You're Invited(23)
The large marble staircase was in the middle of the ground floor, flanked by sitting areas on either side. While my single-storied house was breezy and sprawling, made in the older colonial style, the Fonsekas’ house was the epitome of ostentatious luxury. Mr. Fonseka oversaw the renovations to his large family home himself, and there was no shortage of marble and the best quality teak wood trimmings, with fittings flown down from Germany and furniture shipped over from Italy. It was always chilly inside, because they always kept the many air conditioners running. I’ve heard people describe it as a palace, but I suppose those are the same people who didn’t know that the Taj Mahal was actually a tomb.
The aunties never gave me a second glance, which surprised me. Usually, the entrance into any home or restaurant or social gathering was accompanied by craning necks and once-over glances where curious observers surmised whether they knew you, whether they knew someone who knew you, and whether you were worth saying hello to. Maybe luck was on my side and their gossip was extra juicy this morning.
I had almost made it to the staircase when Mrs. Fonseka’s voice boomed out, echoing over the cold marble.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned around to face her—this shorter, stouter, older version of Kaavi. She was wearing a yellow chiffon blouse that billowed around her, and she carried a small Louis Vuitton clutch, even though she was in her own house.
I steeled myself and turned around. I could feel beads of sweat course their way down the back of my neck.
“Hi, Aunty. How are you?”
She looked like she had seen me smear mud on her pristine white sofas.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, more quietly.
“I—I’m here for the wedding.” I was trembling. “Maybe I should have called first but I got Kaa—”
“You stay away from her, you understand me?” Her voice rose, made louder now that the aunties had stopped talking and were looking over toward us in hushed silence. This must feel like Christmas had come early for them. Enough gossip to fill up their reserves until the next scandal.
“I—I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought, you hear me? This is the bloody height of madness, I’m telling you. I can’t believe—”
“What’s all this now?” Kaavi’s voice rang out, interrupting her mother’s.
Mrs. Fonseka and I both looked up, where Kaavi stood at the top of the staircase in a delicate embroidered pink silk robe. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy bun, and her face was bare of makeup. She was breathtaking.
Neither Mrs. Fonseka nor I spoke. Me, because I was so nervous that I thought I would faint, and her, because I think she finally noticed the aunties gaping in our direction. I looked around for a clock, or a calendar, or anything with numbers on it. There was a random ornament on a shelf in the shape of a number eight. The most symmetrical of numbers. A far cry from a sign, but I clung on to the hope of it all the same.
Kaavi floated down the staircase, looking more like she was wearing a ball gown than a housecoat. Her eyes met mine when she was about halfway. She blinked twice, as something passed over her face.
And then she was next to me, smiling and pulling me into a hug.
“You came,” she said. She smelled of Chanel No. 5.
“What is this, Kaavi?” her mother asked.
“Relax, will you, Amma? Everything is fine. I invited Amaya. I just didn’t think she would make it.” She let me go and faced her mother.
“No need to be so surprised, Amma. I know you’re excited to see her too. Gosh, you’re such a drama queen.” Was it me or did she say this bit a little too loudly?
“You—?” Mrs. Fonseka’s lips pressed together so tightly I thought they would disappear into her mouth.
“Yes,” Kaavi replied simply, raising her eyebrows and throwing a smile over at Mrs. Fonseka’s pack of wolves, who were teetering on the edge of their seats, bloodthirsty to know what was going on.
“Aunty Josephina, Aunty Rajini, hello. Aunty Preeni, my, look at your haircut. I see you’ll haven’t started your meeting yet. Has my mother kept you’ll waiting by being fashionably late again?” She went over to the ladies, who were suddenly trying to look like they couldn’t care less about Mrs. Fonseka’s outburst, and she pressed each of her cheeks against theirs in turn.
“I hope Amma didn’t alarm you’ll. This is what happens when we work on our invitation lists separately. And if you ask me,” she said in a mock whisper, “I think all this wedding stress is getting to her even more than it is to me.” She gave a charming little laugh and the aunties laughed along with her. How was she so at ease with them? She was like a magical piece of pink ribbon that wove her way through the fiercest current—floating along, bending and moving with the tide, never appearing to be anything but smooth and elegant and totally in control. I’ve missed her.
One of them gave me a quizzical look, and Kaavi beckoned me over.
“You must remember my friend Amaya, don’t you, Aunty Josephina? We were in school together. And university, too, in the US.”
“Ah, yes, yes. Amaya. Sarita’s daughter, no? You look just like her. Fairer, of course. Lucky you. I suppose you get that from your father’s side.”
“Y-yes. Hello, Aunty. How are you?” I had no idea who Aunty Josephina was, and I doubt my mother would have known her, either, but this was Colombo, where in the ’80s, a private school–educated Sinhala Buddhist girl didn’t run away from home and marry an Englishman against her parents’ consent without word getting around.