Bill went around the downstairs rooms turning down lights. “We need atmosphere,” he said. He got a small, tidy fire going in the living room grate and pulled the Turkish scatter rug closer to it. Lara didn’t like anybody walking on the Turkish rug, but Bill meant to have his way. The hissing logs, the plants in the dimmed light, the thick patterned rug: everything was changed. This wasn’t the room she cleaned every day.
He stood close to her. She smoothed her skirt down with both hands.
“I want you to choose the record,” he said.
“I don’t know your music.”
She brought her hand high to his face. His skin was baby smooth.
“I want you to pick,” he said. “You are your own person now.”
“You got island music?”
He laughed, “What do you think?” The stereo was in a cabinet with albums packed tight alphabetically into the bottom three shelves. “Calypso has not been a force in my life.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Calypso? Oh, man.” She pulled dust jackets out at random. Lara’s records. The Flying Lizards. The Violent Ferns. There was so much still to pick up on!
“This one,” she said, finally
He took the record out of her hand. “God! he laughed. “Lara must have found this in a garage sale!” He laid the old record on the turntable. It was “Music for Lovers,” something the nuns had taught her to foxtrot to way back in Port-of-Spain.
They danced so close that she could feel his heart heaving and crashing against her head. She liked it, she liked it very much. She didn’t care what happened.
“Come on,” Bill whispered. “If it feels right, do it.” He began to take her clothes off.
“Don’t, Bill,” she pleaded.
“Come on, baby,” he whispered again. “You’re a blossom, a flower.”
He took off his fisherman’s knit pullover, the corduroy pants, the blue shorts. She kept pace. She’d never had such an effect on a man. He nearly flung his socks and Adidas into the fire. “You feel so good,” he said. “You smell so good. You’re really something, flower of Trinidad.”
“Flower of Ann Arbor,” she said, “not Trinidad.”
She felt so good she was dizzy. She’d never felt this good on the island where men did this all the time, and girls went along with it always for favors. You couldn’t feel really good in a nothing place. She was thinking this as they made love on the Turkish carpet in front of the fire: she was a bright, pretty girl with no visa, no papers, and no birth certificate. No nothing other than what she wanted to invent and tell. She was a girl rushing wildly into the future.
His hand moved up her throat and forced her lips apart and it felt so good, so right, that she forgot all the dreariness of her new life and gave herself up to it.
DANNY’S GIRLS
I WAS thirteen when Danny Sahib moved into our building in Flushing. That was his street name, but my Aunt Lini still called him Dinesh, the name he’d landed with. He was about twenty, a Dogra boy from Simla with slicked-back hair and coppery skin. If he’d worked on his body language, he could have passed for Mexican, which might have been useful. Hispanics are taken more seriously, in certain lines of business, than Indians. But I don’t want to give the wrong impression about Danny. He wasn’t an enforcer, he was a charmer. No one was afraid of him; he was a merchant of opportunity. I got to know him because he was always into ghetto scams that needed junior high boys like me to pull them off.
He didn’t have parents, at least none that he talked about, and he boasted he’d been on his own since he was six. I admired that, I wished I could escape my family, such as it was. My parents had been bounced from Uganda by Idi Amin, and then barred from England by some parliamentary trickery. Mother’s sister—Aunt Lini—sponsored us in the States. I don’t remember Africa at all, but my father could never forget that we’d once had servants and two Mercedes-Benzes. He sat around Lini’s house moaning about the good old days and grumbling about how hard life in America was until finally the women organized a coup and chucked him out. My mother sold papers in the subway kiosks, twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Last I heard, my father was living with a Trinidad woman in Philadelphia, but we haven’t seen him or talked about him for years. So in Danny’s mind I was an orphan, like him.
He wasn’t into the big-money stuff like drugs. He was a hustler, nothing more. He used to boast that he knew some guys, Nepalese and Pakistanis, who could supply him with anything—but we figured that was just talk. He started out with bets and scalping tickets for Lata Mangeshkar or Mithun Chakravorty concerts at Madison Square Garden. Later he fixed beauty contests and then discovered the marriage racket.
Danny took out ads in papers in India promising “guaranteed Permanent Resident status in the U.S.” to grooms willing to proxy-marry American girls of Indian origin. He arranged quite a few. The brides and grooms didn’t have to live with each other, or even meet or see each other. Sometimes the “brides” were smooth-skinned boys from the neighborhood. He used to audition his brides in our apartment and coach them—especially the boys—on keeping their faces low, their saris high, and their arms as glazed and smooth as caramel. The immigration inspectors never suspected a thing. I never understood why young men would pay a lot of money—I think the going rate was fifty thousand rupees—to come here. Maybe if I remembered the old country I might feel different. I’ve never even visited India.
Flushing was full of greedy women. I never met one who would turn down gold or a fling with the money market. The streets were lousy with gold merchants, more gold emporia than pizza parlors. Melt down the hoarded gold of Jackson Heights and you could plate the Queensboro Bridge. My first job for Danny Sahib was to approach the daughters in my building for bride volunteers and a fifty buck fee, and then with my sweet, innocent face, sign a hundred dollar contract with their mothers.
Then Danny Sahib saw he was thinking small. The real money wasn’t in rupees and bringing poor saps over. It was in selling docile Indian girls to hard-up Americans for real bucks. An Old World wife who knew her place and would breed like crazy was worth at least twenty thousand dollars. To sweeten the deal and get some good-looking girls for his catalogues, Danny promised to send part of the fee back to India. No one in India could even imagine getting money for the curse of having a daughter. So he expanded his marriage business to include mail-order brides, and he offered my smart Aunt Lini a partnership. My job was to put up posters in the laundromats and pass out flyers on the subways.
Aunt Lini was a shrewd businesswoman, a widow who’d built my uncle’s small-time investor service for cautious Gujarati gentlemen into a full-scale loan-sharking operation that financed half the Indian-owned taxi medallions in Queens. Her rates were simple: double the prime, no questions asked. Triple the prime if she smelled a risk, which she usually did. She ran it out of her kitchen with a phone next to the stove. She could turn a thousand dollars while frying up a bhaji.
Aunt Lini’s role was to warehouse the merchandise, as she called the girls, that couldn’t be delivered to its American destination (most of those American fiancés had faces a fly wouldn’t buzz). Aunt Lini had spare rooms she could turn into an informal S.R.O. hotel. She called the rooms her “pet shop” and she thought of the girls as puppies in the window. In addition to the flat rate that Danny paid her, she billed the women separately for bringing gentlemen guests, or shoppers, into the room. This encouraged a prompt turnover. The girls found it profitable to make an expeditious decision.
The summer I was fifteen, Aunt Lini had a paying guest, a Nepalese, a real looker. Her skin was white as whole milk, not the color of tree bark I was accustomed to. Her lips were a peachy orange and she had high Nepalese cheekbones. She called herself “Rosie” in the mail-order catalogue and listed her age as sixteen. Danny wanted all his girls to be sixteen and most of them had names like Rosie and Dolly. I suppose when things didn’t work out between her and her contract “fiancé” she saw no reason to go back to h
er real name. Or especially, back to some tubercular hut in Katmandu. Her parents certainly wouldn’t take her back. They figured she was married and doing time in Toledo with a dude named Duane.
Rosie liked to have me around. In the middle of a sizzling afternoon she would send me to Mr. Chin’s store for a pack of Kents, or to Ranjit’s liquor store for gin. She was a good tipper, or maybe she couldn’t admit to me that she couldn’t add. The money came from Danny, part of her “dowry” that he didn’t send back to Nepal. I knew she couldn’t read or write, not even in her own language. That didn’t bother me—guaranteed illiteracy is a big selling point in the mail-order bride racket—and there was nothing abject about her. I’d have to say she was a proud woman. The other girls Danny brought over were already broken in spirit; they’d marry just about any freak Danny brought around. Not Rosie—she’d throw some of them out, and threaten others with a cobra she said she kept in her suitcase if they even thought of touching her. After most of my errands, she’d ask me to sit on the bed and light me a cigarette and pour me a weak drink. I’d fan her for a while with the newspaper.
“What are you going to be when you finish school?” she’d ask me and blow rings, like kisses, that wobbled to my face and broke gently across it. I didn’t know anyone who blew smoke rings. I thought they had gone out with black-and-white films. I became a staunch admirer of Nepal.
What I wanted to be in those days was someone important, which meant a freedom like Danny’s but without the scams. Respectable freedom in the bigger world of America, that’s what I wanted. Growing up in Queens gives a boy ambitions. But I didn’t disclose them. I said to Rosie what my ma always said when other Indians dropped by. I said I would be going to Columbia University to the Engineering School. It was a story Ma believed because she’d told it so often, though I knew better. Only the Indian doctors’ kids from New Jersey and Long Island went to Columbia. Out in Flushing we got a different message. Indian boys were placed on earth to become accountants and engineers. Even old Idi Amin was placed on earth to force Indians to come to America to become accountants and engineers. I went through high school scared, wondering what there was in my future if I hated numbers. I wondered if Pace and Adelphi had engineering. I didn’t want to turn out like my Aunt Lini, a ghetto moneylender, and I didn’t want to suffer like my mother, and I hated my father with a passion. No wonder Danny’s world seemed so exciting. My mother was knocking herself out at a kiosk in Port Authority, earning the minimum wage from a guy who convinced her he was doing her a big favor, all for my mythical Columbia tuition. Lini told me that in America grades didn’t count; it was all in the test scores. She bought me the SAT workbooks and told me to memorize the answers.
“Smashing,” Rosie would say, and other times, “Jolly good,” showing that even in the Himalayan foothills, the sun hadn’t yet set on the British Empire.
Some afternoons Rosie would be doubled over in bed with leg pains. I know now she’d had rickets as a kid and spent her childhood swaying under hundred pound sacks of rice piled on her head. By thirty she’d be hobbling around like an old football player with blown knees. But at sixteen or whatever, she still had great, hard, though slightly bent legs, and she’d hike her velour dressing gown so I could tightly crisscross her legs and part of her thighs with pink satin hair ribbons. It was a home remedy, she said, it stopped circulation. I couldn’t picture her in that home, Nepal. She was like a queen (“The Queen of Queens,” I used to joke) to me that year. Even India, where both my parents were born, was a mystery.
Curing Rosie’s leg pains led to some strong emotions, and soon I wanted to beat on the gentlemen callers who came, carrying cheap boxes of candy and looking her over like a slave girl on the auction block. She’d tell me about it, nonchalantly, making it funny. She’d catalogue each of their faults, imitate their voices. They’d try to get a peek under the covers or even under the clothing, and Danny would be there to cool things down. I wasn’t allowed to help, but by then I would have killed for her.
I was no stranger to the miseries of unrequited love. Rosie was the unavailable love in the room upstairs who talked to me unblushingly of sex and made the whole transaction seem base and grubby and funny. In my Saturday morning Gujarati class, on the other hand, there was a girl from Syosset who called herself “Pammy Patel,” a genuine Hindu-American Princess of the sort I had never seen before, whose skin and voice and eyes were as soft as clouds. She wore expensive dresses and you could tell she’d spent hours making herself up just for the Gujarati classes in the Hindu Temple. Her father was a major surgeon, and he and Pammy’s brothers would stand outside the class to protect her from any contact with boys like me. They would watch us filing out of the classroom, looking us up and down and smirking the way Danny’s catalogue brides were looked at by their American buyers.
I found the whole situation achingly romantic. In the Hindi films I’d see every Sunday, the hero was always a common man with a noble heart, in love with an unattainable beauty. Then she’d be kidnapped and he’d have to save her. Caste and class would be overcome and marriage would follow. To that background, I added a certain American equality. I grew up hating rich people, especially rich Indian immigrants who didn’t have the problems of Uganda and a useless father, but otherwise were no better than I. I never gave them the deference that Aunt Lini and my mother did.
With all that behind me, I had assumed that real love had to be cheerless. I had assumed I wouldn’t find a girl worth marrying, not that girls like Pammy could make me happy. Rosie was the kind of girl who could make me happy, but even I knew she was not the kind of girl I could marry. It was confusing. Thoughts of Rosie made me want to slash the throats of rivals. Thoughts of Pammy made me want to wipe out her whole family.
One very hot afternoon Rosie, as usual, leaned her elbows on the windowsill and shouted to me to fetch a six-pack of tonic and a lemon. I’d been sitting on the stoop, getting new tips from Danny on scalping for an upcoming dance recital—a big one, Lincoln Center—but I leaped to attention and shook the change in my pockets to make sure I had enough for Mr. Chin. Rosie kept records of her debts, and she’d pay them off, she said, just as soon as Danny arranged a green card to make her legit. She intended to make it here without getting married. She exaggerated Danny’s power. To her, he was some kind of local bigwig who could pull off anything. None of Danny’s girls had tried breaking a contract before, and I wondered if she’d actually taken it up with him.
Danny pushed me back so hard I scraped my knee on the stoop. “You put up the posters,” he said. After taping them up, I was to circulate on the subway and press the pictures on every lonely guy I saw. “I’ll take care of Rosie. You report back tomorrow.”
“After I get her tonic and a lemon,” I said.
It was the only time I ever saw the grown-up orphan in Danny, the survivor. If he’d had a knife or a gun on him, he might have used it. “I give the orders,” he said, “you follow.” Until that moment, I’d always had the implicit sense that Danny and I were partners in some exciting enterprise, that together we were putting something over on India, on Flushing, and even on America.
Then he smiled, but it wasn’t Danny’s radiant, conspiratorial, arm-on-the-shoulder smile that used to warm my day. “You’re making her fat,” he said. “You’re making her drunk. You probably want to diddle her yourself, don’t you? Fifteen years old and never been out of your auntie’s house and you want a real woman like Rosie. But she thinks you’re her errand boy and you just love being her smiley little chokra-boy, don’t you?” Then the smile froze on his lips, and if he’d ever looked Mexican, this was the time. Then he said something in Hindi that I barely understood, and he laughed as he watched me repeat it, slowly. Something about eunuchs not knowing their place. “Don’t ever go up there again, hijra-boy.”
I was starting to take care of Danny’s errands quickly and sloppily as always, and then, at the top of the subway stairs, I stopped. I’d never really thought what a stra
nge, pimpish thing I was doing, putting up pictures of Danny’s girls, or standing at the top of the subway stairs and passing them out to any lonely-looking American I saw—what kind of joke was this? How dare he do this, I thought, how dare he make me a part of this? I couldn’t move. I had two hundred sheets of yellow paper in my hands, descriptions of Rosie and half a dozen others like her, and instead of passing them out, I threw them over my head and let them settle on the street and sidewalk and filter down the paper-strewn, garbage-littered steps of the subway. How dare he call me hijra, eunuch?
I got back to Aunt Lini’s within the hour. She was in her kitchen charring an eggplant. “I’m making a special bharta for you,” she said, clapping a hand over the receiver. She was putting the screws on some poor Sikh, judging from the stream of coarse Punjabi I heard as I tore through the kitchen. She shouted after me, “Your Ma’ll be working late tonight.” More guilt, more Columbia, more engineering.
I didn’t thank Aunt Lini for being so thoughtful, and I didn’t complain about Ma not being home for me. I was in a towering rage with Rosie and with everyone who ever slobbered over her picture.
“Take your shoes off in the hall,” Lini shouted. “You know the rules.”
I was in the mood to break rules. For the first time I could remember, I wasn’t afraid of Danny Sahib. I wanted to liberate Rosie, and myself. From the hall stand I grabbed the biggest, sturdiest, wood-handled umbrella—gentlemen callers were always leaving behind souvenirs—and in my greasy high-tops I clumped up the stairs two at a time and kicked open the door to Rosie’s room.
Rosie lay in bed, smoking. She’d propped a new fan on her pillow, near her face. She sipped her gin and lime. So, I thought in my fit of mad jealousy, he’s bought her a fan. And now suddenly she likes limes. Damn him, damn him. She won’t want me and my newspapers, she won’t want my lemons. I wouldn’t have cared if Danny and half the bachelors in Queens were huddled around that bed. I was so pumped up with the enormity of love that I beat the mattress in the absence of rivals. Whack! Whack! Whack! went the stolen umbrella, and Rosie bent her legs delicately to get them out of the way. The fan teetered off the pillow and lay there beside her on the wilted, flopping bed, blowing hot air at the ceiling. She held her drink up tight against her nose and lips and stared at me around the glass.
The Middleman and Other Stories Page 13
