The Blue Notebook (23 page)

We are in the bathroom and Hita is humming as she pins my hair when the main door bursts open. It is slammed shut so hard that the windows rattle. Mr. Vas is screaming his lungs out at Iftikhar. “You are such a spoiled waste of space. If I had my way …” Iftikhar’s voice is shouting too. “But you don’t have your way, Vas. You are Father’s servant. You do understand what a servant is? Let me tell you this, when I take over the Mumbai factories, I will have you sacked faster than you can light a match. I will personally watch you rot in the gutter.” Vas
replies with palpable anger, “If the boss lets you take over, don’t worry, master, about sacking me. I will throw myself in the gutter. Believe me, Iftikhar, he knows exactly what type of weasel you are.”

Silence ensues before Iftikhar’s voice is heard in its normal high-pitched tone. “Hello. Hello. Has my father returned to the office? … Oh, fine … It’s Iftikhar … have him call me immediately after his call.” The phone is replaced. Iftikhar says, “Let’s see, Vas, who Father really trusts. Didn’t you know that trust flows in the blood?” Vas replies, his voice now calmer and more measured, “Let me tell you, Master Iftikhar, I have worked for your father for more than twenty years and he knows that I have never put a foot wrong. You can go to hell.” Iftikhar emits a false laugh. “Oh, Mr. Vas, we shall see. You forget that Andy Tandor married my sister and Father got him the job in the ministry. He is like a brother to me.” Hita has stopped brushing my hair and we are both listening to the exchange.

Iftikhar switches on the television but immediately the telephone rings. The television is silenced and Iftikhar speaks. “Father, yes, it’s me. Thank you for showing me the factories today, they are magnificent … you are incredible … I know … I so look forward to that, I want you to be proud of me, Father.” Pause. “Father, I have a serious matter to discuss with you. You know the shipment of cotton we sent to Mauritius under that government contract last year … yes, that one … did you know that we bought it back from them at forty-five cents U.S. above the original cost per meter? Yes, of that I am sure. Just call Andy at home; he discussed it with me today … he is very concerned … he can show you the papers. You will be so sorry to
hear … I was devastated … it was Mr. Vas; he’s pocketing twenty cents per meter on the sale. I know you needed to know … you can ask him yourself; he is here right now.” I hear Vas bounding across the room. He pleads into the telephone, “Of course, boss … this is rubbish … of course it is … the young master, he’s pulling a great joke just to get you going … of course … of course, call him, we have all the receipts … yes, boss, yes, boss … of course … good night.” The phone is replaced and Vas says in a voice so quiet that I can only just make it out, “Why would you tell your father that? How could you, you bloody little shit? I have served your family since before you were born. Never did I once skim—not even a penny. I have cleaned up your messes and wiped your nose since you were in nappies.” Then there is noise, a scuffle. Someone has hit someone. There is the sound of a person falling and moaning. I start to get up to run and see but Hita pushes down on my shoulders and we remain in the bathroom.

Iftikhar then says, “Oh, that’s a tragic shame, Vas. You will greatly regret that. You will regret that for eternity, old Mr. Vas. By tomorrow morning you will wish that you had crawled on the floor and kissed my ass … now go, Vas … I have people coming over … go! Oh, one last thing Vas, make sure you screw your wife tonight, because tomorrow I will. When I am done with her, I will send her in my car to visit you in prison, and when you see her little face staring at you through the bars, you will know that I am done with her. Goodbye, Mr. loyal, honest Vas.” Iftikhar’s voice is too high-pitched to be menacing and so these threats sound like playground brawn—which sadly they are not. Vas has the last word. “I don’t know which of your father’s harlots you slid out of but if I had had my way, I would
have shoved you straight back in.” With this the door slams and Iftikhar roars with laughter.

He is still laughing when I hear the phone ring. “Andy … it’s Ifti … my father will call you in a minute … remember what we spoke about earlier … excellent … exactly … yes, twenty … see you later … yes, I have a real treat for you. We have a lot to talk about.” As the phone is replaced, Iftikhar’s laughter subsides as he calls out, “Girl, where are you?”

I do not think that Iftikhar realizes that Hita and I have heard the entire exchange but I suspect his actions would not have been affected anyway. I rush into the main room, with a bobby pin still projecting upward from my hair. “Where is your poem for me?” he asks, more jovial than I have ever seen him. He is in excellent spirits; his sleeve is smeared with blood. I fetch the poem from the top of the pile of paper that is still on the table and hand it to him. He reads it and looks up at me as I stand before him. “Well, it is better than your first effort. At least it is a poem this time! But it is quite depressing and lacks any real imagination.” I answer, directing my gaze to his feet, “Thank you, master, I tried my hardest.” He carries on, “As I said, it is better, much better, but you have a long way to go,” and with that he raises the paper in front of me and once again tears it down the middle and then tears it into small pieces. The pieces of paper flutter around his feet like leaves falling from an old tree.

I sense that intellectual pursuit arouses Iftikhar. He is certainly
the only man who ever asked me to write a poem. As the pieces of paper drift to the carpet, he retains his fixed stare at me. His stare is longer than is necessary to subjugate me, especially since the television is beckoning him. I remember that the only uninjured area of my face is my right cheek, and wonder if he is noticing.

Iftikhar picks up the phone and tells whoever is at the other end to bring him two beers. I am wondering what happened to Hita, having left her in the bathroom. I suspect that she is staying around to ensure my well-being. I remain standing and start to turn away, but then I see his eyes dart upward toward me. He forbids me to leave with a slight shudder of his head. He subsequently puts down the phone. He is watching a soap opera in Hindi. The hero of the soap opera is a doctor whose wife is having an affair with a businessman. The businessman is in turn cheating on his mistress, the doctor’s wife, with a younger woman. The doctor is especially handsome and kind (boringly so). As Iftikhar’s beers arrive, the doctor’s wife is secretly packing her bags to run away with the businessman (who will surely reject her). Iftikhar tells me to bring the beers to him from the table, which I obediently do.

Iftikhar drinks the first beer straight from the bottle in a single draft. He is in a good mood. He takes a little longer with the second beer, and then I understand. He thinks the beer will slow him. As soon as he slams the second bottle down on the table, he gets up, grabs my left wrist, and pulls me to the bedroom. Using my wrist as a fulcrum, he half tosses me onto the bed and stands in front of it. He undoes his brown leather belt and pushes his English-style tan trousers down over his tiny hips, which are smaller than mine. He pushes his trousers off
simultaneously with his shoes and then pulls his shirt off over his head. His skeletal form stands before me in socks and briefs. I have to pinch myself not to laugh. “Oh, master, you are handsome. I think you were so strong and firm with Mr. Vas.” As with all small men, I know that flattery will dissolve him. Iftikhar is about to respond harshly before he changes his mind and says to me, “You like that, heh! Vas is screwed! I cannot have him around when I take over Father’s company. You see, he is far too old-fashioned. It is time for new blood anyway in those ancient offices and time for new offices too.” He laughs at his joke and continues, “I am really doing Father a huge favor getting rid of that walrus. I bet you he
has
been skimming—that type always does—I have seen it thousands of times. You will see, he will be crawling in here tomorrow begging. Then we will see who the weasel is, eh girl?” “Master,” I say, “you are so shrewd. Please, come to me.”

I open my arms and smile, a smile soaked in the dreams of a thousand men. He smiles in response, an ugly S-shaped smile, chiseled from thin lips. I shuffle and sit on the edge of the bed and open my legs. He steps between them. His little candy stick winks at me through the cotton. I start to slide his briefs off over his hips. I only get them a few inches down when I see the first tiny pulsation and then the throbbing as he empties. A dark, wet patch spreads before my eyes into the cotton of his underwear. He stares down as if there were a foreign object taped to his groin. I see anger fill his eyes; it is like watching a glass fill with water. I am trapped by his body. His right arm raises high in the air (I see Bubba in him now). Hita appears in a flash and screams at the top of her voice, “Master, no.”

With his arm still raised, he almost jumps out of his skin.
He looks toward the bathroom where Hita is standing in the doorway. “Master, master,” she says, “please don’t beat her … you want her for the party tonight … right … I won’t be able to find you another girl quick enough if this one is injured.” He thinks about the plea for clemency and then lowers his arm, looks at me with revulsion, and says nothing. He walks into the bathroom, brushing Hita out of the way, and slams the door behind him.

Hita does not look at me or say a word; a moment later the main door locks behind her. Iftikhar runs a bath. I am still staring ahead into the space where Iftkhar’s damp patch was a minute ago.

Suffice it to say, I am looking forward to the “party” tonight with the same excitement as one of our pigs who sees Father approaching with his decapitation knife.

Iftikhar bathes for at least an hour before dressing. He dresses in English clothes: jeans, white shirt, and tennis shoes. When he comes into the main room where I am waiting at the table, his mood is difficult to read. His revulsion and anger with me seem to have disappeared. However, he too does not seem to be excited by the party. Tiger, as if a storm is rumbling a jungle away, is also edgy.

Iftikhar calls on the telephone for an assortment of beverages and foods before switching the television on. Thankfully, I have disappeared to him. After a little longer than half an hour, there is a knock at the door and three rolling tables of food and
drink are wheeled in. The men in white trousers and black jackets lay it out. There are savory dishes suspended on metal cradles over heating candles; two cakes, one decked in cream and another in chocolate; plates of cold vegetable salads; and fried foods. There is a large tureen of dahl and a tray of breads. There are bottles of different drinks and beers in a tub of ice. For a moment I feel like a hostess and thank the food men, only to receive blank stares in response.

I go and sit perched on one of my favorite armchairs (facing Tiger). Iftikhar has not spoken to me since the moment he was about to hit me and I am thankful for this. I sit there watching him but I am careful that the random glances he directs toward me do not find me staring back at him. I see an angry little man without backbone but there is also an attractive helplessness about him. There is something quite calming about watching a dog flail hopelessly in a fast river before it inevitably drowns. He is powerless in the face of his inadequacy such that it has taken control of him. Instead of being an engine driven by petrol, Iftikhar is an engine trying to drive on vinegar and desperate to understand why he cannot move.

There are loud, young voices outside the room and a
rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.
Two men swagger into the Tiger Suite with the bounding energy of the young. In contrast, I catch the gentle movement of the elderly doorman drawing the door closed behind them. Iftikhar smiles sincerely at the visitors and gets off the sofa. He hugs them separately with affection. I edge over to the table and stand watching them. Tiger growls momentarily but quickly falls back asleep.

One of the young men is beautiful. He is a head taller than Iftikhar and twice as broad. His body is lean and muscular; his
face captivates me. If I were to imagine a modern deity I would not be able to conjure up a figure as well carved as this youth. His cheekbones fall away from his eye line abruptly casting shadows over his cheeks, which are devoid of the plumpness of boyhood. His nose rises from his brow like an albatross and is perfectly straight and narrow. It drops away to form an urgent invitation to his mouth. I want to reach up and kiss his mouth and feel it press on mine; his lips have the fullness and softness of a young woman’s. His hair is dark and carefully swept to frame the top of his face with a hint of chaos. His eyes are perfect. They are shaped like headlights in motion, unflawed circles of fire with blazon tails. Fire pours from the hazel-brown wells of his eyes—full of promises never to be kept. Since most of the time he is talking or laughing, there is a gaiety in the dancing to-and-fro movements that his eyes make; I am hypnotized by them. Iftikhar watches me watching him, but I cannot pull my gaze from his. He is delicious and he knows it. His name is Jay-Boy Jay-Boy is the man of the group to whom the other two defer—he savors this. You would not plunge your hand into a furnace; men like this are dangerous.