Shadow Play (11 page)

‘Where would you place Mum's work?'

The kid had grown up to be a prodigy, even though it was my foolishness that had provided him with the initial opening. I wished he would actually say ‘Check' at this point, so that we were both clear what game we were playing.

‘W-o-o-h-h! Hang on, bro, this is a bus I think I want to jump off.'

Yeah, come on, I knew he would smile. His eyes betrayed his pleasure. This was like one of those rallies from the tennis matches we played when (we were both) younger, at his maternal grandfather's ranch.

‘No, don't wriggle out,' he consolidated, ‘not when it's getting interesting. You always accused Mum of being an entertainer. You thought her work was shallow.'

‘Is that what she's told you?'

‘Come on, Baba, don't pretend. I've heard you nag her so often, about how she should move beyond her comfort zone, challenge herself and shake people up. I'm not saying you don't respect her, I know you think she's phenomenal, but secretly, not-so-secretly, you also condescend to her for making private-eye movies and period dramas, not to mention those Peugeot ads. You believe she's letting down her own gifts, and the cause of your beloved “fifth column”. And now you're afraid I'm going to do the same, to lose myself in a form of irrelevant period drama.'

‘My kingdom for a pizza. Will someone please stuff this kid? Why did the Buddha take so long to hoover the sofa?'

‘Ok, I'll let you off this time. Why?'

‘Because he didn't have any attachments. Next question?'

‘Here's one I found in a Kundera interview. A Czech walks into an emigration bureau during the early years of the Curtain. He requests a visa, to go anywhere. The destination is of no importance.

‘The emigration fellow decrees he must choose a country. He pushes across a globe to help him decide. The guy spins
it mournfully a couple of times, then replies, “Have you got another globe?”'

‘Beckett would have loved that,' I said, struggling to keep the ball in the air. I was flailing desperately for more jokes, to joke my way out of the corner.

‘And Babs,' he continued, focused like a true master, deadly as a hound. ‘What is this idea you have of power anyway, and of “the powerful”? It's straight out of Batman or James Bond. Who are they? Where do they gather? Are they national or global? Is it really a them-versus-us scenario? Aren't we all part of the system in our own grubby ways, doing our darnedest to rise a little higher until our faces replace the older ones? I find it strange coming from you of all people, you who lectured me about complexity before I could even read. Jeez, I never thought you'd be so simplistic. Mum never talks like that. She knows where to draw the line.'

I made sure I inhaled before responding. I was both enjoying and wary of this joust, as proud of him as I was uncertain of his motives. I remembered how, during our games of tennis, we reached the point where I couldn't keep up with his ground-strokes any longer.

‘No, bro, you're not dragging me there. Let's just say I agree with you, and move on to another subject. Two things I wanted to mention: a) thanks for recommending this Catupiry and garlic pizza, and b) where do you get your cricket fix round these parts? Do you follow it on the web? Does anyone play it at the British school?'

The final words weren't even out of my mouth when I glimpsed the hurt in his eyes. Not irritation, simply puzzled hurt, glittering at me as he spoke.

‘Why do you patronize everyone so instinctively? You're the one who began this conversation by indirectly accusing me of choosing a pointless career, and then when I try to discuss stuff that interests you, you bring me back down to cricket and Catupiry. Ok, fine, I'll spare you the yawns. I forgot, you're unchallengeable. How could I have had the audacity to dispute you without having reread all your articles, in which everything I could ever say has already been anticipated and disproved?'

This was the moment when I realized that perhaps I'd misjudged the mood all along. The truth was that no matter what this boy and I spoke of, and whether we were alone or not, his mother was always present at the table. Always on his side, pressing his arm in support, or seated wordlessly in the player's box – before we kill off the tennis metaphor. Over the years, drip-by-drip, living with her, he'd been coached so thoroughly, neither of them knew it.

But I refused to allow the situation to turn grave. There was so much that was delightful to focus on, such as our presence in this pizzeria after all these years, his depth and thoughtfulness, his exquisite large eyes under Ana's thick eyebrows that faded to join in the middle, his inch-long lashes, the bow-like lips. Jesus, I was having impure thoughts about my only son. Ana, of course, would know what to term it – narcissism and nothing else. But what about all the details of
her
that I was savouring so longingly, trying not to be too obvious? How had everything about us blended so well in this boy, when his mum and dad could so easily have fucked him up?

‘Son, for once I feel so blameless I can gaze down from my high horse and proclaim sincerely that you have me completely wrong. All I wanted was for our weekend to go well. But, if that
demands a quick and fiery debate on who the fuck runs the world, warum nicht?

‘Yes, I believe there
are
power elites that operate within every country, who these days coordinate with one another globally. In each society there exists a partnership between those with the real money, and those who frame its laws and systems. At best it's a partnership, more often it's a puppet show. That's it, that's all I want to say.'

‘But Baba, isn't that a bit too clear-cut? What about forces of resistance, like the landless movement, trade unions, or the lower-caste parties in India? Or competition, like when big corporations slug it out against each other? What about those journalists and bloggers who use the Internet to spread disturbing stories and radical ideas?'

It was moving to see him care so much, and to watch his mother's spirit animate his eyes and lips. This I didn't want to stop. Yet, above all, I wanted our weekend to go smoothly.

‘All of that is true. What I would argue is that our elites don't
need
to repress those struggles up to a point. In a free society, no one can smother all the voices of protest, you're right. First lesson of a capitalist democratic elite: it's costly, unpopular, and it doesn't make good PR. Leave such stupidity to the Stalinists.

‘Besides, for most people, what do their dreams of liberty really add up to? A bunch of expensive lifestyle choices. That's where they'll happily charge us anyway. It turns out then that this level of “freedom” is not only economically essential, it's an important part of the idea as well, because it doubles up as the distraction of freedom.

‘What a power elite cares about is far less visible than any of that. They influence the decisions of every government body,
draft the unreported clauses in any trade “agreement”. Plus, it helps to own the big networks and the most visited websites, because then they can shape the ways in which the rest of us read the world. Sure, a few differently-told stories will sprout like weeds within the dark wastelands of the world-wide web, but they're confident that doesn't matter, because all the resources of volume and repetition remain in their control.

‘So my answer to you is yes, the world will always offer numerous possibilities, and no single cabal can contain them. But I believe the motives of the truly powerful are almost psychopathically single-minded.

‘The
one
thing that has evolved, and I guess it's progress of sorts, is the code of admission to contemporary elites, compared to the ruling classes of the past. In America or Europe today, you could say they are more open to new members than ever before. Now they can even claim they aren't elitist at all. They hold out a seductive promise to the talented from all over the globe, to contribute their creativity and their loyalty and end up as well-rewarded stakeholders.'

I had fuelled a lot of the momentum for my monologue by absorbing the interest in Seb's expression, and it had helped me quell the sneaking, ignoble sensations of doubt and fatigue that arose within even as I spoke. This conversation didn't matter, it was cold and pointless, because my son was merely an interesting stranger. No, not a stranger, that was too simple. It was worse. He knew me well, especially (exclusively?) my weaknesses, and he was biased. The person dearest to me, the only living being I had any claim over, one of just two who were indispensable to my well-being – and both of them so tainted by prejudice. Irrevocable, stale, all-distorting prejudice, which
I couldn't combat since they never allowed me the time, and no one else existed to represent my corner. How could this bullshit speech change that, and yet it was all I had to keep from drowning, from falling again off the cliff down the chasm with the dead horses?

His next remark crystallized my fears. Any other messenger, and I'd have relished shooting him. Come on, Ana, who'd have believed you could be so petty? This is the crap you've drip-fed him. I felt disgusted with myself for always having regarded her as principled, and peculiarly satisfied that she was human in so banal a fashion. In future I needn't feel sullied; we could fight freely in the same mud. There was nothing exalted about her. Ugh!

‘Yeah, Baba, I live in the world too,' he mouthed lazily, as if wanting me to hang on to every phrase, ‘but I disagree with you even though I recognize what you're saying. I think a lot of this particular obsession has to do with the Brown Bomber, I believe he still hasn't released you. You take him, or your view of the way he works, and generalize that to everyone else, an entire class of world-dominators. It's an outdated view, if you don't mind my saying so. Besides, you give him far too much credit. He's quite foolish really, adorable and sentimental. King Lear-lite, I called him the other day. Frequently wells up with remorse about the cruel things he's done.'

There was nothing to refute. It was a charge best left undefended, if I didn't want it to stick to me. Brown Bomber, by the way, was his affectionate name for his mother's father, who adored him enough to make up for the other two absent grandparents. More about him shortly.

If I was his age I would have spat in his face and stormed out. Listen, you smug-as-fuck little prick, a few half-baked received
ideas and a you-can't-teach-me-anything attitude don't add up to an original mind. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, how stupid you seem, how much the dumb herd-animal raised on the ranch of your mother and grandfather.

I felt drained, but his was so paltry an injustice. He was complacent, blind, and pleased with himself for taking me on. So unfair and so limited, just like his mother. If only he knew how cramped and insecure he appeared. What better revenge could I savour? I felt no shame at that moment.

‘What shall we do tomorrow? Do you want to ride the tram up to Santa Teresa and have lunch? Or we can go to that old place in the centre where the waiters have those lovely fifties' uniforms?'

Such was the weave of that weekend with my son, scarlet threads of rage and hurt flashing unpredictably out of white, blue and green, all within me, unbetrayed by word or expression. I couldn't say why I was so quick to take offence, and certain things wounded me so: whether they were real, or phantoms that bedevilled me. There was also peace and fun and laughter, more light-hearted argument, even unmistakeable indications of love. Yet something was missing from the routine, or yes, perhaps it was routine itself that was missing, the simple taking for granted of each other in absolute familiarity. And he never threw down the bridge to me, as I would have loved him to, to the small inner circle on the other side where he lived with his mother, her parents, and even Clara in the background. I was the first person in the rest of the world to him, and we never had the time for me to practice leaping over.

 

(A daydream noted in my diary, from 1989, not long after Ana left with Seb.)

 

The strangest visions flash before me, reams of them, like movies and waking dreams. For it is only afternoon, and my eyes are open, but miraculously, there is no break in the flow. I'm transfixed, while entire stories that never were unfold, build up and conclude in this matinee of the interior, as vivid as in an alternate universe.

The Brown Bomber, the great da Lima, is visiting Calcutta, and we're at my mother's. Baba is at the window taking the sun and racing through his crossword, hoping he'll not be disturbed or asked to contribute any opinions, since he is trying to beat his new all-time best achieved only the month before. Bowls of cashew nuts and almonds, and plates of various mishti have been brought in on a tea tray, my (late) grandmother is switching back and forth from her favourite serial on TV to the chatter of her three daughters, who've gathered as usual this Saturday afternoon. I am seated in silence, struggling for the right words to explain and mediate this scene to the Dom, perhaps a phrase that would capture the essence of Indian domesticity and the lovable peculiarities of our family in one. But he seems contented, and keeps repeating how much he likes the tea.

Later in the evening we're on the long speedy highway out to the airport, because my mother suggested visiting friends of hers in Dum Dum. I see absolutely no point in taking Sr. da Lima to this god-and-municipal-corporation-forsaken part of the city, and it is becoming clear to me that my parents, especially my mother, have no idea of the stature of their guest,
not to mention his legendary temper. It gets worse, when we have to park beside a country road (because a linking flyover remains incomplete, and hangs spookily well-lit over us), and walk the rest of the way along muddy paths with bamboo groves and banana saplings on either side, and some cottages lit by oil lanterns, then round a pond and through a garden, before we reach a new block of flats. I'm only grateful that I seem to have underestimated the extent of Sr. da Lima's grace and tolerance, because he follows my mother, keeping up with her talk without a single murmur of anger, and even nodding when she surmises that the countryside around his town must be similar to this. She assures us of the warmth of those we have come so far to meet: a colleague of hers from school and her husband, wonderful, loving people who'd asked repeatedly if they could host us for a meal.