Without the afternoon visits to Farhan’s apartment, my days were dull.
I carried on with a few desultory photography gigs, but mostly I walked
around with my Leica, looking for photographs in the new, shiny New York
City, and I did find a few: An exhausted group of restaurant workers
smoking silently in a back alley. An old lady in a feathered hat, crossing the
road with her poodle. A homeless man in dreadlocks holding high a tattered
cardboard sign that said THE END IS NIGH. Yet this process seemed forced, as
though I was artificially constructing a vision of a quirky, ragged city that
no longer existed.
I’d just returned late one afternoon from one of these photography
expeditions, when the finished suit arrived from Gieves & Hawkes. The
new doorman brought up the package. He was a slender brown - skinned
man with a shiny shaved head, and he stood out — all the other doormen
were stocky Slavs. I’d seen him downstairs, chatting with our houseke eper,
Miss Ritu, and he’d always make her laugh, which was a rare achievement.
The man intrigued me, and when I asked where he was from, he r eplied that
he was George Narine Persaud, from Georgetown, Guyana, at my service.
And what services did he provide?
George’s smile was huge. “Whatever is needed, sir. Libations, edibles,
panaceas, remedies. All provided promptly for minor emoluments.”
He rattled this off with such a straight face that I had to chuckle. In the
strained, formal environs of the Apthorp, a sense of humor was most
welcome. I took George’s number and promised I would soon press him
into service.
The suit Abbas had gifted me — charcoal worsted, lined with dull
crimson silk — fit like a glove. I was about to take it off — but then I stopped.
Two full weeks had passed since Abbas’s job offer. I’d promised him I
would look into it, but I still hadn’t gained access to Tower Seven. Hamza,
the young cousin in charge of marketing, k ept putting me off: At first, he
said the floors in the model unit were being installed. Then the fire alarms
were being inspected. Lately, he claimed that the elevator wasn’t functional.
I checked my reflection in the mirror. They say that a well - cut suit can
take thirty pounds off a man — but in my case, it gave me a certain hardedged authority.
To hell with Hamza. I k ept on the suit, picked up my
battered old camera, and called for the car. Downstairs in the courtyard,
George, the new doorman, leaped to open the rear door and whispered,
“Very elegant attire, sir. Are you off to change the course of modern
capitalism?”
“Very droll, George. Very droll.”
George winked at me. As I drove off, I found myself smiling. It was nice
to have an ally at the Apthorp.
At the Tower Seven marketing offices on 57 th Street the suit did its job.
Hamza finally caved, and thirty minutes later, I entered the cavernous lobby
of the supertall. It was still under construction; the concierge desk had been
framed out and bare wires snaked through the open walls — but the elevator
was finished, paneled in rich mahogany, like a luxurious coffin, and eerily
silent: As we shot up to the eighty - eighth floor, the only indication of
movement was a faint pneumatic thrust under my feet.
I st epped out, pr epared to be underwhelmed. Supertalls were all hype,
weren’t they? The only reason these monstrosities existed was to provide a
way for billionaires to compete in the mine - is - bigger - than - yours contest.
Besides, humans weren’t intended to live at this altitude. The supertalls
swayed; it was hard to concentrate, and shortness of breath was common.
The model apartment had floor - to - ceiling glass walls, Scandinavian
furniture, and bright, inoffensive abstract art on the walls. Sure, the
cabinetry was Brazilian rosewood, the kitchen counters were creamy
Carrara marble, and the lacquered red kitchen range was a handmade La
Cornue — but the apartment layout was conventional. Also, the lack of
outdoor space — the gusts of wind were too dangerous up here — confined
the inhabitants to a standard rectangular box.
Then I noticed the silence: absolute. No traffic, no honking, no birds,
even.
Up here, there was only weather. Massive, dramatic swe eps of it: banked
clouds moving, sunlight dimming and brightening, a distant shaft of light
falling through a tear in the clouds like a spotlight from the heavens. Staring
out, I became disoriented, but in a good way — the feeling you get when
your plane leaves the ground; you abandon your old, weary, self, and
become someone else: Cleaner. Lighter. Enlightened.
The view from the apartment stretched all the way north — past the
rectangle of Central Park, past Harlem. In the east, the runways of
La Guardia were visible, an endless ballet of jets taking off and landing. To
the west, beyond the toylike bridges spanning the Hudson, was the sprawl
of New Jersey, the lands cape bluing in the distance, all the way to where?
California? Japan?
I raised my camera, but the view became static and lost its drama.
Hamza had changed the tagline of the advertising campaign to “The
Premier Residential Address in the World” and harped on the exquisite
custom finishes, but that wasn’t the point. Looking down at the Tinkertoy
world far below, I needed to find a way to capture my current feelings:
ecstatic, religious, even.
I wandered through the apartment, lost in thought.
I had probably exceeded my allotted time — screw Hamza — because thirty
minutes later, the front door opened, and two men entered. The taller, buff
one — sports coat, monk strap shoes — was clearly a real estate agent. The
client was Indian, a bespectacled young man with thinning hair, dressed like
a sixty - year - old in pleated khakis and tasseled loafers. He seemed oddly
familiar.
The agent spotted me, glowered with irritation — this was supposed to be
an exclusive showing — and tried to hustle his client into the dining room,
but the bespectacled Indian man headed over to me, his hand outstretched.
“Ali Azeem! What the fuck are you doing here?”
Crap. Rishi Khoobchandani, from high school in Mumbai. Heir to an
industrial empire. Total loser.
“Working.” I gestured to my camera. “I’m with Tiger Corp. Doing
marketing stuff.”
Rishi sneered happily. “I heard you were in the photography game.
What’re you doing in America? On the EB - 5?”
I had no idea what he was talking about — and said so.
“EB - 5, dude? That thing Uncle Sam has? You pony up a mil, invest in a
local American business, and they give you a green card?” Rishi quickly
lost interest in explaining and started thumbing his phone. “Man, amazing
to run into you. Putting it on the school Facebook group ... You’re not on it,
right?” Before I could r eply, he gestured to the view. “My dad wants to buy
us a place. Pinky, that’s my wife, she loves Manhattan ... But. You. Not
married, still a player?”
“Not exactly. I...”
“So you’re photographing the view? Awesome, right? That’s what you
get for twenty - seven mil! Where are you living? Brooklyn, Queens? Dude, I
wish we had time to get together, but Pinky’s got me on a packed schedule.”
His voice dropped. “So, Tiger Corp? You know the big man, Abbas Khan?
Is it true — he has a thing for young girls?”
“Mr. Khoobchandani,” the real estate agent interrupted, his face flushed.
“Mr. Azeem here is, he is — ”
“I’ve known this guy since we were twelve! After school, the rest of us
came to college here — me, UPenn — but our man here doesn’t give a shit, he
stays in Mumbai humping all the girls! Right, Ali?”
The agent cleared his throat. “Mr. Azeem is married to Maryam Khan.
Daughter of Abbas Khan? Now, if you’d like to see the bedrooms, they are
spectacular, and — ”
Rishi’s face fell. He did some quick calculations, but no matter how he
diced it, the Khans were several times richer than his family.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Rishi chuckled ostentatiously. “Just messing
with you, Ali. Actually, are you — and Maryam, of course, ha ha — free
tomorrow night? Join Pinky and me? A bunch of us are meeting up at Per
Se...”
Rishi babbled on. I told him I’d get back to him, walked out of the
apartment, and took the elevator down, watching the numbers unwind.
Rishi was a fool, but it worried me that rumors about Abbas’s tastes had
reached Mumbai. I could ask Maryam about the gossip, but she’d just poohpooh it — her
father could do no wrong. Maybe Farhan had been right all
along.
Farhan. Hell no, I was not calling her.
For the last month, I’d focused all my energy on Maryam. After she
came home from the hospital, we’d eat a bland dinner, curl up on the couch
and watch the hospital shows Maryam adored, and she’d grow animated
and point out all the mistakes: “Cyanosis? That’s a symptom, not a
diagnosis!” “That’s not how you really do a tracheotomy.” “See that doctor?
He seems like an addict. It’s more common than you’d expect.”
It would be a Friday night, New York City roaring outside our windows
— jazz clubs, speakeasies, S&M bars, raves, art openings, Bulgarian puppet
shows — and there we were, sitting on the couch, watching Maryam’s
favorite reruns of ER.
Ma had said the first year of marriage was the “breaking in” period, as if
Maryam were a new pair of shoes. I had no idea if Ma was right — and I was
tired of thinking about my marriage. Just then, riding down in the elevator, I
let my mind go blank — and that’s when it came to me, the new tagline for
the marketing campaign.
I reached the lobby, squared my shoulders, and walked into Hamza’s
office.
An hour later, in the car ride back to the Apthorp, I broke down and called
Farhan.
I did.
I wanted her to know that she’d been wrong about me: I wasn’t scared of
the Khans. I wanted to tell her how I’d strolled into Cousin Hamza’s office
and forced him to do my bidding.
Hamza had been sitting with his feet up on his desk, his pants hiked,
showing dark blue socks decorated with the orange Ps of his alma mater,
Princeton. The twerp. He saw me come in but continued staring at his
phone.
“Hamza,” I’d said, “I have an idea for a new marketing campaign.”
“Really?” He eyed me, cool and superior. “I’ve hired De Santis Ogilvy to
do the marketing. They’re the best. Do yourself a favor, go back and tell the
old man I have it under control — ”
I allowed my voice to get louder. “Look, if you ke ep stalling me, I’ll tell
Abbas to fire you.”
Hamza sighed and swung his feet down to the floor. “Okay, fine, what is
this brilliant idea?”
“I’ll need a drone. And a helicopter with a camera crew — how close to
the building can they fly? I’ll also need a pair of actors, man and woman in
their early sixties. And somebody really good to direct — not an advertising
guy. Maybe a music video guy. Hey, write all this down!”
Hamza flipped open a yellow legal pad and scribbled as I spoke. The
prick. Farhan would have enjoyed this story — if only she’d picked up the
phone — but it went straight to voicemail.
I left her a lame, choked message and instantly regretted it.
When I got back to the Apthorp, George was gone, and the evening
doorman, Ivan, greeted me in the courtyard. I asked him what had happened
to the doorman that George had r eplaced, and Ivan gave an impassive
shrug. “Ilya got mugged,” he said in his gravelly voice. “On the subway.
Somebody beat the hell out of him. So we get the new guy. From some
agency. Talks too much, otherwise fine.” Then Ivan asked if he could give
me the mail; it would save him a trip upstairs. I knew that all the doormen
considered me a second - rate tenant because I was the spouse of the rich
one, but what the hell? It was only mail.
Fyodor, the elevator operator, took me upstairs. Apparently, it was a perk
that other rich inhabitants liked: traveling in a slow - moving elevator with a
silent Slav.
In the elevator, I eyed the mail distractedly. Anything important got sent
to the family trust, and today we had received only a Sotheby’s art catalog
and a couple of invitations from fancy charities. And the postcard.
If I wasn’t in such a bad mood, would I have discarded it? At the time, it
seemed irrelevant, just another odd little piece of the universe the Khans
inhabited.
It was a cheap New York tourist postcard, a photograph of an elevated
subway station taken from above, and curly red font that said “JACKSON
HEIGHTS: THE REAL MELTING POT.” On the back was one line of text
written in carefully formed capital letters: “YOU ARE SO PRETTY.”
That’s all the postcard said. Weird, yes, but not threatening.
I resolved to throw it into the trash.
I let myself into the apartment, but Miss Ritu did not scuttle out to greet me.
Salsa music blared from the kitchen, and I walked over curiously — Hey, this
is a lighter side of Miss Ritu — but to my shock, the normally pristine
kitchen was a mess.
A pile of peeled onions stunk it up on the counter. Orange turmeric was
smeared all over the pale marble island. A sauté pan on the stove held the
charred remains of okra. It looked like a crime scene, and I became
alarmed, but then Maryam came through the kitchen door in scrubs, talking
animatedly on the phone. Her hair was not in its usual ponytail but fell
loose down to her shoulders. She raised her finger at me, Just a minute, and
swung back into the dining room.
What was going on? Clearly these were pr eparations for dinner — in
addition to the cut onions, there were diced eggplants, and basmati rice was
soaking in a bowl — but nothing had been cooked.
Maryam came back, and, to my surprise, gave me a tight hug. “Ali, I’m
glad to see you. I was trying to cook, and — ”
“What’s up? Where’s Miss Ritu? Hey, hey, hey...”
Maryam was sobbing now. I led her into the dining room and gave her a
glass of water. After she calmed down, she told me what had happened: She
knew I wasn’t crazy about the food Miss Ritu made, so for a change, she’d
decided to make dinner. She’d even called my mom and written down
recipes for my favorite foods.
I couldn’t help bursting into laughter. “Really? You called Ma?”
“Yeah.” Maryam blew her nose. “She’s so sweet, but her recipes ... not
really precise? I mean, what is ‘a handful of dhaniya,’ and what does she
mean by ‘fry until cooked nicely’? I got all confused, and then the okra
burned, and it was all too much...”
I chuckled, but Maryam was taking her failure seriously — she slumped
in her chair — and I felt a spark of tenderness.
“Look, I’m touched that you tried. It was really sweet.”
Maryam said she’d fixed things. She’d called a friend who had
recommended a hole - in - the - wall restaurant in Queens. Their cook was
making all the dishes, and they would soon be delivered. “The chef’s from
Mumbai,” Maryam said. “Hopefully you’ll like the food.”
She looked tired, with lilac circles under her eyes. I thought of the call
I’d made to Farhan and groaned inwardly; what a fool I’d been. I pulled
Maryam down into my lap and kissed her. It was guilt but also the
beginning of something else.
Maybe Ma was right. We just had to get used to each other.
An hour later, I’d eaten way too much: crispy bhindi, shami kebabs, creamy
dahi vada, thick dal. All my favorite foods, spicy as hell, Mumbai - style.
“You want me to hire this guy?”
I realized Maryam was talking about the chef from Queens. “You’re
serious? I thought you didn’t like Indian food.”
“Well, I want you to be happy.” Maryam leaned back in her chair.
“Though it would be tough to stick to my diet. I was a chubby kid, and it
took me a long time to shed the weight. I have an addictive personality.
Once I start eating, I can’t stop.”
“You? Really?”
“It was tough. Farhan was Papa’s favorite. Me, I barely existed. So I ate.
And ate.”
I hadn’t known any of this. I’d judged Maryam, and now I felt awful.
“Farhan was the favorite? But I thought...”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. But right now, what I really want is...”
She looked at me directly and the message was unambiguous. “But wash
your hands first. I don’t want to get chilies in my ... you know what I
mean.”
I scrubbed my hands with the precision of a surgeon and accompanied
her down the long corridor. I assumed we were headed to the bedroom, but
she grabbed my hand, pulled me into the living room, and pushed me onto
the plush couch.
“You lie there,” she said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
So far, sex had always happened in pitch darkness. I started to lower the
blinds, but Maryam shook her head no.
“But the windows...” I gestured to the four large living room windows:
They looked out onto the courtyard, and all the neighboring windows were
brightly lit.
In response, Maryam turned off the living room lights. There was
enough ambient illumination that I could make her out as she slowly
undressed, taking her time. She posed in front of me, presenting herself,
stark naked: long and elegant, with a dancer’s thick thighs, narrow hips, and
small breasts. It was parody but also sexy, and it worked.
By the time she walked over to me, I was ready. She climbed over me,
eyes narrowed with desire, and the edges of her long hair brushed
electrically against my face. I reached for her, but she slapped away my
hands playfully and said, “Wait. All in good time.”
In the apartment across from us, a family ate dinner, bent over their
plates. Our living room was de ep in shadow, but could they glimpse us
here, naked, sprawled on the couch?
This possibility seemed to turn Maryam on. She was both more exacting
and more tender than she had ever been before. Her hands smelled faintly
of the spicy food we had just eaten. We took our time, and she cupped my
face in her hands as if to say, Look at me.
At some point in the night Maryam must have covered us, because when I
woke, I was under a wool blanket. We got dressed — Maryam didn’t want
Miss Ritu to find us naked on the couch — and sat half asle ep at the little
round table in the kitchen, watching the sun rise. I made coffee the way
Maryam liked it, strong, with a splash of oat milk. We sat in harmonious
silence, our hands curled around hot coffee cups, and it felt calm and
companionable.
Maryam’s phone dinged, and I asked her who was texting her at six a. m.
“It’s seven at night there,” she said, stopping to sip her coffee before
texting back.
“Seven at night — where?”
“Tokyo.” She looked up from her phone.
“Tokyo as in Japan? Who’s in Tokyo?”
Maryam smiled happily. “Oh, Farhan didn’t tell you? She’s over there.”
I blew into my coffee and tried to absorb this piece of information.
“When ... when will she be back?”
“She’s gone for good. Papa set her up with a jewelry store in Tokyo —
she lives there now.”
Tokyo? What the hell? Farhan had moved to Japan, and no one told me?
Maryam stood up and stretched. “Come on, sle epyhead. Let’s go for a
run.” She kissed me hard, and her mouth tasted of bitter coffee. Was I
imagining it, or was her tone proprietorial?
We went running in Riverside Park. The dog walkers out this early were
bleary - eyed. Slick fallen leaves covered the promenade, and beside the
pathway, the Hudson flowed, gray and edged in garbage.
Tokyo. Farhan’s plush, warm body, her tiny womb - like apartment in
Chinatown, the salty smell of her. It was all over. Why had she left so
abruptly? Had Mian tattled to Abbas after all? I had detected no change in
the old man’s behavior. He’d dropped by the apartment for dinner a few
nights ago and regaled us with stories of New York in the seventies, when
the Bronx was burning, women carried mace in their purses, and Abbas —
snazzily attired in flowery shirt and a suede jacket — was a regular at Max’s
Kansas City and had heard Blondie, The Ramones, and Sid Vicious. “I was
cool then,” Abbas had said. “Hard to believe, yes?”
This was not the behavior of a man who knew I’d been sle eping with his
older daughter. So then, Farhan had gone off to Tokyo to open a jewelry
store, something she had dreamed about for years. I simply didn’t count.
Maryam and I ran north through Riverside Park, all the way to Grant’s
Tomb. The icy air hurt my lungs. Sunlight splintered through the trees, and
the river took on a sparkle.
I told myself I was a lucky man, that I had miraculously es caped the
consequences of my affair. Still, something was missing: Life conducted in
daylight could never have the same charge as a secret existence. Was I
mourning Farhan or the thrill of our affair? I wanted to believe it was solely
the latter, but I knew it wasn’t true. As we ran, all I could think was: Tokyo.
Thirteen hours ahead. Already night there.
Maryam and I ran Riverside Park, matching our strides and our
breathing. She looked over and smiled at me, a wifely, caring smile — and I
banished any further thoughts of Tokyo from my mind.