Nothing Like Love (36 page)

Puncheon sprang an inch off his chair. “Cheatery!”

The seer man’s eyes widened at Puncheon’s outburst. He tapped his lips with his fingers. “Cheatery, Parmeshwar?”

Om bit back his laughter.

Rajesh growled to life. He sat straighter and shot Puncheon a murderous stare over Om’s head.

Puncheon ignored the caution, gesturing as he clarified. “Infidelity, unfaithfulness, disloy—”

The seer man held his hand up and Puncheon closed his mouth. Om looked on, impressed.

“Rajesh?” the seer man said.

Rajesh cleared his throat. “Sangita ain’t any of those things, Mr. Seer Man.” He scratched his square jaw. “But is a possibility other men might try and seduce
she
.” His shoulders slumped.

The seer man nodded as if he knew all about it. “Sangita,” he said. “She beautiful, ain’t?”

Rajesh swallowed. “Yes, of course.”

“Real nice, Mr. Seer Man. Sweet like a ripe—”

The seer man closed his eyes for what seemed like an eternity and Om wondered if he had conjured a vision of Sangita without ever having met her. They watched him in silence. Neither of them dared to look away for fear they would miss some great display of magic that could change their lives, or else make for an interesting story one day.

Om hoped Chandani never learned about this visit. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the power of a seer man; it was the darkness of their art that frightened her. She sided with the mandir-goers and the pundits of the world—the people who prayed for blessings, not the ones who manipulated lives through black simi-dimi. Om might as well have been
running through Chance naked, being here. If she found out, Chandani would fall on her knees and ask Bhagwan what she ever did to deserve a dotish husband like Om, and if she was feeling generous, she might even ask Bhagwan to forgive him, but Om doubted that.

To the seer man’s credit, there were no snakes or dead chickens littering the room; nobody was sipping blood or tearing out their hair in madness. That’s what Rajesh had thought he’d find here, and by the way he sat barely breathing, he still expected a creature to barrel into the room and hypnotize him with her red eyes at any moment. Om did not take the seer man as seriously as did Chandani, Rajesh or Puncheon. Curiosity brought him here and he would leave satisfied, without any real desire to return.

The seer man’s eyes fluttered open. In seconds his glazed look sharpened. “Rajesh Gopalsingh—” He stood, and Rajesh shrank in his chair. “You must bathe every morning at five o’clock for fifteen days.”

Om saw Puncheon whip a sheet of creased paper and pen from his pocket and begin scribbling. It dawned on Om that he had never seen Puncheon write anything before. In fact, he had assumed years ago that Puncheon just didn’t know how.

“As you bathe, think about washing away your doubt for your wife.”

“I don’t doubt my wife,” Rajesh blurted. It sounded as flimsy as the dinner-plate hibiscus dancing in the wind outside.

The seer man stroked the black stubble at his chin, tapped his fingers against his lips again. “You do. You doubt she. If you didn’t doubt she, you wouldn’t be here.” He spread his arms as
if the oppressive square room with the jars and the upholstered chairs was a palace.

Rajesh hung his head. Om looked at his hands. Puncheon tucked his pen and paper back in his pocket and jiggled his knees.

“When you done bathe,” the seer man continued, “pick a flowers.” He turned his head at an angle and regarded Rajesh. “You have flowers in your yard?”

Rajesh nodded.

“Good. Pick a flowers and put it where your wife go see it.” The seer man stood and turned to his shelf of jars.

Om tapped Rajesh on the knee and gestured to the car outside. “Let we go.” He didn’t think it was fair to subject his friend to this foolishness any longer. But Rajesh shook his head no.

The seer man trailed a finger across the front of the jars. When he found one he liked, he tapped it. The clink of nail against glass was the only noise in the room. One by one, the seer man pulled jars from the shelf and set them on a ledge by the window. He unscrewed the covers and brought the jars to his nose and smiled. Om suspected smelling the ingredients was not part of the man’s work but an act that pleased him. The seer man dropped a pinch of each powder into an empty jar and gave it a shake.

“Rajesh, put this in hot water and drink it like tea. If your situation ain’t improve in three weeks, come back and see me.”

Rajesh accepted the jar and Om noticed his hand only trembled a little. “Mr. Seer Man, what about something for Sangita?”

“To make she less pretty, maybe,” Puncheon suggested.

The seer man shook his head at Puncheon. “The problem is you, Rajesh Gopalsingh,” he said. “You ain’t paying attention when you should. There is something preventing you from engaging in love.”

Om knew Rajesh wanted to protest, but he didn’t.

“And anyway, ain’t you said she faithful?” The question created an awkward silence. When the seer man realized Rajesh was not going to answer, he smiled and said, “It have a man who fall in love with your wife, Rajesh Gopalsingh. You must do as I say: bathe at five, pick a flowers for your wife, drink the tea and pay attention. If you do as I say, the evil separating you and she go disappear.” He snapped his fingers.

Some of Rajesh’s gruffness worked its way to the surface now. “Who fall in love with my wife?”

“Rajesh Gopalsingh, I will not encourage quarreling among neighbours. Fix yourself.”

Om felt he might as well have named Faizal Mohammed.

The seer man rummaged around in a woven basket filled with bags of herbs and handed one to Puncheon. “Your hangover medicine.” Then he flopped in his chair and closed his eyes—a dismissal of sorts—and Om, Rajesh and Puncheon filed out of the room.

F
aizal meandered through his frangipani trees with his hands clasped behind his back. He was thinking of adding televisions to his shop inventory. After last night, Faizal realized Trinidadians wanted more than just radio; they wanted to see the world—and themselves. They needed television, and he would give it to them.

“Is a good plan, Sam. What you think?” Faizal said. Sam was perched in the frangipani tree with the pink blossoms. He took two steps to the right, one to the left and finished with a small bob. Faizal grinned. “Sweet, sweet parrot,” he cooed.

“Faizal, that parrot does get more attention than me!”

Faizal glanced over his shoulder. Sangita was fingering the soft white petals on another tree. She smiled at him, secret and suggestive. “Well, stay with me, nuh, and you go get more attention,” Faizal replied. He wondered if she knew he was only half joking.

Sangita crossed the yard. Her hips swayed with each step. Her blouse rippled over the curves beneath it. Faizal’s breath caught in his throat. “An unexpected visit from Mrs. Gopalsingh, Sam. How lucky we are,” he said, hoping to cover his pleasure in dryness.

She drew near, arching an eyebrow. “I only come to see how you keeping, Faizal.” She stared at his cheek where the purple bruise had paled into something dirty and grey. She touched the bruise so lightly it could have been the wind.

Sangita never came just to see how he was keeping. She was a hungry cat always stalking something; sometimes it was gossip, other times company and always, always affection. Faizal never minded. He gave her everything willingly. Perhaps that’s why he could not hold her.

“Mr. Gopalsingh is suspicious, Mrs. Gopalsingh. Is that why you come? So he could come here and break my ass?”

Sangita pouted. “He gone somewhere with Om, Faizal.”

Faizal shook his head. “The two of them is like a pair of anti-man,” he muttered as Sam stepped onto his extended finger. Sangita gasped, but she did not storm away. A good sign. “I ain’t know why they doesn’t just build a shack and live together.”

“Faizal Mohammed!” Sangita exclaimed. She swatted his arm.

His heart danced. She was even more luscious in a huff. “And Minty? Where she gone?”

“By Vimla.”

Faizal paused, distracted by the rise and fall of Sangita’s chest as she sighed. “What happen to Vimla? She still stick?” he asked. He forced the worry away, irritated with himself.

“She foot better. Is the fever that have she still lock up in she room.” Sangita’s blouse whispered against Faizal’s arm as they strolled. “I doesn’t wish people bad, Faizal.” She lowered her voice. “But I think is better Vimla remain in she room for a while. The girl does behave so wild! How she
really
get bite by a macajuel? That is what
I
want to know.”

They rounded the orange hibiscus. Sam squawked. Faizal set him on his shoulder and said nothing.

“I does feel sorry for Chandani sometimes. That woman straight like a needle and she daughter come out like a fireworks.”

A tendril of hair escaped her plait and dangled alongside her face. Faizal resisted the urge to tuck it away. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Could you imagine Vimla teaching at Saraswati Hindu School?”

Faizal did not particularly care for Vimla, but he thought the young children of the district might. There was no denying her spark. She would make the classroom come alive in ways the older, more conservative teachers couldn’t. He held his tongue and veered closer to Sangita so that her shoulder grazed his biceps.

“Is a good thing I talk to Pundit Anand about Minty,” Sangita mused.

“Minty?”

“Of course!” The high pitch of Sangita’s voice vexed Sam. He squawked back at her and inched toward Faizal’s ear. “Minty go teach at Saraswati Hindu School instead of Vimla.”

Faizal didn’t know why this made him uncomfortable. “But Minty ain’t write she exams yet. Pundit Anand wouldn’t just
put any and anybody in the school. And neither Headmaster,” he added as an afterthought.

Sangita waved her hand. The bangles at her wrist slid to her elbow and clinked. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. “A minor detail!”

“And so how you manage to convince Pundit Anand and Headmaster?”

She stopped and turned to him, tilting her face to the sun as she laughed. “Oh, Faizal! Ain’t you know me and Maya is good friends?” Sangita trailed a finger across his bruise again. “Besides, people doesn’t tell me no.”

Sangita and Maya’s unlikely friendship had sprung from the ruins of Vimla’s reputation. Faizal never knew what Sangita had suddenly found in common with Pundit Anand’s worrisome wife, but now he understood. She had been spilling Minty’s good merits into Maya’s ear, priming her to speak to Anand on her behalf for the coveted teaching position at Saraswati Hindu School. He wondered if in the process Sangita had sullied Vimla’s name into the ground to ensure she fell out of the running for good. He wondered why he even cared.

Faizal caught Sangita’s fingers in his. Her feline eyes glowed before she hid them behind a fringe of dark lashes. He pressed her fingers to his lips.

“Faizal!” she said, but she made no effort to pull her fingers away. “Minty go be home soon.” And then her face changed as if she’d remembered something horrible.

“What happened?”

Sangita reclaimed her fingers and fished into her skirt pocket. “Look what I find.” She dropped the gold chain into
Faizal’s hand with a clink. He saw her open her mouth to say something more and decide against it.

Faizal fastened the chain around his neck. “I guess you ain’t find the pendant,” he said. His face remained impassive, but he knew it was impossible for Sangita to suddenly
find
his chain. Minty was not a careless girl and his chain had been in her safekeeping for weeks. What was Sangita not telling him?

Her lips twitched with another lie. She looked away under his watchful eye. “No. I ain’t know how the pendant fall out, Faizal,” Sangita said. Her words dripped with sweetness. “I go look again.”

Faizal nodded, amused. “Where you find it?”

“In my sewing room!” Sangita smiled now. “I have so much fabric and clothes lying all over the place is no wonder it loss for so long.” She touched the chain and her fingers brushed his skin, feverish with longing. “You know, Faizal, I think that pendant hook up on a piece of cloth somewhere.”

Faizal suppressed his laughter. He slipped his arm around Sangita’s waist and began to walk, linking the pieces together in his mind. He believed Sangita when she said she discovered the chain in her sewing room. That’s precisely the place Minty would leave it if she wanted to startle—even threaten—her mother. And of course, Minty had kept the pendant. She had shown him it the day Vimla was bit by the snake. It was the key to her blackmailing him, and it would keep Sangita in check, too. He smiled despite himself. Minty was cunning—he gave her that much. But what had upset Minty so much to make her leave the chain for Sangita to find? Faizal looked down at the woman by his side and knew that he would not find out from her.

“Faizal?” She leaned into him as they walked. “What you was going to tell me last night? About Chandani?” She was fishing for something to quell her own anxiety. This was the reason she was here.