The Elegy

This story was published in the Taj Mahal Review, June 2017 (tajmahalreview.com)

Kesh marched into the living room, a glass of bourbon in hand. In the other, a pack of Gauloises, half crushed by his tight grip. He plopped down on the couch, set the drink on the coffee table, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Dandruff rained onto his black T-shirt. “There he goes again!”

“There who goes again?” asked Meena without looking up. She was seated on the loveseat sipping English tea.

“R.C., playing that bloody cello in his ‘man cave.’” Kesh didn’t understand why his creator would throw in the towel after just a handful of rejections. What published novelist can’t point to a hundred rejection letters taped to his wall? Kesh was fed up listening to R.C. sawing away on the cello all day long. Screech, screech, screech. He got up and pulled the back door tightly closed. And why is the music so loud when the cabin is fifty feet from the house? He gulped down half the bourbon.

“I rather like it,” Meena said. She brushed away a fly that landed on her sari.

Kesh gazed at her longingly. How good she looked for someone in her mid-thirties. He recalled the passage in the novel where men gawked at her in the bazaar. Who wouldn’t be transfixed by this tall Indian beauty? He had an urge to kiss her on the lips but knew he’d be pushed away—just like the last time.

“At least R.C.’s letting us use his house,” Meena said.

“It’s the least he could do for his own characters.” Kesh gulped some more bourbon. He didn’t like the house, set in Golf Links, one of New Delhi’s wealthiest neighborhoods. It was much too quiet for the high-strung architect. “And do you know what he’s playing?” Kesh asked. “Fauré’s Elegy—a funeral song. Meena, he’s in mourning—for his novel! It’s dead, the book, which means we’re dead. All of us characters! We’re finished, my dear wife, you, me—even your James Fucking Bond American lover.”

“His name is Simon Bliss,” she said with a coy smile. “I wish you’d stop calling him James Bond, even if he does look like that stunning actor, what’s his name? Pierce . . .”

“Brosnan.”

“Anyway, please don’t call me your wife. We’re married in the novel, not in real life, thank God. In fact, we don’t really exist outside the novel. R.C. created us, which is a pretty good reason not to moan and groan about his playing.”

Meena’s words confused Kesh. Was he not real? And was she—that divine spark of feminine beauty—also just a character? “Well,” Kesh went on, “all the more reason to be upset. We’re as good as dead if this damn novel doesn’t get published. Dead and unread. Unhappily ever after!” He balanced the drink on his knee and lit up.

“If that drink spills on R.C.’s carpet, I’ll kill you, if he doesn’t get to you first.”

“Persian carpets are supposed to have flaws,” Kesh rejoined. As he dragged on his cigarette, he wondered why Allah would consider it an act of hubris for a weaver to make a perfect carpet. Their god should be proud, not offended.

“And won’t you please put that disgusting thing out?” Meena said with the tone of a schoolmarm. “You really shouldn’t be smoking at all. Remember what the doctor said? It’s the reason you’ve got hypertension.” She put her teacup on the side table and reached for her knitting.

“Of course,” Kesh shot back, the cigarette stuck to the top of his lip. “Middle of Chapter 13. But don’t forget how I respond? Hypertension’s a sign of distinction for a man in his mid-forties. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, since cancer can’t kill me if I’m about to be murdered. Chapter 24.”

Kesh blew a smoke ring and watched it linger. Then he slouched and thought about his character, a washed-out architect in India. He knew he had to lose the commission to design a new art museum in downtown Mumbai. After all, it was necessary for the plot. But the loss still hurt, especially after the job was handed to Simon, the big-cheese starchitect from America. And then Meena had to run off and have an affair with that dapper shit. He tore a hangnail from his thumb and watched blood bathe the cuticle.

“Where is the bugger, anyway?” Kesh asked.

“Who?”

“Simon. He was supposed to be here by now. Didn’t you invite him for a drink?”

“For tea,” Meena said, her eyes fixed on the half-knit scarf. Then she laughed.

“What?”

“I just thought of that scene right after you learned Simon was given the commission for the art museum. Remember it?”

“How could I forget? Chapter 5, page 81. We’d just sat down to dinner. I’m smoking a Gauloises and you say I look like a coal-fired power plant.”

“Right, and then I add how utterly ironic it was for the person Time Magazine hailed as India’s leading green architect—the man who wanted fifty percent of the country’s electricity to come from solar and wind power!”

“That’s a good one, Meena, but most of your lines don’t hold a candle to mine. Lord, oh Lord, was I funny!”

Kesh went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of crisp pappadum. He crushed one with his fist and stuffed the largest piece into his mouth. “So, tell me, Meena, won’t you be upset if R.C. gives up on us after just a few rejections?”

“It would be a shame.” Meena glanced over at the knitting instructions. “But hardly the end of the world. It’s just a novel.”

“Well, it would certainly be the end of our world!” Kesh sank deeper into the couch. “I bet I know why you don’t care—you’re embarrassed at the way Simon gawks at you in Chapter 2 when you meet for the first time. All that droning on and on about how you’re like the ocean with sea-green eyes and the way the pleats of your green sari look like ocean ripples whenever you turn. I mean, really, that scene is over the top. Didn’t R.C. learn anything in all those writers’ workshops?”

“Kesh, that’s inner dialogue. Simon’s thinking all that, not talking aloud. Anyway, I’m rather flattered.”

“Flattered? It’s corny as hell. And just one more bloody case of a successful white man falling for the beautiful native. As if you’re some topless Haitian woman in one of those Gauguin paintings, not the executive director of a highly respected organization fighting domestic violence in India. Fighting domestic violence—ha, no pun intended. Fucking Americans! Your James Bond should have gone to Haiti if he wanted to gawk at the natives.”

“I don’t mind. By the way, Gauguin went to Tahiti, not Haiti. In any case, that’s not the reason.”

“Tahiti Schmahiti! Well, what is it then? Why don’t you care if the novel doesn’t get published?”

“I didn’t say I don’t care. I just said it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Kesh’s torso slipped further down the couch until his chin dug into his chest. He sat up with a jerk and furiously scratched his head with both hands. More dandruff showered onto his T-shirt. “Well, I have much more to lose than you. I’m the witty character.” He chuckled. “Do you remember my little speech when I’m passed over for the commission?”

“Little speech? You mean endless soliloquy.”

Kesh stood up, extended an arm, and belted out the passage as if he were reciting Shakespeare.

“Why do we need a bloody Western starchitect? Here we go again, worshipping any slob with a white face. Why are we Indians so goddamn insecure, as if we all had small penises? This bloody country worships the lingam, the holy sausage!”

“Please, Kesh, I hate that scene.”

“Then I hold my empty glass in the air as if I’m about to make a toast. To the millions of peckers all over India—in every temple, under every banyan tree, in every—”

“Enough!”

“Come on, girl, admit that it would be a crying shame if the novel just withers on the vine. Fucking good, those lines of mine.”

“I suppose, if one likes misogynist humor.” Meena stopped knitting and stared at the unfinished scarf. “Damn,” she said, noticing a misplaced stitch.

The sound of the cello suddenly grew louder.

“Fucking hell, there he goes again!”

“It’s lovely,” Meena countered, unstitching part of her handiwork. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be discouraged. The novel is good. It’s got conflict, political intrigue, sex. Even murder.”

“Yeah, mine!”

“And it’s set in an exotic country, at least for American readers. Be patient. R.C. will land an agent.”

Just then Simon burst through the front door, clutching a bottle of Perrier-Jouet.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Kesh looked the American up and down. At five feet seven, he hated taller men, especially those that looked like they were from central casting. And he was fiercely jealous of Simon’s worldwide reputation, with award-winning projects in just about every Western capital.

“So, Bond,” Kesh said. “What’s with the Champagne?”

“I thought we should celebrate. Look, the book’s finished and R.C.’s even launched a website.”

“Celebrate?” Kesh’s voice cracked. “As far as I can tell, he’s put the book on a hunger strike. It’s in hospital on life support. And listen to that god-awful music. He spends all day sawing away on that damn cello. Tell me, Simon, how would you feel if the book never sees the light of day?”

“Honestly, I don’t really care. The book has changed me. By the end, I’ve found true happiness.”

“Yeah, screwing my wife!”

“You know, it’s strange,” Simon said. He placed the Champagne on the console behind the couch and sat on the loveseat next to Meena. “I know I’m just a fictional character, but I feel real. In fact, I feel quite good right now.” He turned and kissed Meena on the lips.

Kesh cringed and looked away.

“Meena,” Simon said, “your eyes sparkle like stars reflected in the ocean of—”

“Good grief, Simon, spare me!” Kesh lumbered over to the wet bar and poured himself another drink. “You know, old chap, I’ve never said this, but I think R.C. made a big mistake when he cast you as the protagonist. You’re so damn uptight in the first half of the novel.” He laughed. “Actually, you’re worse than uptight—you’re a royal grouch. Readers won’t identify with you. I’m the more colorful character, by leaps and bounds!”

“Kesh, admit it—you’re just jealous that I’m the hero and, I might add, because your lovely wife leaves you for me.” He cast a knowing glance at Meena.

“No, Simon, you’re as tight-assed as that American virgin I screw in Chapter—what was it?”

“Look who’s talking,” Simon chuckled. “You’re the guy who says the answer to domestic violence in India is to genetically engineer women! Some nonsense about inserting elephant genes into wives so they’d be stronger than their husbands. You think those lines are appropriate for a protagonist? Do you really think readers—”

“Okay, boys,” Meena broke in, “enough of that. In any case, Simon may be somewhat uptight in those first chapters, but, my Lord . . .” she paused and, casting a furtive glance at Simon, “are you handsome! I fell for you the moment you walked into my office.”

Kesh rolled his eyes.

“Did you really?” Simon asked. “I thought you couldn’t care less about me until our dalliance in the caves, three chapters later.”

“No, Simon, I had the hots for you from the moment—”

“The hots!” Kesh thundered. “Now you’re even talking like your Amurrican lover. Is this how you behave in front of your husband?”

“I’m not your wife!”

Kesh puckered his lips. “Come here, darling, sit next to me.”

“No thanks, dear, I’m quite comfortable where I am.” She stopped knitting and caressed the back of Simon’s neck.

“Perhaps I am a little nerdy in those first chapters,” Simon admitted. He rested his hand on Meena’s upper thigh.

Kesh gnashed his teeth and reached for the pappadum.

“But I’m transformed by the end,” Simon continued. “Sorry you don’t change in the novel, old chap! From the first page to the last, you’re like a heat-seeking missile hell-bent on turning the whole construction industry on its head.”

“When you’re not screwing one of those temple dancers,” Meena added. She turned to Simon. “Would you like some tea, love?”

“Would you like some tea, love?” Kesh mimicked, cracking his knuckles.

“No thanks, but I wouldn’t mind some Champagne.” Simon grabbed the bottle from the console, stuck it between his thighs, and held the long neck with one hand. The phallic gesture reminded Kesh of one of his favorite scenes.

“Remember the time I go on about how Indian men are always adjusting themselves in public, even politicians?” Kesh slapped his knee. “Shit, now that’s one clever speech!”

“It’s disgusting,” Meena said.

Kesh looked up at the ceiling, straining to remember the exact words. Then he extended an arm and began to recite his lines.

“So, a politician’s campaigning at a rally and it’s 2:00 p.m., so what does he think? Time to scratch my balls. You know, to bond with his constituents. And if an Indian politician loses an election, the first thing his campaign manager says is, ‘Babaji, what I tell you. You should have scratched on the half hour too, or at least adjusted only!’” Kesh roared with laughter.

“R.C. should have cut that section,” Meena said.

The cello suddenly got louder.

“There he goes again!” Kesh pounded the side table with his fist. Meena’s teacup rattled in its saucer. “Does he have to rub it in?”

“Rub what in?” Simon asked.

“That he’s given up on us. Fuck, all my smartass lines down the stinking drain.”

“Who’s given up on us?” Simon asked, untwisting the wire holding the Champagne cap in place.

“Kesh thinks R.C. is not doing enough to market his novel,” Meena explained.

“If anyone should be upset,” Simon said, “it’s Meena. She’s the one with the moral conscience, working day and night for women who’ve survived domestic violence.”

“That’s right,” Meena added, turning to Kesh. “If it doesn’t get published, readers will miss out on a lot more than your sordid jokes.”

“Hey, they weren’t all sordid . . . well, maybe one or two, but—”

“In any case,” Simon continued, “R.C. hasn’t given up. I’ve heard he’s starting to query small presses.”

“Really?” Kesh asked.

Simon nodded, placing the wire mesh on the coffee table.

Kesh shot up. “Well, then, maybe it is time to crack open the bubbly.” He grabbed the bottle tucked into Simon’s crotch. Suddenly the cork flew into the air with a pop and golden bubbles flowed over the rim. He poured a glass for each of them, climbed onto a chair, and held his drink high in the air. “To R.C., our maker.”

The cello music reached a crescendo. Kesh’s lips began to quiver. “Hey, Yo-Yo, would you shut the fuck up and get back to those query letters?”

Simon and Meena laughed.

Kesh remembered the sweets he’d bought that morning. He descended the chair and rushed into the kitchen. But as he returned with the box, he caught Simon and Meena stealing up the stairs. Then, click, the sound of the bedroom door lock.

Kesh plopped down on the loveseat and placed his hand on the spot where Meena had been sitting. It was warm and the red velvet upholstery was slightly indented. He stuffed a pista barfi into his mouth, savoring the sweet milk solids flavored with cardamom and pistachio. Then he picked out the laddu, a brown ball made with roasted gram flour and ghee. Just as he bit into the sweet, the bed’s headboard started banging wildly against the wall. His body stiffened as if it had been painted over with varnish. He wiped crumbs from his chin and reached for a cigarette, but the pack was empty. He crushed it in his hand, threw it across the room, and stormed out of the house.

As he walked to the market, he was tormented by the thought that he was nothing more than a fictional character. His intense jealousy sure felt real, not to mention his anger. He reached the general store and bought a pack of cigarettes. As he tore it open, the sound of the headboard seemed to bang against the walls of his head. Images of Meena flew in and out of his head like barn swallows—her long black hair, honey skin, and lovely figure. Why did she have to fall for Simon? Were his lines not witty enough? As he lit up, he remembered how, in Chapter 1, Meena longingly remembered their honeymoon night when he wooed her with romantic lines from Sanskrit love poetry. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the passage, but nothing came to mind. He wished he could climb back into the novel and have another chance. But he knew in his heart it was too late.