The Cambridge Curry Club (21 page)

He stayed until midnight, boldly uncorking a
Merlot
from his wine rack. He narrated his battles with El Salvio, and she laughed, tears streaming. As he left, carrying the bunch of red seedless grapes she had hastily packed into a Tesco carrier bag, he turned to see her in the hallway, her reddish hair framed by its light. From where he was standing it looked like a halo.

The day after he first met Durga, Roman waited impatiently in the travel section at Heffers. It had been a mistake for him to suggest the bookshop, he realised. Teresa might be lurking behind the shelves, red and ready. He decided not to look at his watch again. It would only confirm one fact: Durga was not coming. She was already an hour and ten minutes late, and there could be no mistake about the place or time. Although he had supplied his telephone number, she had merely stated cryptically that she would be there.

He walked away, through All Saint’s Passage,
turning
right onto Sidney Street, and up St Andrew’s Street and Regent Street, turning left at Gonville Place, past the Parkside swimming pool and onto Mill Road, his steps treading a furious mile.

He stood speechless, staring at the exterior of the charity shop. A red and white ticker tape had been placed around the entrance, sealing all access. The
ceiling
appeared to have collapsed; all he could see was
debris inside the shop. Fear seized him as he stared, all recrimination and reproach banished.

The blonde florist at Sunflowers was happy to tell him the sad news; the entire ceiling had caved in that morning, but the shop had already been closed. A small part of it had collapsed the previous evening while the volunteers were still inside, but they were unharmed. The police had already visited and so had the shop’s director. The secretary at the solicitor’s firm two doors down was of the opinion that IndiaNeed would not re-open, she added.

Roman was calming a thumping heart. Where were the volunteers? he asked. Were they operating out of other premises? Did she know the woman called Durga? He began to describe her – slim, tall, shiny shoulder-length hair, dark-brown eyes, full lips – and the blonde florist turned more wistful as she saw the soft light in his eyes matching the velvet of the scarlet blooms. He dashed out of the shop when she could help no further, having spotted her freckled assistant
moodily
scuffing a shoe against the pavement.

‘Hi, remember me?’ said Roman urgently. ‘I delivered your roses for you to that shop over there. I met you yesterday. I delivered the bouquet for you, remember? You had to see your girlfriend. It was only yesterday. Wake up, man!’ Roman smacked the lad’s cheeks between his hands.

‘She dumped me,’ said the lad morosely.

‘That’s too bad. Listen, did you know Durga, who worked at IndiaNeed? She’s Indian. Slim, beautiful, shoulder-length black hair? Did you know any of the people there? Do you know where they live – anything? Come on, man.’

The lad was unable to oblige, sinking into a witless stupor. Roman felt a sudden compassion for the
woebegone
Cupid. ‘Listen, man, you’ve got to pull yourself together,’ he advised. ‘If you really love her, then you’ll find a way. Give her a dozen red roses. Don’t you get a discount? Plus chocolates and a heart-shaped card. Maybe a big red balloon too? You’re a good-looking fella, bet you know what to do. Go for it.’

The freckled lad listened before slumping moodily again against the unforgiving wall as Roman returned to the blonde florist.

‘Nick’s a good lad, but a bit slow,’ she said when he reported the failure of his efforts. ‘Why did you ask him? He wouldn’t know a thing. Oh, did I tell you the director’s name was Diana Wellington-Smythe?
Everyone’s
heard of her – maybe you should get in touch.’

Diana was at a trendy salon off Market Square,
enjoying
a vigorous Indian head massage to restore her jangled nerves. IndiaNeed was gone, had vanished in a little puff and cloud of dust. Immediately after the collapse of the ceiling the next day, she and other members of the Board of IndiaNeed had declared the items beyond recovery; salvage was too much trouble and money. An electrician surveying the damage had handed her a long-stemmed rose he had found nestling behind a twisted wooden rack. It was still a perfect bloom, he had said wonderingly. She twirled it for a moment and placed it on the debris as she left. The ‘Cambridge Curry Club’ had been disbanded without ceremony.

Rupert was away in London, as usual, staying
overnight
at the little flat in Chelsea, and James had not
returned home, either; he was probably staying with his awful friend Henry. It was all so tiresome.

Her mobile rang and she answered, hair oily and wild, as the masseuse paused and stepped back
respectfully
. ‘Diana Wellington-Smythe … Who? …
Tempest
? Dr Tempest? You are from where, did you say? … Oh, I see … No, that’s all right, I like to leave my mobile number on the answerphone. People should feel they can reach me quickly, or what’s the point … Yes, it was a disaster, quite appalling, very distressing indeed … In touch with whom? … Dewga? Dugga? No, I don’t recall that name. Do you mean the Indian woman who was doing the research for a television company – the Cambridge graduate? Yes? In that case, Helen would know how to contact her – you know, my manager …
Her
home number? No, I’m afraid I can’t remember. It would be in the files, but it’s been such a dreadful business with the debris, can’t find a thing … Her last name? I simply can’t remember … You’re welcome. Dr Tempest, you sound American. Are you? … How interesting! Are you staying over
Christmas
? If so, perhaps you would like to join us for dinner some day … We would love to have you at our table. Rupert and I regularly entertain Cambridge Faculty. Do give me a ring, won’t you? Goodbye.’

Roman turned to the blonde florist in desperation. ‘Do you know the shop manager Helen? What does she look like?’

‘She’s of South Asian origin, not tall, not slim, and the surname is Moore. An Asian gentleman sent her roses yesterday,’ replied the politically correct florist. ‘Helen … Funny, I’m sure her name was Heera,’ she added.

‘Heera, that’s the one! Moore, did you say, as in M-o-o-r-e? That’s an English surname.’ Roman asked for the directory again.

There was something in his desperately seeking voice that prompted Heera to give him Durga’s address.

‘There’s someone downstairs who wants to see you. He said his name was Dr Tempest. Shall I let him in?’ asked Atul.

Durga dropped a startled ladle into the cooking pot. ‘No, tell him to wait downstairs. He’s … he’s in a hurry. I’ve got to give him a message. I’ll be right back.’

They met outside under a clear night sky near the neat lawn overlooked by the block of flats, camouflaged by the communal bins. They gazed at each other until he said, ‘I guess you didn’t want to be found.’

‘No.’

‘When I was a kid, I used to play detective. I had a rusty bunch of keys on a wire. They unravelled every mystery, and I solved every crime in the
neighbourhood
. My mom found them lying around one day and threw them away. They were just a bunch of old keys to her, but they were the shiniest, newest keys in the whole wide world to me. I should have found out where she got rid of them, and I should have kept looking.’

She remained silent.

‘Well, anyway, here I am,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I need to get something straight. You didn’t show up, and I’ve been through a helluva lot of trouble
tracing
you here. It’s a long story, like the one with the florist, and I think that’s two reasons to still meet for
dinner. I wasn’t imagining it yesterday. There’s
something
I felt that maybe you felt too …’

‘Yes.’

He moved closer. ‘Then why didn’t you show up? Cold feet? Did you look me up on the Internet and discover my Cactus Cowboys Escorts Service? Damn, I should’ve known you’d find out who I really am.’ He searched her face. ‘Who’s that guy who answered when I buzzed you downstairs?’

‘My husband.’

He stepped backwards with an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. ‘A husband?’ He stood silent, considering. ‘I’m okay with that, too. Things aren’t going quite the way I planned, but no problem. How about you, your husband and me go out to dinner? A bit crowded at a cosy table for two, but I think an extra chair just might be arranged if we move the window.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why? Because you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me? That you didn’t tell me? No
problem
. How about I come up for dinner, then? What’s cooking?’

‘Vangebhaji and amti and bhaat. Aubergines, dal and rice.’

‘This vangerber stuff sounds good to me. Is he good to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked softly.

‘I wanted to help you find a cactus.’

They spoke under a spell in the darkness.

‘And I thought I’d found one, and didn’t want to lose it,’ he said.

She shook her head, moving away.

‘Do you always follow your head?’

She shook her head again. ‘This is madness.’

‘Have you never given in to the madness, the crazed dance, raced the rushing blood to the horizon?’

She looked away.

‘Well, my speech is over, my lines are laid to rest. You have my number, coyote. If you want to, give me a call.’ He strode away into the light.

Durga lay awake next to her husband, coiled in the memory of Roman and the burst of stars. She waited, still, in the silence. A plaintive saxophone played softly across from the apartment opposite. It was never the same sound every night and always the same sweet blue riff of curling desire.

The volunteers and the photographer had staggered out of the shop the previous evening, choking with dust, helped out by passersby. Swarnakumari had looked shocked, and the secretary at the solicitor’s firm, staying late to type a client’s will, offered tea in her office.

‘First things first, girls: what did we lose? The Fire Brigade man said he would try to recover all the
missing
items I mentioned, but was there anything we forgot?’ asked Heera later.

Swarnakumari was still in a daze, and Eileen
whispered
, ‘Her Guru Ma prayer book.’

‘Of course, I forgot all about it. She hasn’t mentioned it, though. I think she’s still in shock, poor thing. This time it might never be found,’ replied Heera in a low voice. She looked at the three women. ‘Cheer up, girls! At least the collapsible bed’s gone as well. Someone’s nicked it.’

‘Shouldn’t Mrs Wellington-Smythe be here by now?’
interrupted the solicitor’s secretary sharply. ‘I’ve got to lock up, it’s getting late.’

‘Yes, it’s quite late. I think you should all go now. I’ll wait outside until she arrives,’ agreed Heera.

They put on their coats as the secretary tidied her desk.

‘I’ll wait with you,’ offered Eileen. ‘I only live round the corner.’

‘What should I tell her?’ asked Heera slowly. ‘I mean about the wallet, and her son.’

‘The truth, of course,’ replied Eileen, puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘See, the thing is, the wallet is gone, right? It’s
somewhere
under the debris. The ceiling’s gone as well, and everything’s a mess. It’s going to take them a while to clear all that up – who’s liable, who’s going to pay for the damage, all that sort of thing. It’s clear that we can’t go back in to work for a long time, and who knows when that will be? Who knows what’s going to happen to us, and to the shop? So what does it matter in the end?’

She turned to the others, pausing for breath. ‘Girls, let’s not tell Lady Di it was her son. We really can’t prove it unless the wallet is found, in any case, and she’s going to get a nasty shock seeing the shop, as it is. She had planned to have Lady What’s-It come by tomorrow – it was going to be her big day. Maybe Swarna’s right. Maybe she’s having a rough time already, who knows? What if her son really is on drugs? Anyway, let’s forget it, shall we? Simply drop the whole thing. I’ll just say the thief ran away when the ceiling came down and that’s that. Let it go.’

‘No,’ said Eileen forcefully. ‘She should get what she deserves.’

The others digested her words in silence, surprised by their flinty weight.

Swarnakumari’s stomach rumbled loudly. She had been fasting all day for Guru Ma’s birthday. It had been one of the most eventful days of Swarnakumari’s life; so coloured, it was now a white blur.

‘What do you think, Swarna?’ asked Heera.

‘
Ami arr parchi na
,’ croaked Swarnakumari fuzzily. ‘I can’t, I just can’t cope …’

Durga was inclined to agree with Eileen; the wallet episode should not be dropped. To resolve the issue in democratic mode, Heera suggested a secret vote, much to the irritation of the solicitor’s secretary, now
regretting
her impulsive gesture of goodwill. She would not be paid overtime for her Samaritan spirit. As Heera read the four hastily written slips a few minutes later, she beamed. ‘We
are
a club. Unanimous vote not to tell Lady Di.’

The day after their meeting near the black bins in the darkness, Durga found Roman in the fading light and hushed leaves outside Darwin College. They walked through Malting Lane and Ridley Hall Road, turning right onto the Backs, stopping on Clare College Bridge. In the end, it was the most natural place, and a
knowing
of the place for the first time, for her to move closer into his arms.

At first he did not ask, nor did she want to talk about her life with her husband. It did not matter in the walks over the Grantchester fields and the Fens, or as they rummaged in Waterstone’s and Heffers, or huddled in the cold of a college garden.

‘Don’t you read any poetry? Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson? I thought you would go for Sylvia Plath,’ he teased.

‘I like to laugh,’ she replied.

Atul was a good, upright man, said Durga,
conscientious
and competent in his work, respected by his
colleagues
, liked by his friends, and loved by his family. He was also handsome, she added. Roman waited patiently for her to continue, and as he held her hands firmly between his own, she spoke of her childhood in England, of India and her teachers, her spiteful
schoolmates
, of college, her parents and relatives, of Malabar Hill, the sea and Vivek. The sea was not a painter’s sea, she reminisced, but magnificent in the monsoon when the tall waves crashed and pounded the rocks and
shoreline
, spraying the city’s waterfront promenades and the flimsy stalls selling corn on the cob and coconut water. The monsoon was the time for romance, she said wistfully.