My New Story So Far

The Realist's Thoughts

Cafe

The smell of sweat and smoke clings to the humid lazy air; it weighs on everyone in the cafe. People sit nearly shoulder to shoulder in the small cramped space. Each party is deep in conversation, some laughing, some serious. They all ignore the touch of a stranger's shoulder, the smell, the heat. The moisture in the air saturates the wood making the tables and chairs feel soft, almost flexible.

A woman wearing an extravagantly large straw hat enters the already crowded room, her white dress hugs her thin lithe body. Her skin appears flushed and her breathe comes in short spurts. A man sitting across from her smokes quietly, looking out the window. He snaps out of his reverie when the waitress comes to take the couple's order. They come here every week. They sit in the same spot, talk to each other in the same hushed, secretive manner regardless of whether their neighbors understand them or not. They stand out from the rest of the customers.

Everyone else is far more animated. They use their hands to make their point, they move their cups about the table to clear space for drawing on napkins, laying out backgammon boards. No one looks around them to observe their neighbors. Even if the couple spoke in their loudest tones, no one would hear. No one would care.

Next to the couple sits two men playing cards. The man against the wall sitting diagonally from the lady furrows his brow in concentration. His dark hair falls about his eyes, obscuring the view of his hand. Pale fingers attempt to draw the unruly hair away from his eyes, to no avail. Cigarettes burn away next to them in ashtrays, long abandoned; they burn down nearly to the filters. Their feeble red embers glow in a last attempt to reach the card player's attentions.

The smoke from their cigarettes blows to their left towards a man who sits reading. He is lost amidst the pages of a ponderous Dostoevsky novel, ignoring the smoke wafting his way. He turned the page ten minutes ago. He licks his left index finger and then puts his hand back down. His face shows signs of an epiphany. The quiet reader does this many times before he finally decides to turn the page. The waitress stops by his table in order to collect the bill. She says something to him and he smiles, getting up to leave, tucking the book into a dilapidated leather bag by his feet in one motion. Within seconds, the waitress clears the five cups from the table revealing an ornate blue mosaic beneath.

She carries the cups through a door next to her that sits on one hinge. The owner still refuses to replace the useless door, remarking that it gives the place character and that his great great grandfather nailed it to the very frame that it now hangs upon and that it looks beautiful. The waitress asked him everyday for a year and then suddenly stopped one day.

Rain begins to tap on the windows but no one notices the noise. It comes and goes without incident during the Monsoon season. Indians are quite used to sudden downpours, a little tapping on the window is not enough to pry them away from their coffee or tea to remark on the weather. The woman in the oversized hat is the only one that remarks on the change in weather, complaining that she'll get swept away in a flood before she reaches her hotel.

“Victor, how is he?” she asks her companion, “When do you think..”

“He is still a little ill. I would advise you to not go near him for a bit longer. Perhaps a little less than a fortnight now.”

“A fortnight?”

“No, I said a little less than a fortnight,” Victor takes a sip of his coffee, “there's a big difference. Now I know you miss him terribly, but you can't risk getting it. You didn't have it as a child and at your age— ”

“I'm not that old.”

“No. But old enough that it could harm you...just listen to me. For once.”

The waitress brings them their food and the conversation stops for a little while. They both eagerly use their hands to tear the flat bread into small pieces in order to eat the curry beef. A month ago, they would've requested forks and knives but now they feel comfortable using their hands. They still use some caution, however: they keep wet naps in their pockets for fear of becoming ill.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks him.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“What? That doesn't even make sense. I was just remarking on the fact—”

“That I eat like a cow?”

“Cows eat slowly, they don't inhale their food.”

“Well now you know how annoying it is,” Victor pauses to take a sip from his bottled water, “when I have to watch what I say around all women at all times, at all hours of the day and night.”

“Don't be melodramatic. I'm not like that. Oh! I almost forgot,” she pulls in her chair so that he can hear her better in the noisy Cafe, “I was wondering, Victor, how the land sale is going. In Darjeeling.”

Victor looks up from his food. He waits a few moments, opening and closing his mouth before any sound escapes.

“I can't say I know much. I won't be much of a help to you, darling.”

“Bullocks. Come on you've got to know something.”

He licks his lips, tasting the salt from his sweat and his lamb curry dish. Truthfully, he doesn't know much but he doubts that can deter the constant probing, and questioning from everyone around him.

“You see, I'm in a rather frustrating situation. I—and I swear to you Liv—don't actually know much about the land sale—”

“Yeah and I'm really Indian.”

“No honestly! Foster wouldn't even tell his own mother where the keys to their family fortune is let alone divulge any information regarding a particularly scandalous land sale to his lowly associate.”

“Well..what am I supposed to say to Dev?”

“Well you'll have nearly a fortnight to figure that out.”

She arrived on a miserably hot, rainy day. Already she didn't like Dhaka. Her mother warned her ahead of time but living in Oxford never adequately prepared Olivia for the Monsoon season. The airport was crowded and the smell of various people's sweat made her dizzy. Everyone moved at such a rushed pace that she barely had time to realize her long flight was finally over when she found herself trying to collect her luggage. Olivia's mother constantly advised her from the very moment she unfastened her seatbelt and she wished her mother stayed in Oxford with their dog. Umbrellas were useless and offered no protection from the savage downpour, they were drenched as soon as they stepped outside. A maroon car struggled to drive through the crowd that clogged the main driveway. The driver rolled down the window and Victor took the key to open the trunk.

Olivia sat with her mother in the back. After loading the luggage, Victor sat up front with his friend. She was soaked down to her underwear and she felt intensely uncomfortable. Looking out the window offered no comfort, or distraction from the uneasy feeling of her clothes sticking to her body, and the chill of the air conditioning.

“V-Vic,” her teeth chattered, “c-c-could you t-turn the air down? I'm chilled to the b-bone.”

Victor looked back at her from the passenger seat and let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Liv, don't pout so. Dhaka's really a charming little city.”

“I'm s-sure it is,” she whimpered, “when God decides to s-stop p-p-punishing the poor people here.”

“It's just the Monsoon season.” spoke up Victor's friend, the driver.

“Oh, I'm s-sorry. I don't mean to s-s-sound cranky. I'm just v-very cold.”

She felt her ears getting hot from embarrassment. Olivia silently admonished herself for sounding like a ten-year-old while her mother sat next to her politely chattering her teeth and not saying a word. A woman in her sixties, with arthritis could sit quietly in the cold air conditioning and not complain but she just couldn't bear it. Olivia wondered what Victor's friend thought; she wondered if he was amused or appalled.

Their hotel room was modest, spartan. On the night tables next to each bed stood two lamps, one electric and one kerosene. Blue mosquito nets lay neatly folded on the beds. Olivia's feet slipped a little on the smooth floor.

“What are the floors made out of, mother?”

“Some kind of rock or cement. I don't know for sure.”

The two women unpacked their belongings, stowing it away in the drawers and closets the hotel provided. Both were exhausted from their flight and spoke very little. Olivia's mother inspected the bathroom and to their relief, the facilities were up to date.

“I don't know why I always expect it to be like it was when your father brought me here. It's been ten years so why wouldn't the country change and develop?” Olivia's mother folded some pants and put them in a drawer. She walked back to the bathroom and talked to her daughter from there. Olivia began to ignore what she said.

It's not as if her father dragged her here, she thought. She could have stayed in England saying that her daughter needed her. Olivia always knew her mother loved adventure and never was one to lead a boring existence. Left behind in Oxford, caring for the child while her husband explored the Eastern Hemisphere didn't appeal to her at all. She wanted to come here.

“Olivia. Did you hear what I said?”

“Um...our evening plans?”

“I don't know how you just blank out like that. I said, it should be interesting to see what Dave's mother makes for us.”

Olivia turned to look at her mother who sat on the floor of the bathroom sorting out her personal effects. She found it odd that a woman that lived in Dhaka for five years couldn't pronounce the simplest Bengali name.

“His name's not Dave, Mum. It's Dev, you mustn't say it like that when we go to their home tonight. They'll think you're ignorant.”

“It was only a slip, Olivia. It's been a while, you know. Since I've been back.”

Her mother concentrated on organizing her toiletries and pursed her lips. Olivia chewed at her lip and watched her mother for a while more. She mumbled a feeble, barely audible apology and left the room, explaining that she wanted to explore the hotel.

Down the hall, past five rooms she found a small sitting area with a TV, a coffee table and some wicker chairs. Some newspapers lay strewn about the coffee table, some in English and some in languages she couldn't recognize. Olivia turned on the TV and then immediately turned it off. She preferred silence over the BBC broadcast. It would probably only make her homesick. She sat down in a chair, let out a sigh and began again to chew on her lip.

Public health. It's like a genetic disorder, her mother remarked before the trip to

India. People flock to England from India, trying to make a better life for themselves and the Brown family feel the need to go in the opposite direction. Mind boggling, her mother had continued to say, disregarding her daughter's growing annoyance.

“You were the one that went along for the ride.”

“Well I had to! He was my husband!” her mother finished her brandy and poured another glass, “You wouldn't understand.”

“You had to leave me behind in this place and go off following a husband that you cared—”

“Olivia!” her mother lowered her voice before continuing, “I cared nothing for his cause, yes, but I cared about him.”

“More than you ever cared for me anyway.”

And that's how that fight ended. Almost every fight ended that way with her, Olivia stormed out leaving her mother with the pieces. Olivia never confronted the real issues. Olivia never really dealt with anything. Olivia bottled it away. The marriage counselor told her that bit, you know how it's unhealthy to avoid fixing problems. She needed to really work on her interpersonal skills. But she never had trouble with her father. They never once fought; not even when he left. When they both left.

Olivia's head started to fall to the side and her eyelids grew heavy. She gave into her body's demands and fell asleep on the chair in the lounge.

Olivia always loved playing in her father's study. His library was full of books she could never attempt to read, even today. Her favorite things in his study were his stethoscope and his globe.

Olivia stepped outside onto Dev's balcony. The air seemed lighter after the downpour subsided and she breathed it in deeply. She looked down to see rickshaw drivers smoking and talking below. The smell of their smoke mingled with the fresh air and she wished less people would smoke. She loathed the smell.

Several plants hung above her head. Plants she could not recognize, plants she'd never seen before in her life covered her view of the ceiling. She felt like she was out in a garden; the balmy air, the abundance of green plants and colorful flowers overwhelmed her senses. She looked down to see a black and white pattern at her feet. The black tiles that created this pattern were out of place from this overhead garden; completely incongruous. These tiles reminded her that she was on the veranda at Dev's house attending a dinner party with her mother.

“What're you doing out here all alone? It's rude you know, when a guest invites you and you don't talk to their mother, or compliment her on her—” Victor began to lecture Olivia.

“Hey guys!” called out Dev from inside, “the rickshaw-wallas' more entertaining than me?”

“We thought that the mothers wanted to talk, get to know each other.” said Olivia as she turned to face Dev. She smiled at him before she took a sip from her drink, “why don't you join us?”

Dev took the invitation and joined Olivia and Victor on the balcony. The three of them looked out into the horizon in silence until Victor started talking about cricket. They filled the air with conversation again, for a while and then stopped when Victor's cell phone rang. He moved away from Olivia and Dev to the other side of the long balcony.

“Victor tells me you're in public health?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No...well,” Dev smiled, ran his fingers through his dark hair, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally decided to rest his arm on the railing, leaning on it. He continued to smile, but this time for no apparent reason. After some time he broke the silence.

“ I think it's very interesting that you'd leave a place like England for Dhaka.”

“Well I feel more purposeful here,” Olivia finished her drink and stroked the rim of the glass with her index finger, “I feel more needed.”

“Well you probably are more needed here. I'm sure AIDS isn't as much a threat to the population as it is in say, Africa but I could be wrong. I don't know much about it, you see.”

“I haven't done any work here yet but I have done research. It's taboo here, no one really talks about it openly.” She turned to look at Dev instead of at the rickshaw drivers. He was still looking at nothing in particular, his thoughts occupied him as he stared straight ahead of him at an apartment complex. He was counting how many windows there were on each floor.

Olivia for the first time inspected Dev's features. All through dinner she had fiddled with the fish, taking care not to eat the bones for fear of choking, or stared intently at the odd vegetables on her plate wondering all the while where she stowed her Pepto Bismol. Dev's presence did not distract her attentions from her food. She'd eaten with her hands, found it odd at first and then discovered she enjoyed her food more than when she ate with a fork and knife. Observing the native customs was very important to Victor and so Olivia did not mind trying. Her mother, of course, was not so daring. Old habits die hard, her mother had explained.

Dev was not the way she'd pictured him in her mind. He was lighter than the Bengalis she'd encountered at the airport but then again that wasn't abnormal. They were probably laborers and spent lots of time out in the sun. His prominent nose was dramatic and complemented his other features: almond shaped brown eyes, sculpted jaw-line. There was nothing visibly odd about his appearance in the dim, evening light. No moles on his cheek, no blemishes or hideous scars.

He began to smile again before he turned his head to look at her. Olivia noticed a small, dark mole on his right ear that contrasted with his skin. She didn't quite realize he'd turned to face her until he spoke.

“Have you been staring at me this whole time?”

“Um...well you're more interesting than those rickshaw drivers down there,” she shrugged at him and began to play with the empty glass. Her fingers were a bit sweaty and she lost her grip, the smooth surface slipped quickly out of her grasp. It fell and broke in the center of the rickshaw drivers' circle. Olivia gasped, placed her hand over her mouth and immediately hid by dropping to the ground so that the drivers couldn't see her. Dev looked down at her and laughed.

“Why're you hiding?” asked Dev. Olivia looked up at him and then quickly looked back down at her feet. As she began to get up Victor walked over to them.

“Oh come on Olivia, I know you're a woman of this century and everything but you just met Dev and you're on your—”

“Shut up Victor.”

Olivia walked into the sitting room, and continued on until she reached the dinning room where her mother and Dev's mother sat talking. The smell of their evening's meal lingered in the house and she noticed that the ceiling fans did little to alleviate the heat.

Plot: the narrator is the father of the woman with the white dress and the overgrown hat. He found her after years of searching. He took up a job at her office and recommended this restaurant where he sips his morning coffee every morning. She loved the place so much she now attends every week. He watches her from afar. It's happened for a year now and he is thinking about revealing himself even though she's probably forgotten him. The characters the narrator observes have stories of their own, but what I haven't decided.