Seahorse by Janice Pariat Page A

Nobody had told me London could also be terribly lonely.
    Heading to the bar for a refill, I was accosted—the blonde youth stood before me. He was still wearing his winter coat. Perhaps he just couldn’t wait to leave.
    He held out a copy of the pamphlet, and a pen.
    â€œCould you sign this for me, please?” He was holding it open to the page with my excerpt.
    A strange request, but who was I to argue? Isn’t this what writers do?
    â€œWho shall I address it to?” I asked.
    The boy’s skin was delicately pale, and reddened where it had been touched by the cold.
    â€œNicholas, please.”
    My pen stayed poised above the page.
    â€œIs anything the matter?” the youth asked. He looked faintly amused.
    â€œNot at all.” I wrote it out. Nonchalant.
    â€œAnd could you sign it “From Nehemiah?””
    I was about to sign “Nem”—it was brief, convenient, and no one called me Nehemiah.
    Apart from one person.
    â€œDid he send you?”
    The boy cocked his head, like a bird. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    Instead of a reply, he handed over a slim white envelope.
    I stood speechless as he darted back into the crowd. By the time it struck me to follow, the fleet-footed messenger was at the door. He pushed it open and was gone.

    I remember the first time Nicholas took me swimming.
    One afternoon, we walked out the bungalow and headed away from the Ridge Forest, onto Raj Niwas Marg. We edged closer to the city, the roar of traffic and cycle bells growing louder, until we crossed the wide expanse of Sham Nath Marg.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œAlmost there.”
    The road was narrower, and to the left rose a white, colonnaded building, set away from the street, sheltered from the onslaught of the city by a sprawling lawn and rows of palm trees. Only when he turned in at the gate did I realize where we were headed.
    A five-star hotel. One of those places I couldn’t imagine stepping into—Delhi was like that, set into levels of wealth and access.
    â€œAre you sure…” I looked down at my jeans, my sandals. Nicholas was in a plain white shirt, but it was pristine and expensive.
    â€œOf course…” He touched my arm. “We’ll walk round to the back from the lawns. They know me here… they won’t make a fuss.”
    The place was strangely empty—perhaps, because it wasn’t yet high tourist season, or the newer hotels in south Delhi were proving more popular. We crossed manicured lawns, and walked through a small latched gate.
    The pool lay clear and blue and shimmery.
    I’d never seen anything more beautiful.
    I changed and showered, and carefully tucked my hair under a scalp-tight swimming cap, straightened my trunks. I looked ridiculous. My legs too long. My stomach flat but un-sculpted. But I could do this,I told myself, looking away from the mirror. I was grateful to Nicholas for so much, and I could do this.
    For him, almost anything.
    When I emerged, he was already in the pool. And like all good swimmers, he made it look easy. Each movement perfectly timed—the push, the lift, the breath of air, the turn. I too would learn how to glide through water. I was certain of it, up until the edge of the pool.
    â€œCome on in… you’re in the shallow bit.” Nicholas was on the other end, hanging on to the edges with his arms up on either side, smiling.
    The steps quivered underwater, playing tricks on my sight. They changed shape and position. They weren’t really there. Sculpted only by shadow and light. But my feet found them, and I sank, lower and lower, until—a moment of panic—there was seemingly endless space before I touched the bottom.
    The water was warm, it rose up to my chest, below my shoulders. I laughed.
    I tried walking, it was like pushing through something far thicker than I’d