Disowned

by Tikiri

  It filled the room, overpowering everyone. The security guard gave a sharp salute. The two suited women immediately scraped back their chairs and stood up. Everyone craned their necks to look, as a tall and slender woman entered the room with the slow grace of a runway model. The hum of conversation trickled to silence within seconds. The remarkable balance with which this woman stood on her stilettos defied her age. Statuesque and lithe, with her shiny white hair swirled into a bun, she was nothing short of dignified. I sat back down on my chair quickly, my heart racing.

  When I’d called to confirm my appointment with the department, a grave voice at the other end had told me the wife of a distinguished former ambassador may be coming to judge our samples. He’d said the department had been disappointed with their caterers lately, and this “VIP” had been invited to fix an embarrassing diplomatic problem. “She’s got expensive tastes from the old days,” he’d warned me. “You must remember she’s a relic from the diplomatic era, when ambassadors were royalty.”

  “Okay,” I’d said, taking this all in. “Anything special I need to know?”

  “For one thing, you have to remember contractors are the untouchables.”

  “Really?” This was news to me. “You have a caste system in Canada, too?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about? I’m merely sharing with you the office hierarchy.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Just remember, consultants are at the bottom of the ladder. After them come civil servants like me. A few steps over us are the attachés and consuls, who make up the majority of the bureaucracy. Then several echelons above are the almighty ambassadors. You’ll be meeting diplomatic royalty. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “And remember, she’s not called the Diplomatic Dragon Lady for nothing,” the man had said before hanging up. I didn’t even get the chance to thank him for the mini-orientation to the diplomatic corps.

  “Good afternoon,” the Diplomatic Dragon Lady said.

  “Good afternoon,” we prattled back in unison, sounding like a bunch of kindergarten students.

  She stood in front of us, panning the room from one end to the other, quietly surveying each one of us. Everyone had been lounging in their seats, relaxed and comfortable before she walked in. Now, everybody was sitting up straight with perfect posture, looking earnest. Spellbound, we watched her watching us.

  The Dragon Lady looked like she’d written the book on dress and decorum. Immaculate in a black-and-white Chanel pantsuit and with exquisite white pearls wrapped around her wrinkled but elegant neck, she was obviously dressed for a formal dinner. Seeing her, I felt severely underdressed, like I’d been invited to a fancy ball but had forgotten to wash my sooty face.

  In a voice that displayed superior elocution, the Diplomatic Dragon Lady began the proceedings of the day.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been invited to help restore this institution to its former glory and move us away from this gray bureaucratic shell it has sadly become.” She paused and wrinkled her brows. “I learned last week, to my utmost horror, that our events serve coffee and donuts from a local franchise. From a local franchise! Unimaginable. I remember when we hosted events that served delicacies with such fanfare that our guests would talk about them for days. Those were the days, as they say in common vernacular.”

  No one said a word.

  “I am here to remind you that the winner of this competition will be catering to the diplomats of our country and those of other countries. Diplomats, ladies and gentlemen, not construction workers.” She gave us a piercing look. I wished I could sink into the floor. Construction workers and their families were, exactly, my target market.

  “I do not wish us to be mediocre. If I wanted mediocre, I would walk into any local catering company. What I am seeking is creative brilliance, the crème de la crème with a twist our guests will taste on their tongues for hours afterward and wish to come back for more. Your products must be of extraordinary quality. I will expect nothing less.” She spoke those last few words with extra vehemence.

  “Now, where are these samples, please?” She looked around her. The two suited women scurried to the table and began removing the cake tray covers one by one, with brisk efficiency. The Dragon Lady walked around the table with her hands behind her back, inspecting the cakes. When she got to the end, she gave a cursory glance at my tray, turned around with her nose high in the air, and walked to the head of the table, where one of the women was waiting to pull out her chair.

  The Dragon Lady sat down and unfolded the napkin on her lap, precisely and deliberately. The two women didn’t miss a beat. One of them poured her a tall glass of water. The other carved a thin slice of the butter cake and handed it to her on a gleaming white dessert plate.

  “Traditional butter cake with handmade icing-sugar flowers,” explained the woman in a low voice.

  The Dragon Lady took a bite.

  We watched, not daring to breathe.

  “Hmmm…” she said. “Not bad.”

  She put her fork down, wiped her mouth and took a sip of water. That was the signal for one of the suited women to pass her another sample. I heard a slight rustle to my side. The woman sitting next to me had a nervous twitch in her foot. I looked at her. She was staring at the unfinished cake on the plate with a horrified look on her face. Why’s she worried? Didn’t the Dragon Lady say it wasn’t bad?

  “Hmmm…” said the Lady, as she took a second bite of the lemon cheesecake. “Good. Quite good.” This time I heard a gulp from behind me. That must be from the maker of the cheesecake. Two bites, I thought, were better than one. She didn’t even look at my cakes.

  When the cover for the royal white cake in the center of the table was taken off, gasps went off around the room—and for good reason. The cake gleamed under the bright lights. This was crème de la crème material.

  “Aaahh,” said the Dragon Lady. “Well done, indeed.” The wedding cake got three bites. I looked over at the man—the only man in the room—who’d brought in this beauty of a cake. He sat with a smug look on his face.

  I began to sweat. Will she notice if I sneak out now? I wiggled in my seat, wondering how to signal to the suited women and ask them not to open my cake tray, to put it aside, throw it under the table—anything but open it and reveal my lonely cupcakes to this grand woman. Ignoring my flustered looks, the women got to the end of the table and removed my cake tray cover. I wished I could disappear.

  “What’s this?” the Dragon Lady asked, screwing her face as one of the women brought a peaches-and-cream cupcake on a plate. She took the plate and turned it around, scrutinizing the little cake with a puzzled look. She put it down gently, picked up her fork and hesitated a second before slicing into the icing. I closed my eyes tight and stopped breathing.

  “You say there are more flavors?”

  I popped open my eyes and looked at her.

  “I’ll bring the papaya and coconut next, madame.”

  “Did you say papaya and coconut?” the Dragon Lady asked, looking incredulous at just the thought. I thought I heard a mocking tone in her voice. I cringed.

  “Yes, madame,” the suited woman said, looking sheepishly at the offending cupcake. “That’s what the label says.”

  The Dragon Lady looked at us, her eyes wrinkled, as if daring the person who’d brought it to stand up and be shamed. I sunk further into my seat, but I couldn’t help take my eyes off the scene. I watched in fascination, like I was watching a macabre car crash happening in slow motion in front of me. She lifted a morsel from the plate to her beautifully lipsticked mouth, opened her lips ever so slightly and pushed the small piece of cake inside as delicately as the Queen of England would have. I didn’t see her chew or swallow. I only knew she was done when she reached for the glass of water.

  “These are different,” she said. “Certainly different.”

  Certainly different? As in who-let-this-riffraff-in certainly different? I was dying in my seat, wis
hing I were anywhere but there. My face was warm and my armpits were moist.

  The Dragon Lady signaled to one of the suited women, who brought the next cupcake. And so, the Lady took a small bite from each of my cakes, her face straighter than a poker player’s, giving nothing away.

  Finally, she dabbed her lips with her napkin and asked, “Might I ask what you put in these cakes other than the traditional ingredients?” She scanned the room with a serious expression on her face, while the suited women looked at us sharply. I sat quietly. I couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone speak.

  “Which one of you brought these, please?” one of the suited women asked.

  “I…” Just when I wanted to speak, the cupcake fairy had got my tongue. I put my hand up, feeling like a kindergarten kid who’d been asked to come to the front of the class.

  “Yes?” the Dragon Lady said, in the tone of a strict schoolmarm.

  I found my voice, stood up, and cleared my throat. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”

  “Well?”

  “I added spices and alcohol.”

  “What kind of spices?”

  I gulped. “Er…cinnamon with the pineapple cake, cardamom and cloves in the chocolate, and maple syrup and nutmeg in the peaches and mango cake.”

  “Interesting,” the Dragon Lady said. She raised a beautifully groomed eyebrow and regarded me.

  “And the black forest has lots of rum in it.” My nervous mouth had opened before my brain did. I almost kicked myself.

  “Rum? What kind?”

  “Jamaican rum.”

  “Jamaican rum?”

  Is that a smirk on her face? I stood quietly, feeling everyone’s judging eyes on me, feeling more self-conscious and silly with every passing second. I desperately glanced over at the two businesswomen for any signs. They were regarding me with shocked expressions on their faces.

  I shuffled my feet. Do I leave now? Am I supposed to curtsy before I go?

  The Dragon Lady picked up the remaining piece of my chocolate cupcake with her fingers and put it into her mouth. She swallowed noticeably this time, and licked the icing off her fingers. She looked elegant, even when licking her fingers.

  “Would you be able to make these with cognac?”

  “Cognac?”

  “Indeed,” she said, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. “A hint of Rémy Martin Black Pearl, perhaps?”

  The night before, I’d raided one of Dick’s half-empty liquor boxes and poured a generous serving of his cheap rum into my chocolate cake batter. I’d never heard of anything remotely sounding like Pearl, let alone Black Pearl. Did she mean a real oyster pearl? That reminded me of when Shanti, my Indian schoolmate back in Tanzania, had boasted about eating gulab jamun sprinkled with real gold flakes.

  “Sure,” I said. “I can do that.” My voice wavered. I couldn’t say no. Not to her. Either way, I was sure as dead now. Nothing I was going to say was going to save me anyway.

  The Dragon Lady was watching me closely.

  I put my hands in my pockets to hide my nervousness and instantly felt Preeti’s letter between my fingers, the letter I carried with me everywhere I went.

  What’s happened to me? What about my plan to make enough so I can go back home to Preeti? I stopped fidgeting. I could almost feel Preeti’s words come through my fingertips. I’d read that letter so often, I remembered it by heart. I straightened my spine and looked the Dragon Lady in the eye.

  “Madam, I can bake with black pearls if you’d like. I can bake with white pearls too, if you want,” I heard my voice say. “I am the best baker in town, and I promise you will not regret hiring me.”

  The Dragon Lady looked at me with a half smile. It was not a smile you smiled back to.

  No one spoke.

  “You have absolutely no clue what Black Pearl is, do you?” Her crisp voice cut through the silence.

  I heard a low snicker behind me. I shook my head. I couldn’t lie.

  Part NINE

  Just like moons and like suns,

  With the certainty of tides,

  Just like hopes springing high,

  Still I’ll rise…

  Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

  I rise

  Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

  I rise

  Maya Angelou

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The phone rang at the worst time.

  “Hello?” I managed to mumble through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  Dick was the only one who called in the mornings, and he called only in an emergency. I hoped our order hadn’t changed at the last minute. But there was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone. Did they just hang up? The dial tone kicked in. Why can’t people check before dialing? I thought as I hurried back to the bathroom.

  I had a long to-do list that morning, including a run to the specialty grocery store before heading to the bakery. My forty-fifth catering order for the Department of Diplomacy, Development, Trade and Foreign Affairs was due that morning, an order for two-hundred-and-fifty Cognac and Coffee Cupcakes.

  The faceless man at the department—the one who’d explained the diplomatic caste system to me the other day—told me, with sufficient awe in his voice, the defense minister, herself, was to preside over this fund-raiser. The order was a big deal for my client and me. Jose had reluctantly bought the smallest bottle of the highest priced cognac I’d asked him to buy the week before. He was as cheap as Dick, but he had no choice. We had a contract to follow. It was not exactly Rémy Martin Louis XIII Black Pearl, Limited Edition, of which I’d learned only hundred cases existed in the world, but it was miles ahead of Dick’s cheap rum. With two hours to get the order ready, I now had everything, except for one main ingredient. I’d run out of ground coffee beans.

  My life had taken on an exciting new urgency after meeting the Diplomatic Dragon Lady. The Department of Diplomacy, Development, Trade and Foreign Affairs had asked us to sign a yearlong contract that was as lengthy as it was detailed. It even specified the quality of flour and type of organic sugar I was allowed to use for baking, obviously an inclusion from the Dragon Lady herself.

  Ironically, just like Mrs. Rao used to, the Dragon Lady sent a menu to me every week, with special directions before every diplomatic event or party. Unlike Mrs. Rao, the Diplomatic Dragon Lady’s instructions were professional and beautifully handwritten on stiff paper with the department’s official insignia entitled “Catering Menu Request.” It was a pleasant surprise to not be subjected to barks or dismissive snorts for once.

  I wondered for a long time why she’d picked me over the others, especially the self-assured baker of the gorgeous top model of a cake. That is, until one day, the faceless man on the phone at the department explained. The Lady, he said, had been tired of the same predictable menu items. She had wanted pizazz and zing, but with a Goldilocks quality—not so crazy it would unsettle their sophisticated guests, but not so understated that people wouldn’t notice.

  My cakes gave just the right unexpected twist to the department’s parties, a twist that got everyone talking afterward. But there was something more which I believed clinched the deal. She’d been looking for a caterer who was not only good at the job, but also willing to take detailed instructions every week without questioning her needs. The baker with the top-model cake was really good, the man on the phone told me, but everyone in town knew he was a drama queen.

  I never spoke with the Diplomatic Dragon Lady again, but after six months on the job, I got a hand delivered letter on official paper, thanking me for my service to the department. It was the first time anyone had formally acknowledged my talents. When I showed it proudly to everyone at the bakery, Jose slapped me on the back with a “Good on ya,” and Dick grunted his approval. Katy promptly made a copy, got it framed and hung it up in front.

  A few times when I was making a delivery, I caught sight of the Dragon Lady getting ushered out of her white limo by the chauffeur. Whenev
er she noticed me, which was rare, she’d give me a brief nod with a queen-like wave. Never a smile, though. I knew her by then—she was not one to show petty emotions. Her focus was on getting the job done and getting it done right. Regardless, I’d wave back enthusiastically with my brightest smile, suppressing the itch to run over and say thank you, thank you, thank you!

  The word was spreading. My small cakes were becoming popular, and one day, we got the ultimate compliment. Katy took a call from the French embassy, with the caller saying the referral had come from the Diplomatic Dragon Lady herself. New world cupcakes for the land of croissants, chocolate éclairs, and Chef Pierre’s headquarters. When Katy told me about the order, I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and did a happy dance around the kitchen, while Jim eyed me with suspicion from the top of the door.

  From there, we got three more contracts. Before I knew it, five embassies were offering us catering jobs. Jose was pleased. I was bringing in clients and I was bringing in cash. I was also doing most of the work, baking and making deliveries with Katy. Neither Jose nor Dick lifted a finger. Either way, the two men seemed busy with other things.

  I’d just passed my eighteenth birthday and by now had spent more than three years in Toronto, but it was only in the last six months I’d been able to save, and I was getting close to my goal. Thanks to my arrangement with Jose, I had enough to buy an airline ticket now, but in three more months, I’d also have enough to pay off Kristadasa, Franky, the marriage broker and anyone else who might be lurking around and make it difficult to get Preeti out. It was insurance money. I didn’t want to arrive in Goa unprepared and penniless, so I worked furiously every day, saving every dollar in a box under my bed.

  Saving wasn’t easy though. Our rent had been hiked again, and if we were late by a day, we paid hefty interest charges, which Randy refused to reconsider. “You pay or you go,” he’d say whenever we pleaded our case. The apartment was getting expensive, and I was thankful Katy kept paying her half, though she spent more nights at Jose’s place.