Текст книги "Just One Year"

Автор книги: Gayle Forman

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“My email’s not working right. I got locked out of it and had to reset the password and then a whole bunch of recent messages disappeared,” I say. “Apparently there’s a virus going around.

“Yes, that would be the Jagdish virus.” He tsks again. “You must set up a new account. In the meantime, I will text you your train and flight itinerary.”

I get off the phone with Mukesh and reach into my backpack for my wallet. I count out three thousand rupees, the last price Nawal had dropped to. His face falls.

“I have to leave,” I explain. “This evening.”

Nawal reaches behind the counter for a thick square wrapped up in brown paper. “I set it aside on day one so no one else would get it.” He peels back the paper, showing me the tapestry. “I put a little something extra in it for you.”

We say good-bye. I wish him luck with his marriage. “I don’t need luck; it’s in the stars. You, I think, are the one who needs luck.”

It makes me think of something Kate said when she dropped me off in Mérida. “I’d wish you luck, Willem, but I think you need to stop relying on that.”

I’m not sure which one of them is right.

I pack up my things and then walk to the train station through the late afternoon heat. The city looks golden up the hills, the sand dunes rippling behind it, and it all makes me feel wistful, nostalgic already.

The train gets me into Jaipur at six the next morning. My flight to Mumbai is at ten. I haven’t had a chance to set up a new email, and Mukesh has texted nothing about a ride from the airport. I text Prateek. He hasn’t replied to any of my texts in the last two days. So I try ringing him.

He answers, distracted.

“Prateek, hey it’s Willem.”

“Willem, where are you?”

“On a train. I’ve got your tapestry here.” I rattle the package.

“Oh, good.” For all his manic enthusiasm about this latest venture, he seems oddly blasé.

“Everything okay?”

“Better than okay. Very good. My cousin Rahul, he is sick with influenza.”

“That’s terrible. Is he okay?”

“Fine. Fine. But bed rest for him,” Prateek says cheerfully. “I am helping him out.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “With the movies.”

“The movies?”

“Yes! I find the gorehto act in the movies. If I can get ten, they will put my name in the credits. Assistant to assistant director of casting.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says formally. “But only if I find four more. Tomorrow, I return to Salvation Army and maybe to the airport.”

“Actually, if you’re coming to the airport, that’s perfect. I need a ride.”

“You return on Saturday, I thought.”

“Change of plans. I’m coming back tomorrow now.”

There’s a silence, during which Prateek and I have the same idea. “Do you want to be in?” he asks at the same time I offer, “Would you want me to be in . . . ?”

The line echoes with our laughter. I give him my flight information and hang up. Outside, the sun is setting; a bright flame behind the train, and darkness in front of us. A short while later, it’s all dark.

Mukesh has booked me a sleeper seat in an air-conditioned car, which India Rail chills like a meat locker. The bed has nothing but a sheet. I shiver, and then think of the tapestry, thick and warm. I unwrap the paper; out tumbles something small and hard.

It’s a small statue of Ganesha, holding his ax and his lotus, smiling his smile, like he knows something the rest of us haven’t figured out yet.

Twenty-five

Mumbai

The movie is called Heera Ki Tamanna, which translates, roughly, as Wishing for a Diamond. It is a romance starring Billy Devali—big star—and Amisha Rai—big, big star—and is directed by Faruk Khan, who apparently is so big, he needs no further description. Prateek tells me all this in a breathless monologue; he has hardly stopped talking since he swooped me out of the arrivals hall and rushed me to the car, barely glancing at the various Rajasthani goods I painstakingly shopped and bargained for over the past three weeks.

“Oh, Willem, that was the last plan,” he says, shaking his head, dismayed that he must explain such things. “I am working in Bollywood now.” Then he tells me that yesterday, Amisha Rai swept by him so close that the edge of her sari brushed his arm. “Can I tell you what it felt like?” he asks, not waiting for me to answer. “It felt like a caress from the gods. Can I tell you what she smelled like?” He closes his eyes and inhales. Apparently, her odor defies words.

“What exactly do I do?”

“Do you remember in Dil Mera Golmaal, the scene after the shootout?”

I nod. It was like Reservoir Dogs, but on a ship. With dancing.

“Where do you think all those white people came from?”

“From the same magical place as the go-go dancers?”

“From casting directors like me.” He pounds his chest.

“Casting director? So it’s official. You’re up to ten?”

“You make eight. But I will get there. You are so tall and handsome and . . . white.”

“Maybe I can count for two?” I joke.

Prateek looks at me like I’m an idiot. “No, you count for one. You are only one man.”

• • •

We arrive in Film City, the suburb that houses many of the studios, and then we pull into the complex and then into what looks like a large airplane hangar.

“Oh, by the way, the payment,” Prateek says nonchalantly. “I must tell you, it’s ten dollars a day.”

I don’t answer. I hadn’t planned on being paid anything.

He mistakes my silence. “I know for Westerners it is not much,” he explains. “But you get meals, and also lodging so you do not need to commute back to Colaba each night. Please, please tell me you’ll agree to it.”

“Of course. I’m not in it for the money.” Which is exactly what Tor used to say about Guerrilla Will. We’re not in it for the money. But half the time she would say this as she was carefully counting the night’s take or checking weather reports in the International Herald Tribuneto determine the sunniest—and most lucrative—places to hit next.

Back then, I was very much in it for the money. Even the little I earned from Guerrilla Will kept me from having to return to an unwelcoming home.

Funny that, how little things have changed.

• • •

On the set, Prateek introduces me to Arun, the assistant casting director, who takes a brief pause from his mobile phone conversation to appraise me. He says something to Prateek in Hindi and then nods at me and barks, “Costume.”

Prateek squeezes my arm, as he leads me to the costume room, which is a series of rolling racks full of suits and dresses, tended to by a harried woman with glasses. “Find something that fits,” she orders.

Everything is at least a head too short for me. Which is about the amount by which I tower over most Indians. Prateek looks worried. “Do you have a suit?” he asks.

The last time I wore a suit was to Bram’s funeral. No, I don’t have a suit.

“What seems to be the problem?” Neema, the wardrobe lady snaps.

Prateek grovels, apologizing for my height, as if it were a personality defect.

She sighs impatiently. “Wait here.”

Prateek looks at me in alarm. “I hope they do not send you back. Arun just told me that one of the ashram people left this morning and now I am back down to seven.”

I slouch, make myself shorter. “Does that help?”

“The suit still will not fit,” he says, shaking his head as if I’m an imbecile.

Neema returns with a garment bag. Inside is a suit, freshly pressed, shiny blue, sharkskin. “This is from the actors’ wardrobe, so don’t mess it,” she warns, shoving me into a curtained area to try it on.

The suit fits. When Prateek sees me, he grins. “You look so first-class,” he says, amazed. “Come, walk by Arun. Casual, casual. Oh, yes, he sees. Very good. I think I am almost assured a spot in the credits. To think, one day, I might be like Arun.”

“Dare to dream.”

I’m teasing, but I keep forgetting that Prateek takes everything literally. “Oh, yes. To dream is the ultimate dare, is it not?”

• • •

The film set is a faux cocktail lounge, with a grand piano right in the middle. The Indian stars circle the area around the bar, and then deeper into the set mill the fifty or so extras. The majority of them are Indians, but there are about fifteen or twenty Westerners. I go stand next to an Indian in a tux, but he narrows his eyes at me and scoots away.

“They’re such snobs!” a skinny, tan girl in a sparkly blue dress says, laughing. “They won’t talk to us.”

“It’s like reverse colonialism or something,” says a guy with dreadlocks tied back into a band. “Nash,” he says, sticking out a hand.

“Tasha,” says the girl.

“Willem.”

“Willem,” they repeat, dreamily. “You at the ashram?”

“No.”

“Oh. We didn’t think so. We’d have recognized you,” Tasha says. “You’re so tall. Like Jules.”

Nash nods his head. I do too. We all nod at this Jules’s height.

“What brings you to India?” I ask, slipping easily back into Postcard Language.

“We are refugees,” Tasha says. “From the fame-and-celebrity-obsessed materialistic world in the States. We are here to cleanse ourselves.”

“Here?” I gesture to the set.

Nash laughs. “Enlightenment ain’t free. It’s kind of expensive, actually. So we’re here trying to buy some more time. What about you, dude? Why brings you to Bollywoodland?”

“The fame, of course.”

They both laugh. Then Nash asks, “Wanna go get baked? They aren’t doing anything except making us wait.” He pulls out a fat joint. “I wait just as well stoned.”

I shrug. “Why not?”

We sneak off outside where half of the extras seem to be smoking cigarettes in the shade of the overhang. Nash lights up and takes a hit, passes it to Tasha, who takes a long, deep drag and passes it to me. The hash is strong and it’s been a while, so it hits me immediately. We pass the joint around a few more times.

“You’re really . . . tall, Willem,” Tasha says.

“Yes, I think you mentioned that.”

“We really have to introduce him to Jules,” Tasha drawls. “She’s tall. And Canadian.”

“Totally,” Nash says. “Righteous idea.”

The world’s gone a bit washed out, overbright and spinny. “Who’s Jules?” I ask.

“She’s a girl,” Nash answers. “Cute. Ginger hair. She’s at the ashram but she might come out in a day or two. She’s tall. Oh, Tasha already said that. Shit, here comes the assistant director dude. Hide the joint.”

Tasha pinches the joint between her fingers just as a birdlike man comes and looks at us. Even though Tasha is holding the joint, it’s me he focuses on. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture, and then disappears without saying a word.

“Oh. Shit,” Tasha says, giggling. “We got caught.”

“ Hegot caught,” Nash says. “They only took his picture.” He sounds a bit insulted.

“If there’s hash, you always blame the Dutchman,” I say.

“Oh, right,” Nash says, nodding.

“I’m paranoid now,” Tasha says.

“Let’s get back. Save the rest of that for later,” Nash says.

With the hash buzzing around my head, the waiting on set goes slower, not faster. I spend a few minutes twirling a rupee coin across my hand but I keep dropping it. I turn on my phone to play some solitaire, but then, on a strange stoned whim, use my phone for its intended purpose. I make a call.

“Hello . . . this is Willem,” I say when she picks up.

“I know who this is.” I can hear fury in her voice. Even calling her gets me in trouble? “Where are you?” she asks.

“I’m on a film set. I’m acting in a Bollywood movie for the next few days.”

Silence. Yael never had much patience for “low” culture, outside of the cheesy Israeli pop music she couldn’t resist. She didn’t like movies or TV shows. She surely thinks all this is a waste of time.

“And when did you decide to do this?” she says at last. Her voice is flinty enough to spark a fire.

“Yesterday. This morning officially.”

“And when did you think to tell me?”

Maybe it’s the hash, but I actually laugh out loud. Because it’s just funny—in the way that absurd things are.

Yael doesn’t think so. “What’s so amusing?”

“What’s so amusing?” I ask. “You wanting to know my itinerary, that’s pretty amusing. When you haven’t given a thought to my whereabouts, my well-being for the last three years. When you brought me over to India and then a week later shipped me right back off again and didn’t bother to call once. You couldn’t even be bothered to come to the airport to pick me up. Oh, I know there was an emergency, something more important, but there always is, isn’t there? So why would you need to know that I was acting in a Bollywood movie?”

I stop. And it’s like the effects of the hash have worn off, taking my anger—or my bravery—with them.

“The reason I would need to know,” she says, her voice measured, infuriatingly so, “is so I would know not to come to the airport this time to pick you up.”

After she hangs up, I turn my phone over. I see the half dozen missed calls, the Where are you?texts.

Another missed connection. Story of my life these days.

Twenty-six

That night, we finish up at eight and pile into a rickety bus for an hour-long ride to a squat cement hotel where we’re put four to a room. I wind up with Nash and Tasha and Argin, another acolyte from their ashram. The three of them pass a joint around and tell repeating stories about reaching enlightenment. They offer the joint to me, but after the afternoon’s hash-fueled debacle with Yael, I don’t trust myself. Eventually, I fall asleep, but I’m woken up in the middle of the night to the enthusiastic squeaking of the bedframe. Nash and Tasha. Or maybe all three of them. It is extremely unpleasant—and it’s pathetic because I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

• • •

The next day, on set, it’s more of the same. After I put on my suit, I see Prateek for half a second before he dashes off. “Must find more people,” he calls to me. “Three left yesterday. I need four today!” Neema evil-eyes me. The assistant director snaps another picture. They really are serious about the suit.

Late that afternoon Prateek returns with new recruits, including a leggy woman with reddish hair streaked through with pink.

“Jules!” Nash and Tasha scream when she arrives. They all hug and dance in a small circle and then Tasha waves me over.

“Jules,” she says. “This is Willem. We’ve decided he’s perfect for you.”

“Oh have you?” Jules rolls her eyes a bit. She is tall, not quite as tall as me, but nearly. “I’m Jules, but apparently you already know that,” she says.

“I’m Willem.”

“I like your suit, Willem.”

“You should. It’s a very special suit. So special they keep snapping my picture to make sure I don’t mess it up.”

“Clearly you’re a man who knows his way around a closet. I’m supposed to get into wardrobe. Show me where to go?”

“Glad to.”

She links an arm around mine as we walk to the racks. “So you met Nash and Tash, I see?”

“I had the pleasure of spending the night with them.”

She makes a face. “They had sex, didn’t they?”

I nod.

She shakes her head. “My condolences.”

I laugh at that.

“Well, I’m staying in the room with you tonight. I’ll try to even things out.” She gives me a look. “Not like that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“All I’m thinking about is getting you into a dress,” I say.

“Really?” she asks. “Getting me intoa dress?”

I laugh again. Jules has got her arm wrapped around mine, which is a pleasant distraction from the hangover I’ve had since yesterday’s fight with Yael. Girls have always been the best distractions.

Until a girl became the thing I needed distraction from.

Twenty-seven

It’s after five when we finally get around to shooting. Our scene is a song, the moment when Billy Devali’s character first meets Amisha Rai’s and is so besotted he breaks out singing and playing the piano. We are all supposed to watch, mesmerized by this authentic display of love at first sight. At the end, we clap.

We spend the rest of the day shooting. When we break for the day, the assistant director tells us to plan on staying at least two more days. Prateek takes me aside to say it’ll probably be more than that and would I mind staying? I don’t mind. I’m quite happy to stay until I fly back to Holland.

We’re lining up for the bus again, when the assistant director snaps yet another picture of me. “Man, they’re building a serious case against you,” Nash says.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m not even wearing the suit right now.”

That night in the hotel, there are five of us. Nash, Tasha, Argin, me and Jules. Jules and I share a mattress on the floor. Nothing happens. Not with us, anyhow. Her presence does little to stop Nash and Tasha from their late-night calisthenics, but when it happens, I can see Jules quaking with laughter, and then I am, too.

She rolls over on her side to face me. “Misery loves company,” she whispers.

• • •

The next day, I’m in the lunch queue for some dal and rice when the assistant director taps me on the back. I even pose this time for the anticipated photo, but there’s no camera. Instead he instructs me to come with him.

“Did you stain the suit?” Jules calls after me.

Arun trots up behind us, followed by Prateek, who looks stricken. How much can this suit be worth?

“What’s going on?” I ask Prateek as we walk past the set and toward the row of trailers.

“Faruk! Khan!” He sputters the name like a cough.

“What about Faruk Khan?” But before Prateek can answer, I’m pulled up the stairs and pushed into one of the trailers. Inside, Faruk Khan, Amisha Rai, and Billy Devali are sitting in a huddle. They all stare at me for what seems like an eternity, until Billy finally booms, “There! Did I not tell you?”

Amisha lights another cigarette and kicks up her bare feet, which are covered with vinelike henna tattoos. “You are absolutely right,” she says in a lilting accent. “He looks like an American movie star.”

“Like that one,” Billy snaps his fingers. “Heath Ledger.”

“Only not dead,” Faruk says.

They cluck in agreement.

“I think Heath Ledger was from Australia,” I say.

“Never mind that,” Faruk says. “Where are you from? America? UK?”

“Holland.”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “You don’t have an accent.”

“You almost sound British,” Amisha says. “Close enough to South African.”

“This is closer to South African,” I say in a clipped Afrikaans accent.

Amisha claps her hands. “He can do accents.”

“Afrikaans is close to Dutch,” I explain.

“Have you ever acted before?” Faruk asks.

“Not really.”

“Not really?” Amisha asks, arching an eyebrow.

“A little Shakespeare.”

“You cannot say ‘not really’ and then say you’ve done William Shakespeare,” Faruk says scornfully. “What is your name? Or should we call you Mr. Not Really?”

“I prefer Willem. Willem de Ruiter.”

“Bit of a mouthful,” Billy says.

“Not a good stage name,” Amisha says.

“He can change it,” Billy says. “All the Americans do.”

“Like the Indians don’t,” Amisha says. “ Billy.”

“I’m not American,” I interrupt. “I’m Dutch.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. de . . . Willem,” Faruk says. “No matter. We have a problem. One of our Western actors, an American named Dirk Digby, he lives in Dubai, perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

I shake my head.

“Never mind. It appears Mr. Digby had some last-minute problems with the contract and had to make other plans, and this leaves us with a small part open. It’s a South African diamond dealer, shady character, who tries to woo our Miss Rai while also trying to steal her family’s Shakti diamond. Not a large part, but significant, and we find ourselves in a bit of a bind. We were looking for someone who can look the part and who can manage a few lines of Hindi and a few lines of English. How are you with languages?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “I grew up speaking several.”

“Okay, try this line,” Faruk says, and he reads me something.

“Tell me what it means.”

“You see?” Amisha says. “A natural actor would want to know. I don’t think Dirk ever knows what he’s saying.”

Faruk waves her off. He turns to me. “You are trying to keep Amisha’s character, Heera, from marrying Billy here, but really, you only want her family’s diamonds. It’s in English with some Hindi. This is the part where you tell Heera you know who she is, and that her name means diamond. I’ll say it, you repeat?”

“Okay.”

“ Main jaanta hoon tum kaun ho, Heera Gopal. Heera, it means diamond, doesn’t it?” Faruk says

“ Main jaanta hoon tum kaun ho, Heera Gopal. Heera, it means diamond, doesn’t it?” I repeat.

They all stare at me.

“How did you do that?” Amisha asks.

“Do what?”

“You sounded as if you spoke Hindi fluently,” Billy says.

“I don’t know. I’ve always had an ear for languages.”

“Incredible, really.” Amisha turns to Faruk. “You wouldn’t have to cut the dialogue.”

Faruk stares at me. “It is three days shooting, starting next week. Here in Mumbai. You will have to learn lines. I can have someone help you with the Hindi pronunciation and translations, but there is a good bit of English.” He strokes his beard. “I can pay you thirty thousand rupees.”

I pause, trying to do the conversions.

Faruk takes my silence for bargaining. “Okay,” he counters. “Forty thousand rupees.”

“How long would I have to stay?”

“Shoot starts Monday, should last three days,” Faruk says.

Monday is when I’m meant to fly back to Amsterdam. Do I want to stay three more days? But then Faruk continues. “We would put you up in the cast hotel. It’s on Juhu Beach.”

“Juhu Beach is very nice,” Billy says.

“I’m meant to leave on Monday. I have a flight.”

“Can’t you change your flight?” Faruk asks.

I’m sure Mukesh can. And if they’re putting me up in a hotel, it would keep me from having to go back to the Bombay Royale.

“Fifty thousand,” Faruk says. “But that’s my final offer.

“That’s more than a thousand dollars, Mr. de Ruiter,” Amisha informs me with a husky laugh and a billowing exhale of cigarette smoke. “Too good to turn down, I think.”