Authors: Janice Pariat
Seahorse (22 page)
A Selection of Schönberg⦠String Quartet No. 1 in D minor, Op. 7, String Quartet No. 2 in F sharp minor⦠Andrew Drummond, Myra Templeton, Elaine Parker, Owen Lee. I'd searched for them on Google. Andrew, like Myra and Elaine, was a graduate of the Royal College of Music. He played the cello. Owen had studied at St. Andrews. Violin two. Which left Elaine with violin one.
The Guardian
had called them “a substantial achievement” while
The Independent
said Orpheus were “consistently inventive.” They'd been performing together for five years nowâat concert festivals around the country, even a few times at the BBC Proms. I'd also done an image search and seen what each member looked like. A generously proportioned man with a friendly face and a bow tie, another who was taller, more melancholic, with a head of dark curly hair, a slim, wispy lady, her blonde hair falling on either side of her face like curtains. Myra seemed as beautiful, her hair the color of autumn.
To my left now sat a middle-aged lady in a soft floral dress, while the seat on my right remained empty. Beyond that, the row had filled up. I glanced at the door, waiting for a face I'd recognize, but everyone who walked through were strangers. On the stage, carefully adjusted lights shone on an arrangement of chairs, microphones and music stands. A piano gleamed in the corner. It was half-past seven, but perhaps they were waiting a few extra minutes.
Finally, a lady in a navy skirt and blazer, walked up to the podium. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen⦠welcome to the third of our Accomplished Concert series⦔
The musicians streamed on stage and took their places. For a moment, I forgot about the empty seat on my side. Myra. Wearing a simple black dress, scalloped around the neck, falling demurely to her knees. I didn't remember her being this petite. Her hair now long, but
pulled neatly away from her face by a silver headband that caught the light as she leaned over to the music stand.
The lady introduced them; they bowed in turn, acknowledging the applause.
Perhaps it'd be occupied at the interval. Nicholas hadn't made it on time for the first half.
The first piece, explained the programme, was unusual for being composed in a single movement. It plunged immediately into urgency, the instruments braiding in breathless agitation. The notes liftedâdramatic, but refrained from resolution, weaving into one another, continuing as an endless spool of thread. Or persistent, unanswered questions. I watched Myra, her movements suddenly familiar, bringing back memories of evenings in the bungalow. The same intent absorption on her face, though something was missing. The passion for the piece. Perhaps she didn't love Schönberg as much as Brahms.
Halfway through, I closed my eyes; I could see why they were taking a break after this performanceâit was exhausting. It reminded me of a dream, of being followed in a dream. Schönberg had made certain there was no escape from the composition. It was contained, hemmed in by the notes, spilling here and there but never managing to flee.
When it was over, I opened my eyes to loud applause and the quartet standing and smiling. I thought for a moment that Myra had seen me, that miraculously I'd caught her eye, but she swiftly looked away.
“Thank you⦠we'll be back in fifteen minutes,” said Elaine, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her silver-green dress looked translucent in the light.
I stood up to have a wander, use the restroom; when I returned, I was certain, Nicholas would be there.
I took my time, strolling upstairs to the toilets on the first floor, lingering by the refreshments counter with a coffee. Walking back slowly,
down the stairs, the carpeted corridor, into the chamber that smelled of wood and musty velvet. The seat was still empty.
Then, at the door, I stopped and turnedâMyra walked on stage, followed by the others.
My-ra.
I made my way back to the seat.
The next piece was written when Schönberg learned of his wife's betrayal; she was having an affair with their friend and neighbor, a young painter. It was marked by painful clashes and sudden, plummeting drops, dark notes hovering around the edges. Sometimes, it was rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I listened numbly; I didn't understand the purpose behind this evening.
Why had Nicholas sent me here only to betray me again?
A puppet. That's what I'd always been. I wished I hadn't danced attendance this time, that I hadn't showed up.
Yet, at the end of it all, I could still meet Myra. Somehow, I must speak with her. I'd wait, until the concert was over, and seek her out.
The music finally ended. The room filled with clattering applause, extended in appreciation. The quarter stood, and bowed, smiling, and bowed again. Then they glided off stage, in a line.
I waited, until the crowd shuffled out, the murmur of conversation falling and fading. Slowly, the chamber emptied. Myra would probably be backstageâI slipped away to the side, and no one stopped me. The quartet were packing up, putting away their instruments. A bottle of wine stood open on a table, half-filled glasses. There were other people there, acquaintances, mingling, having a word with the musicians. I waited until Myra was alone, gathering sheets of music.
“Hello.”
She looked at me with vacant eyes, blue as an April morning.
“It's me⦠Nem⦠Nehemiah⦔
“Oh.” The word stayed in her mouth, round and perfectly formed.
Up close, I could tell the years had changed her, in small, surreptitious ways. Her face was thinner, as though time had washed away her softness. There was something about her that had hardened. Broken, and hardened, as though she'd melted and been recast.
Now, though, I could see it seeping through her skin, her lips, her eyes. A sudden vulnerability.
“Oh,” she repeated. She looked down at the sheets in her hand, as though she didn't know what they were, that they'd explain why I was standing before her.
“It was very good⦠the concert.”
“Thank you.” She'd adjusted her face, a mask of composure. “This is a surprise⦔
“A pleasant one, I hope.”
She lifted the corner of her mouth into a brief smile. “How did you⦠you know⦠happen to be here?” Her fingers fiddled with a silver bracelet on her wrist; she still wore rings, but they were discreet and more elegant.
“Your brother⦔ I decided to make it sound light, airy.
“What?”
“He sent me a ticket for this evening⦠I presumed he'd be here, cheering you on⦠but the seat next to mine stayed empty⦔
“S-sorry⦠I don't understand.” Her face had collapsed again into confusion. She glanced around the roomâpeople still mingled around, paying us no heed.
“Could we speak elsewhere? Shall we go upstairs?”
She gathered her things quickly, the viola case, her handbag, a smart winter coat.
At the bar, I ordered a whisky and, for her, a sparkling lime.
When I finished, she stayed silent for a long while. There were fewer people around now, the bartender was on the far side, talking on his phone. A couple were hovering over their glasses of wine. According to the signâ“Opening Times”âthe place would be closing soon.
“So, where is he?”
Myra finished her drink. The slice of lime dropped back into the bottom of the glass, amid the cubes of melting ice.
“I don't know.”
I knew she'd take his side, they were siblings after all, and blood, even half-blood, ran thicker than loose decade-old connections.
“Alright,” I said. “I'm sorry to have intruded on your time. And your brother's⦠I thought⦔
Myra laughedâa deep and wholly uninhibited sound. The bartender paused his conversation, the couple glanced over, disapproval flickering on their faces.
I felt a familiar spark of anger. Her joke, whatever it was, came at a costâmine. I finished the whiskyâthe alcohol flaming in my throat-longing for another, but last orders were done.
“I'm sorry⦔ she said, touching my arm. Even through my shirt I could feel the cold of her fingers. “It's just that⦠well⦠I can't believe⦠it's just⦔
“What is it?”
Her eyes were inky graphite, pinpoints of blue lead. “He's not my brother.”
I smiled, politely, saying yes, I too often expressed similar exasperations about my elder sister.
Something softened, the lines around her mouth. She reached out, her hand on mine, like something brought in from a winter's night. “No. He isn't,
at all
.”
If I hadn't believed her earlier, I believed her now.
From behind her, at the top of the stairs, emerged a figure in silver-green. “Myra,” she called. “I'm headed back⦔
Myra started gathering her things, pulling on her coat.
“Wait,” I said. “Y-you're leaving?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“But⦠I have⦠there are⦔
She started to say something, but her words didn't reach me. Elaine was waiting.
“Wait⦠can we meet?”
For a moment, Myra looked undecided.
“Please⦔
“Alright⦠tomorrow. Eleven o'clock. At Costa in Paddington Station.”
She picked up her viola, and joined Elaine. As they walked down the stairs, she turned, as though she'd remembered something, and then carried on.
If we grow into our past, more than we grow out of it, we live lives that are, in substance, acts of fiction. For memory, as it fades, must be embellished, made real by fabrication. Which is why it becomes impossible to discern borders, their lines of separation. Although the question is, would we want to?
Strip away the narratives of our lives. These small, valiant acts of rebellion. It would leave us bereft, diminished, clasping only our meagrely cold, hard nuggets of truth.
Did that really happen?
Does it matter?
One morning, at dawn, light filled the veranda, coming from no-where, and everywhere.
A distant secret source, a sun that couldn't yet be seen.
We watched and waited, sitting still and silent. In the aquarium, that entire universe, the fish glided, pecking at invisible specks, chasing each other around the rocks. It might have been a little after sunrise, when the seahorses started dancingâthe veranda now blazing with slanting light, new and radiant. We sat close to the aquarium, where the water trilled blue and clear. We watched the seahorses. Perched
close together, their tails entwining, moving in a slow, spiral dance. They stopped, faced each other, one bowed, and then the other, swimming in a circle, moving through air.
It's a dream.
I was on the divan, amid the cushions, when he swooped down in a single elegant movement and placed a finger on my mouth. His touch was cool, as though he'd just emerged from a shower, or the sea. As always, at that moment I couldn't breathe.
I was right; he must have been immersed in water, for the taste and texture of his skin was different. Damp, and woody, an underwater cave.
“Why me?” I asked.
He ran a finger down my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, the sliver of a scar. “The Japanese have a word for itâ¦
kintsukuroi.
The art of repairing pottery and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.”
From somewhere, like a long-forgotten song, a cool breeze swept through the veranda. Bringing with it a faint scent of lilies. It seemed the only sound in the world was our breathing.
This was our aquarium.
“What we saw this morning⦠the seahorses⦠they were moving⦠was that their dance?”
“It's what they do⦠a ritual⦠courting each other at dawn. They are strange⦠and beautiful.”
Like us, I thought. Like us.
O
N A MORNING LIKE THIS
, London could be the world's greyest city. A big-bellied sky pressed against the tops of buildings, their roofs and chimneys, while pale, pallid light clung to walls and windows, settling dully on the ground. The parks, unused and abandoned, cradled lakes of grey water, and the trees seemed extinguished, their leaves defeated by damp. It was rainingâan odd drizzle that made people undecided about opening their umbrellas. Instead, they buried themselves into their coats, willing to be warm, to shield their faces from the pallor of a lifeless sky. The city had awoken to monochrome, bereft of all color, except the splash of a telephone-box, a bus, the sudden silvery glimmer of passing cars. A city in long mourning for summer.
Inside the skeleton of Paddington Station, encased in ribs of steel, the aspect, perhaps given its containment, was more lively. Passengers scurried around, stepping off, and into trains, or headed underground, standing on escalators that traveled into darkness. A busker played her violin, the bow clasped in her frayed mitten-clad hands, and the sound rose through the air like a bird trapped inside the belly of an enormous beast.
Above that came the flatline call of automated announcementsâthe 10:45 First Great Western service train to Cardiff leaving from platform 5; the 10:57 to Reading delayed by twenty minutes,
We apologise for the inconvenience;
the 11:06 to Oxford departing from platform three. The 11:15 to Bristolâ¦
I'd ordered a coffee, and now another.
How long could I make it last? I sipped slowly, cradling it in my hands. The trouble was, in this weather, it cooled rapidly; soon, the liquid swirled weak and insipid in my mouth. I was at a small table outside the entrance to Costa, along a row of shops lining one side of the station. Above the grand doorway to my left, a three-faced Victorian clock counted the minutes between announcements.
She would come, I told myself.
She asked me to be there. She must show up. I didn't want to reflect on it now, but if she didn't we had no way to be in touch. We hadn't exchanged addresses, or phone numbers. We didn't have the timeârather it hadn't struck me to, in the midst of all her pronouncements.
He's not my brother.
I could still hear her voice, calm as a windless sea.
If I hadn't attended the concert, and stayed behind, I may never have known. No, the points at which to pick a moment of fated ruse lay further backâmultiple and many. This venue was, if nothing else, appropriate. Stations, airports, and docks are sites of infinite departure, reservoirs of potential journeys, of possible events, the slippery and fleeting, worlds aborted and almost born.
I looked at the train tracks, joining and parting, reflecting light.
How difficult was it to comprehend this web of connections?
This complicated intersection of lines.
At some point, we feel compelled to account for every decision, every circumstance that places us in a particular moment.
We paint a surface and leave no free spaces.
Horror vacui.
The fear of the empty.
In the end, we are all cartographersâlooking back at a map of our lives. Marking out the uneven course of our existence, hoping there'll be no disappearances, of ourselves and the people we love.
“Are you done?” said a bright, young voice to my right. A blonde pony-tailed waitress in a neat red apron stood at my shoulder. Her gaze fell on my unfinished coffee. “Oh, I'm sorry⦔
In the background, I could hear a call for the midday train to Oxford.
“No, I'm done, thank you.” I gestured that she could clear up.
“Would you like anything else?”
I hesitated. The three-faced clock made a mockery of my expectations.
“No, that'll be all.”
I pulled on my coat, buttoning it up tight, and wove a woollen scarf around my neck. As I walked away, headed down the platform toward the escalators, I heard someone call, “Excuse me⦠sorry⦠excuse me⦔
When I glanced back it was the waitress, approaching, holding a bit of paper in her hand. “I almost forgot⦠were you by any chance waiting for someone named”âshe glanced at itâ“Myra?”
“Yes⦠I was.”
“Are you”âshe scanned the paper againâ“Nehemiah?”
“Yes, I am.”
She smiled, pleased and relieved, holding it out. “A lady dropped by this morning, and requested one of us to give you this. She said she had to leave earlier than expected⦔
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome⦠I almost forgot⦠but no one else sat here as long as you⦠I should have asked you earlier⦠I forgot⦔ She was young, barely out of school, and I can only imagine the kind of adventures this encounter had conjured in her heart.
I said she'd been most kind, most helpful.
“Not at all.” She wished me a good day before hurrying back.
The paper had been torn from a notebook, the edges raggedly uneven. It carried a hasty scribble, an email address. “Write me.”
One evening at the bungalow, I remember, Myra was filled with a fiery energy. Her spirits soaring, driven by something unfathomable. Everything, she declared, would be transformed. The drawing room into a stage. The heaters lit and radiating warmth. The bar opened and displayed. The curtains drawn to withhold a secret.
In the center, her space. A stool and a music stand.
Everyone, she pronounced, must wear a suit for her soirée.
“A suit?”
“Beg or borrow, darling.”
“Butâ
“Find one. Steal.”
Nicholas, sitting aside quietly, said he'd dig out something suitable for me. He rummaged through his cupboard, throwing options on the bed. A pair of trousers, too long but they'd do. An exquisitely tailored ivory shirt. “Are you sureâ” I began. He waved the rest of my words away.
Finally, I was fittingly attired.
The get-up may have been bulky, but the bow tie, he remarked, was perfect.
Later, Myra joined us in the drawing room, where we were waiting with our drinks.
She sat beside me on the sofa, trailing her fingers on my arm, watching me with cool, clear eyes. She leaned closer when I spoke, her neckline low and flimsy. Her perfume heady, sweet like lilies.
What would he think?
I saw her glance across at Nicholas, sitting separate from us, on an armchair, but I couldn't decipher the look on their faces.
Did she want to rouse him to anger?
“Why don't you commence your performance?” Isn't that why we're here.” His voice was as smooth as the whisky we were drinking.
“When I'm ready, I will.” She turned to me. “Will you be my cupbearer, my precious? And fetch me more wine?”
I refilled her glass, and my own.
The room, ablaze with heaters, had warmed up; we were uncomfortable in our suits.
She wouldn't permit us to loosen our ties, take off our blazers.
When it was well past nine, she prepared for her recital. For that evening, she announced, she'd picked something by Brahmsâ¦
“Naturally,” murmured Nicholas. “Can't we have something else?”
She was stirring him like the wind whipped the sea.
“I'll play what's on the programme,” she said, “Brahms Sonata in F minor, Op 120., Number 1⦠Vivace.”
A lively, crescendo piece, that wavered between moments of long strung melancholy and fits of vivacious energy. Almost schizophrenic in their ability to exist alongside each other on the same page of music.
Like Myra herself.
She was with me, my arms around her waist, the dip of her hipsâwhile he was watching. Her breasts pressed against me as she leaned back and laughed. Then, it was all three of us, falling over each other, the alcohol flaming in our heads, clinging to someone's arm or shoulder. Soon, the night scattered, like snowflakes, into patches that fell out of our memories.
What I do remember was returning to the guest room, where I sprawled on the bed, the alcohol burning away all life. It was sometime before dawn, before light had flooded the sky, when a figure moved swiftly toward me, reaching for my shirt, my trousers. Undoing them with fumbling fingers. In the air, her perfume lingered, strong and heady, sweet as lilies. I said her name when the person leaned in.
“It's me⦔ He hushed into my ear.
“Myra,” I said, “you smell of Myra.”
It was difficult to push those memories away while chastely typingâDear
Myra⦠I hope this message finds you well⦠Will you be in London anytime soon?
In honesty, it hardly was that seamless. How should I begin? And end? “Love, Nem,” or “best wishes.” I spent an entire afternoon reworking the middle. Eventually, I kept it polite, and brief. After all, this was meant only to put us in touch.
A few days later, she replied, with a line of apologies, pleasantries, and affirmation. Yes, she was in London, but for a string of pre-Christmas concerts; it was a busy time. Perhaps it might be better if we worked out something elseâhow long would I be around?
At first, I toyed with the idea of suggesting a visit, I could travel to the countryside. I remembered Santanu saying I should get out of the city, for a break. Eventually I didn't. Somehow, I had the feeling I needed to be careful, in case I pushed her away with a gesture, a word. So I was restrained, giving her my dates, ending my message lightlyâ“Whatever, for you, is most convenient.” The edges of our emails pulsed with things unsaid, and unanswered questions; I suppose it was silently understood that we'd talk when we met.
But despite my caution, she didn't write back.
Everyday, I left my laptop on, waiting for the ping of a new email. Rushing to check when that did happen, only to find PR announcements for art exhibitions, or messages from Nithiâsomething related to work, an article due soon, a piece that needed editing. And when I was out, I obsessively checked my phone. What if I didn't hear from Myra again? What if she'd decided otherwise.
The screen ridiculed me with its emptiness, with its reiteration of her silence.
A week passed; it seemed endless.
It didn't help that all the while we were assailed by dismally wet weather.
And Christmas.
Both of which began long before the 25
th
of December.
Carols spilled out of shops, reminding everyone to be good, that Christ was born, and we must, in joyful unison, dream of snow. Oxford Street was lined by cheer mostly manufactured in China, and the city heaved under the relentless stamp of shoppers.
A bit like Diwali back in Delhi, I told Santanu.
We were elbowing our way through Covent Garden. Above us, gigantic silvery-red baubles dangled from the arched ceiling, wreathed by pythons of green tinsel.
“I think I prefer this place in the eighteenth-century. You know,” I said, “when it was a notorious bohemian red light district.”
“What?” said Santanu. “Oh, yes.”
This wasn't the first time I noticed he was distracted; lately, he seemed unusually preoccupied.
“And this weather,” I continued, “apparently the wettest December on record for a century.”
“They always say that,” he muttered vaguely. “In this country, every month sets a new bad weather record.”
“Is Yara coming?”
“No.”
“I thought you saidâ”
“Earlier she said she would⦠then today, she texted saying she couldn't make it⦔
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I don't know.”
We trudged past shoppers and loungers, digging our gloved hands deep into our pockets. The cold stung our faces like invisible airy nettles.
Yes, I replied, long ago, with my sister and other children from our neighborhood.
Instead of explaining why he'd brought it up, he said, “I wish we didn't have to go to this thing.”
We were on our way to the Institute's annual Christmas party. “Join us for some holiday cheer!” the email invite exclaimed, and it didn't seem like Santanu was in the mood for any this season.
