An American Brat (22 page)

The citizens of Denver sat beneath the leafy crown of trees on freshly mowed and fragrant summer grass. They smiled at the spectacle of the programmed sprinklers watering lawns already being rained upon. An almost anorexic Jo abandoned her hotel management course and moved in with her uniformed boyfriend, Bill.

To Feroza's protests at her leaving school when she was already halfway to graduation, she said, “I don't need all this theory. I could teach them a thing or two about the restaurant business. I know more than enough to run my family business.”

Bill was a reliable young man with an appreciation of good food and the sundry other appetites necessary for the well-being of Feroza's former roommate. He also had a promising future in the United States Air Force, and he was stationed at the air base in Denver.

Feroza moved into an apartment with Rhonda and Gwen, one white, the other black, and both of them strikingly beautiful. The dusky girl, Gwen, was older, almost twenty-five.

Gwen had the longest legs dangling from her cut-off denim shorts. The skin covering them was a glossy mahogany, and Feroza could not help noticing the way her legs stood out, delicate and beautiful, amidst the crisscross stampede of pale or pink legs freshly bared to the summer sun. After a period of association with Gwen and Rhonda, Feroza finally mustered up the courage one sweltering noon to get into a spare pair of Rhonda's shorts. Both her roommates applauded and assured her that she looked just great.

Gwen's tuition and living expenses were paid by a middle-aged white man. Although Feroza and Rhonda believed in his existence, they never saw him. They heard about him, but they never heard him.

Invisible and never heard, their roommate's lover waxed mysterious and romantic in their imaginations. They did not know the make or color of his car, although they knew he sometimes picked up Gwen. Gwen did not reveal his name either, or tell them what he did. She referred to him mostly as “he” and sometimes as “J.M.”

Rhonda and Feroza got the impression that J.M. was rich and influential. They believed he was a WASP. Every time they spotted a fancy European car on campus with a male white Anglo-Saxon at the wheel, they excitedly speculated that it might be J.M. Rhonda, herself a WASP, helped a curious and intrigued Feroza recognize the species, but it took a WASP to recognize a WASP, and Feroza wondered if she'd ever be able to tell them apart from other whites.

When Feroza had arrived fresh from Pakistan, she would have considered the arrangement shocking. Even now, more than two years later, she was troubled, but she had a better understanding of the prevailing mores in America and a more accommodating view of the relationship between men and women.

Feroza learned from chance remarks Gwen let slip what it was like to be a young black woman, how difficult it had been for her to attend college, and how much she valued her education.

Gwen was guarded about her past. She did not volunteer information about her family, but if asked, she answered without obvious reluctance. Feroza sometimes found the answers to even her most casual questions unexpected and surprising. She soon felt that she was intruding without meaning to, and she started to be more considerate of Gwen's privacy.

Feroza knew as much about her roommate as Gwen wanted her to, and Feroza felt it was enough. She knew that Gwen came from a large, loosely structured family in Atlanta and that they were poor. Gwen's mother worked as housekeeper to a wealthy family in Marietta, and, being the eldest, Gwen had looked after her younger siblings. Although she seldom mentioned them or seemed to have any contact with them, Feroza got the impression that she was deeply attached to them. At times, when her
mother was sick, Gwen had substituted for her. She told Feroza she hated it and that was when she decided that she did not want to spend her life mired in a cycle of poverty and domestic service. Once, unasked, Gwen had told her that she had been discriminating in her relationships with boys and that she had been careful not to get pregnant. “You know how it is,” she said, “you can get suckered into something like that!” Although Feroza acted as if she was used to hearing homilies like this and weighing similar considerations, she was taken aback and realized that Gwen's life had been very different from hers.

Gwen had been a conscientious student, but she had not done well enough to earn scholarships. She had been too busy with responsibilities to give enough time to her studies. It had been something of an achievement that she had graduated from high school at all and had not dropped out like many of her peers.

Gwen met her white lover when he was visiting his cousin's in Marietta. It was one of those occasions when she was standing in for her mother. She had moved to Denver because he asked her to.

Gwen spent alternate weekends with J.M. in hotels, or they camped in the mountains and toured the countryside. They had flown to Hawaii for a week once and had spent ten days in the north of Italy when her lover had been invited to a conference at the Villa Serbelloni at Bellagio. He attended the conference for barely a day, and they spent the rest of the time frolicking on Lake Como, eating pasta and trout, and touring the spectacularly scenic playground of the rich. It had been one of the high points of Gwen's life.

“Do you love him?” Feroza asked, agog when Gwen displayed a platinum ring encrusted with diamonds.

Gwen looked at her, surprised and defensive. But she saw that no censure was implied. The question had been asked in innocence. She shrugged her wide, slender shoulders. “He's good to me. He doesn't want me to date anyone while I'm with him. It's not much to ask.” Gwen had a musical lilt to her throaty voice that delighted Feroza's ears.

Feroza saw much less of Rhonda than she did of Gwen, and
their relationship was consequently less complex and more affectionate.

Rhonda was a blond with a lovely face and dreamy blue eyes, naturally red lips, and a warm, slow smile. She was kindness and consideration personified. Rhonda was not tall, at least not for an American, though she was an inch taller than Feroza. She had a cuddly, feminine body and a most arduous dating schedule.

Rhonda found it embarrassing and unkind to refuse dates. She accommodated even the more persistent of the less attractive boys pestering her. She preferred going out in a group.

The phone rang incessantly for Rhonda. She and Feroza shared the line. Once in a while, an exhausted Rhonda would flop into their threadbare living room in an oversized man's shirt and crankily announce, “I'm not home!” and Gwen and Feroza would handle her calls.

Feroza had her own hectic social life. Given the quantity and the variety of her friends, she was invited to at least four parties every weekend. It was almost like a junior level replica of her parents' parties back home. On alternate weekends, Gwen went along with her.

Shashi found Gwen, her reticence, her secret life with her white lover, and her knowing ways fascinating. He was full of small gallantries in her presence and was considerate of her at the larger parties, making sure she was not bored. Not that he was any less attentive to Feroza. But often when he dropped in at their apartment, he spent the time talking to Gwen. Gwen was laid-back, a good listener, full of insinuating and expressive laughter, and wicked repartee. She had an innate gift for the right compliment.

One overcast evening, Feroza took some papers to be photocopied, and Gwen accompanied her. When Feroza was through paying for the work, she noticed Gwen talking to a Sikh student who worked evenings at the campus Kinko's. What struck Feroza was the way the boy was looking at Gwen, like a hypnotized and charmed chicken. Feroza heard him say, “You know, I feel I've known you all my life. It's … as if we're related, you're family.

What's your name?”

The expression on the boy's face was revealing. His defenses and social reserve gone, he stood exposed, his soul bared, exhibiting the measure of his homesickness and loneliness, his need for kind words, understanding, fellowship.

Feroza had talked to the boy casually before and had been flattered by his attention, attention that, as a woman from the same part of the world, she considered her due. But this was astonishing. She knew he was aware of her presence, but she was at the periphery of his consciousness. What was inside him, his naked need for a friend, his devotion, was focused on Gwen.

Feroza could not fathom it. What had passed between him and Gwen in the brief moments she'd been occupied to make him respond like this?

Feroza was not unaware of the interest Gwen aroused in Shashi. Knowing Shashi's incorrigible curiosity, it had not bothered her unduly. But now she took to observing her roommate with a more speculative eye. She wished to probe Gwen's personality and discover the enigma of her compelling attraction.

Although she knew Gwen was likable from her own experience, Feroza now noticed that she generated instant friendships, smitten countenances, warm responses in even the most casual contacts. Feroza sensed it involved more than just her self-possession, her easy, responsive ways or her expressive voice. Although she was pleasing to look at, even striking, there was no particular feature one could focus on and say it was pretty — it was more the way the shape of her face and head and the structure of her long, slender body came together.

Understanding dawned on Feroza gradually, and it had more to do with intuition than observation. The interest that lit up Gwen's brown eyes, the unexpected flicker of shyness that suddenly swept her small features, the brief, almost imperceptible gestures, the movement of her body as it shifted a step back, a step sideways, were charged by a subtle flattery, if one could call it that. Combined with her choice of words and the range of inflection in her voice, her tranquil presence, with its armory of
compliments, cast a spell on whomever she was talking to, made that person feel good about himself.

But even then, Feroza could no more grasp the elusive quality of Gwen's magic than anyone could the intriguing and chameleon nature of her own blend of shy, haughty, impulsive, and warm appeal.

Feroza found herself becoming uncomfortable and watchful when Shashi visited and the three of them were together. Not that she could really fault either of them. Shashi did not try to ask Gwen out or be alone with her, and it wasn't as if Gwen was flirting with Shashi or setting out to be winning.

Gwen seldom wore makeup or bothered much with her clothes. The short hair, cropped to form a sculpted whole with her fine jaw and the outlines of her oval face, frequently outgrew its shape and stood out in neglected, wiry tufts. And when Shashi was present, the elusive flattery, as much a part of Gwen as her quiet breathing, was not so much in evidence. As if sensing Feroza's wariness, Gwen reined in her sorcery.

Despite the heavy lids that gave Shashi's eyes their sultry look, his relationship with Feroza was more romantic than sexual. They kissed when they were out alone and indulged in light and playful petting. But Feroza never felt as though she might be swept away by a grand passion, or that Shashi might want her to be. This restraint was also supported by the taboos that governed the behavior of decent unmarried girls and of desi men.

Some protective instinct within Feroza, without her being conscious of it, knew that Shashi's attitude about their petting was more experimental and curious than passionate, so that when Shashi cajoled Feroza to be more intimate, she found it easy to slap his hand or to push him away. Their intimacies were a teasing romp, Feroza's kitten to Shashi's tom, a ritual of coaxing and refusing that unraveled amidst laughter and provocative chatter but was nevertheless dictated by Shashi's cooler rhythm.

At first, Feroza had not been resentful of Shashi's enjoyment of Gwen's company. He had imbued her with too much confidence
in himself for that. As time passed, however, she found Shashi's attendance on and constant talking to Gwen more and more upsetting. Her hurt began to show in the haughty set of her face, in the nervous abstraction of her eyes. And, in becoming so concerned over Gwen's intangible magic, Feroza lost some of her own.

Gwen took to staying in her room when Shashi dropped in. But he would miss her company and, shouting, “Hey, what're you doing hiding yourself away like this?” barge into her room, chuck away the magazine or book she was reading, grab her hands, and pull her to her feet.

Feroza began to sulk. She made up excuses when Shashi suggested a movie or an evening at a disco. Shashi became confused and then concerned.

Feroza hinted he was paying too much attention to Gwen. But Shashi brushed aside the charge as too ridiculous even to countenance. Feroza knew he was telling the truth, but she became surly and sulky with Gwen when they were alone, or chattered with an unnatural brittleness that did not suit her. She avoided Gwen's eyes.

“Hey, what's bothering you? Anything the matter?” Gwen finally asked one day when Feroza set about preparing an omelette, her face hostile. Gwen suspected what the matter was, but she wanted Feroza to broach the subject, express her feelings her way. It was not Gwen's nature to be impulsive or imprudent when dealing with people's feelings.

Feroza's pent-up furies exploded. She accused Gwen of flirting with her boyfriend, of being cunning, of not leaving them alone when he visited, of being a dissembling flatterer, of interfering. Her rage spent, confused and contrite, she lay her head on the chipped kitchen table and began to cry. She knew she was accusing Gwen unjustly, not being strictly honest.

“You know I'm not the least bit interested in the guy. Heavens, he's like a kid brother,” drawled Gwen with convincing emphasis, “and he isn't interested in me in that way, either.”

“I'm not so sure,” Feroza said and began to sob.

“But you're not really serious about him, you know,” Gwen suggested, the nebulous question floating in the air.

“I am,” Feroza cried, “but he isn't!” and she got up from the kitchen table and flung herself on the lumpy, worn sofa to weep more.