Queen of Dreams (28 page)

My serenity takes a nosedive. “How do you know?” I glare at her, then at Sonny. “Have you been taking her to the club?”

Sonny puts on his injured face. Jona rolls her eyes. “Mom! He brings his CDs home for me. The new ones, you know, the ones he’s been recording.” She pushes out her chest. “I’m the first one who gets to hear them! They’re really good.”

I stare at Sonny in surprise. “You didn’t tell me you were recording music,” I say, feeling unreasonably hurt. He shrugs and smiles but doesn’t offer excuses. Why should he? I don’t keep him informed of every little detail of my life.

“It would be great if you came,” he says again. His smile is as seamless as silk. But I, who know this man better than any other woman does (ah, the ego of the ex-wife), locate a telltale pulse beating in his temple. It’s costing him to extend this invitation to me.

Yet I can’t say yes. Whenever those images come crashing down on me—smoke and sweat, arms grabbing for me, hands holding my head, forcing my lips open—there’s always Sonny’s music in the background, throbbing in complicity. Can I ever hear it freshly again? All that anger and hurt that I’m working so hard at getting rid of, I can’t risk them surging back.

“I can’t do it right now,” I say, pretending casualness. “Too much going on. Maybe later—”

Jona glares at me. I can read her thoughts. Meanie. We were having such a good time and you had to ruin it.

“No sweat,” Sonny says, his tone as casual as mine. Does he guess my real reason, or does he think I don’t consider his music worth my time? Either way, he’s angry. I can tell because of the way his eyes change color, turning darker. I wish I could put an arm around him and explain my refusal, but I’m too prickly a person for that. I say my good-byes to Sonny and a Jona who stares frostily out of the window.

29

Rakhi

Business is brisk at the Kurma House. Our busiest time is in the evening, before the music starts, with a flurry of take-out orders afterward, but we’re getting a decent lunchtime crowd, too. The cooking is becoming too strenuous for my father. Though he loves it, sometimes I catch him massaging his broken arm. Belle and I help as much as possible, but we’re needed out front, to attend to customers. If business continues this way for another month, Belle says, we’ll hire a chef ’s helper. Jespal, who’s here most evenings, jokes about applying for the job.

“It’s more fun than my engineering projects, and I love the perks,” he says.

“Like what?” Belle asks.

“Free food, great live music, and the company of you two beautiful ladies.”

I hide my smile. It’s quite clear which of the beautiful ladies he really comes to see. Often, after closing, the two of them drive off into the night—a development, I fear, that Belle’s orthodox parents hadn’t quite intended.

This afternoon when I come in, the Kurma House is quiet. The lunch crowd has left. Ping has cleaned up already, so I let her go. I can hear my father whistling in the back, but Belle isn’t here yet. This surprises me. She’s always here before I arrive.

“You don’t have to come in so early,” I told her once. “Ping can manage lunchtime. You always stay till closing, anyway.”

Belle scrunched up her forehead. “I feel more comfortable if I’m around.”

“Honest, Belle, you’re getting to be like one of those neurotic mothers who believe disaster will strike her child as soon as she looks away. If it weren’t for Jespal, you’d probably move in here!”

She let that one pass.

The shop is full of the smell of singaras. I peek into the back room and see that my father has already cooked the cauliflowerpotato stuffing and laid it out on a large tray to cool. Oil is heating in our largest wok over the big gas burner. Now he’s rolling out the thin dough that will make up the skin.

“Hey, Dad,” I say. “How come you’re going to all the trouble of making singaras—and so many of them, too? Is it a special occasion?”

“Sometimes we should just make special things, no?” he replies. “Who knows if we’ll be around when special occasions finally arrive.” He glances at the photo in the alcove, and suddenly I wish my mother could see us like this, helping each other. Not much surprised her—but seeing my father in an oversize apron would have. Maybe it would have made her laugh.

I try to recall how she used to laugh, but I can’t. Everything about her is receding into mist.

My father sighs, then resumes rolling. He must miss her even more than I do. I make a mental note to drop by with Jona next weekend. Maybe I can get him to tell us some more India stories.

It strikes me that he hasn’t had one of his drunken binges since my mother died.

“And as for making so many, I don’t know. I just had a feeling this morning. I can always freeze the extra ones.”

“I’ll help you stuff,” I tell him.

He eyes me with uncertainty.

“Don’t worry! I’ve done them with Mom. And don’t try to take that heavy wok off the fire by yourself, okay?”

He frowns. “I can manage.” He’s as stubborn as I am.

I cut a circle into halves, the way my mother did it, form each half circle into a cone, fill it with the mix, moisten the top and pinch it closed. It’s a tricky maneuver. I set each one down on a floured tray, and wait. A well-stuffed singara, she once told me, doesn’t topple over. I am gratified to see that mine are staying put. I flash him a grin of triumph. He grins back.

The door chimes. “Sorry I’m late,” Belle calls as she rushes in, out of breath. “Rikki, I’ve got to talk to you! Mr. Gupta, please excuse us for a few minutes.”

I leave the singaras, intrigued. Belle isn’t the secretive type. In fact, she’s embarrassingly frank in front of my father, whom she’s taken to treating like a favorite uncle.

She pulls me into a corner of the store, looking at once excited and nervous. “Riks, what am I going to do!”

“You could start by telling me what’s going on.”

She takes a deep breath. “Jespal asked me to marry him.”

I give her a hug. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations!” Seeing the expression on her face, I add, “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting it! Maybe it happened a bit sooner than I thought it would, but I could certainly see it coming. Aren’t you happy about it?”

“I’m not sure,” Belle says. “I’m crazy about him, and I know he’s attracted to me. But I didn’t think he was serious, not in this way.”

“Why not? He strikes me as a serious kind of guy. Husband material, unlike the disreputable young men you generally tend to gravitate toward.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. Sometimes I think we’re too different. He’s so traditional. Like with his turban. Did you know, he really does have long hair under it. It goes halfway down his back, like that man in
The English Patient,
remember? The first time I saw it, I freaked out. Though now I must say it’s kind of sexy.”

“Well then, what’s the problem? You think his turban is sexy. He probably thinks the same about your pierced navel and your pink hair—”

“The name of this color is Burnished Burgundy, I’d like you to know. But seriously, you can’t build a marriage on sexiness.”

“Oh, child, I am delighted to see that thou hast finally drunk of the well of wisdom. This isn’t quite the tune thou wert singing even two months ago.”

“That’s your problem, Rikki, levity at inappropriate moments. In a serious relationship people have to think alike. He believes in living according to the Granth Sahib: physical purity, discipline, putting the family first, being a respectable gurdwara-going member of the community. Rules my parents pushed down my throat every day of my life until I escaped to college!”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’ll push anything down your throat—”

“He probably won’t. But those values mean the world to him. He didn’t just accept them because he grew up with them. He thought about them and struggled against them, but finally he was convinced they fitted him better than Western ways. And me— well, you know me! We’ll disagree on everything—and after some time, we’ll get tired of compromising. That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want us to end up hating each other.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I told him I’ll give him an answer tomorrow. That’s why I need your advice, you having been a married woman and all that.”

I give a dry laugh. “Belle, I’m not exactly the best person to give advice. Look how my marriage ended up!”

“And why
did
it end up that way? You never would tell me. Was it something Sonny did? Or was it what I’m talking about: irreconcilable differences?”

I think back on that night at the party, the blurry terror, the reaching out for help into a void. Was that the beginning, or the end? All those years I’d been in love with him, Sonny-my-savior. Except that what I’d been in love with was an image I’d painted over my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see.

“It’s complicated,” I say. “I don’t think you’ll have the same kind of problems. But since you have all these doubts, why not ask Jespal to wait a while?”

Belle sighs. “He doesn’t want to. He’s keen to settle down, start a family in a couple of years. His parents are getting old, and they want to see a grandchild before they die. He loves me, but if I’m not serious about our relationship, he feels there’s no point in continuing.”

“Whoa! That’s quite an ultimatum! I can’t imagine you with—what’s your preferred term? Rugrats? A passel of snot-nosed brats? Not to mention the in-laws! Can you handle it?”

She makes a face. “I don’t know. I find it quite terrifying to contemplate. And yet when I think of breaking up with him, all the independence in the world doesn’t seem worth it.”

“Belle, I don’t know what to—”

The doorbell chimes. When I see who’s walking in, I forget what I was about to say and gawk instead. It’s the manager from Java. She isn’t wearing her uniform, though. Maybe it’s her day off. Instead, she’s dressed in a shimmery skintight dress that looks like it belongs on the set of
Star Trek
. It shows off her sculpted muscles to advantage and brings out the lights in her hair, which looks silvery today. Her teeth sparkle as she gives us a smile.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt something? I thought I’d return your visit.”

Belle recovers first. “Delighted to have you here! Please sit down. Would you like something to drink? Maybe you’d like to try an Indian sweet?” She gestures to the display case.

“Complimentary, of course,” I pull myself together to add.

The manager walks regally to a corner seat by the plate-glass window. She gives me a measuring look as she seats herself, crossing her legs elaborately. Her short dress rides up to reveal thighs that look like they’ve never heard of cellulite. She glances at the display, wrinkles her nose elegantly. “I’m not a desserts person. I prefer food with a bit of a kick to it. I smell something cooking in the back. Maybe I’ll try some of that—if you’ll tell me what’s in it. I’m finicky that way. Better still, maybe I could talk to the chef?”

I can’t tell what her plan is, but I know I don’t want her to meet my father.

“Sorry,” I say. “Chef ’s busy.” I consider adding that our ingredients are a cultural secret, and it’s fine with me if she doesn’t want any. But she’s a guest in our store. So I say, “It’s a vegetable mix wrapped in dough and fried. Comes with a dip—”

“I think I could handle that. I hope you didn’t mind me asking, but foreigners sometimes put—uh—unusual ingredients in their food. And, oh yes, I’d like a cup of good American tea, if you have any.”

“I think we’ve just been insulted,” Belle whispers. “Except it’s too funny to be insulting. Did she really say ‘good American tea’?”

“I’m glad one of us thinks it’s funny,” I say. I go into the back, where my father has finished frying a batch of singaras. He makes a questioning face.

“Tell you later,” I say. I put a singara on a plate and walk over to the refrigerator where our chutneys are kept. The tamarind one comes in three versions: hot, hotter and incendiary. I put a spoonful of the last kind on the plate. That should give her enough of a kick.

When I take the plate over, the manager waves a hand. Her nails are silver, too. “Do sit down,” she says. “You don’t seem too busy right now.”

“There’s always work,” I say defensively.

“Ah yes, always work of one kind or another,” she says. “It’s the same with me. But evenings now, that’s your busiest time, isn’t it.”

It’s not a question. She’s been watching us.

“You get some strange people in here,” she adds.

I make an effort to hold on to my temper. “I guess it all depends on what you consider strange.”

“I guess it does,” she agrees with an ingenuous smile. “And the music—if you can call it that. It’s really—loud.”

Is that what this is about? Has she come to complain about the noise? “I don’t see how it could be that loud,” I say. “It’s just a few people singing and playing instruments. We don’t even have a mike.”

“Ah, but you don’t know how it sounds from the other side, do you?” she says, smiling sweetly. “That’s the problem. One of these days, it could land you in a whole heap of trouble.”

Is she threatening to lodge a formal complaint?