Afterwards, she did not hang up her clippers for good. Her friends’ children continued to benefit from her skills. Some of the little boys and girls, remembering the practice haircuts, hid when Dina Aunty arrived. As she got better, they were less afraid.
Through all this, there were lean times when it was difficult to meet the rent or pay the electricity bill. Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle, while they were still alive, had often tided her over with a loan of forty or fifty rupees. Now the only alternative was Nusswan.
“Of course, it’s my duty,” he said piously. “Are you sure sixty will be enough?”
“Yes, thank you. I will pay it back next month.”
“No rush. So tell me, have you found a sweetheart?”
“No,” she replied, wondering if he suspected something about Fredoon. Could someone have seen them together and reported back to Nusswan?
During the two years since Shirin Aunty’s death, the bachelor had progressed from friend to lover. Though the idea of marriage was still difficult for Dina to entertain, she enjoyed Fredoon’s company because he was perfectly content to spend time in her presence without feeling compelled to make clever conversation or to participate in the usual social activities of couples. The two were equally happy sitting in his flat or walking in a public garden.
But when they ventured into the private garden of intimacy, it was a troubled relationship. There were certain things she could not bring herself to do. The bed – any bed – was out of bounds, sacred and reserved for married couples only. So they used a chair. Then one day, as she swung a leg over to straddle Fredoon, her action suddenly resurrected the image of Rustom flinging his leg over his bicycle. Now the chair, like the bed, was no longer possible.
“Oh God!” said Fredoon, groaning softly. He put on his trousers and made tea.
A few days later he persuaded her into the standing position, and Dina had no objections. He began to refine the procedure as much as he could, finding a low platform for her to stand on; their heights became more compatible during their embraces. Next he bought a stool, took some personal measurements, and sawed off precisely two and a quarter inches, adjusting it to the proper size for her to rest one leg. Sometimes she raised the left, sometimes the right. He arranged these accessories against the wall and suspended pillows from the ceiling at appropriate heights for her head and back, and under the hips.
“Is it comfortable?” he asked tenderly, and she nodded.
But the ultimate satisfaction of the bed could only be approximated. What should have been the occasional spice to vary the regular menu had become the main course, leaving the appetite often confused or unfulfilled.
The opposite wall of Fredoon’s room had a small window in it. Outside the window was a streetlamp. Once, between dusk and nightfall, as they were locked in their vertical lovemaking, it started to rain. A moist garden smell came in through the window. Through her half-open eyes Dina saw the drizzle float like mist around the lamplight. Occasionally, a hand or elbow or shoulder strayed beyond the pillows, onto the bare wall, and the cement felt deliciously cool against their heated flesh.
“Mmm,” she said, enjoying with all her senses, and he was pleased. The rain was heavier now. She could see it slanting in needles past the streetlamp.
She watched it for a while, then stiffened. “Please stop,” she whispered, but he continued moving.
“Stop, I said! Please, Fredoon, stop it!”
“Why?” he begged. “Why? Now what’s wrong?”
She shivered. “The rain…”
“The rain? I’ll shut the window if you like.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, something made me think of Rustom.”
He took her face between his hands, but she pushed them away. She swam out of his embrace and into the memory of that night from long ago: she was wearing Rustom’s warm raincoat; her umbrella had broken in the storm. And after the concert, at the bus shelter, they had held hands for the first time ever, their palms moist with the finely falling drizzle.
Remembering the purity of that moment, Dina contrasted it with the present. What Fredoon and she did in this room seemed a sordid, contraption-riddled procedure, filling her with shame and remorse. She shuddered.
Silently, Fredoon handed Dina her brassière and underpants. She shrank towards the pillowed wall while she dressed, turning away from him. He put on his trousers and made tea.
Later, he tried to cheer her up. “In all the bloody Hindi movies, rain brings the hero and heroine closer together,” he complained. “But it is, from this moment onwards, the bane of my life.” She smiled, and he was encouraged. “Never mind, I’ll dismantle this and design a new set for our performance.”
And Fredoon kept trying. Despite his creative efforts and secret consultations of sex manuals, however, the past could only be imperfectly distanced. It was a slippery thing, he discovered, slithering into the present at the least excuse, dodging the strongest defences.
But he remained uncomplaining, and Dina liked him for it. She was determined to keep him a secret from Nusswan as long as possible.
“No boyfriend as yet?” said Nusswan, counting out the money from his wallet. “Remember, you are thirty already. It will be too late for children, once you have dried up. I can still find you a decent husband. For what are you slaving and slogging?”
She put the sixty rupees in her purse and let him have his say. It was the interest he extracted on his loan, she thought philosophically – a bit excessive, but the only currency that she could afford and he would accept.
The violin had sat untouched upon the cupboard for five years. During the biannual flat cleaning, when Dina wrapped a white cloth over her head and swept the walls and ceilings with the long-handled broom, she wiped the top of the cupboard without moving the black case.
For six more years, she continued to employ the same strategy against the violin, barely acknowledging its existence. Now it was the twelfth death anniversary. Time to sell the instrument, she decided. Better that someone use it, make music with it, instead of it gathering dust. She got up on a chair and took down the case. The rusted metal snaps squealed as her fingers flipped them open; then she raised the lid, and gasped.
The soundboard had collapsed completely around the f-holes. The four strings flopped limply between the tailpiece and tuning pegs, while the felt-lining of the case was in shreds, chewed to tatters by marauding insects. Bits of burgundy wool clung to her hands. Her stomach felt queasy. With a trembling hand she drew out the bow from its compartment within the lid. The horsehair hung from one end of it like a thin long ponytail; barely a dozen unbroken strands remained in place. She put everything back and decided to take it to L.M. Furtado & Co.
On the way, she had to duck inside a library while demonstrators rampaged briefly through the street, breaking store windows and shouting slogans against the influx of South Indians into the city who were stealing their jobs. Police jeeps arrived as the demonstrators finished their work and departed. Dina waited a few minutes longer before relinquishing the library.
At L. M. Furtado & Co., Mr. Mascarenhas was supervising the cleanup of the large plate-glass window, its shattered pieces glittering among two guitars, a banjo, bongos, and some sheet music for the latest Cliff Richard songs. Mr. Mascarenhas returned behind the counter as Dina entered the shop with the violin.
“What a shame,” she said, pointing at the window.
“It’s just the cost of doing business these days,” he said, and opened the case she put before him. The contents made him pause grimly. “And how did this happen?” He didn’t recognize Dina, for it had been a long time since Rustom had introduced her, when they had dropped in once to buy an E string. “Doesn’t anyone play it?”
“Not for a few years.”
Mr. Mascarenhas scratched his right ear and frowned fiercely around the thick black frames of his spectacles. “When a violin is in storage, the strings should be loosened, the bow should be slack,” he said sev
erely. “We human beings loosen our belts when we go home and relax, don’t we?”
Dina nodded, feeling ashamed. “Can it be repaired?”
“Anything can be repaired. The question is, how will it sound after it is repaired?”
“How will it sound?”
“Horrible. Like fighting cats. But we can reline the case with new felt. It’s a good hard case.”
She sold the case to Mr. Mascarenhas for fifty rupees, leaving behind the remains of the violin. He said a beginner might buy the repaired instrument at a discount. “Learners squawk and screech anyway, the tone will make no difference. If it sells, I’ll pay you fifty more.”
She was comforted by the thought that an enthusiastic youngster might acquire it. Rustom would have liked that – the idea of his violin continuing to torment the human race.
From time to time, Dina’s guilt about the violin returned to anguish her. How stupid, she thought, to ignore it on top of the cupboard for twelve years, leaving it to destruct. She could at least have given it to Xerxes and Zarir, encouraged them to take lessons.
Then, one morning, someone came to the flat and announced that there was a delivery for Mrs. Dalai.
“That’s me,” she said.
The youth, wearing fashionably tight pants and a bright yellow shirt with the top three buttons left undone, returned to the van to fetch the item. Dina wondered if it might be the violin. Six months had passed since she had taken it to L. M. Furtado & Co. Perhaps Mr. Mascarenhas was sending it back because it was beyond redemption.
The young fellow appeared at the door again, dragging Rustom’s mangled bicycle. “From the police station,” he said.
Before he could get her to sign and acknowledge receipt of the goods, her hand slid along the door jamb, lowering her gracefully to the floor. She fainted.
“Ma-ji!” the delivery boy panicked. “Shall I call ambulance? Are you sick?” He fanned her frantically with the delivery roster, waving it at various angles to her face, hoping that one of these airflows might work, might put the breath back into her nostrils.
She stirred, and he fanned harder. Encouraged by the improvement, he took her wrist as though checking for a pulse. He didn’t know what exactly to do with the wrist, but had seen the gesture being performed several times in a film where the hero was a doctor and his faithful and bosomy nurse was the heroine.
Dina stirred again, and the delivery boy released the wrist, pleased with his very first medical success. “Ma-ji! What happened? Shall I get someone?”
She shook her head. “The heat… it’s okay now.” The twisted frame and handlebars swam into view again. For a moment she wondered why the police would have painted the bicycle a reddish brown; it used to be black.
Then the haziness passed, and her focus returned to normal. “It’s completely rusted,” she said.
“Completely,” he nodded, then checked the tag inscribed with the file number and date. “No wonder. Twelve years it has sat in the evidence room, where the windows are broken and the ceiling leaks. Twelve monsoon rains will make human bones rust also.”
Dina’s inner turmoil made her rage at the youth. “Is that any way to treat important evidence? If they caught the criminal, how would they prove it in court – with the evidence damaged?”
“I agree with you. But the whole building leaks. The employees get wet just like the evidence. Important files also, making the ink run. Only the big boss has a dry office.”
His explanation gave her little comfort, and he tried again. “You know, ma-ji, once we had a bag of wheat in the storage room. Someone had murdered the owner to steal it. There were bloodstains on the jute sacking. By the time the case came to court, rats had chewed through it and eaten up most of the wheat. Judge dismissed the case for lack of evidence.” He laughed carefully as he finished the story, hoping she would see the funny side of it.
“You find that a joking matter?” said Dina angrily. “The criminal walks free. What happens to justice?”
“It’s terrible, just terrible,” he agreed, giving her the roster to sign, then thanked her and departed.
She examined her copy of the receipt. It stated that the file was closed and the property returned to the next-of-kin.
Dina was not a superstitious person. But the bicycle’s reappearance, after the fate of the violin, was more than she could bear. She decided there was a message in it for her. She completed Fredoon’s last order, a party frock for a niece, delivered it, shook his hand, and said it wouldn’t be possible to see him anymore, for she was giving up the sewing business and getting married.
From then on, Dina did not meet Fredoon again. To avoid running into him, she even gave up other clients in that building. There was enough work from her remaining sources to support her.
A full five years passed in this manner. Then, right on schedule, Shirin Aunty’s prophecy came to pass. At forty-two, Dina’s eyes began to trouble her. In twelve months she had to change her spectacles twice. The lenses had grown quite formidable.
“Stop the eye strain or accept blindness,” said the doctor. He was a wiry little man with a funny manner of wiggling his fingers all over the room when checking for peripheral vision. It reminded Dina of children playing at butterflies.
But his suddenly blunt manner made her indignant, and also a little frightened. She did not know what she would do if sewing became impossible.
Fortune, sticking to its own schedule, brought along a solution. Her friend Zenobia told her about the export manager of a large textile company. “Mrs. Gupta is one of my regular clients. I’ve done her lots of favours, she can surely find some easy work for you.”
One afternoon that week, at the Venus Beauty Salon, amid the disagreeable odours of hydrogen peroxide and other beautifying chemicals, Dina waited to meet Mrs. Gupta, who was nestled under a hairdryer. “Just a few more minutes,” whispered Zenobia. “I’m doing such a wonderful bouffant for her, she’ll be in a superb mood.”
Dina watched from a chair in the reception area as Zenobia performed architecturally, even sculpturally, with the export manager’s hair, and created a monument. As construction proceeded, Dina glanced sidelong in a mirror, imagining the lofty edifice upon her own head.
Soon, the scaffolding of clips and curlers was carefully dismantled, and the hairdo was complete. The two women came over to the waiting area. Mrs. Gupta was beaming.
“It looks beautiful,” Dina felt compelled to say after introductions were completed.
“Oh, thank you,” said the export manager. “But all the credit goes to Zenobia, the talent is hers. I only supply raw material.”
They laughed, and Zenobia insisted she had nothing to do with it. “Mrs. Gupta’s facial structure – look at those cheekbones, and also her elegant carriage – they are responsible for the total effect.”
“Stop, stop! You are making me blush!” squeaked Mrs. Gupta.
Discussing the magic of imported shampoos and hairsprays, Zenobia steered the conversation towards the garment industry, as skilfully as she had twirled the whorls and spirals. Mrs. Gupta was quite happy to talk about her achievements at Au Revoir Exports.
“In just one year I have doubled the turnover,” she said. “Highly prestigious labels from all over the world are asking for my creations.” Her company – she used the possessive throughout – had begun supplying women’s clothing to boutiques in America and Europe. The sewing was done locally to foreign specifications, and contracted out in small lots.
“It’s more economical for me. Better than having one big factory which could be crippled by a strike. Who wants to deal with union goondas if it can be avoided? Especially these days, with so much trouble in the country. And leaders like that Jay Prakash Narayan encouraging civil disobedience. Simply at all creating problems. Thinks he is Mahatma Gandhi the Second.”
At Zenobia’s prompting, Mrs. Gupta agreed Dina would be ideal for the work. “Yes, you can easily hire tailors and supervise them. You don’t have to st
rain yourself.”
“But I have never handled complicated things or latest fashions,” confessed Dina, and Zenobia frowned at her. “Only simple clothes. Children’s frocks, school uniforms, pyjamas.”
“This is also simple,” assured Mrs. Gupta. “All you have to do is follow the paper patterns as you follow your nose.”
“Exactly,” said Zenobia, annoyed with Dina’s hesitation. “And no investment is needed, two tailors can easily fit in your back room.”
“What about the landlord?” asked Dina. “He could make big trouble for me if I start a workshop in the flat.”
“He doesn’t have to know,” said Zenobia. “Just keep it quiet, don’t tell your neighbours or anyone.”
The tailors would have to bring their own sewing-machines, for that was the norm, according to Mrs. Gupta. And piecework was better, it created some incentive, whereas a daily wage would be a recipe for wasting time. “Always remember one thing,” she stressed. “You are the boss, you must make the rules. Never lose control. Tailors are very strange people – they work with tiny needles but strut about as if they were carrying big swords.”
So Dina was convinced, and set out to look for two tailors, scouring the warren of laneways in the sordid belly of the city. Day after day, she entered dilapidated buildings and shops, each one standing precariously like a house of battered cards. Tailors she saw in plenty-perched in constricted lofts, crouched inside kholis that looked like subterranean burrows, bent over in smelly cubicles, or cross-legged on street corners – all engaged in a variety of tasks ranging from mattress covers to wedding outfits.
The ones who were eager to join her did not seem capable of handling the export work. She saw samples of their sewing: crooked collars, uneven hems, mismatched sleeves. And those who were skilled enough wanted the work delivered to them. But this was Mrs. Gupta’s one strict condition: the sewing had to be done under the supervision of the contractor. No exceptions, not even for Zenobia’s friend, because Au Revoir’s patterns were top secret.