Born Confused (51 page)

I began to snap the cobblestones, leading away from the trail of blood and around the bend where they resumed their river-bottom pebble-smooth state.

Before me lay another uncluttered stretch of darkness. But in the distance I could see a beacon burning, warm flooded panes. The draw of a well-lit window cannot be underestimated, and I found myself walking mesmerized towards it. The sign upon it grew clearer and gladdened my heart: 24/7 Café Bar Chill Lounge & Home Away From Home. Below that, scrolling in long-tailed curlicue letters across the front window: Boudin Noir, Boudin Blanc.

It seemed a perfect finish: a cup of coffee and a nighttime kitchen. But little did I know the night had only just begun.

I took a seat in one of the deep-purple booths, cushioning my things between myself and the wall. The place was packed with folk, even at this hour. Where had they all come from? Or had they simply always been here? Other than the silent shadowy men unloading their sanguineous cargo, there had certainly been no trace of life in the streets radiating from this cozy center. I couldn’t tell if these were people who were just ending their evening or beginning their day or taking a break in between.

At the other end of the room was a cluster of rowdy women engaged in tooth-filling-flashing uproarious laughter. They were a mix from pale as light ale to black as blue, and were dressed as if they’d just stepped off the cabaret circuit: ultrashiny minis in all the colors of a peacock’s hallucination, sweeping silken peignoirs, Victorian gowns, garter belts in plain view stretching longingly towards zipdown buckle-up snap-snazzy boots. Their faces were dramatically made up, everything lined and filled in and blushed and based.
They reminded me of Kathakali dancers, those elaborately painted and posturing men I’d seen perform once in India. And from their exaggerated gestures and husky voices I knew what I would view when I let my gaze drop from face to throat: a bobbing crop of Adam’s apples. One of the waiters, a skinny little red-and-purplehead, was leaning in to them, gesturing madly with his right hand, fingers flowing individually as he spoke, and switching his head from side to side to punctuate his story; for all that movement it was noteworthy not a drop seemed to spill from the tray of ice cream sodas in his other hand, the chocolate and vanilla and strawberry scoops snapped bulbous onto the sides of the glasses, just beginning to soften.

It was he who had them in stitches. I don’t know what it was about him, this boy, but from what I could see he was very young and very beautiful. His slight frame swam in overalls and a muscle tank, gold-toned arms raying from it, skin aglow as if torchlit from the inside. His deep-red-purple hair scuffed out in chunks as if he’d been sleeping on it wrong and his eyes wisped fishily over his audience from under low-lying lids.

A round of applause cluttered the table as he finished his tale. He blew them a kiss, set down the sodas at a tableful of black-clad rockers, and sewed his sinuous way to the window that fed into the kitchen to pick up the next order, an extra-large plate of fries that looked like it had to be mine and a French press of coffee (it had sounded so glam I had to order it); glancing around I saw my own waiter seemed to have disappeared. But I didn’t care about the food anymore. There was something about my new waiter that struck me, the way he walked, gracefully navigating the sated space: a dancer’s walk. The way he lit up the room, slight as he was. The way I felt that if I cupped my hands, I could hold his energy there and change the picture. It was that tangible. I’d been hanging on to a
piece of that magic for a while now, in fact, ever since I’d met him. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. But then, I never could.

It was Zara. No costume, no cosmetics—but definitely Zara.

He picked up the order and made his way towards me, and if there had been any doubt, a full-on view of him quashed it. He set the tray on my table and cocked his head down into my smiling face.

—Now that’s a nice way to wrap up my shift, he smiled back.—Last order of the day, and a friendly Photo Girl to eat it.

—Hi, Zara, I said, happy he remembered me.

—Hi indeed. How are you?

I must have been looking confusedly at the coffee contraption in front of me. Zara gestured to the knob on top.

—You’ve got to push it.

I lay my hand down on the lid and weighed down, watching the water filter slowly up, the coffee crushed beneath. I liked the feeling, the resistance in the small container, then the relenting.

—So did your friend woo away her man after all?

—She may be doing it as we speak, I said sadly.

Zara slid into the seat facing me. He looked younger, more vulnerable, but no less magical. Up close I could see freckles dusting the tip of his nose.

—I gestured to the coffee before sipping. He shook his head.

—I’m too awake as it is. Now listen. Photo Girl is not sounding like a happy camper.

I sipped, staring into my cup, which gave me the beginning of a headache.

—So you and Karsh, he continued.—Hmm. You two could be a very tasty combination.

—I don’t think he finds me so appetizing, I said. The fries were burnt just the way I liked them, a brazenly flamed one crowning the pile. I decided to save it for last.

—How do you know?

—He likes my friend.

—Your friend has balls, pardon my Portuguese. And you should, too. Better to be bright than dim, that’s my philosophy. You have to show yourself, speak up for what you want. For example, that fry.

He pointed to the queen cruncher on top of the platter.

—What about it? I don’t want it, I said.—Go ahead.

—You do too want it. You were eyeing it just now. But you are being, if I may say so, absurdly polite—instead of simply asking me if I want it and making a go for it. And somewhere inside you will be disappointed if I take it.

I felt a tad blushy.

—Okay, I get your point. You know, I wish I could be more like you.

—Believe it or not, Dimple—and I
would
believe it—I am just a regular person who has decided to be who I am in life. That’s all. That’s how you make your life magical—you take yourself into your own hands and rub a little. You activate your identity. And that’s the only way to make, as they say, the world a better place; after all, what good are you to anyone without yourself?

He was blowing my mind and I was refilling my cup. It spilled over, I’d been so intently watching him.

—You’re a genius, I said.—I feel so clueless so much of the time. Did you know I didn’t even know you were a drag queen, Zara?

—When you’re good, you’re good, he grinned.

—It must be exciting being a drag queen, I went on.—You get to, I don’t know, change who you are. You know who you want to be, right down to the nail polish. Sometimes I feel like I was just born confused.

—You are born knowing all you need to know, said Zara, pressing his index finger between my brows.—Besides, you seem to me like you’re having a pretty good night in spite of it all.

—I am, I admitted.—But sometimes I wish I could become someone else.

—It’s not only about that, yaar. It’s about becoming yourself. My particular way of doing it is just more noticeable because I have such impeccable style sense.

He smiled.

—The world is my catwalk! he declared.—And New York City is my world!

—So, did you grow up here then, Zara?

I hungered to know everything about him. It was funny, but for someone so superhuman he was really human. There was a raw heart in everything he was saying.

—Of course not! I had to learn a lot about creating my home inside myself. You know, ever since I was very young I knew I was different. But where I come from that is not welcomed and celebrated, it is feared and despised. I have been threatened, I have been stoned; my family menaced for the simple link of blood to me—as if what I am is some kind of disease, contagious or genetic. I knew that much as I love my country if I didn’t leave I would be not only a threat to myself, but to my brothers and sisters and anyone who dared get close to me. So I had to seek political asylum here. It took years. But it was the only way. And when I finally arrived I found so many others like me—I’d never known a kindred drag spirit before. And all this, just to be me.

He contemplated the pepper shaker.—People have been persecuted throughout history for this, he said.

—We Parsis not the least of them, nor, of course, Persian drag queens. And I may not be able to stop history from having happened, but I can at least stop persecuting myself. Stop it in me.

I swallowed hard.

—You were threatened? You were…hurt like that?

—Indeed I was. And sometimes most by the ones I’ve been closest to—even here in New York, even at HotPot, I have met and been with men who’ve told me in nearly the same breath that they loved me and would kill me if I were to breathe a word to their wives, their friends, their coworkers. Do you know what that feels like? What that does to a person? I hope you never know. I have had men tell me that only
I
can do things to them and they will not touch me, or the other way around, who have divided up our bodies into zones. And I went along with it for years. To please. To enjoy my freedom. But I finally realized, there is no freedom without love. And there is no love with this kind of division and denial.

—How did you realize that? I whispered.

He leaned in so close the tips of our noses were nearly touching.

—When I finally found love, he smiled.—That is why I am so grateful to have met my Bengali blessing, PK.

He looked genuinely moved when he said the two letters.

—He is my SOS, my 911, my 411, my infinity.

—He’s pretty cute, too, I grinned.

—Are you joking? he cried, flushing and springing up.—He is an absolute god!

He radiated, a strongly open window; there was a tenacity to his fragility, a commitment to remain porous that was clear to me now. He had never appeared so beautiful. And I was three cups of coffee down and nearly bouncing off the walls with an idea. It was a question I’d normally have been too nervous to ask—to even think—but the fluffy cloud of caffeinated exhaustion I was riding got me checking my inhibitions at the door.

—Zara, I said.—Could I maybe take some pictures of you getting ready? Turning from man to woman? I promise I’ll make you copies, and I promise I won’t show anyone, and—

—Girlfriend! Horse-holding moment, please! he exclaimed,
raising his hand.—No promises needed. I am very proud to be who I am—and I worked a long time at it. Show them to the world! I’ve been hiding long enough.

I was nearly springing off the seat.

—Do you have everything you need right here? I said.

—Of course—you never know when a Photo Girl is going to turn up at BNBB and go paparazzi on you.

Chica Tikka was already out and loaded.

—Can I, can I take a picture of you now, Zara?

—Now? You’re joking.

I shook my head.

—All right then, he said. He ran a hand through his hair, which only seemed to scruff it up more.—Go ahead.

I aimed.

—One…two…
teen!

And just as I clicked I was surprised, then alarmed, to see a tear well up in the duct of his eye.

—I’m sorry! Zara, did I upset you?

—No, he said, and it fell, splattering on the tabletop.—I just can’t believe you want a photograph of me like this—no makeup, no fancy clothes.

—Are you joking? I said.—You’re even more beautiful like this.

—This is true, he said, smiling.—But I didn’t know anyone else could see that. Great balls of fire, I even forgot to say jalfreezi.

Once Zara had wrapped up business and returned with a couple doggie bags, the two of us headed into the café bathroom. It was surprisingly clean with soft lighting and lots of space to maneuver in. Perfect for my purposes.

He was a professional, this one, and immediately sat on a small stool before the mirror and set to work.

First, a true artist, he lay out his various brushes and mixing palettes, and a medicine cabinet’s worth of tiny jars of dun-hued liquids, flasks of shimmer dust, vials of gloss, bindi sheets. Soon enough the bathroom counter had been transformed into the poshest of vanity tables.

He sharpened his pencils. Dabbed a cotton swab in astringent. Cleaned his face. And began.

I took roll upon roll of this beautiful boy turning into that most beautiful woman, moment by moment, step by step. It was a thrill being around such a confident creature, and pure photographic pleasure, too.

And I had a flash as well as Chica Tikka this time. Watching Zara engaged in this quintessential act of desicreation it occurred to me: Those nine lives we’d talked about, Kavita and me, perhaps they were being lived all the time, at the same time. Life viewed from nine different camera angles; life played at nine tempos. Mixed, montaged; multiple. In the course of one lifetime. Maybe that’s what reincarnation was all about.

Reinvention.

It was like looking back on my parents’ photos now, and finally clicking that those were part of the continuum that included them today. There was no such thing as a fragment, I knew that now; a moment was a chapter of a life. In fact, a person at any given moment was a chapter of their own life, of the lives of everyone they knowingly or unknowingly touched—the way a confluence of two doors opening had sent music flooding from club to street level to the underworld of the subway.

Black was only a few steps from white, negative to photo. A song was only a notch off silence. A black hole was an inside-out star.
Suitability—two letters away from unsuitability. End a mere three letters from friend.

And Zara, now red-and-gold-saried Zara—filling her part with crimson powder and laying the tikka in it, the piece of bridal jewelry hanging down to where the bindi would be—was ready.

I finished the roll with a picture of the self-created creation posing against the sliver of wall that separated the men’s room from the women’s. And just as I snapped Zara pulled a hunk of boudin out of one of the paper bags and slid it into her mouth, Adam’s apple ripely in view, and winked gemmily big for the camera.