Dr. Chatterji drives up for her at about five ten. He is a hesitant driver. The car stalls, jumps ahead, finally slams to a stop. Maya has to tell him to back off a foot or so; it’s hard to leap over two sacks of pruned branches in a sari. Ted Suminski is an obsessive pruner and gardener.
“My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Sanyal,” Dr. Chatterji says. He leans across the wide front seat of his noisy, very old, very used car and unlocks the door for her. “I am late. But then, I am sure you’re remembering that Indian Standard Time is not at all the same as time in the States.” He laughs. He could be nervous—she often had that effect on Indian men. Or he could just be chatty. “These Americans are all the time rushing and rushing but where it gets them?” He moves his head laterally once, twice. It’s the gesture made famous by Peter Sellers. When Peter Sellers did it, it had seemed hilarious. Now it suggests that Maya and Dr. Chatterji have three thousand years plus civilization, sophistication, moral virtue, over people born on this continent. Like her, Dr. Chatterji is a naturalized American.
“Call me Maya,” she says. She fusses with the seat belt. She does it because she needs time to look him over. He seems quite harmless. She takes in the prominent teeth, the eyebrows that run together. He’s in a blue shirt and a beige cardigan with the K-Mart logo that buttons tightly over the waist. It’s hard to guess his age because he has dyed his hair and his moustache. Late thirties, early forties. Older than she had expected. “Not Mrs. Sanyal.”
This isn’t the time to tell about ex-husbands. She doesn’t know where John is these days. He should have kept up at least. John had come into her life as a graduate student at Duke, and she, mistaking the brief breathlessness of sex for love, had married him. They had stayed together two years, maybe a little less. The pain that John had inflicted all those years ago by leaving her had subsided into a cozy feeling of loss. This isn’t the time, but then she doesn’t want to be a legend’s daughter all evening. She’s not necessarily on Dr. Chatterji’s side is what she wants to get across early; she’s not against America and Americans. She makes the story—of marriage outside the Brahminic pale, the divorce—quick, dull. Her unsentimentality seems to shock him. His stomach sags inside the cardigan.
“We’ve each had our several griefs,” the physicist says. “We’re each required to pay our karmic debts.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Mrs. Chatterji has made some Indian snacks. She is waiting to meet you because she is knowing your cousin-sister who studied in Scottish Church College. My home is okay, no?”
Fran would get a kick out of this. Maya has slept with married men, with nameless men, with men little more than boys, but never with an Indian man. Never.
The Chatterjis live in a small blue house on a gravelly street. There are at least five or six other houses on the street; the same size but in different colors and with different front yard treatments. More houses are going up. This is the cutting edge of suburbia.
Mrs. Chatterji stands in the driveway. She is throwing a large plastic ball to a child. The child looks about four, and is Korean or Cambodian. The child is not hers because she tells it, “Chung-Hee, ta-ta, bye-bye. Now I play with guest,” as Maya gets out of the car.
Maya hasn’t seen this part of town. The early September light softens the construction pits. In that light the houses too close together, the stout woman in a striped cotton sari, the child hugging a pink ball, the two plastic lawn chairs by a tender young tree, the sheets and saris on the clothesline in the back, all seem miraculously incandescent.
“Go home now, Chung-Hee. I am busy.” Mrs. Chatterji points the child homeward, then turns to Maya, who has folded her hands in traditional Bengali greeting. “It is an honor. We feel very privileged.” She leads Maya indoors to a front room that smells of moisture and paint.
In her new, deliquescent mood, Maya allows herself to be backed into the best armchair—a low-backed, boxy Goodwill item draped over with a Rajasthani bedspread—and asks after the cousin Mrs. Chatterji knows. She doesn’t want to let go of Mrs. Chatterji. She doesn’t want husband and wife to get into whispered conferences about their guest’s misadventures in America, as they make tea in the kitchen.
The coffee table is already laid with platters of mutton croquettes, fish chops, onion pakoras, ghugni with puris, samosas, chutneys. Mrs. Chatterji has gone to too much trouble. Maya counts four kinds of sweetmeats in Corning casseroles on an end table. She looks into a see-through lid; spongy, white dumplings float in rosewater syrup. Planets contained, mysteries made visible.
“What are you waiting for, Santana?” Dr. Chatterji becomes imperious, though not unaffectionate. He pulls a dining chair up close to the coffee table. “Make some tea.” He speaks in Bengali to his wife, in English to Maya. To Maya he says, grandly, “We are having real Indian Green Label Lipton. A nephew is bringing it just one month back.”
His wife ignores him. “The kettle’s already on,” she says. She wants to know about the Sanyal family. Is it true her greatgrandfather was a member of the Star Chamber in England?
Nothing in Calcutta is ever lost. Just as her story is known to Bengalis all over America, so are the scandals of her family, the grandfather hauled up for tax evasion, the aunt who left her husband to act in films. This woman brings up the Star Chamber, the glories of the Sanyal family, her father’s philanthropies, but it’s a way of saying, I know the dirt.
The bedrooms are upstairs. In one of those bedrooms an unseen, tormented presence—Maya pictures it as a clumsy ghost that strains to shake off the body’s shell—drops things on the floor. The things are heavy and they make the front room’s chandelier shake. Light bulbs, shaped like tiny candle flames, flicker. The Chatterjis have said nothing about children. There are no tricycles in the hallway, no small sandals behind the doors. Maya is too polite to ask about the noise, and the Chatterjis don’t explain. They talk just a little louder. They flip the embroidered cover off the stereo. What would Maya like to hear? Hemanta Kumar? Manna Dey? Oh, that young chap, Manna Dey! What sincerity, what tenderness he can convey!
Upstairs the ghost doesn’t hear the music of nostalgia. The ghost throws and thumps. The ghost makes its own vehement music. Maya hears in its voice madness, self-hate.
Finally the water in the kettle comes to a boil. The whistle cuts through all fantasy and pretense. Dr. Chatterji says, “I’ll see to it,” and rushes out of the room. But he doesn’t go to the kitchen. He shouts up the stairwell. “Poltoo, kindly stop this nonsense straightaway! We’re having a brilliant and cultured lady-guest and you’re creating earthquakes?” The kettle is hysterical.
Mrs. Chatterji wipes her face. The face that had seemed plump and cheery at the start of the evening now is flabby. “My sister’s boy,” the woman says.
So this is the nephew who has brought with him the cartons of Green Label tea, one of which will be given to Maya.
Mrs. Chatterji speaks to Maya in English as though only the alien language can keep emotions in check. “Such an intelligent boy! His father is government servant. Very highly placed.”
Maya is meant to visualize a smart, clean-cut young man from south Calcutta, but all she can see is a crazy, thwarted, lost graduate student. Intelligence, proper family guarantee nothing. Even Brahmins can do self-destructive things, feel unsavory urges. Maya herself had been an excellent student.
“He was First Class First in B. Sc. from Presidency College,” the woman says. “Now he’s getting Master’s in Ag. Science at Iowa State.”
The kitchen is silent. Dr. Chatterji comes back into the room with a tray. The teapot is under a tea cozy, a Kashmiri one embroidered with the usual chinar leaves, loops, and chains. “Her nephew,” he says. The dyed hair and dyed moustache are no longer signs of a man wishing to fight the odds. He is a vain man, anxious to cut losses. “Very unfortunate business.”
The nephew’s story comes out slowly, over fish chops and mutton croquettes. He is in love with a student from Ghana.
&nb
sp; “Everything was A-Okay until the Christmas break. Grades, assistantship for next semester, everything.”
“I blame the college. The office for foreign students arranged a Christmas party. And now, baapre baap! Our poor Poltoo wants to marry a Negro Muslim.”
Maya is known for her nasty, ironic one-liners. It has taken her friends weeks to overlook her malicious, un-American pleasure in others’ misfortunes. Maya would like to finish Dr. Chatterji off quickly. He is pompous; he is reactionary; he wants to live and work in America but give back nothing except taxes. The confused world of the immigrant—the lostness that Maya and Poltoo feel—that’s what Dr. Chatterji wants to avoid. She hates him. But.
Dr. Chatterji’s horror is real. A good Brahmin boy in Iowa is in love with an African Muslim. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But the more she watches the physicist, the more she realizes that “Brahmin” isn’t a caste; it’s a metaphor. You break one small rule, and the constellation collapses. She thinks suddenly that John Cheever—she is teaching him as a “world writer” in her classes, cheek-by-jowl with Africans and West Indians—would have understood Dr. Chatter ji’s dread. Cheever had been on her mind, ever since the late afternoon light slanted over Mrs. Chatterji’s drying saris. She remembers now how full of a soft, Cheeverian light Durham had been the summer she had slept with John Hadwen; and how after that, her tidy graduate-student world became monstrous, lawless. All men became John Hadwen; John became all men. Outwardly, she retained her poise, her Brahminical breeding. She treated her crisis as a literary event; she lost her moral sense, her judgment, her power to distinguish. Her parents had behaved magnanimously. They had cabled from Calcutta: WHAT’S DONE IS DONE. WE ARE CONFIDENT YOU WILL HANDLE NEW SITUATIONS WELL. ALL LOVE. But she knows more than do her parents. Love is anarchy.
Poltoo is Mrs. Chatterji’s favorite nephew. She looks as though it is her fault that the Sunday has turned unpleasant. She stacks the empty platters methodically. To Maya she says, “It is the goddess who pulls the strings. We are puppets. I know the goddess will fix it. Poltoo will not marry that African woman.” Then she goes to the coat closet in the hall and staggers back with a harmonium, the kind sold in music stores in Calcutta, and sets it down on the carpeted floor. “We’re nothing but puppets,” she says again. She sits at Maya’s feet, her pudgy hands on the harmonium’s shiny, black bellows. She sings, beautifully, in a virgin’s high voice, “Come, goddess, come, muse, come to us hapless peoples’ rescue.”
Maya is astonished. She has taken singing lessons at Dakshini Academy in Calcutta. She plays the sitar and the tanpur, well enough to please Bengalis, to astonish Americans. But stout Mrs. Chatterji is a devotee, talking to God.
A little after eight, Dr. Chatterji drops her off. It’s been an odd evening and they are both subdued.
“I want to say one thing,” he says. He stops her from undoing her seat belt. The plastic sacks of pruned branches are still at the corner.
“You don’t have to get out,” she says.
“Please. Give me one more minute of your time.”
“Sure.”
“Maya is my favorite name.”
She says nothing. She turns away from him without making her embarrassment obvious.
“Truly speaking, it is my favorite. You are sometimes lonely, no? But you are lucky. Divorced women can date, they can go to bars and discos. They can see mens, many mens. But inside marriage there is so much loneliness.” A groan, low, horrible, comes out of him.
She turns back toward him, to unlatch the seat belt and run out of the car. She sees that Dr. Chatterji’s pants are unzipped. One hand works hard under his Jockey shorts; the other rests, limp, penitential, on the steering wheel.
“Dr. Chatterji—really!” she cries.
The next day, Monday, instead of getting a ride home with Fran—Fran says she likes to give rides, she needs the chance to talk, and she won’t share gas expenses, absolutely not—Maya goes to the periodicals room of the library. There are newspapers from everywhere, even from Madagascar and New Caledonia. She thinks of the periodicals room as an asylum for homesick aliens. There are two aliens already in the room, both Orientals, both absorbed in the politics and gossip of their far off homes.
She goes straight to the newspapers from India. She bunches her raincoat like a bolster to make herself more comfortable. There’s so much to catch up on. A village headman, a known Congress-Indira party worker, has been shot at by scooterriding snipers. An Indian pugilist has won an international medal—in Nepal. A child drawing well water—the reporter calls the child “a neo-Buddhist, a convert from the now-outlawed untouchable caste”—has been stoned. An editorial explains that the story about stoning is not a story about caste but about failed idealism; a story about promises of green fields and clean, potable water broken, a story about bribes paid and wells not dug. But no, thinks Maya, it’s about caste.
Out here, in the heartland of the new world, the India of serious newspapers unsettles. Maya longs again to feel what she had felt in the Chatterjis’ living room: virtues made physical. It is a familiar feeling, a longing. Had a suitable man presented himself in the reading room at that instant, she would have seduced him. She goes on to the stack of India Abroads, reads through matrimonial columns, and steals an issue to take home.
Indian men want Indian brides. Married Indian men want Indian mistresses. All over America, “handsome, tall, fair” engineers, doctors, data processors—the new pioneers—cry their eerie love calls.
Maya runs a finger down the first column; her fingertip, dark with newsprint, stops at random.
Hello! Hi! Yes, you are the one I’m looking for. You are the new emancipated Indo-American woman. You have a zest for life. You are at ease in USA and yet your ethics are rooted in Indian tradition. The man of your dreams has come. Yours truly is handsome, ear-nose-throat specialist, well-settled in Connecticut. Age is 41 but never married, physically fit, sportsmanly, and strong. I adore idealism, poetry, beauty. I abhor smugness, passivity, caste system. Write with recent photo. Better still, call!!!
Maya calls. Hullo, hullo, hullo! She hears immigrant lovers cry in crowded shopping malls. Yes, you who are at ease in both worlds, you are the one. She feels she has a fair chance.
A man answers. “Ashoke Mehta speaking.”
She speaks quickly into the bright-red mouthpiece of her telephone. He will be in Chicago, in transit, passing through O’Hare. United counter, Saturday, two p.m. As easy as that.
“Good,” Ashoke Mehta says. “For these encounters I, too, prefer a neutral zone.”
On Saturday at exactly two o’clock the man of Maya’s dreams floats toward her as lovers used to in shampoo commercials. The United counter is a loud, harassed place but passengers and piled-up luggage fall away from him. Full-cheeked and fleshy-lipped, he is handsome. He hasn’t lied. He is serene, assured, a Hindu god touching down in Illinois.
She can’t move. She feels ugly and unworthy. Her adult life no longer seems miraculously rebellious; it is grim, it is perverse. She has accomplished nothing. She has changed her citizenship but she hasn’t broken through into the light, the vigor, the hustle of the New World. She is stuck in dead space.
“Hullo, hullo!” Their fingers touch.
Oh, the excitement! Ashoke Mehta’s palm feels so right in the small of her back. Hullo, hullo, hullo. He pushes her out of the reach of anti-Khomeini Iranians, Hare Krishnas, American Fascists, men with fierce wants, and guides her to an empty gate. They have less than an hour.
“What would you like, Maya?”
She knows he can read her mind, she knows her thoughts are open to him. You, she’s almost giddy with the thought, with simple desire. “From the snack bar,” he says, as though to clarify. “I’m afraid I’m starved.”
Below them, where the light is strong and hurtful, a Boeing is being serviced. “Nothing,” she says.
He leans forward. She can feel the nap of his scarf—she recognizes the Cambridge colors—she can s
mell the wool of his Icelandic sweater. She runs her hand along the scarf, then against the flesh of his neck. “Only the impulsive ones call,” he says.
The immigrant courtship proceeds. It’s easy, he’s good with facts. He knows how to come across to a stranger who may end up a lover, a spouse. He makes over a hundred thousand. He owns a house in Hartford, and two income properties in Newark. He plays the market but he’s cautious. He’s good at badminton but plays handball to keep in shape. He watches all the sports on television. Last August he visited Copenhagen, Helsinki and Leningrad. Once upon a time he collected stamps but now he doesn’t have hobbies, except for reading. He counts himself an intellectual, he spends too much on books. Ludlum, Forsyth, Maclnnes; other names she doesn’t catch. She suppresses a smile, she’s told him only she’s a graduate student. He’s not without his vices. He’s a spender, not a saver. He’s a sensualist: good food—all foods, but easy on the Indian—good wine. Some temptations he doesn’t try to resist.
And I, she wants to ask, do I tempt?
“Now tell me about yourself, Maya.” He makes it easy for her. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.”
“But many have loved you, I can see that.” He says it not unkindly. It is the fate of women like her, and men like him. Their karmic duty, to be loved. It is expected, not judged. She feels he can see them all, the sad parade of need and demand. This isn’t the time to reveal all.
And so the courtship enters a second phase.
When she gets back to Cedar Falls, Ted Suminski is standing on the front porch. It’s late at night, chilly. He is wearing a down vest. She’s never seen him on the porch. In fact there’s no chair to sit on. He looks chilled through. He’s waited around a while.
“Hi.” She has her keys ready. This isn’t the night to offer the six-pack in the fridge. He looks expectant, ready to pounce.
The Middleman and Other Stories Page 10
