Someone Else's Shoes(59)
She thinks of the bird in her locker, the mindless following of instructions, the prospect of a good meal this evening. She thinks of being able to offer something to Jasmine, which will make her feel less like the recipient of charity.
Sure, she types. And don’t eat before you come back tonight. I am doing a surprise!
She thinks about going back to the kitchen before she leaves, to thank Aleks properly for the duck. But something stops her: it’s too awkward, or maybe it will somehow make her feel even more weirdly indebted if she makes too much of it. It’s just a damn duck, she tells herself. What does she care about a duck in the grand scheme of things?
* * *
? ? ?
The bus is heaving. Jasmine has sent her a text reminder of which numbers to catch; she thinks she will never get to grips with London’s labyrinthine transport system, its huge, sprawling districts, which all look the same to her. She has mastered the art of disappearing into her thoughts while on the bus. They tend to be pretty dark but it’s better than listening to the coughs and irritatingly loud cellphone calls of her fellow travelers. So she doesn’t notice when the woman speaks to her initially, and only looks up when she is virtually sitting on her lap.
“Excuse me?” she says, as the woman’s coat flips over her leg.
“I asked you to move. I need more room.” The woman is tall, dressed in a large patchwork velvet coat and does not look at her as she speaks, as if Nisha is merely an irritation, an obstacle in her way.
“I’m as far over as I can get. Hey. Hey! You’re on me.”
The woman just lets out a hmph sound and pushes further in. She has badly dyed hair and smells of patchouli.
“Lady!” says Nisha. “You are way over the line. Get back.”
“I asked you politely. You didn’t move,” the woman retorts.
“I don’t want your damn coat touching me.” Nisha picks it up with two fingers and flicks it off her leg.
“Well, if you moved over I wouldn’t be touching you, would I?”
Nisha feels the blood rush to her head. “Hey. It’s not my fault if you’re too damn big for this space. But I sure as hell don’t have to sit here and take it while you sit on my lap with your stinking coat.”
The woman is actually squashing her into the seat. She is so close Nisha can smell her deodorant and it makes her want to gag. Oh, my God, she’s so close I’ll be breathing in little cells of this woman.
“Move over!” she demands.
They have caught the attention of the other passengers now. Nisha is dimly aware of the low buzz of interest that passes round the seats, the wary glance of the driver in the rear-view mirror.
“You don’t like it,” says the woman, impassively, “you move.”
“I was here first.”
“You own this bus, do you? Go back to your own country if you don’t like it here.”
“My own country? MOVE YOUR ASS.” Nisha cannot believe this woman. The audacity. She is a dead weight, and Nisha realizes she cannot physically move her. She elbows her hard and the woman elbows her back. When the woman stares mulishly ahead, Nisha reaches down, grabs the woman’s handbag from her lap and hurls it toward the front of the bus, where its contents scatter, sending lipsticks and bits of paper reeling under the other seats. The woman stares at her in shock.
“Pick up my bag!”
The two women are standing now. Nisha feels the woman shove her, but can tell despite her heft that she has little real strength and so she pushes back, hard, with both arms. There is a collective oooh! on the bus as the woman loses her balance and falls heavily against the seat opposite with a scream. She is scrambling to her feet when the bus stops abruptly. The driver opens the barrier between the driver’s area and the aisle and looks at them. “Oi! You two! Off!”
“I’m not getting off!” says the woman, scrabbling for her bag. “She pushed me!”
“She sat on me! She was literally suffocating me!”
“Off!” says the driver. “Or I’m calling the police!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” says Nisha, sitting down firmly. “I am staying until my stop.”
“You think I’m scared of the police? You got another think coming. This bitch is going to get her head smacked before I—”
* * *
? ? ?
Ten minutes later Nisha is standing on the curb while the bus finally pulls away, her skin burning from the radioactive looks of the delayed passengers still on board. Her ears are ringing with the sound of the warning given to her by the police officers, who didn’t seem to care whose fault it was, bored—and possibly a little amused—by the sight of two women going at it over bum space on a bus seat. She is already calculating how long it will be before the next bus arrives and she will be able to pick up Grace. This goddamn country.
* * *
? ? ?
It is twenty-two minutes later, as she finally climbs furiously onto the next bus—it’s packed, of course, and she has to stand—that she realizes the beautiful organic duck, with all its carefully picked accompaniments and dressings, is still tucked neatly under the seat of the bus she was removed from.
* * *