When I left Jim’s office, I found Wainwright waiting for me. “I came second this time,” he said, smiling. “I figured you’d be first. And by the way you’re glowing, I can see I was right.” “I got lucky,” I replied. “Not that lucky,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You’ve got to buy me a drink.”
Yes, I was happy in that moment. I felt bathed in a warm sense of accomplishment. Nothing troubled me; I was a young New Yorker with the city at my feet. How soon that would change! My world would be transformed, just as this market around us has been. See how quickly they have brought those tables into the street. Crowds have begun to stroll where only a few minutes ago there was the rumble of traffic. Coming upon this scene now, one might think that Old Anarkali looked always thus, regardless of the hour. But we, sir, who have been sitting here for some time, we know better, do we not? Yes, we have acquired a certain familiarity with the recent history of our surroundings, and that — in my humble opinion — allows us to put the present into much better perspective.
Chapter 4
I SEE THAT you have noticed the scar on my forearm, here, where the skin is both darker and smoother than that which surrounds it. I have been told that it looks like a rope burn; my more active friends say it is not dissimilar to marks on the bodies of those who have taken up rappelling — or mountain climbing, for that matter. Perhaps a thought of this nature is passing through your mind, for I detect a certain seriousness in your expression, as though you are wondering what sort of training camp could have given a fellow from the plains such as myself cause to engage in these activities!
Allow me, then, to reassure you that the source of my injury was rather prosaic. We have in this country a phenomenon with which you will doubtless be unfamiliar, given the state of plenty that characterizes your homeland. Here — particularly in the winter, when the reservoirs of the great dams are almost dry — we face a shortage of electricity that manifests itself in rolling blackouts. We call this load-shedding, and we keep our homes well-stocked with candles so that it does not unduly disrupt our lives. As a child, during such a time of load-shedding, I grabbed hold of one of these candles, tipped it over, and spilled molten wax on myself. In America, this would have been the start, in all likelihood, of a protracted bout of litigation with the manufacturer for using candle-wax with such a high, and unsafe, melting point; here, it resulted merely in an evening of crying and the rather faint, if oddly linear, scar you see today.
Ah, they have begun to turn on the decorative lights that arc through the air above this market! A little gaudy? Yes, you are right; I myself might have chosen something less colorful. But observe the smiles on the upturned faces of those around us. It is remarkable how theatrical manmade light can be once sunlight has begun to fade, how it can affect us emotionally, even now, at the start of the twenty-first century, in cities as large and bright as this one. Think of the expressive beauty of the Empire State Building, illuminated green for St. Patrick’s Day, or pale blue on the evening of Frank Sinatra’s death. Surely, New York by night must be one of the greatest sights in the world.
I remember my early nocturnal explorations of Manhattan, so often with Erica as my guide. She invited me to her home for dinner soon after our return from Greece; I spent the afternoon deciding what to wear. I knew her family was wealthy, and I wanted to dress as I imagined they would be dressed: in a manner elegant but also casual. My suit seemed too formal; my blazer would have been better, but it was several years old and struck me as somewhat shabby. In the end, I took advantage of the ethnic exception clause that is written into every code of etiquette and wore a starched white kurta of delicately worked cotton over a pair of jeans.
It was a testament to the open-mindedness and — that overused word—cosmopolitan nature of New York in those days that I felt completely comfortable on the subway in this attire. Indeed, no one seemed to take much notice of me at all, save for a gay gentleman who politely offered me an invitational smile. I emerged from the 6 train onto Seventy-Seventh Street, in the heart of the Upper East Side. The area — with its charming bistros, exclusive shops, and attractive women in short skirts walking tiny dogs — felt surprisingly familiar, although I had never been there before; I realized later that I owed my sense of familiarity to the many films that had used it as a setting.
Erica’s family lived in an impressive building with a blue canopy and an elderly doorman, who adopted a coldly disapproving expression that would not have been out of place on the face of the gatekeeper of one of Lahore’s larger mansions had I driven up in a small and rusted automobile. Naturally, I responded with an equally cold and rather imperious tone — carefully calibrated to convey both that I had taken offense and that I found it beneath myself to say so — as I stated my business. This had its desired effect; he promptly rang up to inquire whether I should be allowed to pass and — when informed that I should — directed me in person to the elevator. I was instructed to press the button for the penthouse, a term associated in my mind with luxury and — yes, I will confess — with pornography as well. So it was in a state of heightened expectation that I arrived at the door of Erica’s flat, which opened before I had a chance to knock.
Erica received me with a smile; her tanned skin seemed to glow with health. I had forgotten how stunning she was, and in that moment, pressed as we were into close proximity by the confines of the entryway, I was forced to lower my eyes. “Wow,” she said, reaching out to graze the embroidery on my kurta with the tip of her finger, “you look great.” I responded that she did, too, which was true, although she was wearing a short Mighty Mouse T-shirt and did not appear to have been quite as preoccupied with issues of dress selection as I had been. She said she wanted to show me something, and I followed her to her bedroom. It was roughly twice the size of my studio flat and contained cartons of university books, a desk with a computer and a laser printer, a massive bed covered with clothes, and a punching bag suspended from the ceiling on a chain; in short, it looked lived-in, the sort of room one has had one’s entire life.
I felt a peculiar feeling; I felt at home. Perhaps it was because I had recently lived such a transitory existence — moving from one dorm room to the next — and longed for the settled nature of my past; perhaps it was because I missed my family and the comfort of a family residence, where generations stayed together, instead of apart in an atomized state of age segregation; or perhaps it was because a spacious bedroom in a prestigious apartment on the Upper East Side was, in American terms, the socioeconomic equivalent of a spacious bedroom in a prestigious house in Gulberg, such as the one in which I had grown up. Whatever the reason, it made me smile, and Erica, seeing me smile, smiled back and held up a slender, brown parcel.
“It’s done,” she said solemnly. I waited for her to say more, and when she did not, I asked, “‘It’ being?” “My manuscript,” she said. “I’m sending it to an agent tomorrow.” I took it respectfully in both hands, resting it flat across my upturned palms. “Congratulations,” I said, and then, noticing it was rather light, added, “Is this all of it?” She nodded. “It’s more a novella than a novel,” she said. “It leaves space for your thoughts to echo.” I turned it over, appreciating the physicality of the package: the tape which sealed it, the dent in one corner. “Are you nervous?” I asked her. “I’m more unsettled than nervous,” she said. “It’s like I’m an oyster. I’ve had this sharp speck inside me for a long time, and I’ve been trying to make it more comfortable, so slowly I’ve turned it into a pearl. But now it’s finally being taken out, and just as it’s going I’m realizing there’s a gap being left behind, you know, a dent on my belly where it used to sit. And so I kind of want to hold on to it for a little longer.” “Why do you not, then?” I asked, returning it to her. “I already have,” she said, and she smiled again. “It’s been lying in this envelope since before we went to Greece.”