We arrived at Mumbai airport more or less on time. I had a number for Rami‟s mobile from long ago but when I called he answered.
“So you have come,” he said. “You at least have a little decency towards some people.”
I disregarded the comment.
“I shall be glad to see you Rami, even on this sad occasion. We are both growing old and it would be a pity to keep old hatreds smoldering. What are the arrangements?”
“I recovered her body today and the cremation ceremony shall take place tomorrow at eleven.” He gave me the address.
We took a taxi from the airport to Shelley‟s, a hotel I patronized frequently on Mumbai harbor. I was thinking that some of its rooms and beds had seen extraordinary action on occasion. Tahira was an avid lover. But life is a roll of the dice. Now Tahira was gone and I was here for her funeral with Anna. Did I share some blame for derailing her life? Of course I did. Though not alone. She, herself, was in charge of her life. Rami, with his supercilious airs was both victim and victimizer. Even Anna was unwittingly to blame for coming and going from my embrace, denying me a steady course. I was constantly welcoming Tahira and then fading away from her. Oh, what useless speculations! She is gone. Now I have to try to implement her last wishes.
Up in the room I kiss Anna. We are both dead tired but I undress her and we make love. It is almost a compulsion. I call her Tahira. She smiles and is excited. Her eyes are shining and is more than usually delirious with desire. She is a reincarnated Tahira. We reach an explosive orgasm and I say, “I love you, Tahira. I shall always love you.” Anna kisses me feverishly over and over again.
Next day at the cremation center the taxi could not approach the building. The police had cordoned off a large section of the street and huge crowds were gathered around it. We pushed our way on foot and reached the hall where the ceremony had already started. I saw Rami, portly and partially bald, surrounded by bodyguards. I went up to him and we looked at each other for an uncommonly long time.
“My condolences,” I told him.
He smiled grimly.
“Perhaps I should be offering them to you,” he said.
I moved aside.
“This is Anna. She insisted on coming.”
He smiled again, a little more congenially.
“Thank you Anna. Thank you for taking care of Tahira for such a long time.” Well, well, I thought. How civilized!
The coffin was on a marble stand and all around it were people; some simply standing, some chanting and others carrying receptacles of incense all around the area.
It was spring weather outside which is already warm in Mumbai and sweltering inside.
Eventually the ceremony was over and the coffin was opened for a last look at the deceased. People filed past her and some of them dropped a flower inside the coffin.
Tahira looked peaceful and motionless like a statue. She was as beautiful as the day she left us. If she had felt any pain when she was shot, it was not evident on her features.
Anna and I stood staring at her for a moment with a lump in our throats but we were pushed from behind by the other mourners and had to move on. It took over an hour for all the people to file past the coffin and pay their respects to Tahira. The top was then secured and the coffin was lifted by four bearers and placed in the furnace. Flames sprang up inside and Tahira would be soon reduced to a handful of ashes.
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On our way out I approached Rami and told him I would get in touch with him the next day. He shrugged his shoulders and we left. I called him the next day. He said he was busy and I told him I did not come all the way from Greece to ask for an appointment. I had to see him urgently and it was to everyone‟s advantage that we reach an understanding. He balked. An understanding about what? He said he did not need an understanding with me. I told him he should decide that after our talk and finally, reluctantly, he agreed.
We went to his villa on the Malabar Hill. It was a fortress just as Tahira had described it. We passed the security checkpoint where we had to empty our pockets and pass through a metal detector. He was certainly taking no chances with us.
He received us stiffly with a little sour smile. A little more sour for me than for Anna. He ushered us into a room with bookshelves, a beautiful period desk and comfortable armchairs. When we sat down, a butler asked us whether we would take light refreshment or a drink. A refreshment, please.
“You look well and fit John and Anna is more beautiful than I imagined.” Anna said, “Thank you.”
“And you, Rami, you have let yourself go. Business and money is not everything. I know money is like a drug when it starts piling up. One continually requires greater doses of it to feel contented. The contentment lasts for a while and then it‟s back to the grind for more. I was very lucky. I know you will laugh. A few years back, I was caught out in the Belgian customs with a sizeable quantity of arms with false papers. I intended to ship them to a country under embargo. The customs man who was going to push them through was suddenly transferred elsewhere and another employee uncovered the scam. You know, wrong manufacturer, wrong destination, forged government export permits…etc. The arms were confiscated, I lost the bulk of my fortune and went to jail for two years.”
Rami laughed.
“Was that your lucky break?”
“Indeed it was. I quit the rat race. I returned to Greece to a small villa I bought many years back. Do you know what I do? I write stories and I swim every day. That‟s all. And, of course, I have Anna who is divorced and is now living with me. Yes, I was lucky indeed with that stint in jail. It would be unreasonable to suggest that you quit your activities all at once, but you must slow down.”
“Tahira was shot because she started restricting her activities and froze out some of her clients. I am certainly not in the same position but I cannot envisage quitting. I was blessed with two sons out of wedlock from different women and I have adopted them legally. They are involved in my businesses but cannot yet bear the full responsibility. I must be around to help them.”
“Which brings us to our contention, Rami. Tahira told us that she gave birth to a baby girl which she never saw because you took her away as soon as she was born.”
“I will not beat around the bush….” Rami started saying.
“Good,” I cut him short. “because I did not come all this way to engage in charades. The issue is much too serious for that.”
“As I was saying,” said Rami, annoyed at my interruption. “I shall come to the point at once. Yes, I took the child away. Tahira with her actions caused the death of my son. That was my revenge.”
“Tahira had a miscarriage. Who is to say that having sexual intercourse a few days previously was the cause of that miscarriage? Was that the scientific opinion of a gynecologist?”
“You can be sure I enquired about that.”
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“And?”
“In case of a rape or violent intercourse a miscarriage could result if the woman has such a predisposition. In any case, I was one hundred percent convinced that was the cause.”
“I am sorry Rami. That is still speculation. Did you not consider that the son you lost was also her son? That she must have been as devastated as you? It was a gross and heartless action to take the baby away from her mother.”
“Her mother was a bitch.”
“Her mother was a bitch and I was a filthy bastard. Whatever the circumstances, I concede that much. I truly regret my actions and I apologize to you. I do not expect your forgiveness but I do expect a measure of understanding and compassion, which you denied poor Tahira. For thirteen years she lived with one single thought: the baby girl she had never seen. I was a son of a bitch but you were mean and heartless beyond human limits.”
“So what now?”
“I want to see her. I am her father, for heaven‟s sake.”
“For thirteen years she has known that I am her father and that her mother, a European, died soon after she was born. This, to justify her fair complexion. I cannot suddenly tell her, „Listen Zeba, I am not your father. This gentleman is.‟ No, I think things will have to remain as they are. In any case, I have grown to love the girl.”
“Oh how I hate you for this last phrase. You denied Tahira her love for the girl and Zeba‟s love for her mother. Nevertheless, rest assured things will not remain as they are.”
“Oh yes? What do you propose to do about it?”
“We must think of a way out. If you value your life you must cooperate.”
“Are you threatening me? Don‟t make me laugh. I am better guarded than the president of the USA.”
“A lone gunman dispatched President Kennedy.”
“If I am dispatched, to use your terminology, you shall never find Zeba. Tahira, with far greater resources than you, never came close. So stop your silly threats.”
“You‟re wrong. I think if you are dispatched, everything will come to the surface sooner or later. You are an important man and the press will start burrowing in and out of your affairs. Business and private, legitimate and illegitimate. Anyway, I am not threatening. I am trying to give you a measure of how imperative I consider the issue. I am prepared to go to the limit. Furthermore, I have power of attorney over a large chunk of Tahira‟s cash and I want to turn the money to Zeba‟s name. Above all else, however, I want to see my daughter. This is a non-negotiable demand.” Rami was silent for a while. I assumed he was considering his options.
Confrontation or negotiation.
“Zeba is not in India,” he said finally. “For the last two years she has been a boarder at a well-known public school for girls in Kent. Her two nannies live in a house I own in Notting Hill in London. She spends her holidays with them and I usually fly on these occasions to see her. In fact, I was about to leave as she is home for Easter.
Tahira‟s death delayed my departure. Perhaps I could bring her here for a few days. But we have to think what we shall tell her.”
Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. Rami opted for cooperation. Perhaps the fact that I had access to Tahira‟s money helped.
“May I suggest a scenario?” said Anna who was silent all this while.
“Please do,” said Rami.
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“It assumes primarily the good faith of both parties because after all we shall agree on a plan that will conform to the best interests of Zeba, your daughter, Rami, and yours, as well, John. I personally feel I shall be safeguarding Tahira‟s side, though it is obvious that Zeba‟s interests are also those of Tahira.” Rami smiled.
“That was an interesting and fair introduction. Please go on.”
“You shall get in touch with Zeba to tell her that you wish her to meet her mother‟s brother, her uncle. She will be surprised because you had never talked to her about him previously. You shall explain that for years you were not on speaking terms because of serious business differences but that there had been a settlement of the dispute and reconciliation. Henceforth, Zeba shall start spending her holidays in India and on her way here and back you shall arrange a stopover in Athens for a few days so that she may see her uncle John. We shall be glad to accommodate her nannies that will accompany her. By and by and with your approval Rami, we shall take a trip to Switzerland with Zeba and Tahira‟s lawyer and shall turn the money to her name.
Tahira‟s property in India shall, of course, be subject to Indian law and you will get your legal share. I presume Zeba has your surname.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think John? Do you cede your title of father and accept that of uncle?”
“I think I must Anna, since it seems the only practicable way which will enable me to see Zeba quickly. It is as wise a suggestion as Solomon‟s when he threatened to slice by sword the child in two and give one half to each of the claiming mothers.”
“Well, it seemed the most sensible compromise. Rami has no reason to refuse; it was up to you, John, to accept a curtailment of your sovereignty. This is the general outline. Innumerable details will arise in its implementation but with good faith and especially keeping in mind Zeba‟s best interests, they ought to cause no problems.” Rami said the only thing that worried him was that someone might open their big mouth and that Zeba would start questioning our story. For example, that he was never married to a European woman but to an Indian girl.
“We shall face the problems as they come, Rami,” said Anna, “and we shall make the small adjustments required.”
“I suppose it is inevitable that one day she will learn the truth but just now, at this tender age, I don‟t want any psychological traumas.”
“You really do love her, Rami,” Anna said smiling.
“More than you can imagine.”
Rami said he would leave immediately for England and would be back within a week. Would we be able to amuse ourselves until he returned? No problem. We would wait a year if necessary. We invited Rami for dinner at a fashionable nightclub-restaurant. He arrived in a two-car motorcade with a bunch of bodyguards who took positions just outside the dining hall and in the street below. Admittedly it would have been difficult to dispatch him. We discussed some of the information he gave Zeba about her mother such as her name, Eva, and other things we should know not to find ourselves in contradiction with what he told her. Fortunately, he told her she was Greek and was acquainted with her through the business she transacted with Indian firms. We drank champagne and he danced with Anna. I paid the bill with Tahira‟s money. I spoke to her mentally. I told her, her money was well spent. We were getting results.
At the hotel my head was spinning with champagne and I think Anna‟s was spinning even faster. I undressed her and kissed her passionately.
“Tahira,” I told her, “in a few days we shall see our daughter.” 152
Her eyes had a strange glint and a lascivious smile lingered on her lips.
“Yes, my darling John,” she said, “I shall see her with Anna‟s eyes.” We made love violently like I did with Tahira in the early days when she was seventeen and we felt our souls about to leave our bodies to join the Supreme Being. I felt it again with Anna-Tahira. I knew we were hallucinating. An orgasm like an unending streak of lightning put us out of action for the night.
A week went by quickly with visits to museums and temples and dreams of the wonderful uninhibited India of eroticism, of lingams and yonis, apsaras and devadasis.
We visited the shopping district near our hotel, the Colaba Causeway, and even the slums of Dharavi. We walked to the Ratnam and asked for a room. It was still there; slightly more dilapidated, minus the cantankerous Mr. Kumar but surely with the rat population intact. Sorry, no vacancies. A young man, presumably the new owner, looked at us in bewilderment. Anna shuddered.
“We lived with Tahira at the Ratnam for a month after her getaway from the Indian family. We were back to hiding once again. No more Juhu beach. Mr. Kumar did not like it and doubled the rent but I threatened to leave and he made a small reduction.
We slept on the same bed like brother and sister for two days and Tahira asked me if I liked Mrs. Swinburn more than her. I asked what made her think so. She said she could see I enjoyed rubbing her with suntan lotion. She said she was sure I would enjoy it even more without her bathing costume. I said if I liked her all that much I would have gone back to her. I said I was quite happy with my little Tahira. „I love you,‟ she said and took off her nightdress. She kissed me and we only petted that night. I did not have any condoms and I did not want a pregnant Tahira on my hands. I bought some the next day and we made love in the manner of these last days my darling Anna.”
“Lucky Tahira.”
“Oh, come on. Do you have any complaints?”
Anna smiled.
“No, my love,” she said. “How could I?”
“After a month we were bored to death and we left Mumbai. Our only recreation was our evening meal with Rami and later our delirious lovemaking. My money was running out and in Katmandu Tahira took notice of the drug trade with the tourists and the hippies, found a supplier and started dealing. It was the beginning of her catastrophe because she got hooked with the easy money and later with the drug itself. On the other hand we would not have been able to spend those two lovely, carefree years meandering across India. It was a happy time for us but I was uneasy because I felt a kept man. We returned to Mumbai and I entered into a partnership with Rami on an import-export venture. Soon after I left for Greece to see what products besides olive oil I could send him in return for Indian spices. I left Tahira in his care and planned to be back within a couple of months. But we met again, my darling Anna, and two years went by before we separated for the third time and you married that stuffed shirt. The rest, as they say, is history.”
The day before the week ended, Rami called and asked us to go to his villa in the afternoon. When we reached his house, my mouth was dry and my heart was pounding. There was this vast, unbearable anticipation to see my daughter. Rami did not have even a picture of her in the house from which I could infer what to expect.
At the nightclub he told me, “She looks slightly like Tahira and at times she reminds me of you but thank goodness not too much, which allowed me to take to her immediately.” I kept restraining myself from calling him a heartless monster every time he talked tenderly of Zeba. I felt so terribly distressed that Tahira died with such a grievance in her heart. It was this overwhelming emotion that caused the metaphysical 153
Anna-Tahira switchover we experienced in lovemaking. We felt it intensely, overpoweringly but could not be certain that, in fact, it carried beyond us. We never dabbled in mysticism. India, however, was steeped in it and perhaps it was this that predisposed us so deeply and vividly. It was a source of great solace.
A smiling Rami received us in the same room as previously. I looked around expectantly.
“She‟s here, John, don‟t worry. We arrived last night. She is thrilled to be in India. It is the first time she comes to this house. She was shocked by the security but I suppose she will get used to it. She will meet her brothers too though, of course, you have priority. As you can imagine, she was surprised to learn she has an uncle.
Surprised and happy because she will learn more about her mother. It is a constant question mark in her life. I hope we don‟t fall into any contradictions.”
“Where is she for heaven‟s sake?”
Rami got up smiling and left the room. I looked at Anna and she smiled at me.
She was as eagerly impatient as I was. I felt Tahira was peering through her eyes. We remained silent for a few minutes until Rami returned, stood aside at the door and with a small bow of a major-domo announced,
“Miss Zeba Zerhani.”
She came in, my little Zeba, slowly, a little uncertainly, a smile hovering on her lips. Our eyes locked. I jumped up from my armchair, moved towards her as in a dream.
Entranced, I looked at her eyes. Tahira was there in her clear, sharp appraisal of me.
That was the split-second impression before I embraced her and held her tightly to my breast for a long minute, choking the need to say, „Zeba, my baby, my daughter.‟ She turned to Anna when I released her and moved towards her. I had lost my power of speech. Anna stood up and told Zeba, “I am John‟s wife. What a beautiful niece we have. We feel terribly happy and fortunate to have finally met you.” They embraced and kissed.
She was perhaps three years or so younger than her mother when I first met her.
There was a slight resemblance with a little added softness that came from a coddled childhood. Her hair was black, shoulder length and held back with a buckle and though her skin was fair, she was more Indian than European. Large eyes and a thin, slightly prominent nose. It was this mixture together with her beauty that made her alluring. She was dressed completely á l‟Indienne. A brightly multi-colored sleeveless waistcoat over a white silk shirt; bare midriff and white silk loose pantaloons tightening at the ankles.
She was barefoot with bright red toenails and was absolutely enslaving.
We sat down again and Zeba lifted slightly her shoeless feet at us.
She smiled.
“Please forgive my bare feet. I have lived the last few years in England and I never felt completely at home there. I have English friends, of course, but the fact remains that I am different. I rather enjoy it, too. To feel different from them, that is. As you see I am trying to acclimatize myself to India.”
“I am very proud of her,” Rami said. “She is consistently the top of her class.
She excels in sports as well.”
You bloody bastard, I thought. You bloody son of a bitch. I looked at Anna. She was smiling ecstatically. Was Tahira in her soul?
Zeba looked at me intensely.
“Did mother resemble you, Uncle John? Father has not a single picture of her.
They did not live in this house when she was alive and during the relocation to this one two whole albums were lost.”
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“Eva was a little younger than me and did in fact resemble me slightly but whereas I have fair hair, had, I should have said for now it is turning gray, hers was a dark brown. In any case your Dad‟s hair was jet black so you had no chance for any other color. Rami was a good looking young man when he married Eva.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
“Not with me, unfortunately. I have agreed with your father to have you visit Greece on your way to and from England and when you come to Athens I shall show you the photos I have. Would you like that?”
“Of course.”
“Your mother was an exceptional woman. She was a successful businesswoman who has left you a considerable amount of money.”
“Daddy has a lot of money. Why should I care for more? Money is important but the emptiness of a missing mother has been at times almost unbearable. When I was younger I used to cry a great deal. I feel a strong bond to you Uncle John because you are the closest person to her. I felt it at first glance. Please don‟t get annoyed if I ask too many questions about her. I want to know so much: your childhood together, her adolescence, her friends….everything. It is my only consolation.” I have a problem on my hands, I thought. Good thing I am a writer. As soon as I am back in Athens I must start constructing at length and in detail the fictitious life of my fictitious sister Eva, not forgetting to fabricate a number of pictures of her. It is a fiction that shall bring my daughter Zeba close to me. The emptiness of her life without a mother was painful and I shall try to alleviate it with a lovely fairy tale, but the ache of pretending to be an uncle to my daughter is infinitely more painful than I imagined.
In our room at Shelley‟s, strong magnets pulled us together. We kissed violently, passionately and I asked Tahira if she saw her baby, our baby Zeba. “Yes,” she cried. “Yes, she is wonderful. Take care of her, my darling John.” We made love deliriously and in a ferocious orgasm felt our souls leave our bodies and soar to an abyss of harmony. I woke up hours later. The light was on and Anna was snoring quietly. She looked exhausted and very beautiful. I kissed her and she opened her eyes. She smiled and kissed me. Her tongue caressed my lips and sought entrance to my mouth.
“Haven‟t you had enough?” I asked her smiling.
“I was asleep my love.”
She took the initiative and made love to me like an Amazon on her steed.
Tahira did not return again. After our last tantric orgasm, her essence fulfilled and peaceful, dispersed in the abyss of harmony.