The Blue Notebook (24 page)

The second visitor is called Andy. It is clear that this is the Andy whom Iftikhar spoke to earlier. There is a conspiratorial feel between them that does not so much resemble the love of brothers as the mutual respect of thieves. Andy is round in every way. His face is round, his body is round, his arms, legs, and fingers are round. Even when he smiles, the shape of his mouth forms a curve that parallels the roundness of his face and runs parallel with a neat little mustache that curls over his mouth. He has little round evil green eyes. You could easily miss the darkness hidden in his eyes because when he laughs or
even speaks, he squeezes them shut to hide his intent. But as I watch him, I see.

There is high praise for the table full of food and drink. But once this formality is out of the way, they turn to me. Even with the makeup that was necessary to hide my bruises I know I am lovely. I immediately sense that Jay-Boy and Andy want me in different ways. Jay-Boy must possess me as a testament to his manhood whereas Round-Boy must have me as an affirmation of his. I am another food item on the table.

It is clear that the party is not yet complete. They are waiting for someone called Bhim. Although beautiful Jay-Boy may be the focus of attention now, Bhim is the master the others obey. They speak of him as soldiers speak of their captain. They constantly refer to his victories as if they were theirs. They describe with passion how Bhim beat this one or tricked that one. The mode of reference is similar to the way Wolf was described at the Orphanage; he says—you do. In fact, I get the sense that the party tonight was precipitated by Bhim and certainly the celebrations cannot start without him.

As the three boys sit on the sofa together and watch television, there is warmth and a palpable connection between them. Whether it is the herding of lambs or the affinity of boys, I do not know. The three of them sit on the sofa, jostling their bodies against one another, nudging one another’s shoulders, and slapping one another’s legs and arms. They entangle their voices in the same way, laughing and talking; one is always trying to outdo another. In an instant I am drawn back to the dining table with my brothers, who were always poking one another, fighting, and laughing. You could not help smiling as you watched them. Tiger and I watch these three boys and we both
smile. I am puzzled by our ability to connect distant moments of time as one. I pull the laughter from so many years ago to the present and feel the happiness that I understand only now that I miss.

The three boys watch cricket, principally at Jay-Boy’s request (I know that Iftikhar hates cricket). Jay-Boy and Iftikhar sit drinking beer straight from tall green cans and Andy is drinking a tea-colored drink poured from one of the bottles at the table. Their words are already slurring and their laughter is somewhat uncontrolled; they are not seasoned drinkers.

The laughter is silenced by the telephone. “Father,” Iftikhar says with excessive and insincere enthusiasm, “it is wonderful you called … I am.” Iftikhar is obviously interrupted and his tone changes. “He is here,” Iftikhar says seriously and indicates with his hand to Jay-Boy and Andy that they need to be silent. “I agree, Father,” Iftikhar says. He is looking at Andy as he speaks and now he is smiling at his co-conspirator. “I did not want to tell you at all, but I thought it was my duty … to me, Mr. Vas is like an uncle … I know, I know … he used to rock me on his knee. Father, may I ask you, now that you have discovered that Mr. Vas has been stealing, what will you do?” He raises his eyebrows and smirks at Andy, who grins in response. “Father,” Iftikhar protests, “I beg of you, please, please do not sack him. I am sure there is another job he could do, say in one of the warehouses … He has a lovely wife and they have children … oh, I understand … I have a lot to learn from you. You
are right, of course. If others saw you being lenient with a thief, there would be no stopping them. I will be sorry to see him go, though. Father, when will you tell him? Right now, are you serious? … I understand. I have so much to learn. Goodbye, Father … really it is Andy you should thank … yes, I will … he feels sad too as he knows how much I love Mr. Vas.” They smile again. Iftikhar carries on. “A few other friends are coming over too … yes, Father. Yes, she is. She is working out fine. Thank you … we will. Goodbye.”

As he hangs up, Iftikhar punches repeatedly in the air with his right arm and Andy starts clapping like an imbecile. Jay-Boy is eyeing me. Iftikhar and Andy jump up and perform a little jig in front of the sofa. They toast each other. “Ifti,” Jay-Boy says, interrupting the jubilation, “can I take your little toy here for a quick test run in the bedroom.” Iftikhar’s guard is down and he hesitates. Jay-Boy gets up and advances toward me but Iftikhar stops him. “Jay-Boy you’d better wait until Bhim gets here. He is bringing over some girls too … you know what he’s like.” Almost immediately, there is a loud knock at the door, from the other side of which I can hear giggling.

Enter Bhim, enter Bhim’s attendant, and enter two girls.

Bhim is of medium height and has unremarkable features, neither attractive nor ugly. You would walk past him in the street without noticing him except for the sense he emits of being in charge. He does not use extravagant mannerisms or a loud voice, but you can sense his authority. He wears a smart black cotton jacket, a white T-shirt, and jeans, and he is followed by a dog. His dog is a head shorter and broader than he is and is dark skinned, with a somewhat squashed face. The
dog’s eyes are hooked on Bhim and he says nothing; short of a wagging tail, he would actually be a dog. As Bhim takes a seat on the armchair nearest the door, his dog takes a seemingly natural position standing behind his left shoulder.

The two girls are much older than I am and clearly are attending the party on hire. Their paymaster is Bhim and they accord him the attention he has paid for. One girl, wearing an orange T-shirt, is very full-busted; this is her principal attribute. Her T-shirt is dramatically stretched over her bosom and has the word “Bebe” written across it in shiny stones. Each gigantic breast is larger than my head. I am impressed that the parchment-thin material retains her breasts at all, as they are poised like wild cats to leap from it. Her face is ugly and you can see where she plucks her chin hairs. She is wearing tight blue jeans that cover her generous bottom, and her black-heeled shoes are similar to the ones I am wearing. Her overall appearance is of a massive pair of orange breasts.

The other girl is quite lovely; she has long, flowing, shiny black hair, a well-proportioned body, and beautifully painted lips. She has a black spot on her left cheek just above her mouth, which I suspect is from ink. She is probably a little too beautiful, as this intimidates men even when money has already been exchanged. She is wearing a rippling silver top that falls away completely at her back so that her skin is revealed. Her back is so smooth and without blemish that you just want to touch it to see if it is real or porcelain. She is wearing tight white trousers, no underwear, and brown leather boots to her mid-calf.

The girls, like me, are not introduced by name. When I was in my nest I often used to think that I had lost my name
altogether. I had become an anonymous unit without any function; who names a broom or a table? The girls and I were objects and as such unnamed.

The pet dog is dismissed and leaves. He is the only one to address Tiger, who reciprocally bids him farewell.

The beautiful girl serves Bhim the same drink that Andy has and then the women help themselves. They do not acknowledge me. The party is beginning. Jay-Boy is still eyeing me and now that Iftikhar’s authority to deny him is muted, he takes me into the bedroom. He is easy to please and I am easy to possess.

He returns to the group and I wash myself quickly in the bathroom so that I can steal a little time to write. As I leave the bathroom, the ugly girl is reminding Bhim of long-forgotten days of feeding from his mother’s teat. He is lying on his back on the bed as she straddles him. She is feeding him her left breast by pushing its nipple into his mouth using both of her hands. He is clothed and she is naked. He watches me walk through the bedroom. She, again, does not acknowledge me.

In the main room, Jay-Boy is sitting in the armchair with the pretty girl on his lap. Iftikhar and Andy are together on the sofa. They are watching a music show on television. Iftikhar and Jay-Boy are smoking. Jay-Boy smiles when he sees me and calls over to Iftikhar, “You lucky man, she is quite a fox.” Iftikhar answers in kind, looking at me fleetingly as he speaks. “I rammed her the whole weekend. She cries for more all the time; she really loves it.” Jay-Boy interjects into the stream of
fiction, “I think Andy should take her for a turn.” The pretty girl says, looking playfully saddened, “Oh, come on, Jay-Boy, I told you I want Andy.” The pretty girl is smart as she knows how hesitant and obedient Andy would be; an easy student. Andy blushes visibly and Iftikhar’s goading makes him blush more. “Andy wouldn’t know which end to start. I’ll tell you one thing, Sheenah, his princess wife, doesn’t give him head—that’s for sure. Right, Andy?” Andy meekly responds, “Ifti, she’s your sister.” There is an uncomfortable hush broken only by Tiger’s laughter.

Bhim enters from the bedroom. “What, Andy gets no head? We’d better put that right, right, Andy?” Iftikhar adds, “That’s if he can get it up.” Iftikhar, Bhim, and Jay-Boy burst into raucous laughter at Andy’s expense. Andy reddens from embarrassment. Jay-Boy calls over the laughter (I sense with a sprinkling of malice), “Ifti, take Gee-Gee to the bedroom, she really wants you.” The beautiful one, obviously called Gee-Gee, interjects. “No! I told you I want Andy,” she says, playfully pouting her lips at a still red-faced Andy. Iftikhar responds, “I had the little bitch there,” pointing at me, “twice before you got here. I also want to see Gee-Gee on Andy.” I am not sure whether Bhim sees through Iftikhar’s front and so speaks mockingly or whether he believes him, but he says, “Ifti, I knew you had the rocks … I’m going to try your dolly, then … if she can handle it.” You see: “your toy,” “your dolly,” “the little bitch;” that is how they refer to me, but never as Batuk.

As Bhim beckons me to experience “the roller coaster,” as he refers to himself, I glance over my shoulder at Iftikhar. There is such a delicious flood of dejection emanating from him that I hold his sad stare for a second longer than I intended—
just to relish it. Suddenly, though, I feel a prick of sadness because I remember the moment that Wolf took me from Shahalad. The difference is that then I longed for Shahalad in a way I had never experienced before. Iftikhar’s humiliation is my yearning now.

In the bedroom, Bhim is surprisingly gentle. Young men generally use physical strength to communicate their potency. I appreciated long ago that this reflects a lack of confidence and immaturity. The overreliance on the physical renders them poor lovers, which is why, I suppose, their wives reject them. Bhim is different. He wishes to emulate an exchange of fondness between us. I see this more commonly in an older man, who oftentimes I suspect is married to a woman no longer capable or interested in providing affection. I can become a daughter to these men and provide them with the forbidden love of the powerless. It is rare for a young man to want affection from me, and it is tiresome because I have to extend my dramatic skills beyond the most simple of dances.

As we lie opposite each other, Bhim smiles and strokes my hair. He wriggles closer to me so that he is a handbreadth from me. He strokes my bare arm and smiles. “So,” he says, “Master Iftikhar is wearing you out.” I smile back at him and respond, “Yes, I am tired,” which is true. I have nothing to gain by affronting Iftikhar. It strikes me that I have not gained anything by being brought here; I miss the sounds of the city, the others, and even the heat. As I lie here on the soft bed in the cooled bedroom, I feel the tiredness for the first time and I want to fall asleep. Bhim smiles at me in a way I cannot decode; at its most simple it is a polite smile. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him and now strokes my bottom and my
thigh. He rubs my dress higher up my thigh so that my entire leg is exposed and I feign pleasure; if I had my choice I would slice his hand from his body. His grip is a mixture of strength and boniness, and with his hand now on my exposed buttock, he leans over me to kiss my neck. This is standard for many cooks. I coo for him and think about how sweet the mango was yesterday. He leaves saliva on my neck, which feels cold as it dries. I love being able to be clean. I will wash him off very soon. “Your lips are very gentle,” I say.