Oleander Girl (13 page)

“Do you know someone like that?” I interrupt.

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’ll cost a lot, though. You’ll have to pay him in dollars.”

My heart sinks. I know Grandmother has been worrying over our finances. Still, I say, “I don’t care!”

Rajat looks over at me but says nothing.

Mr. Sen searches through a large box of alphabetized index cards and writes down details.

“His name is Desai. Unfortunately, he lives in New York, not California, which would have suited you better.”

Perhaps it’s a sign. I tell Sen what Grandmother had said about my parents’ plans to move to the East Coast. Sen looks doubtful. But he informs me that Mr. Desai is good at what he does. He doesn’t take many new clients. However, Sen will ask him to help me.

We’re barely in the car when Rajat bursts out, “You heard it! Even Mr. Sen advised you against searching further. You need to put this obsession aside.”

Perhaps something of the dark insurgence I’m feeling is in my face, because he takes my hand in his and adds more placatingly, “At least wait until after we’re married, Cara.”

I try to explain to him how I feel one more time. “I need to understand my parents’ marriage before I can enter my own. I’ve got to contact Desai, see if he can find out something. If I need to”—the idea comes to me in a flash, an icy exhilaration down my spine, an understanding that this is what my mother wanted all along—“I’m even prepared to go to America.”

He ignores that last bit the way one might disregard the ramblings of the delirious. “Who knows what you’ll uncover if you keep digging? There must have been a reason why your grandfather was so insistent about keeping you away from your father. Cara, my parents can’t afford a scandal just before the wedding—”

I want to say hotly,
There won’t be a scandal. My mother chose a good man! She loved him!
But Rajat’s words remind me of something else.

“What did your parents say when they heard about my father? I’m surprised Maman didn’t call me. Are they very upset?”

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I didn’t tell them.”

“What? Why not?”

“They’re going through a difficult time. They’ve suffered a big financial loss, and they’re in the midst of negotiating a major deal that might help them recover. I don’t want to stress them right now. Why do they
have to know, anyway? You’ve told me, and I’m the one you’re marrying. It doesn’t concern anyone else.”

I stare at him in angry disbelief. “You want me to go through my whole life with my in-laws pretending that my father is dead? That he was Indian? Why? Are you ashamed of who I am?”

“Korobi, don’t put words in my mouth. I never said that. But you know how highly they think of your heritage. Maman has been talking about it to all her friends. Don’t take that away from them!”

I understand where he’s coming from, but I can’t agree. “Each time I look into their faces, I’ll think, They love me only because I deceived them. I’ll know I’m living a lie. No, Rajat! I’ve seen how harmful secrets can be. I refuse to start my married life with a sword hanging over my head. I’ll meet with your mother tomorrow and tell her myself.”

“Please don’t! You’ll be unburdening yourself at the cost of her peace of mind—”

I can feel anger uncoiling inside me, but right now I don’t want a fight. I need to save my energy for the search. Luckily, we’ve reached home. I get out of the car before I say something I’ll regret.

Behind me, I hear Rajat say, “You make such a big deal about being honest and open. Do you think there’s anyone in the world that doesn’t have a secret?”

I don’t respond. I don’t trust myself to. But all the way to the door, the gravel of the driveway crunching under my shoes, I wonder what secrets my fiancé is harboring.

B
arua & Bose Art Galleries sits between a nationally famous restaurant and an imported-car showroom on a prime piece of Kolkata real estate. I pause outside its massive, gleaming glass-and-wood doors, at once impressed and uneasy. Though Maman has invited me several times, this is my first visit. I would be excited if I weren’t so nervous. I’ve heard so much about the gallery from Rajat—how Maman bought a run-down storefront and remodeled it herself, how she launched the careers of several major artists from here, how the guest list for her show openings reads like a who’s who in Kolkata. Sometimes I imagine working here alongside her after Rajat and I are married. In my daydreams, Maman—who is as close to a mother as I’ll ever have—hugs me, telling me how proud she is of me.

The interior of the gallery is elegant and understated, stretches of white wall and dark granite flooring that allow the paintings to leap to life. I find it hard to pull my eyes away from the pictures on the wall—sumptuous women with the faces of animals, geometries of rainbow color. This is a side of Maman I haven’t seen, eclectic and adventurous. I’m filled with new admiration.

A sinuous young woman in a black georgette sari eyes my cotton salwar kameez with a dubious look, asking how she may help. When I tell her who I am, her eyes widen in disbelief. She hurries me through a passage
studded with jewel-like paintings to a huge back office, its windows opening onto a courtyard garden, a rare luxury in the heart of the city. Maman’s desk looks out on a flame-orange Krishnachura tree. Dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk sari that makes me feel doubly dowdy, she’s on the phone, frowning elegantly, taking notes, giving instructions in between to a woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun. I feel guilty because I’m about to disrupt her day.

The matter on the phone is clearly urgent, but when she sees me, Maman cuts the conversation short and waves me over.

“How are you, my dear?” she says with a warm smile, tucking back one of my stray curls. If she’s surprised at my sudden visit, she doesn’t show it. “You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you. I’m delighted that you decided to drop in today. We’re about to install a new exhibition of urban landscapes—”

I hate to interrupt Maman’s enthusiasm, but I must. “Maman, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Maman’s eyes fly to my face. “Leave us alone, please, Shikha,” she tells her companion. I recognize the woman with the no-nonsense hairdo; on the night of the engagement, she rushed us out of the hotel and instructed the Boses’ driver to take us to the hospital. Now she asks, in some agitation, “What about lunch, madam? You haven’t eaten since morning, and you’ll have meetings all afternoon. Let me at least bring you some—”

“I’ll be all right, Shikha.”

Shikha flings me a displeased glance as she closes the door soundlessly.

Alone with Maman, I suddenly wish I’d asked Rajat to come with me. What if Maman’s furious when she hears my news? What if she feels she’s been handed flawed merchandise? It strikes me more than ever before that the approval of this woman whom I’ve already been thinking of as my new mother is crucial to me.

But when I’ve let the words tumble from my mouth, she only pauses for the briefest moment before giving me a hug. “What a shock, dear! You must be devastated.”

Her sympathy makes me tear up. I hold on to her. She smells of pomegranates. I’m lucky to have such an understanding mother-in-law. I’m glad I didn’t let Rajat persuade me into deceiving her.

“Does anyone else know about your father?”

I’m a little surprised by her question, but I answer dutifully, “Only Grandmother and Rajat.”

Maman lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank God! Because we’re going to have to keep this very quiet.”

My face must have expressed my uneasiness, for she adds, “No, no, don’t look like that! The news about your father hasn’t changed anything between us. I won’t pretend I like what I learned, but it’s not your fault. We’ll have to bring the marriage forward, though, maybe to next month. We don’t want to take any chances with the news leaking out.”

I feel as though I’ve fallen into a river that’s rushing toward the edge of a precipice. I have so many astonished questions, they jam my mouth.

“I can’t get married yet, Maman,” I finally manage to say. “I need to find my father first. I think I have a good chance. I’ve located an investigator in America. He’ll start work as soon as I make the first payment. It’s going to be expensive, but he said if I travel to America and do some of the legwork for him, following up on his leads, it’ll cost a lot less. So I’m planning to—”

Maman grips my hands. “I understand how agitated you must be, my sweet. Under normal circumstances, I would never deter you in your search. But we’re in a tough situation here. You see, Mr. Bhattacharya—you remember him from the engagement—wants to play a part in the wedding ceremony. He’s very impressed by your family background. I suspect it’ll look good to his voters as well—him upholding the sanaatan Hindu tradition and all that. He asked me if he could have some publicity photos taken at your temple before the ceremony. If he learns of your mixed heritage, and the fact that you aren’t even really a Hindu, he’ll be most upset. He’s likely to distance himself from the whole thing.”

Something sharp is in my throat, making it hard to swallow. I try to control my voice, but it comes out both shaky and belligerent.

“Why? Surely it isn’t a crime to have an American father! And does it
matter that much if Mr. Bhattacharya doesn’t participate in the wedding? I know he’s a good friend of yours, but this—forgive me, Maman—but this is really crucial for me.”

“I’m afraid he’s not just a friend, Korobi. Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t public knowledge, but we’re negotiating with him right now for him to become the chief investor in our business. There’s a chance that news like this might make him pull out of that as well. The members of his party are very conservative. They even frown on intercaste alliances, so you can imagine what they would think of someone who marries outside the Hindu faith. With the election coming up, he can’t afford to lose their support—and we can’t afford to lose his.”

I try to make sense of all this, but my confusion must show, because Maman gives a deep sigh. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care what Bhattacharya—or anyone else—thinks. I wouldn’t let them dictate my actions. But—” She hesitates, then plunges in. “Oh, I might as well take you into my confidence, you’re part of the family now. Barua and Bose is going through a really rough financial patch. Our gallery in New York was vandalized soon after September eleventh last year, and some very expensive paintings were destroyed.”

I stare at her in shock. “I’m so sorry to hear this,” I finally manage to say. “I had no idea.”

“We’ve been careful to keep it under wraps. If the public came to know, it might affect our sales. People don’t like to have anything to do with victims of bad luck. It’s as though we’re contagious. Anyhow, we’d taken on some big loans to open the gallery. The market was great at the time, and there was a lot of interest in Indian art in the West. Paintings were being auctioned at Sotheby’s at record prices. But now we’re losing money there every day. We’re fighting with the insurance company to recover a portion of the price of the paintings. In fact, I was just on the phone to Mr. Mitra, our manager in New York, getting an update. Things don’t look good. The insurance company claims this happened during a crisis situation that isn’t included in our contract. Meanwhile, sales there are down to zero. Mr. Bhattacharya’s investment will make the difference between life and death for our business. So this is why I need your help, my dear.”

I’m torn. This is the first time Maman has asked anything of me. Her situation is precarious—I can see that. My immediate instinct is to put my arms around her and tell her that I’ll do as she says. But I remember, too, my mother, my real mother, dream or vision, and her wordless pleading as she pointed across the ocean toward my father.

Maman’s pacing now, counting off items on her fingers. “This is what we’ll do. We’ll get the wedding performed as soon as possible—just a quiet ceremony in your family temple. We’ll say we’re honoring your grandfather’s last wish, but keeping it simple on account of his passing. Bhattacharya would love it—he’s fascinated by that temple. Should the news about your father by some chance come to light, your grandmother will have to state that she alone knew this secret. Since she’d sworn an oath in front of the goddess, she could not divulge it. Even the staunchest Hindu wouldn’t fault her for that.”