Page 308 - DENG201_ENGLISH_II

English - II

Notes footprints along the parquet floor. When she reached the foyer, Sanjeev said, “Are you planning on
leaving the house that way?” He felt a throbbing in his temples, and his voice revealed an unfamiliar
snarl when he spoke.
“Who cares? Who cares what way I leave this house?”
“Where are you planning on going at this hour?”
“You can’t throw away that statue. I won’t let you.”
Her mask, now dry, had assumed an ashen quality, and water from her hair dripped onto the caked
contours of her face.
“Yes I can. I will.”

Sanjeev cares about other people’s opinions on him, whereas Twinkle just does what
she likes to without worrying what others might tink.

“No,” Twinkle said, her voice suddenly small, “This is our house. We own it together. The statue is
a part of our property.” She had begun to shiver. A small pool of bathwater had collected around her
ankles. He went to shut a window, fearing that she would catch cold. Then he noticed that some of
the water dripping down her hard blue face was tears.
“Oh God, Twinkle, please, I didn’t mean it.” He had never seen her cry before, had never seen such
sadness in her eyes. She didn’t turn away or try to stop the tears; instead she looked strangely at
peace. For a moment she closed her lids, pale and unprotected compared to the blue that caked the
rest of her race. Sanjeev felt ill, as if he had eaten either too much or too little.
She went to him, placing her damp toweled arms about his neck, sobbing into his chest, soaking his
shirt. The mask flaked onto his shoulders.
In the end they settled on a compromise: the statue would be placed in a recess at the side of the
house, so that it wasn’t obvious to passersby, but was still clearly visible to all who came.
The menu for the party was fairly simple: there would be a case of champagne, and samosas from an
Indian restaurant in Hartford, and big trays of rice with chicken and almonds and orange peels,
which Sanjeev had spent the greater part of the morning and afternoon preparing. He had never
entertained on such a large scale before and, worried that there would not be enough to drink, ran
out at one point to buy another case of champagne just in case. For this reason he burned one of the
rice trays and had to start it over again. Twinkle swept the floors and volunteered to pick up the
samosas; she had an appointment for a manicure and a pedicure in that direction, anyway. Sanjeev
had planned to ask if she would consider clearing the menagerie off the mantel, if only for the party,
but she left while he was in the shower. She was gone for a good three hours, and so it was Sanjeev
who did the rest of the cleaning. By five-thirty the entire house sparkled, with scented candles that
Twinkle had picked up in Hartford illuminating the items on the mantel, and slender stalks of burning
incense planted into the soil of potted plants. Each time he passed the mantel he winced, dreading
the raised eyebrows of his guests as they viewed the flickering ceramic saints, the salt and pepper
shakers designed to resemble Mary and Joseph. Still, they would be impressed, he hoped, by the
lovely bay windows, the shining parquet floors, the impressive winding staircase, the wooden
wainscoting, as they sipped champagne and dipped samosas in chutney.
Douglas, one of the new consultants at the firm, and his girlfriend Nora were the first to arrive. Both
were tall and blond, wearing matching wire-rimmed glasses and long black overcoats. Nora wore a
black hat full of sharp thin feathers that corresponded to the sharp thin angles of her face. Her left
hand was joined with Douglas’s. In her right hand was a bottle of cognac with a red ribbon wrapped
around its neck, which she gave to Twinkle.
“Great lawn, Sanjeev;” Douglas remarked. “We’ve got to get that rake out ourselves, sweetie. And
this must be...”
“My wife. Tanima.”

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