By Kenya Hunt

 

The white wall looked like it was splashed with glitter thanks to the sunlight refracted from the many facets of Clowie’s massive diamond and emerald-encrusted cocktail ring. It was shaped like an elephant. Its eyes were blue topaz. Oversized flecks of silver, gold, emerald and aquamarine flittered about as Clowie talked with her hands. Her fingers dangled as if they were exhausted from the weight of her jewelry. On the radio, Herb Alpert’s “Rise” played softly in the background.

 

This was America.

 

“It’s Cartier, a gift from my boyfriend,” Clowie smiled with a slight lisp, noticing the way Chandrashekhar’s eyes darted from her ring to the wall and back to the ring.

 

“Oh,” Chandrashekhar said, face flushed with embarrassment. In their family, it was impolite to stare.

 

“Don’t worry luv, it gets stares every time I wear it. You’d be a fool not to notice it,” Clowie winked. Her hand was now resting against the side of her head, pushing a handful of her middle-parted hair up towards the crown of her head, teasing it so that her bone straight locks looked voluminous. When she let go, it fell down over her shoulders and covered her nipples, which poked out slightly from her paisley printed silk kaftan. She sat on a couch in front of a large window overlooking the concrete boxes that made up the New York City skyline.

 

Manhattan was just how he’d imagined it would look. The twin towers sat to her right like giant candlesticks. The sun setting behind her, gave the appearance that Clowie were radiating light. She looked like a 1970s goddess of the city. Chandrashekhar took a mental note of the hair move. He would try that later on when he had time alone in the bathroom.

 

“You can sleep here, the couch pulls out. And I’ve added a few extra hangers so you can put your clothes in there,” she said pointing at the coat closet near the entrance to her one-bedroom apartment. The flecks of glitter danced over to the closet door.

 

“And feel free to help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. Although to be honest, I never keep it stocked. I mostly eat out. But because I knew you were coming, I bought a few things,” Clowie said spraying the tiny, open-plan kitchen with refracted light. A bottle of wine and a plate of grapes, carrots, cheese and crackers sat on the counter.

 

“Have a glass of wine if you like. Just don’t tell your mother I gave it to you,” she winked.

 

Chandrashekhar walked over to the bar stools widening his gait so that his brown corduroy-clad thighs wouldn’t rub together and make that wrrrr wrrrring sound with each step.

 

“Maybe you should stick with the carrots, eh?” Clowie added playfully. “You’ll drop a few pounds now that you’re here. I don’t cook any of those heavy curries the way my sister does.”

 

“Mmmmm,” he replied taking a sip of wine.

 

“I’m just playing around Chandie. Lighten up and have a laugh with me okay? Your mother warned me you’re quiet. How are you going to be an actor when you’re so shy, Chandie?” Clowie asked jarring him out of his thoughts (he was still mesmerized by the ring). She had shortened his name.

 

“Chandrashekhar won’t go over so well here. It’s just way too hard for most people to pronounce. Plus, how will it look in the opening credits of your first film?” she winked (Clowie was a big winker).

 

“I’m not this shy when I’m performing,” Chandrashekhar — no, Chandie (pronounced Shan-dee) — answered quietly, fighting jet lag. He had completed his first transatlantic flight just three hours earlier, making his way through customs, changing the pocket money his parents had given him from pounds to dollars for the cab ride to his aunt’s apartment in New Jersey.

 

He had always dreamed of becoming an actor, but it wasn’t until his mother took him to see “Fame” in the movie theater that he became determined to go to New York. His dad had an especially good year with his grocery store in Waterloo. And so his parents gave him a roundtrip ticket as a graduation gift. He’d spend the summer with his mother’s sister before returning to England for university where he’d find a “real job and a good Indian girl.”

 

But Chandrashekar had already decided he wasn’t going back.

 

He planned to save up enough money and skip out on his flight back to London. Instead of getting on the plane, he’d take a bus to Manhattan instead. Maybe he’d try to get into Juilliard. Maybe he’d get discovered and not even have to. He would get lost in a sea of auditions and shows. The city was certainly big enough that his parents and Clowie would never find him—until he became famous, that is. And by that point it wouldn’t matter.

 

“Study every person you meet and store their characteristics to memory. Collect them. They will be useful to you later,” John, an actor in a local fringe Afro-theater group and a regular customer in his parents’ store, told him the day before his travel. “And don’t be afraid to take risks,” he added as Chandrashekar rang up John’s purchase of chili chips and ginger beer on the cash register.

 

Chandrashekar decided to begin his collection with a white girl named Ebony who stopped in the store later that evening. She had come in to buy a package of butter biscuit cookies for the little girl who held onto her hand. Chandrashekar couldn’t tell if the child were Ebony’s daughter or sister. But judging by the child’s sandy, kinky hair and pale skin, he guessed that Ebony might be a young mother (the tiny, blonde Ebony looked no older than his classmates). He discovered her name when her boyfriend walked into the store and called her.

 

“C’mon Ebony. We’ll miss our train,” he complained.

 

Chandrashekar noted the man’s dark skin. Yup, the little girl was Ebony’s daughter.

 

“Coming, no need to rush, yeah?” she said tilting her head coyly and grabbing and massaging his hand. Chandrashekar stored that head tilt to memory.

 

He would continue his collection with aunt Clowie, who he hadn’t seen since he was three-years-old, back when she was Chitralekha, which means “pretty as a picture.” Chandrashekar recognized his own cheekbones and strong eyebrows in her face. His shaggy ‘do, currently pulled back in a short ponytail, was long enough to try her hair move. He’d like to master her hand flourishes next. And then there was that ring. He imagined it was easily worth $2,000. He wondered if she’d miss it.

 

“My boyfriend runs a publishing house and has agreed to give you a part-time job in the mailroom,” Clowie said, sliding her feet out of her slippers and stretching her legs onto the couch. Her toenails were painted purple. The nail on her pinky toe was cracked. “You will work three days a week, which will leave you plenty of free time to audition for a few local theater groups. That way you can get a real taste of your passion now before you go back to London where your parents will suck it right out of you,” she laughed.

Posted: November 16th, 2008  Category: Fiction  Comments: No comments#