Nothing Like Love (18 page)

Nanny pivoted on her bony bottom and peered down at her grandson. “Avinash? You know why Nanny firing Gavin today?”

Avinash opened his mouth to answer and then clamped it shut again, seeing Chalisa’s warning look across the table. He shrugged.

“Is because Chalisa bat up she eyelash at poor Gavin and make him take she to the
Mastana Bahar
auditions.”

Nanny filled her small chest with air and yelled, “Gavin, come and take your leave, boy!”

Chalisa gasped.

Gavin shuffled into the kitchen with his head down. He was dressed in a white-and-brown checked shirt and a pair of brown dress pants. His hair was coiffed in a black poof at the front, and the rest was plastered to his scalp with Brylcreem. Chalisa’s heart turned over in her chest.

Nanny waved her bony hand at Gavin. “Goodbye to you, Gavin. I hope you could find a next job in a next family home with a less wayward girl who wouldn’t take advantage of you like my lovely and wonderful Miss Mastana Bahar.” She blew on her tea and then rattled her mug against the saucer without taking a sip.

Gavin swallowed and nodded. He looked at Delores, whose bottom lip trembled, touched Nanny’s feet respectfully and ruffled Avinash’s plumy hair before heading to the door. He didn’t dare glance back at Chalisa, but Chalisa followed him with her eyes until he disappeared and she heard the back door swing shut. Avinash burst into tears, covering his face with his hands. “Gavin was my best partner!”

Nanny gave Avinash a cursory glance before continuing. “I hope you is real happy and glad that Gavin is gone, Chalisa. As you can see, the rest of the family feeling real joyous and jubilant about it.” She reached for her mug and brought it to her pale lips, slurping noisily while everyone waited. “Now, let we continue discussing even jollier matters—let we talk about your wedding.” Nanny helped herself to the freshly baked currants rolls Delores placed in the middle of the table. “Let we start at the beginning, nuh? Chalisa, you went to the
Mastana Bahar
auditions without my permission. Ain’t that so?” Nanny chomped the end of the roll and chewed like a grazing cow.

Chalisa nodded, her eyes flitting from Delores to Avinash. This wasn’t news. Why was Nanny bringing this up again?

Nanny spoke, displaying the masticated contents in her mouth. “And you went to the taping of Mastana Bahar, too. Ain’t that so?”

Chalisa wanted to scream. Yes! She had gone to the taping. She had kissed Gavin on the cheek to persuade him to take her. It was because she had gone to the taping, and Nanny had found out, that the hasty marriage arrangement with the Govinds in Chance had been made.

Nanny reached for her mug and stopped. She squinted across the table at Chalisa. “When that episode of you shaking up go air across Trinidad? October, ain’t?”

Nanny wanted her married before the show was aired and the entire country saw Chalisa “singing and dancing like some slack no-where-ian vagrant child who never had parents to lick she tail with bamboo and keep she ass in line.” Those had been her exact words.

Chalisa dropped her gaze to her empty plate. “September.”

Avinash peeked through his fingers across the table at Chalisa. His owl eyes flashed with unasked questions.

“September when?” Nanny asked.

Chalisa shrugged, wrapped a ringlet round her finger.

“No problem.” Nanny’s smile was sly. “I go set the wedding for September first, soon in the morning.”

“Yes—” Nanny whipped a green handkerchief from her bosom and waved it in Chalisa’s face “—cry, beti, you have much to cry and bawl about, because by the time the episode of you shaking up your bamsee air all over the country, you go already married to that Krishna Govind boy.” Nanny belched. “Delores, pass me another currants roll, nuh, gyul.”

Chalisa stared, stupefied, at her grandmother. “But, Nanny, that too soon! It go be September first in two weeks!”

Nanny paused with her second fat currant roll in front of her lips. “Yes, not to worry. Your Nanny have it all figure out.” She shoved the flaky pastry into her mouth and chewed off a giant piece with all the decorum of an agouti.

Avinash raised his head and propped his chin in his palm. “But why Chalisa have to marry now?”

“Avi.” Nanny lowered her face to her grandson’s. “Which respectable family go want their son to marry Chalisa after she twirl up all over
Mastana Bahar
‘s stage? If I ain’t marry she to Krishna now, no good boy go ever take she. I can’t mind she here forever. I know I still looking pretty, but I’s a old woman now.”

Avinash averted his gaze.

Chalisa dug her fingernail into her palm again. That no one else would take her wasn’t true. She knew for a fact that Gavin
would marry her this minute if he could. Who wouldn’t want to marry a star? Chalisa fixed her big, pleading eyes on Nanny. “But why must I marry Krishna? I ain’t want to marry a pundit’s son and live in the bush!”

“Eh! I ain’t have time for your melodrama!” Nanny slapped her hand against the table, sending Milo and tea sloshing over the sides of the mugs. She furrowed her brow, creating creases upon creases on her forehead. “Stop answering me back, you hear? Nanny done talk, and when Nanny done talk, she done talk.” Nanny brushed the crumbs from the lace of her dress and folded her bony arms.

A single black tear rolled down Chalisa’s cheek. When she wiped it away, she left a smear of kajal in its place. Nanny looked at her. “Eh, Miss Mastana Bahar, you ain’t looking like a
flim-star
to me, you know. Go and pretty up yourself. We going Chance to change the wedding date to September first.”

Avinash brightened with interest. “Where is Chance, Nanny?”

“In the bush.” Nanny sprang to her feet. “Behind God’s back.”

A
nand Govind sat cross-legged on his bed, studying the wads of crumpled bills lying in his outstretched palms. He closed his eyes and raised and lowered his palms like scales. Anand sighed. He didn’t have to count the pile of money to know that it was less than last year’s Krishna Janamashtami earnings. He could feel the weight of loss in his hands. His shoulders slumped and the loose fleshy folds on his face drooped heavily in defeat. He brought his hands together, nestling the bills between them, and bowed so that his forehead rested on the tips of his fingers. Anand thought of praying, but he was too full of anguish for that. Instead he allowed his uncertainties about Krishna to seep from the dams of denial he’d constructed in his mind and swamp his thoughts.

Krishna was handsome, tall and well built. He was studious, too, absorbing the Ramayana, Bhagavad Gita and Vedas with a zealousness comparable to Anand’s as a youth. But Krishna was no pundit. He was too much of a rascal to devote his own life to God, never mind lead others along a righteous path. Anand grimaced as he thought of Krishna’s roguish episode with Vimla Narine for the hundredth time that day. The ripple effect of Krishna’s indiscretion was far-reaching; so much so it had affected Anand’s reputation in the village, diminishing his popularity with the people and by extension decreasing his earnings. Now there was this wedding to put together, a desperate attempt to rescue the Govind name from the mouths of the scandalmongers. “Give them a wedding to dance at, and they go forget all about Vimla Narine.” Anand had reassured Maya. But the impending wedding expenses gave him chest pains at night.

Anand fanned the money out in one hand and inhaled its gritty scent deep into his lungs. Then he snapped the bills one by one from the fan between a moistened thumb and forefinger and tenderly arranged the bills into neat colour-coded piles on the bed. When he had counted each pile twice and totalled their sums in his head, he heaped the piles together and cradled the substantial mound to his chest like a sleeping baby.

“Anand.”

Anand looked up to see Maya standing in the doorway, holding a tall glass of water in her hands. A sheepish expression crossed her brown face when she noted the money clasped to her husband’s heart. Mouthing an apology, Maya padded across the room and set the sweating glass down on the
bedside table. Then she took a seat on the edge of the bed, watching and waiting.

Anand lingered for a moment, appearing wistful and doting at once, before placing the bundle of money back on the bed. With a hairy hooked finger, he pulled out the bottom drawer of his bedside table and retrieved a shiny green metal box with a fat brass lock. He reached into his loose cotton shirt and scooped out the key that hung around his neck on a gold chain hidden behind a grotesque
aum
pendant. With careful hands he fitted the key into the lock and held his breath for the quiet
click
. He opened the lid so that it fell back on its hinges and he stared with a father’s affection at the bundles of money tightly packed into the rectangular box.

“Anand!” Maya whispered, leaning close. The pair of gold bangles at her right wrist jingled with the movement.

Anand raised his silver eyebrows; she knew better than to interrupt him now. She was watching him with wide shiny eyes, near ready to burst with something to say. Anand sighed, crammed the new bundle of money into the box with the others, closed the lid, clicked the lock shut and deposited the box back in the drawer. He would count the bundle again before bed. He would count all the bundles again before bed. “Yes, Maya?”

“The Shankars is coming!”

Anand interlaced his fingers. “What Krishna do now?” He began to twiddle his thumbs in his lap. “They find out about Vimla Narine?”

Maya waved the worry away, tinkling her bangles an inch from Anand’s bulbous nose. “No, no, nothing like that. The Shankars want to change the wedding date. They want the wedding sooner!”

“Sooner than September 17?” Anand reached for his glass of water and took a series of sips as he turned the idea over in his mind.

“Yes.” Maya leaned forward and slapped the bed with her hand. “
Sooner
. They coming this afternoon self. What we go do?”

Anand returned the glass to the side table and resumed twiddling. “Do?”

Maya shook her head at him, impatient. “Anand, we can’t have the wedding any sooner. It have too much to prepare. Even with Sangita help, this wedding go can’t happen before next Saturday.”

Anand’s fingers paused mid-twiddle and he raised his eyebrows so high they nearly merged with his silver hairline. “Sangita?” He reclined against the headboard as a vision of Sangita Gopalsingh materialized in his mind. She had bowed deeply to him the night before, the soft mounds of her bosom nearly spilling out of her too-tight blouse and falling sinfully into baby Sri Krishna’s innocent face. Anand’s forehead furrowed.

“Anand!” Maya folded her arms. “You hearing me?”

The vision of Sangita dissolved. Anand cleared his throat and studied his wife. As always, Maya’s hair was pulled back into a loose plait that started at her nape and wound down her back to her waist. Silver fly-aways sprang from her hairline, framing her dark oval face like a scanty lion’s mane. Her black eyes were still luminous, but now dark shadows were permanently smudged beneath them, and when she smiled, her eyes crinkled to half the size they once were. Anand couldn’t remember if this had happened before or after Krishna’s recklessness.

“Yes, yes, Maya. Of course we go listen to what the Shankars have to say before we make a decision, but you right—it go be difficult to plan a wedding any sooner than September 17.”

“Impossible, not difficult, Anand!”

Anand patted his wife’s hand. “Nothing impossible with Mother Lakshmi’s grace. Have faith.” Anand said this so matter-of-factly he almost believed it himself.

“You think God have time to come down here and help prepare for Krishna’s maticoor night and such? Ask she, nuh, the next time you talk to she.” Maya pouted and folded her arms.

Anand’s expression was serious, but his eyes danced with amusement. “Maya, you could ask she, too. When was the last time you had a nice conversation with Mother Lakshmi?”

Maya sniffed and raised her chin. “Is a terrible fate for a pundit’s wife,” she said, standing up, “who does have to hear steady preaching in she ears whole day and night.”

Anand stroked his silvery-grey moustache to hide his twitching lips.

Maya heaved a dramatic sigh on her way to the door. “Even when I dead, my poor soul go have to listen to my pundit-husband’s mantras until it safely reach heaven.” She rounded the corner out of sight, heading down the hallway. “Oh Bhagwan,” Maya cried, “what kind of immoral being was I in my past life to deserve these endless lectures? … 
You hear that, Anand? I talking to God!
”

And then there was silence, and Anand knew Maya had crushed her fingers against her pursed lips.

That afternoon Anand stood on his veranda in a loose cotton shirt and a new cream dhoti that ballooned and fluttered about
his legs in the afternoon breeze. He looked out onto the main road, waiting for the Shankars’ shiny blue Datsun Skyline to appear. Anand frowned at the gaping potholes staring back at him like hollow eyes and prayed the Skyline wouldn’t plunge into any of them. Behind him Maya flitted like a hummingbird about the veranda, laying out saucers and teacups, glasses and napkins on their wicker table.