by Alyssa Cole
He waved again and her lips pursed. No matter how dashing he looked, he was still a man standing in the street calling for her like she was a doxy. Well, Bertha was a doxy, but no one treated her like one. Not anymore.
She raised the window and leaned over the sash.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” she said.
“Yes, come on!” He did a little dance while looking up at her, playful and flirtatious, and it moved her so much that she was tempted to slam the window shut and lock herself in her office.
That was when she noticed it from her peripheral vision; the way traffic slows when there might be an accident worth checking out. The street was packed with people strolling on a Saturday morning. Many of them had already swiveled their heads or stopped to see what was going on. She could already hear the gossip mill churning up a current stronger than in the East River. The former whore and her foreign lover. Bossy Bertha finally beds down.
She slammed the window down and adjusted her dress. If she didn’t go, there would be even more talk.
People see what they want to see.
She locked up and headed out to the street, slowly sauntering toward Amir, who was leaning into the driver side window talking to the man she assumed was Syed.
“Miss Bertha Hines, nice to meet you,” the man said cheerfully, but his smile faded into an expression of confusion as she ignored his hand stuck through the window, pushed Amir aside, gently, and pulled the door open.
“Pleasure to meet you, Syed. Please move over.”
“But—”
“Bertha, what are you doing?” She didn’t have to look at Amir; she knew his brow was furrowed and those frown lines were showing. She should have stayed in her office. She should have said no to begin with. The excitement that had woken her up early to prep and pamper herself faded, and she felt silly for thinking things could turn out any other way but bad.
“What am I doing?” she asked tightly. “I might ask the same of you, calling at the window like you were raised in a barn. Look around.”
His gaze moved away from her, took in the clusters of pedestrians who had stopped to stare.
“So? People are looking. That’s what people do.” She could see the hurt, the anger, there, but it didn’t matter.
She sighed. “People also talk. If it gets around that I’m getting hollered at and driven around by strange men, the respect I’ve worked so hard to build up will be gone, just like that.”
How could he not understand that?
Amir’s expression grew thunderous. “Strange men?”
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I know exactly what you mean, Miss Hines,” he said, then turned and stalked off to the other side of the truck cab. Bertha shut her eyes, but didn’t flinch at the slam of the door.
This was why she had sworn off men.
“Ready?”
When she opened her eyes, Syed had moved over and was patting the seat. She climbed up, allowing him to pull her inside when her skirt hampered her movement. Amir remained silent, facing resolutely forward.
Bertha pulled the door shut, waved at her neighbors and the others who had stopped to gawk.
“Look at you, Bertha,” her neighbor Delphine called out.
“Never too late to learn to drive!” Bertha replied in a voice that was two parts cheer and one part sass. Delphine laughed. Bertha had created the story, and no one would doubt it now. Amir would forgive her, wouldn’t he?
Would you forgive him?
Bertha’s stomach flipped and her eyes stung. She turned to Syed and gave him her best smile. “I really don’t know how to drive.”
Amir hissed something in Bangla and Syed replied in a placating tone.
“We can do this. No worries.” Syed showed her how to start the car and took over the pedal control, blushing furiously when his legs touched hers, as Bertha controlled the wheel. After a block and a half, they stopped and exchanged seats. Amir faced out the window, and Bertha supposed that she had been foolish to think stepping out with a man who wasn’t paying could have gone otherwise.
They had a long afternoon ahead.
Amir stalked about the kitchen of the hotel where the wedding was being held, growling orders at the men who had volunteered to help with the preparation of the buffet. It was a beautiful venue, the use of it a favor to the groom, who had worked there for a few years now. The kitchen was large and clean, with the nicest stove top he’d ever seen, but even that couldn’t lighten his mood. Syed smoothed over Amir’s rough orders with smiles and song, keeping the mood jovial as the men finished the preparation of the walima feast.
Bertha’s theatrics shouldn’t have surprised him, but they had, and that surprise had turned into a simmering anger that wouldn’t leave him, like a too-hot chili whose burn lingers on the tongue. It wasn’t just any anger; it was the foul, sullying rage that came with the humiliation of being reminded yet again that, here, he could not be seen as just Amir. He was a “strange man,” as Bertha had put it. He was something to be ashamed of. And that she was the one who had reminded him…
Amir thought of the letter from Sabiha auntie that had been awaiting him the previous night. The one that was crinkled and stained, with half his name smudged off because the letter had been rained on at least once on its journey from Bengal to Harlem.
How are things over in New York? Last you wrote, things were not so well. You didn’t say it of course, but I know you well enough even if I have not seen you for some years. I ask because it is time for you to come home. When you left for a short while, your cousin agreed to manage your land, and when he married, I did what I could. But now my Khoka is going to be a father, and I am going to live with him and his wife to help with the baby. That leaves the problem of your land. I don’t know what will happen if you don’t return; the land of your father and grandfather will likely be lost. I’ve asked before but now it is no longer a question: you must come home. Don’t you want to come back, find a wife, and settle down? Or will you wait until something breaks you as it did Raahil? You are stubborn, but you know what you must do.
The letter had kept him up all night, the tug of home and the possibility of a life in the States twisting him into knots. That and thoughts of Bertha, of the undeniable attraction between them, and the possibilities it held. Her civics lessons, and their talks, had made him think that perhaps there was a place for him in America. That once he knew how the system worked, he could begin to change it. And then he had pulled up with Syed and she had looked at him how a zamindar looks at peasants come to beg for a few days’ leeway with their rent.
“Azim and Maria are arriving soon,” Syed said as he settled beside Amir, his tone gentle instead of teasing. Amir swallowed the mean-spirited response that popped into his head. This was a wedding celebration and he needed to rid himself of any bad feelings—like anger, or jealousy—that could taint the auspiciousness of the day.
He nodded.
“Try not to take it personally, Pintu,” Syed said clapping him on the shoulder.
“What other way is there to take it?” Amir asked in a low, annoyed voice.
Syed rolled his eyes. “Boka. Always getting so worked up. Have you even said anything to Miss Hines about your feelings for her?”
“There are no such feelings,” Amir said stubbornly, then crossed his arms over his chest. “She should know how I feel.”
“The same way you ‘know’ that she intended to insult you earlier today?” Syed asked. “And how she knew that you meant to take her down a notch by making a scene? Ak daley dui pakhi. You two are a perfect match, truly.”
“You’re supposed to be my friend,” Amir growled.
“Yes, and it is a friend’s job to offer guidance when your head is stuck in your behind,” Syed said. “Perhaps instead of scowling your way through the rest of the day you could try talking. You do enough of it at the flat, keeping me up at all hours with your socialist clap trap.”
Syed laughed an
d Amir couldn’t resist cracking a smile.
“You always want to understand every little thing,” Syed said. “I’m not as smart as you, but I am not confused by what is happening with you and Miss Hines. Think with your heart and not with your ego.”
Syed removed the apron covering his suit and left the kitchen, but Amir dawdled. He was still angry, but then he remembered Bertha’s expression as she had marched toward the truck. Her mouth had been tight, but her face a mask of relaxed superiority. It had been the same look she wore when he’d found that man holding her arm and speaking low to her in the corner of the club.
Nothing I can’t handle, she’d said flippantly when he’d arrived, ready to defend her honor. Bertha didn’t need defenders though; she did it well enough herself. And him showing up as he had, calling her out into the street, had given her a whole new set of things to defend herself against.
Bloody hell.
He stopped in the bathroom to clean up, realizing that he didn’t know where Bertha was. He’d brought her to a strange place and abandoned her in a fit of pique. So much for showing her a good time.
She was easy to spot when he stepped into the hall, despite the bright fabrics that had been hung to bring life into the room that was normally sedate in shades of beige and brown. She was a beacon of forest green velvet, calling to him from across the crowded room. Her dress could be called modest in its cut and length, but the way it hinted at her curves without revealing too much of them was just as distracting. Amir wasn’t the only one who thought so.
She was surrounded by a group of men, smiling and talking animatedly with them, as if she was catching up with old friends. Fayaz, Syed, and several of the lascars he’d met since jumping ship were amongst them; all seemed enraptured by whatever it was Bertha was saying. He’d thought she would be upset, but she seemed to be in good humor. She said something saucy—he could tell by the way just the right side of her mouth curved up—and the men around her laughed. She wasn’t flirting, but she was certainly enjoying the attention.
Did you expect her to cry at your absence?
He walked over, expecting Bertha to acknowledge him and the group to part, but she continued talking and no one else appeared to notice him. He stood on the edge of the group feeling like he was the one who was a newcomer.
“They are here!” someone called out and the group broke up. Some of the men scrambled towards instruments that had been set up beside a dais. Amir approached her, feeling a tremor of apprehension that settled in his shoulders.
“All done setting up?” she asked politely. She wasn’t cold, or rude, but her words still sprung up in front of him like a brick wall. There was no intimacy, nothing to indicate that they were anything other than co-workers. He didn’t think she did it to punish him. He had put her in an untenable position then lashed out when she reacted accordingly; she was likely trying to make the best of things.
“I’m done in the kitchen. And I’m sorry,” he said.
She reached out and tapped his shoulder. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I got to drive a truck and I’ve spent the last hour chatting with some nice men who told me all about how Azim and Maria met. Thank you for inviting me.”
That was when Amir began to worry. Her tone, the cadence of her words, the calculated movements: she was playing a role. She was pushing him away, retreating behind her ability to laugh and smile and say just the right things. She was treating him like the girls at the Cashmere treated their johns, and she would only do that if he had treated her how johns treat their girls.
“Bertha.” He reached out and took her hand. He’d never held her hand for longer than a brief touching of palms as they danced before. It was soft—surprising, given how hard she worked—and not much smaller than his. And it was shaking.
A man he had met at past religious gatherings came by and guided them to a table as the band began to play. They took their seats and the door opened, and a beautiful bride walked in. She wore a traditional Western white wedding dress, simple and lacey, but her veil was a long, rich rectangle of fabric from back home.
It wasn’t until his hand tightened on Bertha’s, and hers tightened in response, that he realized they were still holding each other. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but if she was willing to allow it, he’d hang onto her for as long as he could.
Chapter 9
Bertha now understood why the bride’s veil was so long. It was draped over both bride and groom for this last portion of the ceremony, creating an intimate space for them even as they sat before a crowd of spectators. The groom held a small, ornate mirror in his palm.
“What do you see?” the man leading the ceremony asked. She wasn’t sure if he really held any religious position or was simply stepping in, playing the role required of him in a place where so few of the comforts of home were available to men like Amir and his friends.
“I see my future,” the groom replied in a voice strained by emotion.
He handed the mirror to the bride, and even through the thin fabric Bertha could see how their fingertips brushed and then lingered. The question was repeated.
“Veo mi corazon. I see my heart.”
The groom leaned in and kissed her then, and there were shouts of excitement and joy in the crowd, followed by applause.
Bertha finally pulled her hand away from Amir’s to clap, each slap of skin jolting something inside of her. She wasn’t one to get emotional at weddings; she hadn’t even cried at her own to Arthur. In a way, it had been another business transaction. But seeing Azim and Maria had ushered her into a corridor lined with possibilities she hadn’t thought within her reach, possibilities that beckoned her to throw caution to the wind and explore them. The feel of Amir’s warm hand in hers had beckoned as well.
“That was lovely,” she said as the band picked up again. The guests, mostly men dressed similarly to Amir and Syed, got up, some to dance and some to help set up the buffet of delicious smelling food. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said. He placed his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. Then that dark gaze, the one she’d avoided since he’d stepped into the banquet hall, had her in its grip. “Even if I didn’t behave like it after you got into the truck.”
“I apologize for hurting you,” Bertha said with a blithe smile, throwing his words from that first day he’d come into her office back at him. She couldn’t resist the reminder that this wasn’t the first time he’d had something to apologize for.
“I’m just grateful you know you have the power to,” he replied. His tone was low and urgent. “More than anyone.”
Bertha’s breath caught, and the mask she had donned during their silent truck ride began to crumble at the edges, to lift away and reveal the emotions swirling beneath. She couldn’t have that.
“Excuse me.” She stood and bustled away from the table, sliding through clusters of men lined up to congratulate the newlyweds and those heading for the food. She stumbled into the hallway and entered the first door she saw through a haze of tears warming her eyes.
Why?
Bertha knew she had power over men, one that had resided in her swaying hips and her clenching pussy and now rested on her denial of them. But she also knew that wasn’t what Amir was talking about. She didn’t want to think of what it was that drew him to her, or vice versa, because it frightened her. She’d never wanted a man for anything other than his power and Amir had none: not wealth or political capital or street cred. That didn’t stop her from daydreaming about their kiss, or from feeling an odd emptiness in her apartment when she stumbled in after closing up the Cashmere and he wasn’t there.
Foolishness. She had more important things to think of. The vote. The vice squad.
Neither of those things had driven her running into strange rooms on the verge of tears, though.
There was the click sound of the knob turning, then the door opened slowly.
“Were you in desperate need of a tab
lecloth?”
Bertha looked around and realized she had hidden in a linen closet. “I wouldn’t say desperate, but I thought I’d stick my head in and see what kind of linens a quality establishment uses.” She rubbed her hand over a pile of whites stacked beside her. “Very luxurious.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t notice if you borrowed a few,” he said. He tugged on a small chain hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the space, then shut the door behind him and leaned back against it.
A tremor passed over her skin, raising the tiny hairs, as she took in the tilt of his head and the jut of his hips as he leaned.
“Neither of us can afford to be arrested for theft,” she said. She was still stroking the tablecloths because she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Well, she knew what she wanted to do with them: cup Amir’s face, run her hands over that broad chest, slide her fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair. When she wanted something, she generally took it, but she wasn’t sure how to take this, or even what this was. It was more than desire, more than wantonness, though she very much wanted to be wanton.
Amir kept his eyes on her. “I’m guessing you didn’t run in here because you hate me, but now I’m going to ask because I think we need to make some things clear. Do you hate me?”
“You wouldn’t have made it over that threshold if I hated you,” she said, rolling her eyes.
He pushed off of the door and took a step forward. “Well, perhaps you fancy me then?”
“I think you skipped a few rungs on the emotional ladder,” she replied.
He came toward her then and didn’t stop until he was nearly up against her. His hand rested on top of hers to stop her nervous petting of the linen. In the silence, the music from the band filtered into the closet.
“I invited you here to dance,” he said in a low voice. “Do you want to go back out there?”
“Will it upset you if I say no?” she whispered.
