am afraid of Lenny.
I go into the kitchen, butter a slice of brown bread, and put together an open tomato and cheese sandwich. As I cut the little cherry tomatoes, I think of Shane cooking, the passion with which he prepared his meal, the enjoyment he took from every bite, and it occurs to me that I live without tasting life. My whole existence is a meal without salt.
I walk to the dining table with my sandwich and my cup of tea. I lift up a slice of tomato, put it in my mouth, and let the fresh zest of its juice burst into my taste buds. I wait for the flakes of sea salt to melt on my tongue. Next, I take a bite of bread and cheese. The cheese tastes milky and smooth as I roll it slowly together with the nutty, rich taste of the buttered bread. I savor it the way Shane relished his meal. With my eyes closed, my meal is no longer a humble sandwich, but a complex of things of many scents, flavors and textures.
I can see that just by being on the outside edges of my life, Shane is already subtly changing me. Yes, there is a lot of terrible pain trapped inside my body, but when I am with him, it hides away, as if it is afraid of him. It is afraid he will banish it away forever.
That evening I listen to music and go to bed early, but I am too excited about my trip with Shane to sleep.
Finally, just when I have fallen asleep, I am awakened by the sound of a key in my door. I freeze with fear. Then I hear the familiar sound of Lenny’s footsteps. He comes into the bedroom and silently walks over to the bed. He stands over my prone body and watches me. I keep my breathing even and deep, and pray that he will not wake me up.
To my relief, after a few minutes he quietly slips out of the flat.
After I hear the door shut, I sit up then go over to the window. From the darkness of my window, I watch him walk to his car. The driver opens the back door and Lenny gets into it. Feeling unnerved, I return to bed. It has been a long time since he did that. He used to do that a lot when he first found me, when I was almost mad with grief and horror. I wonder why he did that today.
Does he on some level sense that another man has strayed into his territory?
Ten
SNOW
Shane comes to collect me at 9.00 p.m. because that is when Lenny’s plane takes off and there will be no more calls from him after that. A man in a peaked cap opens the back door of a blue Mercedes and I slide in. Shane introduces him as the driver of the family’s company car.
‘Mostly only my brothers use this car. I can get anywhere faster on my bike,’ he says.
‘We’re not going to Heathrow Airport?’ I ask when I notice the car going on a different route.
‘No, we’re flying out of Luton,’ Shane says.
‘Oh,’ I say, and settle back against the plush seat while Shane gives the man instructions to bring his car to the airport on Sunday. I don’t listen. A ball of anxiety sits at the base of my stomach. I feel as if I am cheating on Lenny, even though I don’t love Lenny and he cheats on me all the time, and anyway, I am not going to do anything with Shane. Shane and I are friends, and we are just going to see the fireflies.
At the airport I am in for a shock. We are walking toward a private plane!
‘Wow! Whose plane is that?’ I ask, astonished.
‘My brother bought it about two years ago for the family’s use.’
‘Is he the ex-gangster?’
‘Yeah. Jake was a gangster, but don’t judge him too harshly. He had no choice. He did it for us. It was a great sacrifice for a man who wanted to be a vet.’
‘You love him very much, don’t you?’
‘We’re blood. I’d give my life for him.’
And his eyes shine with sincerity.
Then the pilot is introducing himself to me and we are walking up the steps into the jet. It is another world. The inside of it is beautiful, with heavy, wooden doors, red, luxurious carpets, and huge cream seats facing each other with tables in between. There are fresh flowers everywhere and it smells of perfume. Farther along, closer to the cockpit, there are two single beds with furry slippers tucked at one end. The table we are invited to occupy has a white tablecloth spread over it and is set as if in a fancy restaurant.
We sit and the smiling air stewardess pops open a bottle of champagne.
I can’t help being wide-eyed with wonder. ‘Oh my God, how amazing,’ I gasp. ‘This is exactly what I imagined it must be like to be a film star.’
He laughs softly, his handsome face indulgent, and we clink glasses then drink.
Fruit and tiny little canapés are served on a mirrored platter.
It takes us an hour and forty minutes to arrive in Cannes, a town so exclusive that there is no commercial airport and only private jets are authorized to land. There are no queues, Immigration and Passport Control, or baggage to worry about. Instead, our passports are checked by two policemen, and then we step onto the runway.
‘Welcome to France,’ Shane says.
I marvel at how easy and smooth travel is for the rich. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually in another country.’
‘Come on. We’ve got dinner reservations,’ he says, and leads me to a waiting car.
Full of excitement, I look around me as the palm-tree-lined boulevards swish by as we get into the town. I gaze in awe at all the beautiful old buildings. In twenty minutes I am ushered into one of Cannes’ famous seafront restaurants, Le Palais Oriental. It is brightly decorated with blue seats, white tables, and mirrors on the ceilings.
The place is in full swing, heaving with belly dancers and huge groups of noisy party-goers. We are greeted by a friendly Moroccan waiter who shows us to our table. The tables are low, and Shane has to sit with his knees spread far apart. He catches my grin and acknowledges the funny side. I love that he is able to laugh at himself. There is something so endearing about a man like that. My father couldn’t. My brother will never be able to, and Lenny will tear your head off before he’d even contemplate doing such a thing.
Shane and I order tagine of lamb with prunes and couscous, which our cheeky waiter claims is terrific because it is cooked on the bosoms of angels.
We drink mint tea and watch the dazzlingly graceful belly dancers as they advance, retreat as they snake their arms sinuously in the air, and shimmy their hips so hard and fast their luxurious costumes swim about their feet. I feel an instant affinity with them—the colorful costumes, the sun-drenched skin, and the bells on their bra tops remind me of the beautiful Indian dancers of my childhood.
Like those Indian dancers, they twist their bodies into shapes that express joy, laughter, sadness, grace, lust. This story is one of entrapment and beauty. One woman wears a veil and over it her dusky black eyes flash enticingly. Not only her body, but her eyes speak.
I look around me and there are different reactions to them. To some, these women are cheap meat, but there are others who see what I do. All dancers are dreamers. There is no such thing as a sinful dancer.
‘I’ve never seen a belly dance in the flesh,’ I tell Shane.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
‘It’s simply beautiful,’ I say, watching a woman in a blue costume. Her personality and her sensuality flow through the timeless moves her body makes.
‘I agree.’
I turn
to look at Shane. He is watching me. ‘The one in the blue costume is so seductive.’
‘Yes, she’s so seductive,’ he says softly, but he does not turn to look at her.
When the lamb comes, it is succulent, and the couscous could indeed have been cooked on the bosom of an angel. We eat our food and drink our wine, and slowly the beat of the Arabic music makes me tingle, and my body moves in tune with it.
‘Do you want to dance?’
I shake my head. ‘Perhaps I could dance under a moonless sky, or if I was on my own and no one could see me.’
‘Great: Moonless Sky is my chosen Red Indian name,’ he says cheekily.
‘Forget it,’ I say.
‘Never say never.’
We leave the restaurant late, our bellies full and the scent of adventure beckoning us as we drive to Shane’s chateau. In thirty minutes we arrive at a set of arched black iron gates. We drive up a road for a few minutes in total darkness and then, suddenly, we have reached our destination.
Saumur.
My mouth drops open with astonishment. This is no farmhouse or dilapidated chateau! How is it possible that Shane could own something so magnificent? Built from pink stone and trimmed in white, it rises from the ground in a truly imposing and majestic structure.
‘Wow,’ I exclaim opening the car door. ‘But this is a palace!’
‘How astute of you. It used to belong to an Iraqi prince, so it’s architecturally more royal palace than chateau.’
The gravel crunches under my feet as we walk up to the chateau. He unlocks the tall door and switches on the light and it is breathtaking. I look around in awe. My father was very rich once, but, even then, our mansion house was nothing like this. I have to seriously re-evaluate Shane’s financial worth. And to think I had been expecting a ruined chateau or a farmhouse! God, it never crossed my mind that he could afford such extraordinary splendor. This pile must be worth millions and millions of pounds.
‘All this belongs to you?’
‘Yes,’ he says staring curiously at me.
‘You’re so young. How could you be so rich?’
Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes) Page 6
