One night after Lara had called — she was in Lincoln, Nebraska — Bill said to Jasmine, “Let’s dance.”
She hadn’t danced since the reggae night she’d had too many rum punches. Her toes began to throb and clench. She untied her apron and the fraying, knotted-up laces of her running shoes.
Bill went around the downstairs rooms turning down lights. “We need atmosphere,” he said. He got a small, tidy fire going in the living room grate and pulled the Turkish scatter rug closer to it. Lara didn’t like anybody walking on the Turkish rug, but Bill meant to have his way. The hissing logs, the plants in the dimmed light, the thick patterned rug: everything was changed. This wasn’t the room she cleaned every day.
He stood close to her. She smoothed her skirt down with both hands.
“I want you to choose the record,” he said.
“I don’t know your music.”
She brought her hand high to his face. His skin was baby smooth.
“I want you to pick,” he said. “You are your own person now.”
“You got island music?”
He laughed, “What do you think?” The stereo was in a cabinet with albums packed tight alphabetically into the bottom three shelves. “Calypso has not been a force in my life.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Calypso? Oh, man.” She pulled dust jackets out at random. Lara’s records. The Flying Lizards. The Violent Ferns. There was so much still to pick up on!
“This one,” she said, finally
He took the record out of her hand. “God! he laughed. “Lara must have found this in a garage sale!” He laid the old record on the turntable. It was “Music for Lovers,” something the nuns had taught her to foxtrot to way back in Port-of-Spain.
They danced so close that she could feel his heart heaving and crashing against her head. She liked it, she liked it very much. She didn’t care what happened.
“Come on,” Bill whispered. “If it feels right, do it.” He began to take her clothes off.
“Don’t, Bill,” she pleaded.
“Come on, baby,” he whispered again. “You’re a blossom, a flower.”
He took off his fisherman’s knit pullover, the corduroy pants, the blue shorts. She kept pace. She’d never had such an effect on a man. He nearly flung his socks and Adidas into the fire. “You feel so good,” he said. “You smell so good. You’re really something, flower of Trinidad.”
“Flower of Ann Arbor,” she said, “not Trinidad.”
She felt so good she was dizzy. She’d never felt this good on the island where men did this all the time, and girls went along with it always for favors. You couldn’t feel really good in a nothing place. She was thinking this as they made love on the Turkish carpet in front of the fire: she was a bright, pretty girl with no visa, no papers, and no birth certificate. No nothing other than what she wanted to invent and tell. She was a girl rushing wildly into the future.
His hand moved up her throat and forced her lips apart and it felt so good, so right, that she forgot all the dreariness of her new life and gave herself up to it.
DANNY’S GIRLS
I WAS thirteen when Danny Sahib moved into our building in Flushing. That was his street name, but my Aunt Lini still called him Dinesh, the name he’d landed with. He was about twenty, a Dogra boy from Simla with slicked-back hair and coppery skin. If he’d worked on his body language, he could have passed for Mexican, which might have been useful. Hispanics are taken more seriously, in certain lines of business, than Indians. But I don’t want to give the wrong impression about Danny. He wasn’t an enforcer, he was a charmer. No one was afraid of him; he was a merchant of opportunity. I got to know him because he was always into ghetto scams that needed junior high boys like me to pull them off.
He didn’t have parents, at least none that he talked about, and he boasted he’d been on his own since he was six. I admired that, I wished I could escape my family, such as it was. My parents had been bounced from Uganda by Idi Amin, and then barred from England by some parliamentary trickery. Mother’s sister — Aunt Lini — sponsored us in the States. I don’t remember Africa at all, but my father could never forget that we’d once had servants and two Mercedes-Benzes. He sat around Lini’s house moaning about the good old days and grumbling about how hard life in America was until finally the women organized a coup and chucked him out. My mother sold papers in the subway kiosks, twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Last I heard, my father was living with a Trinidad woman in Philadelphia, but we haven’t seen him or talked about him for years. So in Danny’s mind I was an orphan, like him.
He wasn’t into the big-money stuff like drugs. He was a hustler, nothing more. He used to boast that he knew some guys, Nepalese and Pakistanis, who could supply him with anything — but we figured that was just talk. He started out with bets and scalping tickets for Lata Mangeshkar or Mithun Chakravorty concerts at Madison Square Garden. Later he fixed beauty contests and then discovered the marriage racket.
Danny took out ads in papers in India promising “guaranteed Permanent Resident status in the U.S.” to grooms willing to proxy-marry American girls of Indian origin. He arranged quite a few. The brides and grooms didn’t have to live with each other, or even meet or see each other. Sometimes the “brides” were smooth-skinned boys from the neighborhood. He used to audition his brides in our apartment and coach them — especially the boys — on keeping their faces low, their saris high, and their arms as glazed and smooth as caramel. The immigration inspectors never suspected a thing. I never understood why young men would pay a lot of money — I think the going rate was fifty thousand rupees — to come here. Maybe if I remembered the old country I might feel different. I’ve never even visited India.
Flushing was full of greedy women. I never met one who would turn down gold or a fling with the money market. The streets were lousy with gold merchants, more gold emporia than pizza parlors. Melt down the hoarded gold of Jackson Heights and you could plate the Queensboro Bridge. My first job for Danny Sahib was to approach the daughters in my building for bride volunteers and a fifty buck fee, and then with my sweet, innocent face, sign a hundred dollar contract with their mothers.
Then Danny Sahib saw he was thinking small. The real money wasn’t in rupees and bringing poor saps over. It was in selling docile Indian girls to hard-up Americans for real bucks. An Old World wife who knew her place and would breed like crazy was worth at least twenty thousand dollars. To sweeten the deal and get some good-looking girls for his catalogues, Danny promised to send part of the fee back to India. No one in India could even imagine getting money for the curse of having a daughter. So he expanded his marriage business to include mail-order brides, and he offered my smart Aunt Lini a partnership. My job was to put up posters in the laundromats and pass out flyers on the subways.
Aunt Lini was a shrewd businesswoman, a widow who’d built my uncle’s small-time investor service for cautious Gujarati gentlemen into a full-scale loan-sharking operation that financed half the Indian-owned taxi medallions in Queens. Her rates were simple: double the prime, no questions asked. Triple the prime if she smelled a risk, which she usually did. She ran it out of her kitchen with a phone next to the stove. She could turn a thousand dollars while frying up a bhaji.
Aunt Lini’s role was to warehouse the merchandise, as she called the girls, that couldn’t be delivered to its American destination (most of those American fiancés had faces a fly wouldn’t buzz). Aunt Lini had spare rooms she could turn into an informal S.R.O. hotel. She called the rooms her “pet shop” and she thought of the girls as puppies in the window. In addition to the flat rate that Danny paid her, she billed the women separately for bringing gentlemen guests, or shoppers, into the room. This encouraged a prompt turnover. The girls found it profitable to make an expeditious decision.