The Cambridge Curry Club (12 page)

Mrs Chakraborti’s eloquent fish-shaped eyes grew even fishier; there was silence as the group turned away from the unmistakable intimacy on display,
commencing
an animated discussion of English teapots. Adam continued to rest his hand on Bob’s thigh or arm as he chatted. Leaving the exit at Cambridge Station, Mrs Chakraborti hissed, eyes flashing, ‘Shame on you, Bob. Shame on you!’ She disappeared into the crowd and Adam threw back his head and laughed.

They had their first argument as they drove out of the station car park.

‘How could you?’ spluttered Bob.

‘What?’ countered Adam coolly.

‘You know what I mean! In front of those women …’

‘You’d better get used to it, Bob. Either you’re with me, or you ain’t. There’s no two ways about it, you
know,’ said Adam calmly, as they drove over the bridge, past Homerton College and onto Hills Road.

‘This is all too new. It’s going to take some time. You’re pushing it,’ snapped Bob.

‘It was those women who got to you, right? Because they know your wife. You wouldn’t have minded if they’d been strangers on a train to Newcastle, or if we were cavorting in Ibiza.’

‘It’s not just that. I’m not comfortable yet. I don’t know whether I ever will be. The physical stuff is not something to put on display. I didn’t even do it with …’ Bob paused.

‘With your wife? Poor boring Bob,’ mocked Adam. ‘It’s all right when there isn’t anyone looking, is that it? You do like your dark closet an awful lot, don’t you? Are you sure you’ve come out of it?’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm. I said I wasn’t
comfortable
, so just drop it, will you? Can’t you see I have a lot of issues to deal with, inside me, with the people who know me, who know me together with my wife? Do you know how difficult it is for me not to think about her at all? That woman just used the word “shame”. Do you know what that means? Yes, I am feeling shame. I’m not ashamed, but I do feel shame. Does that make any sense to you at all? You don’t know, do you, what it feels like to be split in two, down into your very guts, wanting to be true to what you feel inside but not knowing exactly what or why that is. I like you, Adam. I like being with you a lot, you know that, but there are big issues here. You’ve got to understand, be
supportive
, give me time.’

Bob glanced at the other man’s hard profile as they drove round the Addenbrooke’s roundabout. ‘You really
don’t understand, do you?’ he continued quietly. ‘I can’t figure you out. Who are you, Adam? You’re suave and sexy. Why are you with a miserable git like me? I’ve got to know.’

‘Can it wait until we get home? We’re almost there. Let’s do this properly. And I’ve got to meet Noddy first, sorry. It’s very important to interact with these birds on a daily basis. They misbehave so easily if one doesn’t. So can we talk afterwards?’

Bob waited impatiently on the Aalvar Aalto sofa for Adam. The image of the fiery ball of a woman spitting those words at him was indelible; he deserved every word, he thought. It was punishment for following his inner self; would he now never cease to be haunted by what he had done? The temple of Apollo at Delphi carried an inscription:
Gnothi seauton – Know thyself.
The familiar feelings of guilt took control, emotions that he tried desperately to erase, and when Adam emerged from his chat with Noddy it was to discover Bob holding his teddy, Charlie, fast asleep.

By the next weekend, Bob had begun to unravel the mystery surrounding Adam. The bell rang insistently, and Bob opened the door to find a solemn little girl and boy on the doorstep, as a woman moved forward. She was slim and blonde. ‘You must be Bob. I’ve heard so much about you. All good things,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Saara, and I’ve come to drop off the children.’ Before Bob could respond, she looked at her watch and jumped into her car and sped away, shouting
instructions
to the children. They looked at him without interest, moving past him into the home with an easy familiarity.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked the girl.

‘Where’s Noddy?’ asked the boy.

As Adam explained later to Bob, he had two children, and the blonde Finnish woman was Saara. They were not divorced, only separated. Under Bob’s watchful gaze, Adam changed. Gone was the cool, sophisticated exterior; stripped, he was a father.

He asked Bob to join them in the park at Cherry Hinton overlooked by a row of houses. They walked past the ducks onto an open patch of green and Adam unpacked a large duffel bag. Bob thought his lungs would burst as he raced after the ball and tossed and caught the frisbee. Claire remained mutinous and refused to look at Bob, rejecting his offer of a sweet.

It all made sense. Saara and the children lived in Cambridge, and that was why Adam hadn’t moved away. He needed to see his children, and still referred to Saara as his ‘wife’. It was as simple as that. Bob watched him as he sprinted after Mark, hoisting him in the air, pummelling him until he squealed in delight, pushing the swings and pumping the see-saw, his arms ready to catch the little boy as he slid down the slide.

That night Bob lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, ignoring the parrot although Noddy did his best to engage him in battle. Adam with his hands full of flour, pounding the pizza dough, bathtime and the bedtime story … who was Adam?

Adam had explained later. He had wanted to be the perfect father to his children. His own father had died when he was two, and he had grown up with an indifferent stepfather. Bob thought he understood now why Adam had sought him out, and it was not
flattering
. He didn’t want to be reassuring, responsible or
reliable; he wanted angels to sing of passion, feel Adam’s desire for him burn his flesh and soul. The years suddenly yawned ahead. Was he being groomed as a grandfather to Adam’s children, to read a bedtime story every other weekend and tackle their future teenage tantrums?

He had thought he knew Adam and his essence when they first met; now he realised he didn’t know him at all. Was he the ogre in the tower or the angel in the skies? Adam had become more and not less, and Bob less and not more than when they first met. Why did it feel as if Adam was the rising sun, and he the setting orb?

That night, the telephone woke Bob and Adam instantly. As Adam dressed hurriedly in the dim light, he explained. Saara was being taken to hospital with terrible pains. It was appendicitis. Could Bob take charge, look after the children while he was gone? Bob observed with petty satisfaction that Adam had
omitted
to mention Noddy.

It was three in the morning, and Bob wandered into the kitchen, pouring a large whisky before entering the room where the children lay sleeping. He looked down at Claire, at her rumpled sleeve, the brown hair framing her face, her drooping lips.

Bob was swept by a surfer’s wave on a sandspun beach as he bent over the child. His shoulders hunched, preparing for an engulfing torrent as he stood, a timid boy of thirteen in a white shirt and grey school shorts while his father paced angrily. His mother had averted her face as his father’s cane came crashing down on his knuckles, her mousy hair undone. His stern father had withdrawn into a dark silence and his classmate Peter
now avoided his gaze under the watchful eye of the teacher.

As he turned away from the faces of Adam’s sleeping children, the first sob contorted his stooping frame; his tears pitied the bewildered schoolboy beaten until he bled into denial of realms he could not fathom, the mother who had long passed into embarrassed, early oblivion and a father whose deathbed remained unflinching tombstone.

He fled to Adam’s bedroom in anguished rage at his own foolish arrogance, at the years of confusion, for the children he would now never have, that
she
would never have. The tears welled and swelled, spilling into the bathtub until the duck began to bob merrily,
flowing
over the tub’s sides onto the dark marbled floor. The flood seeped under the door into the rest of the house, gushing over the designer furniture and the crystal, dousing the light of the Swedish candles,
quelling
the rhapsody until there was only hollow silence in the darkness.

He held his head between his hands; a quiet, dull man perched on the edge of a satin-covered bed next to a shabby one-eyed teddy, watched balefully by a
parrot
. Perhaps he could only be the one or the other, black or white, and the shades of grey could never be his. He envied Adam his several worlds. He himself was solid and stolid, boorish and bookish. He was no Latin lover in the Chinese boudoir, and he hated tasselled slippers, organic broccoli and whitening toothpaste.

Noddy squawked warningly as Bob continued to weep. He hopped down from his perch and his tail flared. The low growl came again. Bob had forgotten
about Noddy. He looked at the bird, approaching slowly, rapidly gulping his whisky.

‘Now listen, you little birdbrain!’ His steely voice startled him as well as the parrot, which emitted a loud screech of protest. Bob stood his ground. He stared eyeball to eyeball with Noddy. Volcanoes erupted from the parrot’s eyes; molten lava of hate spilled over the slopes of his wings as he flew in anger at the bars of the cage.

‘Shut up, bird. You’ll wake everyone. Do you want to do that? I think not. Yes, bird, that’s what you are, only a silly old bird. Did you hear what I said? Old bird. Old bird,’ repeated Bob.

The whisky was taking effect. Bob jumped shakily, clumsily, onto the bed to peer into the cage. He executed a wobbly jig. ‘Look, I’ve got a bird’s-eye view up here! “Fly robin, fly, up, up to the sky”,’ he sang tunelessly, squashing the embroidered satin cushions without alarm. The bird bristled, shooting fire through the cage.

‘You think you’re a singing nun in Salzburg, but you are nothing but a mean green bunch of feathers and you’ll end up on an Ascot hat, without the sound of music,’ warned Bob. ‘There’s no old age pension for birds, you know. Tough mean parrots don’t even get eaten; they just get tossed into the bin along with the … er … potato peel.’ Bob was inspired, viewing his glass through pleasantly blurred edges and his life with clarity. ‘And, you little birdie dum dum num num, however much you may want Adam, he’s not yours. He’s
not
yours. He’s not mine, either, I can see that now, but he’s certainly not yours, so just eat up your sunflower seeds like a good bird. You are not
his bird.
You are only a
bird
. B-I-R-D.’

Noddy glared balefully but made no sound as he paced his cage.

‘Shall I tell you something else? You have a really silly name. “Noddy”. Ha! Noddy’s not only the
dumbest
character in Toyland, he sings terribly out of key.’ Bob took another large sip. ‘I’m surprised you answer to it. No self-respecting yellow nape Amazon parrot from El Salvador would ever accept “Noddy”. Where’s your Latin machismo and pride? Speedy Gonzales.
Guantanamera
. “Yo soy un hombre sincero” and all that. Olé! Arriba! Paella! Marbella! That’s all the Spanish I know, sorry. I’m English. Not supposed to speak any foreign languages. And I’m in foreign country at the moment. Hang on, there’s a Spanish phrase book somewhere!’ Bob lurched towards a bookcase and found an
AA Essential Spanish for Kids
.

‘Ah, here it is. Now let’s see. Yes.
Tengo novio.
Now that’s a useful phrase. That means I have a boyfriend.
Vete a la porra!
I’m sure you know what that means: Sod off!
Buen viaje!
Have a good trip! So now you’ve heard it loud and clear in your own language, I’d suggest you shape up – spit spot – or ship out. If you’re good, I’ll put in a word for you to stay, El Salvio. If not, well, I just might want to find out what it’s like to kill a bird with a stone. It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if someone left your cage unlocked for the second time? Pure accident, but this time you would be alone, all alone in this beautiful house. What could happen next? Ooh, I fear for you! You might swallow the poisonous sap from the
dieffenbachia
growing in the patio, or your beak could get stuck inside a socket and this time you would get electrocuted, but never mind, you’d still have the best
parrot perm and stringy bottom this side of Latin America.’

Bob was exhausted. He felt an urge to talk to Heera. He reached for the telephone and passed out. The next morning, Adam returned home. He rushed to Noddy’s cage.

‘Hello, my love, my Noddy. Sorry I wasn’t there last night.’

Noddy turned his back on Adam.

‘I said I’m sorry. Noddy? Darling? Listen, let me get you some breakfast. Some fresh fruit and sunflower seed, how does that sound?’

The parrot remained silent.

‘Say something, Noddy darling. You know I couldn’t help it, I just had to go, but I did come home as quickly as I could. Saara was ill, and you know these things can happen.’

‘El Salvio! El Salvio!’ shrieked the parrot.

‘I know I should’ve been there for you, darling, but do understand. I’ll buy you a new perch, would that be nice? And I’ll let you out of the cage for a whole hour tomorrow, how about that? I’ll come home early if I can.’

‘El Salvio! El Salvio!’

It took two days for Adam to understand. His
parrot’s
new name was El Salvio. El Salvio had started singing ‘La Bamba’. In an English accent.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Faint heart never won fair lady

A
T THE MOMENT
when the young man had been racing down Mill Road, hurtling into Swarnakumari’s ample, bending body and slipping into IndiaNeed, a man in his mid-thirties embarked on a leisurely walk from the College Backs towards Mill Road. Dressed in brown chinos, a cream crew-necked pullover and a beige overcoat, he strode, a man who loved the
outdoors
, across Coe Fen. He was American, and his name was Roman Tempest.

Looking back twenty-four hours later on his casual expedition to Mill Road that morning, Roman was reminded of Horace Walpole. Reading the tales of
The Three Princes of Serendip,
Walpole had deduced that an accidental discovery by sagacity of things one did not seek was ‘serendipity’. Serendipity as happy chance, accidental good fortune and wordless wisdom, then, had charted Roman’s course when he might otherwise have visited the Sedgwick Museum and greeted the reconstructed iguanodon skeleton or an ichthyosaur or two. Perhaps it was Teresa who had impelled his steps away towards Mill Road.

Teresa was a helpful English colleague who blushed
rapidly, embarrassment staining her pale throat and cheeks. He imagined the nervous redness spreading through her until she was a blazing tomato, and had stared at her skin in amazement as the flush spread down her neck, a glance she had coyly misinterpreted. She unbuttoned her blouse further, retained a fluttering hand in the region and punctuated her conversation with high-pitched giggles. Actively seeking his
company
, she alternated between Pouty Pop Queen and Ice Maiden, a combination he found disconcerting while discussing Steven Greenblatt and the New Historicism of American literary theory. Once he had idly formed an image of her as Britney Spears in academic garb, it was far too entertaining to banish.

Early that morning he had explored a path beside the river with a view to the back of the Wren Library and of the Gothic New Court of St John’s College, wondering if Wordsworth had wandered lonely there as an
undergraduate
at St John’s, moody in the mellow autumnal moment. Roman then made a ritual visit to the
Peterhouse
memorial to Rev. Godfrey Washington bearing the Washington coat-of-arms, the precursor to the Stars and Stripes flag. He had returned to the river, and as he stopped to trace the veins of a russet leaf on the Fen path before continuing on his way, verse flooded his being. He, like Whitman, was free and healthy and light-hearted on the open road; the long brown path beckoned and he would choose where he would go. A man in an oilskin coat and wellingtons nodded politely at Roman as he walked by with his poodle on a leash. The poodle paused, and the man paused to remove a little plastic bag from his coat, and soon they were on their way again.

Roman halted to admire the majestic horse chestnut trees on Trumpington Road and the autumn foliage of the Botanic Garden before continuing up Bateman Street and into Station Road, turning left onto
Devonshire
Road. Teresa’s directions to Mill Road had been hurried and not as the crow flew; he suspected that she had deliberately chosen a long and winding route,
hoping
to offer herself at an opportune moment in the role of tour guide. A student distracted her attention as they had talked outside the Porter’s Lodge, and Roman had slipped away in relief.

He stood at the corner where Devonshire Road met Mill Road at the bridge. Teresa had informed him that Mill Road was ‘an exemplification of the ancient
quarrels
between the townspeople and the University’ that led to the coinage of the phrase ‘town and gown’. The ‘town’ was still smarting from the insults of Henry III in 1231, when he forbade it to exact high rents from scholars, and at the same time gave the University powers to license the alehouses and supervise the
markets
, fairs, weights and measures. It was not until the Act of Parliament in 1856 that old disputes were settled, she had added knowledgeably.

Roman entered Mill Road through the tumbling October leaves, recalling Thoreau’s autumnal sun and autumn gale. Roman experienced life through poetry, and effortlessly memorised large passages for every occasion. It impressed the students, was useful to tease women like Teresa, but he nevertheless genuinely loved great poetry, chiefly as he was unable to write any of his own.

At the moment when Roman Tempest set foot on Mill
Road, Durga was checking the new deliveries of
puzzles
. If the cover stated 250 pieces, but a piece was missing, the volunteers were not permitted to proceed with a sale; typically, a missing piece was usually the motive behind the generous donation to the charity. Fortunately, ‘Sir Puzzle’ offered to take away the incomplete puzzles and still pay full price.

A tall, hawk-nosed man in a grey woollen overcoat and felt hat entered, followed by a short middle-aged man. The tall man asked to see the collection of watches, and as Eileen unlocked the shelf and brought out the tray, he lifted his arm to reveal four watches on his right wrist; none showed the correct time. He scowled and pointed to two with broken dials, strapped them around his left wrist, paid and departed.

Swarnakumari was staring through the curtain at the short man inspecting the lingerie. ‘Durga, go and help him. Your Uncle would not like it if I do such things.’

Pretending to check the window display, Durga strolled out to the front of the shop. The bespectacled man in his sixties resembled her neighbour Mr Beescroft, who tapped his cap every time they met with their rubbish at the communal black bins. The man rummaged through the undergarments and thrust his hands inside a blue brassière, brushing it against his chest before returning it to its original place. As Durga approached, he hastily chose a red brassière instead, producing a brown paper parcel he was carrying to bundle his purchase under his arm. As he left, a third customer emerged from behind the rack of nightgowns. ‘Don’t worry, luv, he’s harmless. He goes to every
charity
shop down this road and does the same thing,’ he bubbled.

‘Your Uncle would not let me come here if he saw what that dirty man did,
hanh
’ was Swarnakumari’s comment afterwards.

‘
Arre
, c’mon on, Swarna, tell the truth. You complain loudly, but actually you enjoy this khichdi pot of life bubbling in here, don’t you?’ teased Heera.

The florist’s assistant crossed the road with Javed’s bouquet; he was a freckled lad miscast as the happy bearer of floral tidings. As he darted in front of a
speeding
car, Javed’s card fluttered away into the traffic. The assistant stood outside IndiaNeed with his flowers, intent on his mobile, his fingers working furiously. Roman Tempest was standing outside the shop, peering at the window display. The lad dropped the bouquet and Roman dived, catching it neatly, a baseball in his waiting glove.

‘You nearly lost that bunch. Hold on tight, man!’ warned Roman.

‘Thanks, mate,’ replied the lad without looking up. He jerked his thumb towards the shop. ‘Got to do this delivery and me girlfriend’s waiting down the road. She’s going to kill me – says she won’t be waiting longer than five minutes. Got to send her a message now. Can you help, mate? Just go in with the flowers, say they’re from the Sunflowers Florists down the road, all right? She’s going to kill me. Gotta run. Cheers, mate!’ He sped away.

Roman entered the shop with the flowers. He paused, searching for a note from the florists among the blooms. As he slowly approached the counter, he saw her, slim in a cream turtleneck and denim jeans, her black hair untidily bunched around her shoulders,
noticed the droop of her neck, the curve of generous lips as she mocked and teased a large Indian lady dressed in a sari. He paused again, considered for a brief, mad moment saying the flowers were from him, but was intercepted by a grey-haired woman.

‘Sunflowers Florists delivery from across the road,’ he revealed hastily.

‘Who are they for? There’s no card,’ she accused as she peered into the bouquet of a dozen red roses. He shrugged apologetically.

‘They couldn’t be for me. They must be for one of them.’ The stern woman carried the bouquet to the counter. He waited uncertainly.

The large woman in the sari gushed, ‘Let me see! Let me see! Lovely roses! For whom?’ Her curious eyes devoured the flowers. ‘For whom?’ she repeated. Not for a moment did she entertain the thought that she might be the lucky recipient. Mr Chatterjee was not given to frivolous gestures.

‘If you think they could be yours, take them, there’s no card,’ suggested the grey-haired woman.

Another Asian woman looked at the blooms and declared, ‘Must be for you, Durga.’

Durga. He memorised the name, sliding over its unfamiliar edges.

The large woman looked at her, avid eyes snapping. ‘Who is this admirer of yours,
hanh
, Durga?’ She wagged a finger. ‘Trying to keep secrets from us,
na
?’

‘They can’t be for me, either. No one sends a rose to a cactus,’ replied Durga. Her voice was attractive and low. He hated shrill voices. Kathy’s had become very shrill in the end. Cactus. Had she just said ‘
cactus
’?

‘Then for whom are these flowers? Durga says they
can’t be for her, Swarna says they can’t be for her, you say they can’t be for you and I’m saying they can’t be for me,’ wondered Heera, turning to Eileen.

‘Blimey, that’s women for you. If you don’t send ’em flowers, they complain. If you send ’em flowers, they complain. What’s a man to do? What’s all the fuss about? Share ’em three apiece and get on with it,’ advised the customer who had previously been buried in the rack of nightgowns but had since moved on to the inspection of old record albums. He winked at Roman.

‘Phone the florist,’ suggested Eileen. ‘That’s the logical thing to do.’

Roman continued to stare at Durga. Instant
attraction
didn’t happen in real life, it was the stuff of the chick films Kathy had dragged him to watch with a popcorn bag in one hand and a large Coke in the other. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt silly and weak at the sight of a woman, flames leaping,
sending
incoherent thoughts and snatches of poetry to his head. San Francisco, Kathy and the Arizona retreat were a fading drumbeat; he was mesmerised by the curve of a stranger’s lips.

Heera returned to the group, embarrassed.

‘Well?’ said Eileen.

‘They’re for
me
. They’re from Javed,’ acknowledged Heera shyly. She stood holding the bouquet, lost in the perfection of the flowers, sniffing their fragrance and gently caressing the petals. With brimming eyes she hugged the blooms to her face, returning to breathe deep of their scent.

‘Flowers from Javed?’ There was a world of inflection in Swarnakumari’s voice. A flame once extinguished
was best forgotten, she brooded. Even if Javed had been Heera’s young love, it was a long time ago. Her parents should have kept a strict watch, and then it would not have happened at all. Now that Heera was happily
married
to Bob, after saying, ‘Hello, how are you?’ there should be nothing more for her to say to another man who was not a blood relative, she decided, convinced Mr Chatterjee would not approve, either.

He had not spoken during his visit to the shop other than to inquire after Mrs Wellington-Smythe, she realised with a jolt. She did not understand why he had arrived there unannounced; he had appeared preoccupied and tense, giving her no opportunity to properly introduce her shop colleagues.

In truth, Mr Chatterjee’s face as he wandered through IndiaNeed had registered not only
incomprehension
but also the unexpected entry into a brave new world that had made him feel irrelevant, as if the life he had lived had been revealed as no life at all.

‘Heera, when you’ve finished, could you take a look at those old cigar boxes I found?’ called Eileen.

Heera accompanied her behind the curtain, carefully holding the bouquet, as two burly men entered the shop, dragging a large, heavy object. ‘Afternoon, got a
delivery
. Could you sign for it?’ said the taller of the two, drumming his thigh impatiently. Swarnakumari was curious; the shop rarely took delivery of large items. ‘Dunno. Just did what I were told. Cheers,’ drawled the man on his way out in reply to her question.

As Roman watched, the group of women slowly encircled the object abandoned in the middle of the shop. Durga stood a few feet away and he stared at her, at her dark hair and eyes; she was a stranger who felt a
mere breath away. He paused, overcome by self-irony; it was too soon after Kathy. He was already running from Teresa, and he should continue to be cautious and prudent, but once he had seen Durga, delicate as the leaf he had examined earlier, he sensed the image of her would be forever his to own and pin on the wing of a Petrarchan sonnet.

It had been different with Kathy. Kathy was not to blame, nor he; perhaps they would blame it on San Francisco. If they’d never moved to the Bay Area from the New England small town, why would he be here, in wind-swept Cambridge on a chill autumn day? It had been a Faustian bargain, unlike any at Macy’s. A rueful smile chased his face, as he remembered his enthusiastic endorsement of Herb Caen’s Baghdad by the Bay in the early days. No longer would he gaze up for the moon and settle for those towering confections of steel, enough of the cable cars and fire sirens, the plaintive foghorns and the Pyramid. No more eclectic bookstore, rollerblading in Golden Gate Park, mingling in the crowds on Labor Day weekend on the ferry to Angel Island or the Halloween party in the Castro, the
sweating
bearded Cinderellas and Tinkerbells at the Moby Dick or Twin Peaks, the lighting of the Christmas tree at Union Square. No more
Nutcracker
at the Opera House or envious amble past Neiman’s and Saks, poetry at St Paul and Peter’s Church, jazz in North Beach. No more cherry-tree blossoms in the Japanese Tea Garden; no longer would he allow himself to think of the Wharf and chowder and sourdough bread, Red’s Java diner, nor the Anchor Steam beer straight from the source and the Farmer’s Market at the Ferry Building. Nevermore did he want to read another
Chronicle
arts critique, nor a
restaurant review, nevermore scurry for seductions by wine and books and food and the conversations of strangers.