Nothing Like Love (32 page)

Puncheon coughed and blinked his smarting eyes, flapping the smoke away with his hands. When he recovered, he tucked his T-shirt into his shorts, smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair down and swaggered toward the stranger. Puncheon touched the stranger’s shoulder and the distant look in the man’s eyes dissolved into warmth. Puncheon pumped the stranger’s hand with too much vigour. He smiled wider than usual. He tilted his head back and held his belly when he laughed. He made sweeping gestures with his hands. He nodded and widened his eyes when it was the stranger’s turn to talk. Then, when Puncheon had put on a grand enough show for his audience, he clasped the stranger in an embrace, throwing Rajesh a smug smile before he let go and swaggered back to the bar.

Rajesh grunted his annoyance. “Okay, so what your partner’s name, Puncheon? I never see he in the district before.”

Lal’s teenaged son, pimple-faced and frantic, dragged Lal away to adjust the television antennas.

Puncheon leaned against the bar. “Everything have a price,” he said. “The name of that fella go cost you a flash of rum.”

Rajesh scowled. “Everything have a price, but I never see you pay for a damn thing, Puncheon.”

Puncheon shrugged and hopped back onto his stool. He strummed his fingers on the bar and pretended to whistle along with the
Teen Dance Party
music, but he didn’t know the tune and it was obvious.

“No matter. I go ask Lal,” Rajesh said, shrugging. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

Puncheon nodded to Lal, who was holding the antennas in
place so his patrons could watch the rest of the program. “You go have to wait, then,” Puncheon said with a grin.

Rajesh sucked his teeth. He motioned Lal’s son over. “Bring a nip of White Oak for this t’ief, Shiv.”

Puncheon whooped. He wrapped his hands protectively around the bottle when it came and leaned in toward Om and Rajesh. “He name Ramdeo. He is a seer man from Jaipur Village.”

Rajesh’s eyes bulged and his glass stopped midway to his lips. “What a seer man doing here?” He shifted on his seat and peeped around Om’s bulk at the man.

Om clinked the cubes in his empty glass, trying to suppress his laughter. He remembered the night Rajesh’s terrible apparitions had pursued him down Kiskadee Trace. Rajesh had whimpered like a child all the way home and vowed never to touch bhang again. The only thing Rajesh feared was magic and the men and women who made it.

Puncheon poured himself a generous drink, ignoring Om’s and Rajesh’s empty glasses. “Don’t worry, nuh, man!” he said. “Ramdeo is a good fella. A healer. He does give me hangover herbs once a month.”

Rajesh reached, wary-eyed, for Puncheon’s flash of White Oak.

“What the hell is ‘hangover herbs,’ man?” Om asked. He was enjoying watching Puncheon exasperate Rajesh this way.

“If I knew, I would mix them myself.”

Rajesh, Puncheon and Om finished a bottle and a half of White Oak among them and joined the crowd gathering around Lal’s television. Everything felt liquid to Om now. He
braced himself on Rajesh’s shoulder and slid into a chair. “What you said is the name of this show?”

Nobody answered. The screen crackled and went blank and there was a moment of quiet before the room erupted into groans. Lal swung the antennas to the right and the screen came alive again. The men rejoiced and leaned in a little closer, arms resting on neighbours’ shoulders, chins propped in hands. “Don’t move, Lall-y!” someone called out.

“I love you, Lall-y,” Puncheon slurred. He was lying face down at a nearby table. When he hiccuped, his frame convulsed like a dying bird. Om reached to pat his back, but the table was too far and his hand fell to his side.

“Anyone can take Punch home?” Lal asked.

Silence. Everyone was watching with anticipation as the first contestant made his way onto the
Mastana Bahar
stage. He was a short man named Rasheed, with a moustache that curled at the ends. He sang “Aur Nahin Bas Aur Nahin,” but he arched his eyebrows and stood on his tiptoes every time he reached for a high note. It made his performance comical when it wasn’t meant to be. Lal’s patrons snickered through Rasheed’s performance and heckled him as he walked off the stage. Someone mimicked his singing with exaggerated eyebrow movements and the men exploded into laughter again. Om thought he sounded like Scratch and Blackie when they howled. When the next contestant walked onto the stage, someone had to stop Om’s mirth with a slap to the back.

Om quieted down, but his thoughts drifted from the television to Vimla. She would like this
Mastana Bahar
show. He wondered if she knew of it. They had no radio at home, and when was the last time Vimla had left the house? Om
hiccuped. Except to go to the cane field, a voice reminded him. He wondered not for the first time what Vimla had been doing in the cane when she was bitten by the snake. It dawned on him now that he had never asked. Om hiccuped again. Yes, he would just ask Vimla. She would tell him. And then he felt the hurt he’d buried surge to the surface. He remembered Krishna, and hiccuped. Or maybe she wouldn’t tell him after all.

Rajesh was shaking his arm. “Om! Om!”

Om turned his head slowly to face Rajesh; a blur of lights followed. A strange silence loomed in the rum shop. Om wondered if he’d said anything aloud. “What happened? Punch vomit?”

Rajesh looked horrified. “Oh Lawd, Om, watch the television, nuh, man!”

The television came slowly into focus. Om squinted at the screen and made out a young woman standing in the centre of the stage, regaling Trinidad in the sweetest voice. The camera zoomed in on her face and the men in the rum shop found themselves staring into a pair of sultry eyes, made up with thick sweeps of kajal. Her fanned eyelashes lowered like a veil and then lifted again slowly. Someone whistled. A smile crept across her full mouth as if in response. Dimples appeared then vanished. She rocked her waist and beat time on her thigh as she sang.

Somebody in the room sighed longingly. Om hoped it wasn’t him.

When the woman’s song came to an end, she half bowed, her eyes locked on the camera.

“Thank you, Miss Chalisa Shankar!” the host said.

The woman looked over her shoulder and winked.

Rajesh’s eyes bulged in his square face.

Lal released the antennas as if he’d been burned. The screen scrambled again. Nobody protested.

Puncheon clapped. “She better than Rasheed,” he said.

Rajesh stood up, wiping his hand over his face. “Allyuh fellas know who is that girl? Puncheon, you know who you clapping for?”

Puncheon mumbled something and laid his head back down.

“Chalisa Shankar,” someone said.

Rajesh nodded. “Krishna’s bride.”

Om stood, fell back in his chair and stood again. “You think Pundit Anand know he future daughter-in-law do
that
on
Mastana Bahar
?” He couldn’t help himself grinning.

Rajesh shook his head. “Not a damn chance, Boss.”

“M
other of mangoes!” Faizal yelped. He bounded down the stairs two at a time. He had to tell Sangita what he had seen. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his heart hammered against his ribs. News did this to him, made him giddy with excitement, made him forget the danger.

Sam screeched to be included in the fuss, but Faizal ignored him, leaving him to watch the rest of
Mastana Bahar
alone. He switched the lights on downstairs and peered over at the Gopalsinghs’ home. Darkness. That rum sucker Rajesh was definitely at Lal’s tonight. He touched the bruise on his cheek and cursed; it was still tender. Sangita was at Krishna’s maticoor, he realized. Faizal clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth next to the fence, thinking.

He couldn’t show up at Pundit Anand’s home on Krishna’s maticoor night to speak to Sangita. So few men would be there
as it was, and it would seem odd for Faizal Mohammed of all people to attend. Not only that, if Faizal sought Sangita out of the crowd of women and whispered in her ear what he’d seen, well, that would look suspicious. Speaking to Sangita had grown more challenging since his scuffle with Rajesh. People were always watching. Faizal sighed. He missed her sandalwood scent, but the last thing he needed was Rajesh Gopalsingh charging into his home wielding a cutlass in his face. Isn’t that what he had threatened to do if he ever found Faizal too close to Sangita again? Faizal winced. He was too handsome to be marred by a brute like Rajesh.

Faizal heard muttering. He turned toward the Narine home and cocked his head like Sam. It was Chandani. He knew by the clipped words. Faizal crossed his courtyard in seven steps and climbed onto one of his empty Coca-Cola crates. He peered over the fence, the puff of his hair and his eyes barely visible in the night.

“How it taste, Roopy?” Chandani was saying, probing Headmaster Roop G. Kapil with her severe gaze.

Faizal gasped and then ducked, covering his mouth with his hands. What was Headmaster doing at the Narines’ at this hour? He straightened again slowly when Headmaster responded.

“Yes, yes. Good. Sweet.” Headmaster chewed, crossing and uncrossing his legs, averting his gaze from Chandani’s. “Coconut, right?”

Chandani pursed her lips and tucked a strand of limp hair behind her ear. “Roopy, thank you for visiting Vimla.” She sat in a chair, her back erect, fingers knotted in her lap.

Headmaster pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked around the place, wary of the dogs, which lay on their
bellies, watching him. “Well, thanks for inviting me to come and see she.”

Faizal nearly stumbled off the crate. Chandani
invited
Headmaster to her house when Om was out? At this hour? With pone? This was not the prudish Chandani he so detested. A smile sprang to his lips. What an eventful night this was turning out to be.

Chandani wrung her hands. Once. Twice. Then she stopped and took a breath, plucking courage from somewhere deep. “Roopy, Vimla has had some bad luck.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her skirt.

Headmaster nodded.

Bad luck? Faizal thought. Vimla was too slack. That was the problem.

“I hear you ain’t fill the teaching position at Saraswati Hindu School as yet,” Chandani went on.

A heavy silence hung between them. Headmaster looked unsure if he should continue eating or not. Chandani seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “Consider Vimla again, nuh, Roopy? You know she bright,” Chandani finally said.

Faizal’s mouth fell open. He had never heard Chandani cajole anyone before.

Headmaster put the piece of pone travelling to his mouth back on the plate. “Yes. Bright. My best student. Most promising. But, Chand, as you know, Pundit Anand busy these days.” He gestured to the darkness, where the tassa was rolling. “I cannot make that decision on my own.”

Chandani tried to soften the line of her mouth into an understanding smile. The effect was unfortunate, ugly even.

Faizal flinched behind the fence. “Well, Roop, I asking you as a old friend to consider Vimla again.”

Old friend? Faizal wiggled his toes. He was near bursting with interest now.

“We both know,” Chandani continued, the edge creeping back into her voice, “that Pundit Anand already forget Vimla’s … error. He done move on! Krishna done move on!” The tassa from the wedding house seemed to grow louder, emphasizing her point.

Headmaster rose now and set the plate on the chair. He took Chandani’s hand clumsily, wetting his lips. Faizal thought he might kiss her hand, but then Headmaster said, “I go talk to Pundit Anand, Chand. I go try my best for you.” He cleared his throat. “Vimla.”

Faizal watched, amazed, as the stiffness melted from Chandani’s shoulders and she almost smiled. “Thanks.” She withdrew her hand from his like she’d been burned. Headmaster stepped away, embarrassed, and hooked his fingers behind his back. The dogs sat up and took notice at the shift between them.

“Okay, then,” he said, backing away. “Thanks for the pone. It was moist and nice.” He was trying to fill the silence between them as Chandani walked him to the gate. “You grate the coconut so fine I almost ain’t know it was there self. Delicious. Perfect.”

Chandani opened the gate. “Good night, Headmaster Roop G. Kapil,” she said, formal and crisp all over again.

Faizal shook his head from behind the fence. He would never understand that woman. She disappeared into the kitchen, and he stepped off the crate feeling giddy over the turn of events.

Sam squawked from upstairs.

Sangita. He needed to talk to Sangita. He wondered if she would be pleasantly scandalized by what he’d seen on television tonight, or if she would be outraged that the Govinds were giving their good name to a flirtatious songstress. Faizal laughed. Haughty, too, but she hadn’t shown that face to the camera.

And what about Chandani, begging Headmaster for Vimla’s teaching position? What would Sangita think of that? He knew, deep down, Sangita wanted that job to fall into Minty’s hands. She hadn’t said as much, but nobody read her body language or the messages tucked behind her words the way Faizal Mohammed did.