The Cambridge Curry Club (11 page)

Javed was suffused with poetry amid the clothes racks and shelves of the charity shop; it had become a rosy-hued paradise in which Eileen, Durga and
Swarnakumari
were the houris as he and Heera strolled in gardens of scented blooms. Heera, too, had forgotten her surroundings, transported back to the tiny bedroom in her parents’ old Hyderabadi haveli overlooking her neighbour’s mansion. As she leaned her arms over the rail, face upturned amid the garden scents of jasmine and rajnigandha, Javed would appear on the terrace a few feet away, unfold his latest poem and bequeath it to the dying rays of the sun, persuading them to linger until he had declared his love. She had laughed at the more extravagant phrases; surely she was not to be likened to a graceful swan, her face no rising moon, her
powdered arms no more perfumed than the scent of a thousand petals?

A single candle glowing on his terrace and the
mandolin
strings spoke eloquently of his love, and on her eighteenth birthday she had returned to her room to behold a hundred winking candles ablaze on his terrace; lit by their flame, he had placed a thumping hand on his heart as he fell to his knees.

Did such a love last, she wondered, and did the flame burn brightly only because it never lit the darkness but for an instant? Was it better to have loved and lost, but then why was he in the charity shop, was it a sign? Was there a divine design to which she should surrender, recalling the countless times she had whispered his name across the oceans?

She must look ridiculous to him in her black work trousers and shabby blouse and with her sagging bosom and chin, big hips and hairy arms and unplucked
eyebrows
. Her hair needed a wash and her roots showed, age showed. What was she thinking, sitting here with him in front of all these people, and she had not even offered Swarnakumari’s husband and his friend a cup of tea. All this love-shove business she had harboured all these years was silly, like the disguise she had given the young man – it was time to discard it without regret. She rose with determination at the moment when five middle-aged women entered the shop.

‘Guten Tag, wir wollen nicht stören, aber dürfen wir …?’ A woman apologised in German for the
interruption
, switching to halting English; they were a
delegation
of German charity officials on a visit to Cambridge to observe the functioning of an English hospice. After an additional round of other charity shops in the area,
they had been directed to IndiaNeed. The woman was apologetic; they had arrived unannounced. Durga stepped forward, introducing herself in fluent German to their delight, and they followed eagerly as she led them through the shop to describe the various village projects in Rajasthan.

‘Swarna, Eileen,’ hissed Heera. ‘Help me make tea for everybody.’

‘Allow me,’ offered Javed gallantly, following her behind the curtain into the Staff Area. They found
teacups
with matching saucers as the kettle boiled. Heera darted quick, shy glances at him – they were making tea together. The vapour from the kettle rose, warming her heart.

The German women chatted companionably while sipping their tea, and Frau Inge Hartmann proudly displayed a handbag photograph of her son, Thai daughter-in-law and their two children. Banerjee was emboldened. It was time to come out of the closet; he had a son-in-law of German origin called Heinz, he confessed shyly. The women squealed and pumped his hand vigorously.

The shop emptied as the elderly customer left
clutching
a hat and a vase for Dorothy, followed by the
German
women crying out a fond ‘Wiedersehen’. Banerjee had been defeated in his quest for a Marks & Spencer cardigan; he would now commence a search for Diwali cards. Swarnakumari showed him the cards produced by the Rajasthan project; Banerjee knew instantly his wife would appreciate neither the upturned faces of the villagers on the cards nor the price, and desisted from a purchase. Her disappointment would be difficult to bear, but her wrath would be far worse.

After her initial dazed and delighted response, Heera had appeared withdrawn and tense. Javed gathered that her husband was away. He wondered if there was
something
amiss despite her ready acceptance of his
invitation
to dinner, but as he left he had a spring and bounce in his step. He felt only release and liberation. So this was what it felt like to be born again, to be given another chance. Life wasn’t supposed to send in a second monsoon shower moistening the baked, cracked earth, and if it did, surely it meant that he had to dare to be different, leap where he never would have trod. If he tripped and tumbled, dived and drowned, what would it matter, for he would have heard his heart as surely as if he had kicked the camel hard on its bottom, and if the camel wouldn’t move, why then he would be fanciful, think he had laughed with the crowd, confess he was sitting on an obstinate, scheming creature as wilful as a new wife, and did they know what it felt like to please a wife who wouldn’t be moved, and what could he do if cajoling and pleading didn’t work, and begging only made her more obdurate? What could a man do but sit there, wait patiently until the new moon had made his young wife mellow and pliant? And then the crowd would have laughed with him and
understood
and melted away.

He stopped impulsively at the florists; the blonde woman appeared wistful as he ordered a dozen
perfect
red blooms to be sent to the charity shop to Heera. He penned an Urdu couplet; the words had reappeared from thin air, were perfectly timed and rhymed. He signed dramatically on the card, an elongated ‘J’
distinguishing
the drab white envelope. The florist was impressed by his Porsche fountain pen.

He bought a packet of roasted peanuts from the shop next door and inhaled their nutty, salty smell. The crowd had sent peanuts whizzing past his nose at the camel that day; now it was time for the fizz, to celebrate as surely as if the peanuts were the glass of champagne from which he would abstain.

The four women rearranged the shop; clothes hangers had unhooked themselves from the racks, long dresses and coats had been flung over the rails, and everything that had lain in the storm path of the three thugs overturned in callous haste. A pile of blankets lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and Eileen mumbled under her breath as Banerjee glanced at his watch and exclaimed at the lateness of the hour. His good humour had deserted him; he would return empty-handed except for the fish, still lying in the boot of the car, that would no longer be as fresh as when first purchased. There might be trouble ahead.

Mr Chatterjee had questions queuing in his head, bursting like a thousand noisy firecrackers. He was uncertain of what he had witnessed at IndiaNeed, the shop where his wife worked every Thursday as a volunteer. Swarnakumari’s sari had been wet, clinging to her back, and she had looked like a curvy Southern belle emerging from a waterfall in an Indian film, stepping out in embarrassment from behind the curtain. His curiosity had led him to wander into the Staff Area. The sight of a blond wig, handcuffs, transparent lingerie and a pair of tiny white knickers with
Punish Me
embroidered in black lying on a table in the back of the shop was unnerving. It was the note pinned to the knickers, however, that was by far the most disturbing:
MRS W-S, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH THESE? The query had been penned in capital letters; his legal training had taught him that, without further evidence to the contrary, he could not preclude the possiblity, however unlikely, that the note had been written by his wife.

Preparing for departure, Mr Chatterjee attempted for the last time to garner information on Mrs
Wellington-Smythe’s
whereabouts. She was out on her morning ride, supplied a brusque woman with an Irish accent. He hid his disappointment well. He had always known aristocrats were thoroughbreds.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Birds of a feather flock together

B
OB HEARD THE
gushing of the bathwater; it was a gurgling, luxurious sound. Soon he would hear a light swish, a slap of water against a yellow rubber duck before a Beethoven sonata slipped teasing and seductive under the door. Resistance was no longer a choice, and he undressed reluctantly, his clothes falling in a heap outside the bathroom door as he walked inside to join Adam.

Cleverly concealed lighting shone softly on the gleaming chrome taps, glass basins and the rails with their fluffy black and cream towels; designer toiletries were arranged next to a DVD and CD player, and the Jacuzzi bubbled invitingly. Bob paused to look at himself in the Italian mirror of Adam’s marble-tiled bathroom. He felt utterly ridiculous.

That was not the way it had started with Adam.
Adam
– he had been consumed by that name, until it became as natural as a breath; without it he gasped for air, strangled by guilt and shame. As he slowly lowered himself into the slippery bathtub, Adam handed him the rubber duck. Bob dutifully squeezed until it squealed. Its red beak bobbed in the foamy lather in
which Adam floated. Bob looked at the duck; unlike him, it would never drown. When Adam indicated he was ready, Bob reached for the loofah, scrubbed his back and exfoliated his feet with peppermint scrub.

‘Do you think the merger will go ahead?’ asked Adam lazily above the music. Bob nodded.

‘Hard day, wasn’t it? We’ll go to Papa Donatello’s for a bite, or do you prefer Thai?’ Adam shrewdly never suggested an Indian curry, and in any case it gave him indigestion – and Bob guilt.

Adam went organic when he cooked; everything, from the salad to the dressing and the nuts and the wine, had to be sensitively grown. The kitchen gleamed with a silver Smeg refrigerator and French copper
bain-marie
and casseroles, Skeppshult cast iron pans,
Yatagan
knives, an Au Nain mezzaluna, Piazza ladles, Alessi kettle and Rowlett toaster. Adam tossed the salad with his home-made vinaigrette only seconds before serving. The trick, he explained, was to prepare it in French style; the dressing was poured into the bottom of the bowl and the freshly cut salad leaves arranged on top.

The glass-topped dining table for ten was
immaculately
laid out for two; a blue Kosta Boda candleholder swirled the light into shimmers of gold. There was seduction in the salad as Adam turned up the volume on the Bang & Olufsen speakers. Bob had found the Scandinavian influence on the house intriguing:
Holmegaard
and Royal Copenhagen, Ittala glassware and crystal, Poul Hennningsen lamps, Arne Jacobsen chairs and Aalvar Aalto sofa. Adam explained casually that it was Anders Pedersen who had left those behind. Who was Anders, and what had he meant to Adam?
wondered
Bob, jealously aflame. It could only be the act of a
generous lover; he would find out more about the Great Dane, or go quietly insane.

Bob sensed he was the new concubine as he surveyed the bedroom inspired by the Far East. An enormous Chinese fan was pinned to a brocade wall-hanging behind the bed, which had a black satin coverlet embroidered with dragons; the bedside tables were carved red wooden boxes, and tasselled lamps lit the way to a delicate bamboo wardrobe. Adam had gifted Bob a pair of embroidered Chinese slippers. As his feet sank into their plush softness, he did not dare ask whose memory still lingered there. He padded obediently in the slippers, which were a size too small, obliging him to take smaller steps. He would not mince, he muttered fiercely to himself; he did not want to mince.

Searching for clues became Bob’s magnificent
obsession
, self-revulsion oozing a boil in every pore as he scoured Adam’s home for former loves and past lives. There were secrets in the engraved wooden box for Havana cigars and in the collection of Cuban music and books on New Zealand. The music in the bedroom was Brazilian, with Milton Nascimento, Maria Bethânia and Gilberto Gil given pride of place. A bold hand had scrawled
Beijos
and lipstick marks on the cover of each CD, and Bob’s tortured dreams were now mocked by men with black locks and bronzed Latin skins. He was lying on Copacabana beach, suffocating in a black suit and tie, while their string-ringed bottoms shook moist sand onto his face. Adam towered over him, a caipirinha drink in one hand, the other skimming the sleek twisting hips. Bob looked up to see the Corcovado Christ figure, arms open wide. He tumbled down Rio’s hill and was lifted into the statue’s concrete embrace.

On Bob’s first evening in the house Adam had
prepared
a celebratory meal accompanied by Bollinger champagne. Listlessly picking at the lettuce, Bob had played hockey with the porcini mushrooms and pushed the puy lentils to a corner of his plate as Pavarotti ascended a scale. Bob was nervous of the step he had taken, his boldest since proposing to Heera in
Hyderabad
. Submission and surrender to another man’s choice of toothpaste, wine and medium roasted coffee was not easy, and, although the fact was well hidden from Adam, he never slept soundly away from his own bed. As Adam bent his head to look quizzically at him, Bob met his eyes and smiled, displaying an assurance that he did not feel.

Bob entered the room of Chinese dragons to the accompaniment of a loud squawk. It was his
introduction
to Noddy, Adam’s yellow nape Amazon
parrot
. The bird had olive-green wings, a yellow patch at the back of his neck, a dark grey beak, light grey legs and orange eyes. A native of El Salvador, he had been sold to Adam for a thousand pounds by a pet shop. Noddy, who weighed four hundred grams, sat in a cage with perches, toys, an avian gym and food and water bowls. The cage was hung in the Chinese boudoir.

‘You never told me you had a parrot,’ said Bob wonderingly.

‘Shhh … don’t say it aloud. Noddy doesn’t like being referred to as a parrot. He’s human, aren’t you, my love?’ teased Adam.

There was another squawk and Bob stared,
hypnotised
, into little orange eyes on fire.

‘Aren’t you going to do something about the pa—
about Noddy?’ protested Bob, trying to ignore the flames of distrust emanating from the bird.

‘Noddy loves to watch,’ replied Adam.

That night Bob sought his teddy, Charlie, but dreamed instead of a jungle filled with hanging vines and snake-like gnarled roots that he blindly pushed aside, escaping marauding humans with piercing beaks for mouths as he stumbled helplessly towards the light.

He awoke to Noddy’s raucous shrieks and stared at the bird, engaging the beady, venom-filled eyes in battle. What a ridiculous name for a parrot, he thought. There was soon going to be trouble in Toyland, but for the moment Adam had arrived with shelled sunflower seeds, fresh sprouts and fruit for Noddy, who attacked his breakfast with relish. Bob wondered whether both the seeds and fruit were organic.

‘Stay absolutely still! Don’t move!’ commanded Adam. It took a moment for Bob to realise Adam was talking to
him
. Adam opened the cage. ‘Step up, spit spot!’ he ordered, and Bob froze. Noddy hopped onto Adam’s wrist, attempting to jump onto his shoulder. Adam coaxed the parrot down onto his wrist again and stared firmly into his eyes. Bob relived the image of a head teacher thundering to a thin boy in shorts.

‘Good boy, Noddy,’ said Adam approvingly and scratched the bird’s head as it obeyed. ‘Now get on the stick!’ Noddy hopped on. ‘Sing, my little songbird!’

As Bob watched in amazement, Noddy cocked his head adoringly and trilled in a man’s voice, ‘You are the wind beneath my wings’.

‘You are an angel.’ Adam rewarded him with another head scratch, and gently nudged him towards the cage.
‘Got to go now, my little singing nun, or I’ll be late for work.’

Noddy hopped in, as he sang in drunken-
girls-night
-out-karaoke-style, ‘I will survive’. Adam peered into the cage and pleaded, ‘Please understand, my featherbunch!’ Noddy sang, ‘Leave right now’, and was silent.

Matters escalated that evening. Bob had been
shopping
, and as he unlocked the front door he heard a woman’s voice coming from the direction of Adam’s bedroom. ‘Adam, darling, not now. Ooh, that tickles!’ she said huskily. Black jealous rage overtook Bob as he dropped the carrier bags, hurried upstairs and burst, incandescent, into the bedroom to find Adam sitting calmly on the bed while Noddy was strutting on the floor. As soon as Noddy saw Bob, he made a guttural sound; his tail feathers flared and his pupils dilated menacingly.

‘Stay!’ said Adam firmly, his palm turned upwards.

Noddy stared at Bob, then suddenly flew at Adam and bit him hard on his arm. Bob stared helplessly at the sudden patch of blood forming on Adam’s shirt.

‘Bob, leave the room for a mo and shut the door, will you?’ requested Adam.

Bob overheard Adam’s murmured endearments to Noddy while he sat on the Aalvar Aalto sofa. Adam emerged calmly from the room half an hour later; he had managed to stem the blood and tie a clumsy
bandage
on the arm.

As they drove together to work on the A14 in Adam’s car the next morning, it began to rain. Bob looked out on the dismal flat landscape near
Huntingdon
that he had passed every day for years, feeling he
would be consumed by flatness his entire life – until he had met Adam, that is – but he realised Adam had tweaked the truth when he said he was not in a
relationship
. There were three of them now: two men and a parrot. A very dangerous, jealous parrot.

Adam patiently explained: the yellow nape Amazon bird was one of the best talkers in the bird world; it could learn tricks as early as four months. It could sing opera, whistle, and memorise whole songs, imitate the young and old, male and female, rollerskate, go down on a slide, roll over. It loved an audience. When it was around five years old – coincidentally, Noddy’s age – the species became aggressive, especially in the
breeding
season. Noddy saw Adam as his mate, and would seriously harm anyone who was a threat, not afraid to teach its own carer a bitter lesson to boot. So, thought Bob, other men and women showed off tattoos, but Adam had love bites from an Amazonion parrot. All this was very entertaining and endearing, but what was he, Bob, supposed to do? Accept defeat and leave the parrot crowing in victory, squawking its little triumphs? Make way for Noddy?

The mystery of Anders was one no longer. Noddy had apparently flown at the Danish lover in bird wrath, and nearly gouged out an eye. Anders left in a hurry and flurry, but not before committing a wilful, cruel act, shuddered Adam, eyes turning moist at the
memory
. While Adam was in the shower, Anders had
written
a note in Danish beginning with the words
Øje for øje, An eye for an eye,
let Noddy out of the cage and escaped himself, without saying goodbye or why. When Adam emerged, fragrant from emollient and sensitive scalp detangling lotion, he found Noddy
flying 
in shock around the house, and about to insert his beak into a wall socket. Noddy could have died,
shuddered
Adam. He could have bitten house wires, been poisoned from chewing house plants, hammered the ceiling while searching for the sky.

Adam advised Bob to be patient and read
The
Companion
Parrot Handbook
on parrot handling.
The Guide to a Well-Behaved Parrot
by Athan and Earl-Bridges was another useful reference for an understanding of the wonderful world of parrots. He should remember the cardinal rule: he was never
ever
to enter the room again when Noddy was out of the cage.

Adam took Bob to London the next day; it was a treat to obliterate the trauma of the introduction to Noddy. Bob felt like an East Anglian bumpkin as he was led through Harrods and Selfridges and New Bond Street, and accompanied Adam into bespoke tailor shops on Jermyn Street. Afterwards, they dined in a gentlemen’s club behind the Ritz. Bob was bewildered. Adam was clearly a man of wealth, so why had he chosen to work in an architect’s firm and live in the Shelfords?

They walked together into the lights of Soho and Madame JoJo’s, and ambled arm-in-arm to their hotel on Shaftesbury Avenue in the early hours of Sunday. Returning to King’s Cross Station that evening, they made their way to Platform Nine for the Cambridge train which, to their surprise, was nearly full. Adam spotted the last two empty seats and as they sat down Bob realised he was caught in the midst of a Cambridge group of Women Working for the World members – a few of whom he recognised as Heera’s acquaintances. Bob wanted to flee, Adam wanted to stay, the train doors slammed shut, and they were on their way. The
numerous tunnels darkening the carriages as the train sped toward Stevenage and the arrival of the refreshments trolley initially shielded Bob from discovery. It was in the vicinity of Hitchin Station that Janet Hewitt noticed Bob.

‘Bob?’ she asked tentatively, leaning over her
neighbour
. He straightened uncomfortably; there was no way out as the other women began to nod and smile. The questions fell thick and fast. Why had Heera not joined them on their outing to the Bramah Museum of Tea and Coffee? They would not forgive her for staying away, and could he tell Heera to call? She was to arrange the next guest speaker. As Bob searched for a response, Adam chose the moment to publicly cement their relationship. He leaned against Bob and dropped a casual arm over his shoulder, drawing him close.