A Matter of Marriage (42 page)

He nodded. “Yes, Uncle. I couldn't get the visa for her. That's all finished now.”

“You are keeping the dowry? As you had to pay for the visa application, the agents . . . Did all the dowry arrive?”

“Yes, Khalo. I bought this car.” And what was left was sitting in cash in the glovebox right in front of his uncle, along with all Kareem's other money. But he wasn't telling him that. Uncle'd invest it in that dirty restaurant. “With this family, the Choudhurys,” he continued, “her father is going on Haj and he wants everything sorted before he goes.”

There was a distinct sniff from the back seat and an
ahh
, as if everything was now clear. He could see in the rear-view that Mrs. Guri's corrugations had relaxed a little and her lip was pushed out a bit further, in a considering way.

“I know this family,” said Mrs. Guri. “They are not in the community now. The children, very modern, I think.”

Kareem tried for charm, smiling brightly and trying to meet her eyes in the mirror again. “Very connected too, Khalama. Their best friends are a rich
gora
family who live in a castle. And they have pictures of themselves shaking hands with the royal family.”

Auntie's eyebrows rose even higher. “What story is this, Kareem?”

“Khalama, I tell you the truth! You will see the pictures in their house.” He paused, trying to think of the right words. “They know, they are close with, many important people. If I'm part of that family there will be no more trouble with the police, no misunderstandings,
Inshallah
.”

The car was silent.

He tried for a lighter note. “And I'm a modern boy too, Khalama. I respect you and all that, I respect the traditions, but I'm Desi, you know? Not Bangla.”

“So you want to marry soon?”

“If you like her, if you and Uncle give your blessing. Maybe,” he said, speaking with great daring, “the
nikkah
and the registry office now, because, you see, Dr. Choudhury and Tariq, the son, they're going on Haj, yeah? And they want me to go with them. And after we come back, we could have the
rukhsati
, the reception and, you know, the
walima
and everyfing.”

He saw Auntie take a deep breath but she only got so far as “So now it's Haj—” when her husband cut in.

“So this family has money then? What sort of dowry will they give? What sort of wedding will they want?”

Kareem lifted his foot further off the accelerator to let a tractor pass them. “A big wedding, I think: a big
rukhsati
and a big
walima
.” He raised his left hand from the steering wheel to fend off disagreement and to announce his masterstroke. “But I will pay. I will pay for it all. You have been so good to me, you have brought me up as your own son, have brought me into this country. This, this is what I wish to do.”

A shocked and respectful silence followed. Uncle was looking straight ahead and blinking rapidly as if not quite able to believe his luck, a marriage being achieved without arguments with the in-laws or getting into debt. The silence in the back seat was followed by an extended period of rustling and huffing and puffing, and he peeked discreetly into the rear-view mirror to see Mrs. Guri exchanging a row of chunky gold bracelets on one wrist for a collection of thinner, more modest ones from her handbag. What was she up to? She caught his gaze in the mirror, gave a dimpled smile and shook her head at him as if he was a child performing for visitors.

Mr. Guri grunted. “Any good restaurants, takeaways, here?”

“Don't think so, Uncle. Maybe. See? See there?” Kareem pointed to his right, to the hill overlooking the village and the rear walls of the Abbey rising above it. “That's where they live: the family that they visit with. The Bournes.”

“Wah,” they both said, and Auntie's head went down again as she busily stowed her grander bracelets in her handbag.

“My rings,” said Uncle. “My rings and my bracelet.”

There was more rustling as Mrs. Guri delved into her handbag and the requisite items clinked into his hand. Auntie must carry all their gold with her, not trusting the bottom of the wardrobe like most Desi families. Or, perhaps, only since the police had visited. Kareem winced.

Uncle wedged the rings onto his fingers and grunted for his wife to do up his heavy gold bracelet. She bent forward to do so and the Rover's chassis gave a complaining squeak.

Kareem steered the Rover to the curb outside Windsor Cottage. “We're here, yeah.”

Auntie clicked her handbag shut and took a good look. “See, detached,” she said, pointing the cottage out to her husband.

“Yeah, well not for long.” Kareem snorted at his own joke. Everyone wanted this wedding now,
Inshallah
, but he'd been around long enough to know that things could still go wrong. Please God, don't let the police come knocking at the Choudhurys' door.

He muttered the first
Fatiha
under his breath and, as the Guris got out, unfolded one end of a small foil packet, dipped his finger inside and ran it along his gums. As the wave of warm, glowing confidence rose and broke in him, he pulled the rear-view mirror around to check his lips and teeth for residue. No problem. Nothing he couldn't handle.

F
OOTSTEPS SOUNDED IN
the passage, and Rohimun turned in time to see the door open and the silhouette of a man almost filling the doorway, with sword in one hand and shield in the other. It was not until he stepped forward into the room that she realized it was Richard, carrying a couple of flattened cardboard boxes under one arm and a narrow roll of bubble wrap in the other.

“Oh, it's you,” she said, taking hold of her right hand with her left to stop it smoothing back her hair, adjusting her
salwar
. She went back to filling the duffel bag, which was sitting beside the great bed.

“Henry and Thea are moving in downstairs, and they're going to walk through the upstairs rooms tonight,” he said.

She stared at the empty box under his arm. Was he expecting her to ask him for something, to beg him for a stay of execution? Well, stuff him.

“I know. I saw the moving vans. Anyway, my stuff's always pretty much packed up.” She rubbed fiercely at a patch of dried paint on her sleeve. “Tariq'll come and get me soon. He always comes around this time of day.”

Richard looked around restlessly, as if he'd expected something else. “Where will you go?”

He's already uncomfortable, she thought. He doesn't want to be here. She stared at his pale blue shirtfront, immaculate in the sunshine, and turned away, to where the empty fireplace sat, and the dingy glass jars she'd used for brushes and white spirit, ready to be thrown in the rubbish.
Sorry, different worlds, and all that. Best you were on your way then
, she imagined him saying. She bent over the duffel bag to pull the zip shut. It was overfull with extra things that she had somehow accumulated along the way.

“Tariq will think of something. He'll sort that out. He knows lots of people,” she said. She wrenched on the zip until it started to move, jerked it across the top of the bag, and found the zipper teeth gaping open behind it. Nothing was working. She swore to herself and tied the two handles of the duffel bag into a loose reef knot.

“Your mother says you can come home,” Richard said. He was standing next to her, and when she straightened up he reached for her hands, but she snatched them away reflexively. He sat down on the bed, close enough to touch.

She folded her arms, feeling like a child caught out in a sulk. “When did she say that?”

“Just now. She wants you home straight away.”

“Was Dad with her?”

“No.”

Just more of the same. She felt sick. “I'll wait for Tariq, yeah. He won't be long.”

Richard just sat. When he finally spoke, he said, “I know that things are not sorted out yet with your family. Not fully. Let me take you there and if things don't work out, if you don't feel comfortable, I will help. I promise.”

“There's no point. Mum's just trying to force it.”

“You won't be on your own. I'll be there and I won't leave until it's all settled.” His arm came around her shoulders, and she closed her eyes and tried not to think of any kind of a future with him.

Was this embrace
gora
politeness or pity, or something else, which perhaps mattered as much to him as it did to her? She felt adrift in his Western world of dating and girlfriends: she had seen, lived, the fluid dishonesty of those relationships, so much a matter of mood and whim as to whether the bond would be acknowledged or betrayed. A recipe for misery.

“I thought I could manage without my family, but I can't,” she said. He squeezed her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into his warmth and certainty.

“Remember, they know you can't stay in the Abbey and they don't want to lose you.”

“And if they forgive me, if they take me back, what will you do then?” She spoke as coolly as she could, but there was still a quaver in the last word.

“I'll visit you. I'll ask your father's permission to see you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I'll visit on weekends, with Tariq or your parents chaperoning, and we can get to know each other better.”

“You know about all that, do you?”

“I've done my research—Google's quite a resource.”

“You're going to go all Desi on me?”

“No. But I'll respect your family's concerns. And my intentions are honorable, as they say. I won't do anything to compromise you.”

“Huh.” What did he think he was doing, alone in a room with her, touching her, talking to her about these things, with no family here and they not even betrothed? And what did he think he had done the other night, coming to see her at that hour?

She looked at him with a deadly seriousness. “Why aren't you married already, to some deb?”

“I never wanted to settle down.” His arm dropped down, but before she could twitch away, he took her hand. “But I've realized I'm more like my brother than I thought,” he said quietly. “In that respect.”

What did he mean? She thought of the short, fair-haired man she had seen outside whistling to his dogs and, on one occasion, dancing with an imaginary partner, the animals looking on.

He squeezed her hand, as if making sure she was paying attention. “But my life is in London.”

With her other hand she drew an arc around the room. “This, here, what you see: it isn't how I am. I can't go on like this, without my family, without being a part of them. And I can't hurt them again either.”

They were both silent, and Rohimun thought of her old life: the good parts; the learning and the painting, before the pressure got too much and she became too lonely.

“I miss London too,” she said. “But not like it was for me before, yeah. I want to be able to come home. And I want to do my own thing now. Not portraits.”

“Isn't that a portrait?”

She turned to her painting on the easel. “No. Or, not like I've ever done before.”

“I've seen some of your other works.”

“Where?”

“In galleries around town. One in a friend's house. They're good, but this, what you've done here, is . . . special. Magical.”

She turned toward him, and he bent his head toward hers, but there was the sound of footsteps, and he let go of her hand and reached for the duffel bag.

Tariq appeared in the doorway. He spotted Richard and glared at them both before saying, in a surprisingly mild tone, “Time to be off, yeah.”

Richard walked toward Tariq, and greeted him in a voice of such calm authority that before her brother even knew it, he was shaking Richard's hand and agreeing, with a dazed expression, that yes, driving back in Richard's car would be best, save carrying everything. Rohimun watched as Tariq pulled the camp bed out from under the great bed and started to dismantle it.

Richard was now busying himself with folding out the flat-packed cardboard boxes that he had brought with him and, despite her protests, was filling them with the empty jars and dirty cloths and all the other detritus of her painting.

“You're still going to be painting, aren't you? That's not going to stop.”

When it came to the painting itself, she lifted it so that the easel could be folded away, but then could not think where to put it. Richard took it from her and placed it on the mantelpiece. Its colors echoed the green in the room's draperies and the dark reflected shadows of blackened oak.

She shook her head at the bubble wrap in Tariq's hands.

“You can't do that: you can't put anything on top of it. It's oil paint—it'll take months to be fully dry.”

“I think I know that, yeah.” He tapped the bubble-wrap roll on the edge of the mantel. “You'll never get it in the car anyway.”

Richard stared at the painting. “It looks good there. We'll leave it here for now.”

She folded her arms and glared at them both. “Excuse me. It's my painting. I decide.”

Eldest sons were all the same: never expecting to be challenged or questioned. She tried to think of an alternative. Honestly. They both waited, their faces neutral, as if she was the one being difficult.

“Oh, never mind. I'll think about it. I'll get it later.”

Tariq turned to Richard. “What are you going to say about the painting? If someone sees it?”

“The truth. That Dr. Choudhury's daughter is a talented painter and that I'm hoping to acquire this work.”

“It's finished then, is it?”

“Of course it's finished,” she snapped. God, brothers were irritating.

“That's a hedge, isn't it? The hedge outside. And you, it's you, yeah.”

“Sort of. Not really. Can we go now?”

Between the three of them, they picked up the duffel bag and the boxes and clumped down the main stairs. Richard nodded authoritatively as they passed the movers, and they proceeded to the front door and out onto the drive. Loading up the boot was quickly done, and she wriggled into the back seat cradling her easel, bracing herself for the sickening mixture of resentment and fear that she had felt the last time she and Tariq had gone to Mum and Dad's.

But the feeling did not come, or rather, not with the same intensity as before. Perhaps it was too short a trip by car to work herself up, or perhaps it was the solid presence of Richard in the driver's seat, which said that this time it would be different. Perhaps there was a middle path, where she could paint and be with those she loved. All of them.

Richard twisted around in his seat. “Ready?”

She would not meet his eyes. “All set,” she mumbled and looked out the window at the hillside running down then rising up again, toward home. She had another painting in her head now, another full-length one: of Dad looking into a cheval, to see reflected, not himself but his mother, whom Rohimun was always supposed to have taken after. She could see herself so much better now. Perhaps it was time to test if her family could be seen as clearly.