The Portrait

On her profile, the woman describes herself as an ambivert who prefers coffee to tea, Chinese to Italian and 90’s pop to everything else. The man also identifies as an ambivert. He calls himself a coffee guzzling ambivert who loves to paint. The app recommends that they swipe right and over the week, over chat, she discovers he’s a divorcee with a daughter who lives with her mom and he learns that the woman’s last relationship has been her longest yet.

–          Eight LONG years, she writes.

–          Damn! How long since you broke it off?

–          Six ALSO LONG [:p] months.

The man uses exclamations profusely which make him seem enthusiastic and cheerful but also a bit insincere. But that could just be the woman projecting. Truth is, she was in that relationship since college and it lasted eleven years. The breakup had been brutal and it would have taken her more than six months (that part was true) to recover if not for finding out that in those same six months, her ex has gone out with at least three women.

If she looked past the exclamations and that one boring digression over the many benefits of magnesium, Mr. Ambivert comes across as good natured, gentlemanly. He’s the first man she has matched with since jumping onto the apps and when after a week of chatting they decide to meet, they decide, naturally, to meet over coffee.

–          They just opened a nice little café next to my studio/apartment, he writes.

–          Studio? You paint? Professionally?

–          No. Not yet. Someday. Hopefully!

The café is indeed small but cozy and well lit. The man’s already seated when the woman arrives, dressed in a loose shirt to conceal a slight beer belly. He rises to shake her hand. A wry smile, long artistic fingers, a meticulous haircut. Plus, he’s brought her a box of chocolates. How sweet, the woman says and orders a hazelnut frappe with almond milk. The man asks for a flat white.

–          I’d have preferred to get dinner, the man says. With wine. But the protocol seems to be coffee for first dates.

–          Oh. I love wine.

–          What kind?

–          Red.

–          Shiraz? Sauvignon? Sangiovese? Merlot?

–          Or white.

–          Chardonnay? Riesling? Chenin Blanc? You know, nowadays you can get some lovely homegrown ones.

–          Really?

The man smiles and launches into a seemingly well-rehearsed speech on the various cultivars of Indian grapes, the types of soil, production and storage techniques, aging, bottling and so forth. The woman orders another frappe, the man another flat white. They switch to movies, tv shows, the weather, and inevitably, the ills of their city. Traffic, crumbling infrastructure, the inept politicians, and then somehow circle back to wines again.

–          This might be too forward and you can absolutely say no, the man makes the sign for the check. But a friend sent a Shiraz from his own vineyard and it is just, he kisses his fingers, brilliant.

It’s not exactly how the woman pictured getting up to his apartment (although her vision did involve alcohol at some point). She’d imagined a couple of more dates and hints, innuendos, the dance of seduction, that sort of thing. Maybe that was all old school now. The last time she was on a first date – good Lord – was back when Akon was all the rage.

But it feels too rude to turn him down especially since the man has been nothing but chivalrous. As they walk down the street, which is now cooler than when they arrived, he offers the woman his jacket which she cheerfully declines and then instantly regrets because the cold combined with the two frappes…

Down the corridor and to your left, the man says when they step inside his apartment and it’s when she’s sitting down that she realises she’s still holding the box of chocolates. Pralines. Italian and expensive. Much like the tastefully designed bathroom. Dark marble with dim lighting, a bouquet of hand towels on the counter, an array of creams and moisturisers and a wall spanning mirror that brings her into profile. What’s the plan now, she asks of her reflection and receives no reply.

The man is waiting for her with a glass in each hand. They head out onto the balcony and he pours out the Shiraz.

–          Can you taste the blueberries, the plums?

–          It’s quite nice, she says (it really is).

The effect is similar to someone turning down the brightness and volume. The night is still cold but the wine helps.

–          The painting in the corridor, the woman asks.

–          The ex-wife, he says.

–          Oh. She is very pretty.

–          Yup!

–          How long were you married?

–          Three years. Should have been the one, really.

–          If you don’t mind my asking–

–          Wasn’t meant to be, he shrugs.

He pours them another glassful and they step inside the living room which is lined with paintings (some his, some reprints) then into the corridor where there are more. For each piece the man has a historic detail or a comment on the technique or form except when they get to the ex-wife which is arguably his best work. Against a yellow background, she’s dressed in a red sari with loopy earrings. Big luminous eyes set in a heart shaped face, an air of cultivated self-assurance.

–          You must do this professionally, the woman says and touches him on the shoulder.

–          Alright. If you insist, the man smiles and takes her by the hand.

He walks her down the corridor. The studio is at the back, the biggest room in the apartment. There’s an easel standing at one end, a chair at the other. The man sits her down and from the large wooden cabinet on the side, removes his materials and rolls a sheet of butter-paper on the floor. Then he stands back to look at her. I love that necklace, he says. Self-conscious, the woman touches the skin around the beads.

–          You can smile but it will tire you out, the man says.

–          Is that why everyone looks so serious in their portraits?

The man winks in reply and the woman sits upright and taut in her chair.

No sooner does the awkwardness of being stared at fade, the woman cramps up. The man notices almost immediately. He puts away his brush, gets on his knees and rubs her calf till the blood begins to flow.

The second time it happens, he tends to her again, then steps back and takes her picture with his phone. That’s what I should have done in the first place, he laughs and helps her into the living room so she can sit on the couch and put her feet up on the centre table. The man steps out onto the balcony and brings her another glass of wine.

–          Why aren’t you sitting down, she asks.

–          Sorry?

–          You didn’t get yourself a drink?

–          Oh. Yeah. In a bit.

–          You want to go back in there and paint, don’t you?

–          Sorry! Is that ok? I promise, I’ll try to finish soon.

The man switches on the tv and hands her the remote.

–          You owe me, the woman tells him.

–           More than you know, the man smiles and walks inside.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep until she’s awoken by sounds from the kitchen. Her head’s woozy and for a brief terrifying moment she cannot remember where she is or if she’s been drugged. Then she remembers the wine and the studio at the back. Her phone, nearly out of juice, tells her it’s half past five in the morning. She walks into the kitchen where the man’s boiling noodles on the stove.

–          Would you like some? He looks like he’s been up all night.

–          No. I think I’ll go home now.

–          This early? The man wipes his hands on his shirt. Are you sure?

Because the woman’s phone has almost run out, she asks the man to book her a cab. She directs it to her sister’s place because it’s closer and because her sister’s an early riser.

The coffee’s already brewed when she arrives.

–          It was a bit weird, the woman tells her sister. He was weird. And frankly boring.

–          I thought boring would be a nice change of pace for you.

–          I thought so too, the woman sighs.

That night the man sends her a text. Something’s come up, he writes. I’ve to go away for a bit but I promise to finish the painting when I return. Will call ya!

On Saturday, over drinks, in a fit of wickedness, she calls him a fucking loser. Her date laughs and spills his beer and in the ensuing silence comes the realisation that her sudden cruelty came about because despite spending the night at his place with nothing to show for it, she was still expecting him to call and he never did.

The woman goes out with four other men, three of whom last one date each. The last is a heady, crazy affair. Accompanied with little or no small talk and conducted not just behind closed doors but in parks and theatres and once on a plane to Goa (she turns him down on the return journey, marking the beginning of the end).

Of course, she feels like a cliché when after that affair she and her ex begin exchanging texts, then phone calls, and finally sleepovers. Even their post-makeup conversations are straight out of the movies. ‘We needed to get it out of our system’ and the like.

On the plus side though: they’ve known each other forever. Their families have known each other forever. They are intellectually and spiritually compatible. They often desire, even crave each other’s company and bodies. And they are not getting any younger, both being on the wrong side of thirty-five.

The negatives? They’d both checked out of their relationship at least once, they’d both entertained something-something on the side and they know how to push each other’s buttons, as they say.

On the whole, not a terrible deal.

Nearly everyone – including her always-rational sister – advises them to try ‘getting pregnant’ even before the cards are printed. Very early in their relationship, they did get pregnant (twice) which gives the woman pause, an urge to resist. But the soundness of the logic, the science, and the maternal instinct that have begun to kick in, wear her down.

The woman downloads three apps to track her ovulation cycles. Her former-ex-now-husband, who has to travel for work, plans his trips in concert. After six unproductive months, her gynecologist suggests that they give it another year. I can run all the tests, she says, but they will only spook you. At your age, it takes a year. At least.

Obviously, it sucks the pleasure out of sex. They try vacations, role play, new positions. Once the woman’s husband rearranges his flight from Kuala Lumpur to Munich so that he can come in for a day. Wham-Bam he howls and rolls off the bed in not entirely mock exhaustion.

A year rolls by. They wait six more months to get tested.

There are no genetic issues, they’re told at the IVF clinic. Just low fertility. Age. Nothing but age.

–          It’s a highly dependable procedure. Very high success rate. What do you have to lose, the doctor knocks twice on the table.

–          A ton of money, the woman says.

–          The dying embers of our hopes and dreams, her husband adds.

The procedure takes three months, several painful injections and produces two viable embryos but not much else.

–          If it’s not meant to be, the husband after a three-year break has begun to smoke again.

–          I don’t mind trying again, the woman says.

–          It’s not about the money. You know?

–          No. It’s that reverse Obama thing you said.

–          Hey, the husband pulls her close and nuzzles into her neck. Isn’t reverse Obama essentially our dear leader?

–          Don’t, she pleads. Please. Don’t make me laugh about this.

Their fights are not what they used to be, laced with more anguish than resentment. They cope with solo trips and boys/girls’ nights out even though they know that they are repeating patterns of old and that if they keep this up only pain and sorrow lie ahead.

How did an idea that began with such wonder turn into this self-feeding frenzy? How in God’s name has the woman landed on the Government’s adoption site? And why is it replete with strange clauses like, ‘If you already have a child, you can only adopt a child of the opposite gender?’

The woman registers, selects the adoption agency and uploads the required documents. A week later she receives an appointment for the home study report. Her husband is scheduled to be in Europe that week but he insists that they don’t change the date. If they don’t like you, he says, they sure as hell won’t like me. The woman doesn’t believe in omens, but…

She’s up early that morning, her nerves a crazed jangle. She’d asked the maids to clean everything until it shone the day before. Nonetheless, she vacuums and dusts and wipes till her sides hurt. She spends an hour in the bath, dresses down, and sits facing the door, resisting the urge to scream or call her husband/sister/practically-anyone.

At half past nine, the buzzer sounds. The appointment had been scheduled for ten. The woman wonders if she got the time wrong but the caller at the door is a girl dressed in black holding a package against her chest. Standing behind her is a man who appears to be her driver.

–          We tried calling but maybe we had an older number, the girl says.

The woman invites her in and the girl takes to the couch and begins to unwrap the painting.

–          My father wanted you to have this.

Then she sees it – the same bone structure, the long shapely fingers.

–          I’m guessing you don’t know, the girl’s looking up at her.

–          I don’t think I do.

–          His cancer came back.

–          God. I’m so sorry.

The girl nods, looks around the room.

–          Wasn’t easy to track you down, she says.

–          I’m surprised you could.

–          In his last, you know, near the end, all he wanted was to finish what he’d begun, the girl looks away then brightens and points at the dining area. I think it will look quite good there.

Behind the dining table, there’s a large squarish mirror. The woman, a little puzzled by the change in demeanor, leads her into the dining area. The girl lifts and holds the painting up in front of the mirror – a moment of stunning contrast. In the first instance, the woman sees in her reflection this inwardness, a knot of anxiety and in the next, the lightness of youth, a keen yearning. The man had even captured the trace of her smile.

–          You haven’t changed at all.

–          No, the woman says. I was different.

The woman turns to look at the picture and is once again caught in the undertow.

–          I can almost, the woman sighs and stops.

She can almost touch what swims in her soul. Swims and coils around distance and time, around desire and fate, around paths taken or not and everything she wishes she could voice but for the life of her, nothing comes to mind.