Bombay Time (19 page)

Her words reached him from a great distance, a solitary beam of blue light that pierced a hole into his heart of darkness. The light spread through his body, so that his face lit up like the sun and Soli Contractor smiled his Bombay-to-Calcutta smile.

“Mariam,” he said. “How I have missed you, I can never tell. Just imagine … Imagine America without the Statue of Liberty. India without the Taj Mahal.” Hearing her giggle, he went on. “Louis Armstrong without his trumpet. Tarzan without his Jane. That’s how much I have missed you.”

Her smile matched his. “Oh, Soli, that is so good to hear. But then, Soli, why did you stop visiting us?”

“How to explain?” he cried. “At your home, I never got to see you alone. Never only the two of us. And you were only seventeen, just a little girl. What could I say to Abe Uncle? Then also, I am Parsi, as you know. My mamma is wanting me to settle down with a nice Parsi girl. And your religion is different from ours. Your parents are probably wanting you to marry your own kind, no? So for all these good reasons, Mariam, I decided to stop torturing myself by going over there.”

Her eyes were suddenly inexpressibly sad. “You’re right,” she said with a tight laugh. “These are all good reasons. Well, we should probably turn back. I don’t want these Parsi tongues wagging.”

He could feel her pulling away from him as the sea was pulling away from the beach. He felt a sudden panic. If he lost her now, he would never find her again. “Mariam, wait. I’m sorry I’ve been such an
ooloo.
This is all such a shock, and I’m such a blunderbuss. What I want to say is … Oh, to hell with what I want to say. What I’m wanting to do is kiss you. May I?”

Months later, they were still arguing about which one of them had first stepped into the other’s arms. But at this moment, all Soli knew was the reality of finally having his arms around a woman who had begun to seem mythical to him. But Mariam was delightfully, gloriously real. And he was, against all odds, kissing the lips that he had fantasized about for seven long years. In the midst of his delirious joy, Soli had a thought of utmost clarity—that from this day forth, his life would be divided into before Mariam and after. Mariam was the dividing line that separated a world of listlessness and loneliness from a world of love and happiness. “Oh, Mariam,” he whispered. “What if you had not come on this picnic today?”

As he said the words, he felt little stings of icy pain on his lower back. Turning his head, he saw a group of young urchins throwing pebbles at him and imitating his hushed whispers and puppy-dog expression.
“Saala badmash,”
he roared at the giggling children in mock anger.
“Cbalo,
get out of here.” The chattering children ran away, squealing at the unexpected pleasure of being chased by an adult.

But the mimicry had made the two of them self-conscious. “Everything okay?” he asked awkwardly. “Good. Let us hurry back to the group. We don’t want any silly talk to start about us.” But he was still holding on to her, his words and expression contradicting each other.

“Soli?”

“Umm?”

“If you really don’t want them to gossip, you’d better wash your face in the water before we join them. There’s a large streak of red lipstick from your lips to your chin.”

They had been together for five months. In that time, they had shared the news with only three of their friends, Rusi Bilimoria and Jam-shed and Mehroo Katpitia. Abe and Emma believed that Mariam was spending most of her evenings at Mehroo’s home. If they wondered why a recently married woman would want to spend so much time with their single daughter, their relief overshadowed their suspicions. Since their sons David and Solomon had left for Israel, Mariam had few companions her own age. There were no Jewish families in their new neighborhood for Mariam to associate with. And this group of Parsi boys and girls seemed nice—a little young for their age maybe, but friendly and polite.

Soli didn’t understand Mariam’s desire to keep their affair a secret. He knew that both their families would have a hard time accepting that they were marrying out of their communities. But the Rubins had virtually adopted him a few years earlier. And he knew that his mamma would ultimately put his happiness over her own reservations. The sooner they confided in both sets of parents, the faster this transformation would occur. He decided to broach the subject with Mar-iam. “Darling, why all this
choop-cbaap?”
he asked her one evening. “Sorry—Gujarati word. Meaning, why all this hush-hush stuff? I mean, I am so proud of you, I’m ready to take out an ad in the
Times of India,
declaring my love for you. Don’t you feel the same?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t want Daddy to find out. I need more time. It’s … I dunno, it just doesn’t feel like the right timing.” Her words disappointed him, but he understood. She just needs more time, he told himself.

But Soli was frustrated. It was hard to find public places where the two of them could have some privacy. The thought of taking an unmarried girl to a hotel was unimaginable. Occasionally, they would climb down on the rocks near Marine Drive and find a secluded spot to kiss, but Mariam looked so tense and distressed that it took all the pleasure away. She was constantly afraid that one of her father’s friends would see them. Once, Soli hired a taxi to drive them around as they sat kissing in the backseat, sheltered by the dark privacy of the cab. But even that was uncomfortable. For one thing, they had to be as silent as mice, afraid of drawing any attention to themselves. As Soli put his hand on Mariam’s knee, he caught the cabdriver’s leering eyes gazing at them in the rearview mirror. The cab gave a lurch as their eyes locked. Soli used that as an excuse to vent his anger. “That’s how most accidents happen—by
gadheras
not keeping their eyes on the road,” he muttered, loudly enough for the driver to hear. “Eyes everywhere excepting where they should be.” He ignored Mariam’s cautious squeeze on his arm, asking him to shut up. They left the cab that day more frustrated than when they’d gotten into it.

The next day, they had their first real fight. “Are we thieves or spies?” he burst out. “Are we planning a war with Pakistan or a bank robbery? If not, why do we have to do all this hush-hush stuff? For the first time in my life, I’m lying to my dear old mother. And for what reason? It seems wrong to lie about the thing I’m most proud of—my love for you, Mariam. How to make you understand this?”

“I
do
understand. I hate this, too. But I need time, Soli. Daddy had always wanted me to marry a Jew. I need to prepare him for this very slowly.”

“But you won’t even come and sit with me at Chowpatty Beach or go into a private cubicle at Cafe Paradise. For seven years, I waited to kiss your lips. And still I have to worry about some
soover
taxi driver spying on us in his cab. I’m a grown man, Mariam, not some six-year-old boy in half pants.”

Then he caught a lucky break. Jamshed and Mehroo, who were renting a one-room flat in Colaba, asked Soli to keep an eye on it while they went to Udwada for two weeks. Before leaving, they dropped the spare key off with him. “Mariam,” he told her the next day. “It’s a godsend. Let’s spend a day by ourselves in Jamshed’s flat. You have to come. Darling, I am wanting to talk to you and kiss you without worrying about Abe Uncle or God knows who else. Please, darling. I’ll go up first and take over some snacks and all. You come later. No one will see. I’ll wait at the window and open the door before you even knock. We’ll have a little indoor picnic, yes? Please, Mariam. We hardly get to see each other.”

On the day she was to come, he bought a dozen chicken sandwiches, potato wafers, and a bottle of wine. He took out one of Mehroo’s bedspreads from the closet and spread it on the floor for a picnic. He put Louis Armstrong on the gramophone. True to his word, he looked out the window for her and opened the door before she rang the doorbell. It was 3:00 P.M. on a Saturday. She hurried in. Her hair was tied back in a scarf and she had on a purple dress with black patent-leather shoes. She swayed a little to the music and then undid the scarf with a jerk. Her brown hair fell across her face like a shadow across a mountain. He kissed her before she had crossed the room.

They sat on the floor, munching their sandwiches and drinking the wine, until they had only about half a glass left. Soli dipped a potato wafer into his wine and watched it swim in the colorless liquid before fishing it out of his glass with his fingers.

“Ugh. You Parsis are a strange lot. Imagine eating a soggy potato wafer.”

He rose to his feet with the careful solemnity of a drunk. “Now that you have insulted the whole Parsi community, I feel responsible for defending their honor as well as the honor of all those who like wet potato wafers,” he said with a flourish. He tried to say something more lofty, but the wine was squatting heavily on his tongue. Slowly, he made his way to the bed and sat on it.

Mariam giggled. “Whatsamatter? Cat got your tongue?”

“Not the cat. The wine.” He thought hard for a minute. “It’s funny, no, when you can actually feel your tongue in your mouth? Like a big sponge, it is. You know what that’s like?”

“Can’t say that’s ever happened to me, Mr. Soli.” Mariam’s eyes were dancing.

“Mariam?”

“Urn?”

“Know what I would like? To feel
your
tongue in my mouth.”

Silence.

“Mariam?”

“Urn?”

“Come and sit here next to me. Please? Now, isn’t that comfy? Mariam. Darling.”

The room was silent expect for the sounds of their wet, long kisses. Then, Mariam pushed Soli away. “Okay, Soli. Don’t get me all hot and flustered. I’ve got to go soon. That’s enough.”

“Oh, Mariam, please. Just this one time. I am so eager for you. Please, darling. When will we get such a chance again?”

“Soli, I can’t. My father will kill me if he finds out, and besides, what if there’s trouble later?”

“Oh, Mariam, your father is not here. But I am, and madly, madly in love with you. Seven years I waited, darling. Seven years. And there will be no trouble. I can, you know, pull out before … before … Trust me, darling.”

Her mouth tasted salty under his. Their bodies folded together as if a master architect had designed them for each other. Her long legs clung to his body like a vine on a tree. When she slipped off her dress, the slenderness of her shoulder blades reminded him of the neck of a violin. “Mariam,” he whispered. “You are perfection.”

Outside their window, the real world raged on—a lonely old woman peered through heavy curtains to spy on her neighbors; a street urchin tied a firecracker to a stray dog’s tail and then laughed as the animal went crazy with fear; a young couple rushed their firstborn to the hospital after he mysteriously stopped breathing.

In the still-larger world, Europe slept a cautious sleep as the nightmare of World War II crystalized into the frostiness of the cold war; on the Asian continent, China, India, and Israel hurtled toward their individual destinies. Baptized in the blood of the Hindu-Muslim riots, a young India struggled to emerge from rhe memory of the carnage. A short distance away, Israel flexed its muscles as it traded one set of enemies for another.

But inside this room, a different sort of blood was being shed. It was blood that would have to be washed off the blue sheet before Jamshed and Mehroo rerurned. Indeed, the sheet with its drops of blood was a kind of flag, the symbol of a new country. A country where the divisions of race and religion were melting under rhe heat of desire, melting into a new flesh, melting into a new four-limbed animal, an animal that was all mouth and tongue, all curiosity and all softness, all ache and all fulfillment of ache.

For Soli and Mariam were more than just lovers. They were citizens of a nation that had just been born.

Later, he lay on the bed with his hands knitted behind his head, listening to the sound of running water as Mariam took a bath. A lifetime of such joy awaits me, he thought, and shivered with pleasure. Mariam and I making love and then me lying awake, listening to the sound of the water running. When she stepped back into the bedroom, her face was damp and flushed from the hot water. She sat at the edge of the bed for him to zip her dress.

“Mariam,” he said, sitting up on one elbow as he dropped tiny kisses on her bare, fresh-scented back, “I can’t wait for us to be married. Then we will be having fun like this all the time.”

She smiled at him, and he noticed that the dark circles under her eyes were lighter, “So much happiness—it’s almost more than one has the right to ask for,” she whispered, taking his hand to her eyes and holding it there,

“Oh, darling, no such thing. You watch. We are going to be the happiest, luckiest couple we know. We already are.”

Two days later, Mariam left with her parents for their annual family vacation to Goa. Soli, who had never been to the oceanside Portuguese colony, wished he could have accompanied them, but he knew better than to suggest that to Mariam. He was loath to part with her, but Mariam consoled him. “Be patient, Soli,” she said. “Our reunion will be the sweeter for it. I’ll phone you at work as soon as I get back.”

But the day of her return came and went without a phone call. A worried Soli left work a little early and headed directly for Mariam’s apartment building. He was relieved but astounded to see the lights in the Rubin apartment. So they were home. He tried to think of all the reasons why Mariam had not called him, tried to decide whether to knock on Abe’s door in the hopes that Mariam would answer. But his courage failed him. There must be a good reason if Mariam hasn’t called, he told himself. Maybe she’s tired or sick. Or maybe she’s told Abe Uncle about us. If so, better for me to wait.

He was almost mad with worry the following day, as the expected phone call never came. Each time his phone rang at work, he would answer it with a thumping heart that almost stopped beating when he realized the caller was not Mariam. The tenuous nature of his relationship hit him as he realized that he did not have the authority simply to pick up the phone and talk to the woman he loved. Then, at 4:00
P.M.,
when he was sure that Mariam was dead, the phone rang again, and this time it was her. “Soli? Hi, it’s me. Sorry for not calling yesterday. Things are a little topsy-turvy here. Listen, are Mehroo and Jamshed still out of town? … Great. Can we meet at their apartment again tomorrow evening? … Sure that’s convenient? Okay, I’ll see you there, around six-thirty.”