Page 79 of Six Days in Bombay

We walked from one end of Florence to the other; the city was surprisingly compact. Paolo revealed small details about Mira, laughing at her observations about the Italians. He took me to the Uffizi Gallery, where he insisted the best art in the world was displayed. Michelangelo, Botticelli, Giotto, da Vinci. With a wink to the guard, Paolo led me to the Vasari Corridor, the secret passageway the Medici family used to go to the Pitti Palaceunobserved. Dr. Stoddard had urged me to see it. Paolo said it was Mira’s favorite place for a hurried tryst, right between the Rembrandt and Velazquez. The soft pillows of his lips parted in a smile that was both joyful and sad. He was going to miss her.

She had loved him, and he had loved her, of that I was sure now. But love didn’t mean a lifetime of togetherness, did it?

When I returned to my lodgings—so much more humble than Madame Renaud’s—my hostess patted me on the shoulder. She seemed to sense I was troubled. And tired. She stretched an arm toward the curtain. I went through it and sat at the small scarred table. She brought a bowl of pasta and a hunk of dense bread. The pasta smelled heavenly. It was smothered in a light cream sauce with what I thought were mushrooms. She pointed to the pasta and said,“Tartufi.”

“Tartufi?”I said.

“Si,si, signorina.Tartufi.” She pointed again. She imitated pigs snorting, digging in the earth. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me, but her explanation made me laugh, which made her laugh too. Something in my chest loosened, and I felt good for the first time that day.

***

As I lay in my bed that night, I talked to my mother.I did it, Mum. I did what Mira asked of me. I traveled thousands of miles to places I’ve never been, ate food I’ve never heard of, walked through cities and gardens and down alleys I wouldn’t have ventured to find the three people she cared about most. At times, I was frightened out of my mind. At times, I was lonely. There were surprises, some of which delighted me (Edward, Amit), some of which scarred me (Agnes, the man in La Rotonde). It was like the Ferris wheel you took me on when I was six. The higher we went, the more the fear—and the thrill—gripped me. At the top, you pointed to the buildings and parks and lakes I’d only ever seen on a map. And when we got to the bottom, I wanted more than anything to go back up again. Well, I want to do that when I getback to Bombay. This time, I won’t keep to myself. I’ll let people see who I am, make an effort to learn who they are. I’ll do things I haven’t done before. Things you and I could have been doing all along. Like picnicking along the Queen’s Necklace. Taking in an afternoon matinee at the Regal. Flying kites at Chowpatty Beach. I’m thinking of finding a private position, taking care of someone like Dr. Stoddard. I’m sure Edward, who is the kindest of men (you would love him, Mum!), will help me with that. And there’s Amit. I’m sorry I kept my feelings for him from you. I just wanted some time alone with them. But I think you guessed them anyway. There wasn’t much I could hide from you.

I found myself smiling, picturing my mother as she listened to my plans.

Then, an image of Dr. Stoddard came unbidden.Go see your father.

But that was an impossible request! Why should I go see him? To me, he would always be a deserter and a philanderer. Ralph Stoddard thought my father hadn’t had the courage to face me. Would going to England confirm that? What about his En­glish family? How would they react when I showed up, claiming him as my father? Would they be shocked? Angry? Would they throw me out of their house, call me a liar or money-grubber or fantasist?

And if I didn’t confront my father, would I be a coward too? Here I was in Europe, half a day from him, and I finally had the chance to tell him what I thought of him. Was I scared to do so? Or was I worried that when I came face-to-face with him, I would lose my resolve to pummel his chest and throw myself in his arms instead? I wanted to go on hating him. It was the one sure, steady thing in my life. I didn’t want to let go of it. But who knew when I might return to Europe once I was back in Bombay? This was my chance. Should I take it?

Tomorrow, I planned to leave for India via Algiers by train and then by ship. I’d been to a travel agency. The woman therehad helped me determine the least expensive route. I had just enough money left to pay for it. But something made me hesitate.

To go or not to go. It was the most important decision I’d had to make in my young life.

LONDON

Chapter 12

Owen Falstaff’s house sat in a row of identical two-story houses, neat and compact, each with a glossy black front door, a brass door knocker and a gleaming black iron fence. They stood shoulder to shoulder like matchsticks in a matchbook. There were three steps from the sidewalk to the front door, sixteen from the sidewalk across the street, where I was standing. Yet, I couldn’t seem to make the journey.

Before leaving Florence, I had sent a telegraph to Edward at the Bombay Embassy to ask for my father’s address. He’d sent me the reply immediately, asking if I was in need of funds. I had bristled at the suggestion. I wasn’t a charity case. I’d been frugal. I’d worked out with the woman at the travel agency that I could make it to England with the money I’d set aside for the trip back to Bombay. After that, my future was vague. I didn’t have enough to get back home. I didn’t know how I would manage, but I would figure that out as I went. I’d managed so far, hadn’t I?

I may have hated my father, but I’d been curious about London as long as I could remember. Some things were the same as Bombay. Double-decker buses. Trams. Cyclists weaving in and out of traffic. Policemen in helmets and white gloves directing traffic in the middle of the street. Ice-cream vendors pushingtheir carts. Buildings with pediments, gothic turrets and columns similar to Victoria Terminus. But the skies were overcast, gray, and the absence of color made London grim. Instead of women in lime-green saris bent over long-whiskeredjharus, here men in hats and jackets swept the streets. In London people didn’t meander. They walked with purpose, as if they were each on a mission of great importance. No time to exchange pleasantries.

I wondered how long I’d been staring at my father’s house. There was an intimidating quality, a blinding whiteness, to the Falstaff house that differed from the warmth and welcome of Indian homes—even the estate of the Singhs. A simple movement of my left foot, then right, then left would put me at the small landing in front of the door. I’d rehearsed the motion in my head. I watched a phantom version of myself mounting those steps, putting my hand on the knocker, lifting the ring and striking the brass plate.Knock, knock, knock.

From the corner of my eye, I spied a movement of the curtains in the window to my right. Without thinking, I turned in the opposite direction and walked as fast as I could to the end of the block. Out of breath, I stopped, bent forward and vomited into the gutter. My nose was running. I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my mouth and nose. Why couldn’t I make myself knock on that door? I’d been so brave, braver than I could have imagined, to leave my home, my mother, my country. I’d crossed boundary after boundary to end up here, at the home of my father. And now I couldn’t summon an iota of courage to come face-to-face with him?

The voice in my head said,You’ve come this far. Go back and finish what you came to do. Stop being a milksop!

I swallowed, cleared my throat. I turned around, startled by a small boy in muddy wool knickers who was staring at me. He carried a soccer ball in his arms. Had he seen me hurl my morning tea into the sewer grate? Shame made me avert my eyes.

This time, I crossed to the other side of the narrow streetand walked back to the house. 1059 Pinkney Lane.I can do this. I deserve to do this. I’ve come so far. What will I say when I finally see my father after twenty years? Will I spit in his face? Will I slap his cheek? Will I cry and tell him how much I missed him and wanted him to come back home to us, to me?

The front door of 1059 Pinkney Lane opened. I froze. A woman stood at the door, regarding me. She wore a navy dress patterned with white flowers and cinched at the waist with a white belt. Her high-heeled shoes matched her dress.

“Won’t you come inside?” she said timidly.

I opened my mouth, then closed it shut. Was she talking to me? I felt as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. Like when Matron scolded a nurse for sneaking a cigarette on her break.

The woman at the door had kind eyes. She said, “Please.”

I made myself walk toward her. Left leg up the first stair. Then the right. Then the left. Now I was standing three feet from her. My father’s first wife.

Up close, I could see the wrinkles around the corners of her mouth and the grooves lining her forehead. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink. She looked to be in her late forties, although I knew from my nursing experience that the fair skin of Englishwomen aged faster than that of Indian women.

For a moment, we stood, regarding one another. Her eyes studied my face. Perhaps she was looking for signs of her husband in my features. I didn’t know. I thought I saw the slightest nod of her head, but I might have been imagining it.

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